Trip to Gangland — aka, the AZ State Fair

Going to the Arizona State Fair could be like going to Baghdad. Let me stress the word could. See, it's very crowded, very noisy and at any point you might be in the crossfire of a massive firefight. For some reason, though, this never happens. Or rarely happens. Or happens so often the news media just kinda shrugs its shoulders and asks, "Firefight at state fair or a fluff piece on a Welsh corgi named the world's fastest canine texter? Run the one we don't see everyday."

See, the state fair is known for its gangs probably more than it's known for the fried pickles, fried bacon, fried beer or whatever new deep-fried, intestinal-blocking, heart-stopping commodity is currently in vogue (fried cholesterol). The fair is so infamous for the pervasive gang activity that several people laughed at us when it was announced in our weekly staff meeting we would be visiting. One older reporter — the crime reporter no less — jokingly told us to "pack your Kevlar." Sara and I wouldn't back down, though; after all, we've been to Jamaica, Queens. Besides, I had been to the fair before and I knew two things: that the rumors about gang activity were mostly true, and that the rumors about gang activity were mostly false.

In summary, yes, there are gangs of shady individuals at the fair, but no, they aren't dangerous, assuming you don't go pushing them around or "dissuhspectin." We're still watching The Wire, and the Omar Little character keeps talking about "the game." He specifically says, "I don't go putting my gun on anyone who ain't in the game, yo. You feel me?" Yes, Omar we feel you, and with that advice we didn't go to the fair to step up on some cholo and his khaki'd droogs with their well-starched shirts and teardrop tattoos. And for this reason, we survived the Arizona State Fair. (And also because we wore neutral gang colors: pink and purple, yo.)

We actually had a lot of fun. If you've never been, you should consider going. It's not very clean, or cheap, and the amenities are so bad we chose to hold our bladders for the entire evening rather than risk contracting some exotic disease in the ripe honeybuckets called Port-O-Lets. But, all in all, it still makes for an exciting evening. Plus there's carnies, who have enlisted young, well-spoken protégées (with full sets of teeth) to join their ranks in hopes of improving the carnie reputation (it worked!). Most of all, though, the Arizona State Fair is a cultural experience. Not like cultural in the sense that we saw other cultures and their arts, but in the sense that we saw the native culture of this bizarre state. From the bandana'd gang members and their watchful police shadows to the boyfriends toting around Kong-sized stuffed animals for their girlfriends to the fat men in their Hoverounds sucking on bottled air and puffing on cigarettes. These aren't just freaks at the fair; they're the people we share the state with. And really there's no better way to see the cross-section of your state than by going to events like the state fair.

We went on the opening night. Our reasoning: it would be cleaner, and the people working there would be less likely to jam a shiv in your ribcage. The only bad thing about this night was that it was packed. Really packed. And most people don't really understand how to walk in crowds like this. They stop for no reason, look around, mess with their stroller, take a phone call … and meanwhile, a stampede of people behind them are elbowing each other to maneuver around the obstruction. We braved the crowd, though, and managed to see some vendor exhibits, the youth photography entries, lots of farm animals and, for Sara, the baked good entries. Sara could have done any of the baked goods, which means that next year she might enter something — I'm encouraging her. It was strange to look at the baked goods, though, because they were all several days old and many didn't look very appetizing anymore. Some of them looked like they were about to grow legs and cut in line on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

The animals were interesting, too. Lots of rabbits. Lennie would have loved it. We saw part of the goat show, which was run kinda like a dog show: goat owners parade their goats around a little arena, and then let a judge poke the goats in places the goats probably don't like. A woman next to us told me that goats are really smart: "They can open gates, you know." She was kinda miffed when I said that opening gates wasn't that great. Smart is changing the oil in my car, goat. Then Sara whispered to me that Jack can't open gates. True, but he can balance a ball on his front paws and stare at it for hours. Let's see a goat do that. We also saw the large bulls and cows. It was especially fun to watch the children point and laugh at the bull testicles that were swinging like giant pendulums underneath all the bulls. Kids will be kids, and bull nuts just can't be ignored. (Oh, you think I'm joking, don't you? Take your kids and secretly time them to see how long it takes to point them out. You'll be shocked.)

Sara and I were determined to eat some fair foods even though we're both on Weight Watchers after our jetBlue trips. We agreed to eat bad for one night; we even prepared by eating really healthy that morning and afternoon — in fact, I think we could have eaten with the goats. She had a Navajo taco, or Indian fry bread, and I had a corn dog. We also had an ice cream dessert called a Cow Pie, a funnel cake and we shared an ice cream cone as we were leaving. (Word to the wise: 9 times out of 10 it is smart to say no to anything called a Cow Pie.) It was all tasty, and we didn't even feel grossly full, which is how we were feeling after every meal last month on the East Coast. By the next day we were both eating healthy again after our little splurge in Phoenix.

