Home at Last
Photo of 27th Street taken this morning while observing alternate-side parking rules
NEW YORK, NY - My latest journey brought me back to where this all started more than three months ago: home. When I drove up to the front of our apartment building, Katie and Simon were standing outside to welcome me. After driving 800 miles from Evanston in just over 12 hours, I couldn't have been happier to see them.
This trip home started on Friday afternoon at the
Des Moines Convention Center. As the set was being taken down for the last time,
our Executive Director, Jeri, came up to me, Eric, and Brian. "See, Eric," she
said, "spring really does come to Iowa." This was an allusion to Eric's trip to
Des Moines in January, when his car spun into a ditch in the middle of the ice
and snow. Jeri's mention of the passing of the seasons was just another reminder
that, indeed, our tour was finished and that the time had come for us to bid Des
Moines - and winter - farewell.
Brian and I had our cars with us, so we started our journeys home directly from the venue. It was a beautiful Iowa April day, which made for smooth sailing on I-80. As I passed Newton, the home of the Maytag Dairy Farm, the local radio station was playing "Paradise City" by Guns 'n' Roses. As I zoomed through the verdant, blossoming farmland, Axl Rose sang, "Take me down to the Paradise City/Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty/Oh, won't you take me home." I was on my way out of Iowa, and, indeed, going home - away from green fields dotted with grazing livestock and away from the land of young blonde women with locks of golden hair and honest faces.
Because Brian and I were traveling closely together, we decided to have one last meal together in Iowa. There was only one place we could have gone for the occasion: The Iowa Machine Shed in Davenport, a mere 200 yards off of I-80. No longer looking for a novelty or for something local to write home about, we just wanted a good Iowa dinner to send us on our way. Naturally, that's what we got. I had the Burnt Ends (smoked beef and pork bathed in the Shed's own barbecue sauce), and Brian opted for a double pork chop. I couldn't resist finishing the meal with a slice of their rasberry pie à la mode.
We were waited on by a young woman named Jamie, who guessed that we were students at the local chiropractor college. She was 27 and working her way through her final year of law school. She also had four daughters, though you would never guess it from looking at her. At the next table, two mothers whose combined age was probably well short of 50 tended to their toddlers while displaying their elaborate lower-back tattoos to the rest of the dining room. I never got the impression that Iowans were in a rush to start their own families, but I suppose the more important factor is that young folks there see no reason to wait.
I stopped for two nights to visit with my father and stepmother in Evanston, where I did little more than eat, sleep, and watch the Bulls and Cubs on television. Yesterday, it was back to the road to log the 800 miles remaining of my trip home to New York. When traveling west at the beginning of the year, everything from New York to Chicago was drenched with rain; the stretch from Chicago to Des Moines was buried under what turned out to be the season's biggest snowstorm.
Mid-April proved to be, thankfully, a far cry from early January. Indiana and Ohio provided some sprinkles, but the rest of the drive was practically simple. The ranges of Pennsylvania - gargantuan in comparison to the gently undulating hills of Iowa - were, at times, a joy to traverse. The browns and greens of the landscape became more brilliant and defined as the sun set in my rear view mirror. By the time I hit the Poconos, it was night.
Baseball provided me with most of my travel soundtrack. Scanning the radio dial as I drove, I listened to the Cleveland broadcast of the Indians/Twins game, and made it into Pennsylvania in time to hear the last three innings of the Cubs/Pirates tilt in Pittsburgh. As I neared the Delaware Water Gap at the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, the national broadcast of the Phillies/Braves game was beginning.
At the tail end of such a long drive (roughly 1,200 miles total from Des Moines to New York), driving through New Jersey amounted to little more than a victory lap. When I rounded a corner on 280 and caught my first glimpse of the New York skyline through the clear night air, I knew I was almost home. I flipped the radio from AM to FM and started looking for some music. As the car entered the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, a familiar tune started through the speakers: "Pink Houses" by John Mellencamp.
My return to the city after four months in the country was heralded by one of rock's great tributes to small-town life. It was almost as if Iowa was winking at me through the radio, reminding me not to forget about it as I went back to my city slicker life. As I buzzed through the yellow-tinted lights of the Lincoln Tunnel, eagerly awaiting my reunion with my wife and dog, the refrain poured through the stereo:
Ain't that America for you and me?
Ain't that America somethin' to see?
Ain't that America the home of the free?
I couldn't help but nod and smile, because what he says about America is true. I would know. I've been there.
POSTSCRIPT
This marks the end of this blog. It will remain available here, and I hope people will continue to explore it as time goes by. I'd like to thank all of the people who have visited this space faithfully over the last several weeks. Your encouragement really helped motivate me to work hard on it. I am also indebted to my colleagues at Opera Iowa and Des Moines Metro Opera for their ongoing cooperation with this project. Without them, this literally would not have been possible. And, of course, I have to give a big thank-you to the Hawkeye State for being such a terrific host to me. I'd invite all of you to come to New York so that I could reciprocate the hospitality, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be comfortable for any of us in my tiny apartment.
