For the record, I absolutely love Oban Scotch. I have not been to the distillery, but I've been to a few others, including Edradour which claims to be the smallest one in Scotland. By law, they have to make at least 500 gallons per batch, lest they could (theoretically) just vanish into the hillside, out of sight of the revenue office.

Yeah, it's like drinking a campfire. Yumm!

Part of EldestSon’s purpose in going to Scotland was a pilgrimage to the source of his favorite Scotches! He went down to Islay after we left. It was fun hanging out with him and having him steer me to different Scotches that he thought I might like. I’m definitely less peaty than he is.

About your soup: Maybe that was a fish maw! Which is the swim bladder. Sounds like the right texture and color. Here’s some info from wikipedia

Mmmmmmmm. Islay. Yummmmmm.

Speyside. Islay. All good.

I imagine EldestSon and I would get along well. We could share a dram of Bowmore Surf or Bruichladdich.

quote:

Originally posted by pianojuggler:
Mmmmmmmm. Islay. Yummmmmm.

Speyside. Islay. All good.

I imagine EldestSon and I would get along well. We could share a dram of Bowmore Surf or Bruichladdich.

He likes the smoky stuff!

quote:

Originally posted by AdagioM:

quote:

Originally posted by pianojuggler:
Mmmmmmmm. Islay. Yummmmmm.

Speyside. Islay. All good.

I imagine EldestSon and I would get along well. We could share a dram of Bowmore Surf or Bruichladdich.

He likes the smoky stuff!

The smokier the better!

Talisker makes a very special variety called Dark Storm. As far as I know, it is only available in duty free stores at airports in the UK. I have a couple of friends from the airlines who bring me a bottle when they come visiting.

So, there I was in Palma de Mallorca, working for the NFFMCo, teaching a class for a local airline. That was the year that I hit twelve countries in five months and I think that was my second or third trip out. I found my biggest problem was finding my way around strange hotel rooms in the dark and I decided what I really needed was a nightlight. I kept one in my travel ditty bag, but it was for US voltage and outlets.

On my day off, I went into town and went into a couple of stores to try to find a nightlight for 240 volts and with the two-pin European plug. I really don't speak any Spanish, but with the words I remembered from Sesame Street and other sources, I would ask for "la luz para los ninos para noches?" I struck out at every store.

Back at the airline, I mentioned this to the folks in my class and asked where I might find one. The Director of Engineering said he would ask his wife what store to go to and what to ask for. I also noted that I wanted the kind with a neon bulb, not an incandescent one, so it wouldn't break.

The next morning, the Director of Engineering came into class with his hands behind his back and a grin from ear-to-ear. He said "do you remember… yesterday… you ask where to find just this small light for the ninos?"

"Yes…" I nodded.

He pulled his hand from behind his back and produced a brand new nightlight, clearly recently purchased since it was still on the display card, and featuring Donald Duck. Beaming, he presented it to me as if he was giving me the keys to a new Mercedes. I asked him how much it cost and I would happily reimburse him. He blushed and said, "no, this is my gift to you."

That was in 1998 and Donald and I have been around the world several times. Donald is on my packing checklist, and on my hotel check-out checklist. I am always afraid of leaving him behind, so I always unplug him and put him back in my ditty bag as soon as I wake up on my last morning in a hotel.

I am sure he has kept me from stubbing my toe on a tub or walking into a wall looking for the potty in the middle of the night hundreds of times.

Thanks, Donald. And thanks to the wife of the Director of Engineering of an airline in Palma.


Donald, lighting the way in my apartment in Moscow:

Wow. Some really fascinating stories!

So, there I was, living and working in Moscow for a few months. My apartment was a few short blocks up the street from Sergei Prokofiev's apartment which is now a small museum. So, one day I walked down there to have a look.