The last thing we did was ride the big Ferris wheel, which provided a wonderful view of the fair below us and of the Phoenix skyline to the southeast. On our way out of the fair I was determined to win a prize for Sara at one of the Midway games, and guess what ... I did. It's a little neon turtle. To view it you first need an electron microscope and then someone to use the damn thing, but I promise the turtle is there. I didn't win a big prize — or a prize with a gun or a pot leaf printed on it, which is what Sara was hoping for — but it was fun to walk away with something for my girl at the Arizona State Fair.

Adventures close to home ... really close

Thank you, jetBlue. You've been good to us, but this weekend we're staying home.

Oh man, did we ever deserve it! Seriously, we both took it very easy this past weekend. I think we earned that after four straight weekends of jetsetting. Sleeping in, going to bed early, eating better, sitting in one place for more than 90 minutes ... these are the spoils of travel war.

We didn't take it too easy, though. For starters I had to cover a local parade in Tolleson, the small, rural city where I went to high school. The Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church puts on their Fiesta de Amistad event every year, and every year I cover it. And every year I enjoy it. And with the passing of SB1070 here in Arizona — the controversial law that makes being in this country illegally a state crime, not just a federal crime — it's nice to support and participate in the other cultures here in this diverse state. Specifically, it's fun to experience Mexican culture. Mexicans are a festive people, and they throw down when it comes to parades.

Native dancers, mariachi bands, Knights of Columbus members carrying the Blessed Virgin Mary, vaqueros (Spanish for cowboy) and their lasso tricks, low riders and folklorico ... the parade had it all. Sara went with me, so she brought Jack and sat in the front lawn of my high school — like 50 feet from where I had sophomore English with Mrs. Williams. Jack was well-behaved, as was Sara. Ha! Jack just chilled out and seemed rather confused when people would walk by banging their drums or spinning in their colorful dresses.

The parade was over in less than hour, so we were back at my house in no time flat. It was definitely a change of pace from our jetBlue schedule.

Wholly Cannoli!

While Michael has done a superb job at giving our readers (you!) a travel log of our wild expeditions, I've been a bit, well, busy. See, Michael has most of his evenings free and some time during work to catch everyone up on where we've been. Whereas my week nights are filled to the brim with school on Mondays and Tuesdays and then mostly laundry and bill paying on Wednesdays and then we're out the door and back on a jet come Thursday morning. That was the routine for the past four weeks: Work for three days, travel for four. It hasn't been until now, and the conclusion of our All-You-Can-Jet passes that life has really slowed down and I've been able to catch up on everything that has happened — the great, wonderful, fantastical, can't believe we actually did them — things that Michael has written about.

But I have another subject to tackle: bakeries. Our trips were really two-fold for me. I was able to spend some much needed time with dear friends and family while visiting a few bakeries. The schooling I previously mentioned is to receive a baking and pastry certificate. I want to one day open up my own bakery, so every place we visited, from Duxbury to Sarasota to Boston and New York, was an opportunity for me to examine how other bakers and shop owners do it. And they all did it differently.

Our first trip to NYC included a checklist of must-see bakeries that have become popular, in their own way, with New Yorkers. Our very first eatery was a mobile truck unit called Cake & Shake. It features a small number of cupcakes and shakes each day. The customer never knows what cake or shake is baked and mixed on any day of the week — a brilliant plan to keep customers coming back (other than the fact that both are delicious). Obviously, the cupcakes are not baked on the truck, but the milk shakes are made on site. I imagine this business plan allows for lower overhead costs, less employees and a unique experience for customers. But it's not the bakery for me.

At least five different bake shops were found inside the Chelsea Market but the two that stick out most in my mind were both bread houses: Sarabeth's and Amy's Bread. They were very similar in that they allowed people to view the entire bread-making process. Glass windows allowed onlookers to watch as bread — such a simple, simple food — starts from flour, water, yeast and salt and turns into rolls, baguettes, boules, bagels and more. The process is really fascinating, even if you're a "non-baker." A dozen workers shaped, pressed, decorated, baked and then sold bread in the adjoining sales room. It is most unfortunate that we did not actually buy a loaf of bread from one of these shops, but it excited me to see that other people were as interested in this age-old practice as I am.

City Market, our next bakery, this one in Midtown, was kinda/sorta what I pictured myself owning one day. I liked that cookies, muffins and simple sweets were offered. It was bustling. Employees wore aprons dusted with flour smudges. A second level offered seating and a wonderful view of the activity happening below. But I didn't like that it also offered a salad bar, pasta bar and other hot foods. I want to focus on coffee and old-fashioned, don't-need-an-ingredient-list-to-know-what-it-is baked goods. The tastings I had from City Market were grand, but the atmosphere seemed sterile and too big for me.