Do, however, feel free to keep in touch. And that goes for everybody. If you have a moment, click below where it says "Feedback" and drop me a quick note. I'm really curious about who has been reading this.
If you still haven't seen the Opera Iowa 2005 highlight video that I made, click here.
Thanks again for reading. I'll be back with more tales someday, and I promise that you will all know when that time comes.
-BGF
Brian and I had our cars with us, so we started our journeys home directly from the venue. It was a beautiful Iowa April day, which made for smooth sailing on I-80. As I passed Newton, the home of the Maytag Dairy Farm, the local radio station was playing "Paradise City" by Guns 'n' Roses. As I zoomed through the verdant, blossoming farmland, Axl Rose sang, "Take me down to the Paradise City/Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty/Oh, won't you take me home." I was on my way out of Iowa, and, indeed, going home - away from green fields dotted with grazing livestock and away from the land of young blonde women with locks of golden hair and honest faces.
Because Brian and I were traveling closely together, we decided to have one last meal together in Iowa. There was only one place we could have gone for the occasion: The Iowa Machine Shed in Davenport, a mere 200 yards off of I-80. No longer looking for a novelty or for something local to write home about, we just wanted a good Iowa dinner to send us on our way. Naturally, that's what we got. I had the Burnt Ends (smoked beef and pork bathed in the Shed's own barbecue sauce), and Brian opted for a double pork chop. I couldn't resist finishing the meal with a slice of their rasberry pie à la mode.
We were waited on by a young woman named Jamie, who guessed that we were students at the local chiropractor college. She was 27 and working her way through her final year of law school. She also had four daughters, though you would never guess it from looking at her. At the next table, two mothers whose combined age was probably well short of 50 tended to their toddlers while displaying their elaborate lower-back tattoos to the rest of the dining room. I never got the impression that Iowans were in a rush to start their own families, but I suppose the more important factor is that young folks there see no reason to wait.
I stopped for two nights to visit with my father and stepmother in Evanston, where I did little more than eat, sleep, and watch the Bulls and Cubs on television. Yesterday, it was back to the road to log the 800 miles remaining of my trip home to New York. When traveling west at the beginning of the year, everything from New York to Chicago was drenched with rain; the stretch from Chicago to Des Moines was buried under what turned out to be the season's biggest snowstorm.
Mid-April proved to be, thankfully, a far cry from early January. Indiana and Ohio provided some sprinkles, but the rest of the drive was practically simple. The ranges of Pennsylvania - gargantuan in comparison to the gently undulating hills of Iowa - were, at times, a joy to traverse. The browns and greens of the landscape became more brilliant and defined as the sun set in my rear view mirror. By the time I hit the Poconos, it was night.
Baseball provided me with most of my travel soundtrack. Scanning the radio dial as I drove, I listened to the Cleveland broadcast of the Indians/Twins game, and made it into Pennsylvania in time to hear the last three innings of the Cubs/Pirates tilt in Pittsburgh. As I neared the Delaware Water Gap at the border of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, the national broadcast of the Phillies/Braves game was beginning.
At the tail end of such a long drive (roughly 1,200 miles total from Des Moines to New York), driving through New Jersey amounted to little more than a victory lap. When I rounded a corner on 280 and caught my first glimpse of the New York skyline through the clear night air, I knew I was almost home. I flipped the radio from AM to FM and started looking for some music. As the car entered the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, a familiar tune started through the speakers: "Pink Houses" by John Mellencamp.
My return to the city after four months in the country was heralded by one of rock's great tributes to small-town life. It was almost as if Iowa was winking at me through the radio, reminding me not to forget about it as I went back to my city slicker life. As I buzzed through the yellow-tinted lights of the Lincoln Tunnel, eagerly awaiting my reunion with my wife and dog, the refrain poured through the stereo:
Ain't that America for you and me?
Ain't that America somethin' to see?
Ain't that America the home of the free?
I couldn't help but nod and smile, because what he says about America is true. I would know. I've been there.
POSTSCRIPT
This marks the end of this blog. It will remain available here, and I hope people will continue to explore it as time goes by. I'd like to thank all of the people who have visited this space faithfully over the last several weeks. Your encouragement really helped motivate me to work hard on it. I am also indebted to my colleagues at Opera Iowa and Des Moines Metro Opera for their ongoing cooperation with this project. Without them, this literally would not have been possible. And, of course, I have to give a big thank-you to the Hawkeye State for being such a terrific host to me. I'd invite all of you to come to New York so that I could reciprocate the hospitality, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be comfortable for any of us in my tiny apartment.
Do, however, feel free to keep in touch. And that goes for everybody. If you have a moment, click below where it says "Feedback" and drop me a quick note. I'm really curious about who has been reading this.
If you still haven't seen the Opera Iowa 2005 highlight video that I made, click here.
Thanks again for reading. I'll be back with more tales someday, and I promise that you will all know when that time comes.
-BGF
Posted: Mon - April 18, 2005 at 10:16 AM
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Published On: Apr 18, 2005 10:47 AM
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Published On: Apr 18, 2005 10:47 AM