It seemed that they didn't get too many visitors. I was the only one there the whole time I was there. Well, me, a woman at the desk, and a docent. For the first ten minutes or so, the docent stuck to me like glue. All, in Russian, she told me all about the apartment, Sergei Sergeievich's life, the items in the apartment, and so forth. After every couple of sentences, I'd answer her with "хорошо" ("good", a general purpose word that can just mean "yeah" or "okay…" in a conversation). After about six or seven rounds of her telling me all these details, she stopped, looked at me, and asked (in Russian), "do you know any Russian words other than ' хорошо'?"

I told her I did speak some Russian, and I would let her know if I had any questions.

After reading about Sergei Sergeievich's childhood, I told the docent that there may have been a remote chance my grandfather and Sergei Sergeievich may have met because they were born in the same town within a few years of each other. She wanted to know more and I explained that my grandparents were Jewish and left before the Revolution.

After we chatted a bit more, she asked me where I was from. I told her I was American. She made a funny face and looked a bit disappointed. She said, "oh… I thought you were Greek."

"Greek???"

"Yes, I thought you were Greek because you have such a long beard."


I didn't ask if I could play the Steinway. I did ask the docent if she could take a picture of me sitting next to it.


And here is his Bechstein.


(Sorry they're kinda dark... She said I could take pictures, but no flash.)

It's the same piano in the same room as in this picture of Prokofiev and Rostropovich

Whoa cool!

So, there I was on another day out, finally got some snow, and I ended up at the Novodeviche Cemetery. After wandering around looking for famous people, I ended up back near the entrance. There is a little kiosk that was occupied by a chubby babushka selling books and maps of the cemetery.

Despite the cold, she popped out of the kiosk to talk to me. The first question she asked was where I was from. I told her I was American. She spent the next several minutes telling me about her daughter who lived in Canada and she had married a Canadian doctor who had been visiting Moscow and now she was in Canada and she was hoping to visit someday and something and something else.

Like the docent at the Prokofiev museum, I think she didn't get a lot of visitors, at least this time of year.

She asked me if I was looking for anyone in particular, by which I assume she meant a grave. I told her no, I was just looking for anyone whose name I recognized. I had found Gogol, Yeltsyn, and a few other noteworthy folks. And I was taking pictures of any particularly interesting headstones.

Then, out of the blue, she asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was a writer and I worked for the NFFMCo and wrote technical documents for aeroplanes. She made a funny face and looked a bit disappointed. She said "oh, I thought you were a Russian Orthodox priest because you have such a long beard."


Any of you cellists ever heard of Svyatoslav Nikolayevich Knushevitzky? Neither had I, but I enjoyed his headstone.

Your beard gets lots of comments!

I like your famous piano pic, which sent me looking for my famous piano pic. Very different flavor.

Nashville. So much music. So. Much. Fun. There is so much musical talent in this town, both old and new, and so much respect for the history of it all. From the young people playing for tips at the honky tonk bars on Broadway hoping to be heard over the beer fueled partyers, to the old pros playing clubs like the Station Inn to a respectful audience who came for the music, to the Country Music Hall of Famers playing the Grand Ole Opry, showing us that they still have it. So wonderful.


The Jones. We were pulled into Layla's Bluegrass Inn on Broadway by the sound of their kickass rendition of "I'll Fly Away" as we were walking by at midnight.


John Jorgensen Bluegrass Band at the Station Inn. My reaction: "They look like math teachers!" Great music, fun show.


Little Jimmy Dickens at the Opry, still singing at 94. Love the spangly suit.


Nathan East playing bass with Vince Gill on guitar. A great story: It was Nathan's first time playing at the Opry, and he confided to a friend that he was a bit nervous. Friend (whose name I didn't quite catch) owns a suit that belonged to Carl Perkins. He offered up the suit for the show, and so here's Nathan, wearing Carl Perkins' suit, standing on that circle of flooring preserved from the Ryman Auditorium, playing at the Opry. The old and the new, so wonderful.

Nights were all about listening to music, and days were filled with more music-related activities. We toured the Ryman Auditorium (so much history!), the Country Music Hall of Fame, and Historic RCA Studio B.