There is sooo much more to eat in New York City than I'm not telling you about: Crumbs (LOVELY black and white NYC cookies), Momofuku Milk Bar (a bit weird and dodgy), Magnolia's Bakery (quite popular and busy to the point where it was claustrophobic inside but loved that we could watch bakers top off cupcakes with whipped frosting while we ordered and paid). And I'm sure thousands more. But there was also some fine eats in Massachusetts and Florida that I want to tell you about.

First, Florida. The peninsula astounded me with its bakery options, well at least the many we found in Sarasota. Who ever would have thought that a coastal vacation town was ripe for traditional French and Italian bakeries? But they are! Oh and I can't even remember their names but they left quite an impression on me. These bakeries are classical, rich, decadent and delicious but not at all pretentious in their surroundings. Outdoor wrought-iron tables and chairs welcomed patrons to sit for a sample of key lime pie, a taste of a mini eclair, and a cream puff suited with dark chocolate. Tiny tarts of frangipane coupled with blueberries and kiwi with a grape top hat were wonderful two-bite treats. The tiramisu was out of this world; can I have some more, pretty please, I will dream about you tonight, fabulous. I fell in love with a thick slice of sweet napoleon and I had a very strong inclination to change my next flight to Paris so I can sample even more decadence from the town with the Eiffel Tower. (Michael here: I must brag that I talked Sara, the coconut-hater, into trying a coconut-loaded macaroon in Sarasota. And I think she kinda liked it.)

Boston should not be nicknamed Bean Town. I will forever think of it as Wholly Cannoli. Our second night in the city we sought out only three bakeries: Maria's, Mike's and Modern Pastry. All are within the North End and less than a half-mile from each other. Our first visit was to Maria's and my first observation sort of surprised me: it was busy. Maria's is not new, not flashy, not big. It is Italian and there was a line a few feet out the door to order traditional butter cookies (something like 30 different colorful varieties were stored in open containers along the back wall of the store. It reminded me of the cubbies I'd stuff my lunch box and coat into when I was in second grade). There was a refrigerated display holding empty cannoli shells -- Maria fills them when they're ordered. There were lobster tails and sfogliatelle, both traditional Italian puff pastries. Less, seemingly unpopular items included pizza and gelatto. Michael ordered a cannoli or two and I ordered a sfogliatelle and an item I can't remember the name of but can be described as a log of nuts and nougat coated in milk chocolate. I very much liked the log and only enjoyed the sfogliatelle. Michael raved about the cannoli. I've never been a big fan of cream-filled items, whether they're doughnuts, pastries or cakes. But it seemed to be a hit with everyone else; after all, there was a line out the door and it wasn't the logs flying off the shelves.

Mike's Pastry was next. We knew before even finding the place that Mike's was a popular joint. We'd seen many a commuter carrying a box with the blue Mike's label on it during our time on the T. We didn't understand exactly how popular until we were halfway down the block and realized the line in front of us was for Mike's. So, we moved on to Modern Pastry without even going inside Mike's. We also learned Mike's was a cash-only place and we are both card-carrying-only spenders. We thought Modern was more modern (Ha!) and would allow the use of plastic, but no. It was cash only as well. So, after finding an ATM, we decided to return to Mike's and wait a mere 20 minutes or so to see what all the fuss was about.

When we finally got in the door we were introduced to a sea of hungry Bostonians -- all wanting cannoli. There was no congruent line to point us the right way. In fact, there were so many people swimming about that I can't even describe what the floor looked like, what hung on the walls or if there were even tables and chairs to chat about on. There were so many people. And I started to get excited again. Not about cannoli (oh brother there was so much cannoli in so many different forms and flavors) but because I realized people were going to bakeries — in crowds. Bakeries! And what they want isn't a trendy fru-fru cupcake but a classic, century's old cannoli. A curved, crispy shell filled with a cream and dusted with confectioners sugar. Oh, I was so happy! And I don't even like cannoli but it tickles me to know that people appreciate food, working man's food, comfort food — the kind of food I want to make them.

Traveling and eating in New York, Boston and Sarasota taught me some very sage advice. No matter how different the destination, the one thing they had in common (for me) was an ability to attract and retain a hungry populous. Food was appreciated. It was waited for. It was flocked to. It was devoured and talked about.

It made me hopeful for the day when I open my bakery to a line out the door.

We're shipping up to Boston!

Boston is exactly how you would expect Boston to be, just more so.