Windows at the Ryman


For you fans of the TV show Nashville, the (teeny!) dresses that Hayden Panettiere and Connie Britton wore onstage at the Ryman.


I stood on the stage at the Ryman and played a single G chord. (It costs $10 for a pic, at which point you can also have your buddy take a pic for you. I liked this pic by DH better.)

Cool things at the Country Music Hall of Fame.


My friends and I often sing "Turn Your Radio On" by the Blue Sky Boys, so I was thrilled to see this banner and mandolin.


Webb Pierce's Silver Dollar Bonneville convertible customized by Nudie Cohn of Nudie's Rodeo Tailors. Six-shooter door handles, a saddle between the front seats, steer horns...




The piano (Kimball?) that Priscilla Presley had refinished in gold, and gave to Elvis on their first anniversary.


Taylor Swift's first sparkle guitar, and the MacBook she used to edit her first video.


DH outside the RCA Studio B, where the signature Nashville sound was developed. Elvis recorded many hits here. The sound in here is amazing, a perfectly acoustically dead room, no reverb. Everything is so perfectly clear. You can read more about it here.


This is Floyd Cramer's piano in Studio B, part of that Nashville sound. Elvis played it, too. And I touched it. It was the 37th anniversary of his passing, so I played a silent glissando in his memory.


Music, old and new. Stephanie Layne was our guide for the studio tour. I chatted her up after the tour. She's a singer-songwriter from Minnesota, and put out an album in 2012. Check out her music; you can find her on iTunes and more. I'm listening on Spotify right now. Stephanie was a great guide, too, and a wealth of information. Did you know that Dolly Parton wrote "I Will Always Love You"? Whitney Houston had a big hit with it, too. Dolly has earned over $25 million dollars in royalties from that song. Whoa.

Breakfast at Pinewood Social did not disappoint. I had this amazing fried chicken biscuit, which was all that and so much MORE. I gave up after half.



There's a bowling alley at Pinewood Social, and along the wall there are these cans with fun printed labels in several colors, arranged in a mosaic. They are rearranged from time to time. I especially liked these.



Nashville is a favorite place for us to visit! Especially when one of us has a thing for boots...



My first pair, from 2014.

Most of the best travel stories revolve around, or at least prominently feature, food!


So, there I was in Southern California for an industry conference and I had a couple open evenings and a rental car. So, the obvious course of action was to hail the local forumite and see if we could meet up for dinner. Why certainly, he replied. Where shall we go?

I told him I wanted to try some of the local Mexican fare… as muy authentico as possible. He suggested a few places in the next suburb over and one in particular… but don't tell the Missus, because she would never approve of him taking me to such a seedy place.

Never correctly judging California traffic, I was a few minutes late. My host was already seated and had ordered us some appetizers that featured very spicy squid parts. Quite delish.

I looked over the menu and decided on a grilled steak thingy with a delightful array of things on the side. My host picked a burrito. We chatted until the food arrived. I looked at his dinner, and all I could think was the title of the Kliban book: Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head. I wondered if he was thinking the same:



And here is what I was presented:

I perused the plate and decided to start with the grilled pepper. I cut it crosswise, then cut a small slice from the middle. I popped it in my mouth. The amazing thing about grilled peppers is that momentary delay between biting into it and the flamefront passing through. I gasped… but trying to maintain some dignity. I think my first words were "oh, my god, that's hot."

My host casually said, "most people start with a small piece."

I said, "that was a small piece."

I stuffed a few forkfuls of less threatening food into my mouth and took a few slurps of beer to regain my composure.

The rest of the meal was positively amazing, especially the onion.

It was a splendid time, and I am embarrassed that it was a year and a half ago, and I'm just now figuring out how to post pictures post-photobucket.

So, here we are:


Just don't let the Missus see this. She'll never let him meet up with other WTFers without adult supervision ever again.

what a great DOM thread; probably the best ever!