My only real expectations had come from movies starring Ben Affleck, and those expectations were met — and we even saw Ben Affleck (in his new movie). Some of the things that I did not expect, simply because they were so cliche, actually did happen. For instance, that Bostonian accent: we heard lots of it. I never thought it would be so pronounced, so cartoonishly obvious. Stranger walking his dog: “Dis dahg is like wicked chill and just really wicked smaht.” And Boston’s sports devotion, we saw that too, first around Fenway, Boston’s sacred sports chapel, then later in the weekend before a Bruins game, when the streets were filled with brutish young men draped in yellow and black. I knew we’d see sailboats, try clam chowder and experience the rich history, but Boston really is all the other things too.

After another abbreviated week at work, which mostly consisted of us rubbing our eyes and painfully trying to figure out what timezone our brains were in, we hit Boston with springs in our steps — apparently, despite the pains of traveling we were thrilled to be in another new place. My first observations all came from within Logan Airport’s C Terminal. First of all, it was really crowded and cramped. Second, airplane souvenirs were of the lobster/lighthouse/Red Sox variety compared to Sarasota (oranges/gators/palm trees), New York (Empire State Building/taxis/subways/Times Square/Yankees) and Phoenix (cactus/scorpions/rattlesnake/Southwest). And lastly, we had been mighty spoiled by Terminal 5 at JFK in New York, which was like a paradise for the weary traveler. T5 had tons of open spaces, lots of seating, dozens of shops and stores, ultra-modern design and probably the most comfortable restrooms outside of your own home’s. We realized how great JFK was as soon as we stepped into Logan, which was a maze of low-ceilinged corridors jammed with people. And the restroom’s were tiny; it was the only airport bathroom Sara walked right into without a line, while I had to join a dozen other men in an uncomfortable line for three urinals.

But once we hit the street, the airport was behind us and all of Boston in front of us. We hopped a shuttle bus that took us to the T — Boston’s subway; Sara called it the Charlie, its unofficial nickname — which took us south of Boston where we were picked up by Becca, Sara’s friend. She then drove us another 25 minutes south into Duxbury, where she was renting a room in an 18th Century colonial home. I hate to use this word to describe her apartment because it’s not a very manly word, but it’s the only word that seems to work: yes, it was cute. The little cottage-like apartment was up a set of stairs in the house’s attic, and it was wonderful with its open windows, vaulted ceilings and fun decorations. It was very New Englandy.

The next morning we ventured out to Plymouth, where the pilgrims landed and began this whole America thing. It was a quaint little hamlet, with lots of shops, historical statues and excellent seafood joints by the harbor. One interesting historical marker was about how Native Americans don’t celebrate Thanksgiving because the pilgrims had nothing to celebrate, unless you consider white people destroying your way of life worthy of a holiday. It takes cojones for the people of Plymouth to admit that publicly. We also did some touristy things: Sara had her picture taken inside a lobster cutout, we saw the Mayflower II (the sequel!!!) and we shopped at some of the little shops. Also: the Plymouth Freakin’ Rock! Yep, we saw it. And yes, it’s real. And yes, it’s a rock. I always thought the town of Plymouth just happened to be called Plymouth Rock. Nope. The pilgrims supposedly landed at Plymouth near one specific rock, which is now housed in a big marble thing with columns. Guess what it looked like? Yep, a rock.

The best part of Plymouth, though, was the food. I had a typical New England meal: fish and chips, and New England clam chowder, which they probably just call clam chowder (or just chowder) in New England. It was amazing. So amazing that we couldn’t find some better the entire rest of the trip. Sara was jealous of my meal.

From there we went back to Duxbury so Becca could go to work. Before that, though, she dropped us off at the T so we could venture into the city. We ended up spending two days in Boston, and we saw lots of stuff including several beautiful parks, Fenway, Boston’s Little Italy and Chinatown, the historic North End, the North End Church where Paul Revere hung his lanterns in 1775, and also a number of bakeries. Fenway was fun, and since there wasn’t a game it was real quiet around the ballpark. Unless you’re near left field and the Green Monster you really can’t tell that Fenway is baseball’s oldest stadium (1912!!!), or even a ballpark. For the most part it just looks like any other tall brick building in Boston until you circle around and start seeing banks of lights and all the Red Sox flags flying around the top, or the Ted Williams statue near a corner entrance. Paul Revere’s church was interesting, although there was a wedding taking place when we were there so we couldn’t go in. Little Italy looked very similar to Mulberry Street in Manhattan’s Little Italy except narrower and the waiters don’t come out and hassle you with their menus. Our second night in the city we ate at an Italian place there that was delicious — Sara had gnocchi for the first time.

Our first night in the city we ate at some chain restaurant/brewery, which means we broke our own rule to not eat anything we could eat in Arizona. But we couldn’t help it; we walked everywhere looking for a restaurant and couldn’t find anything, so we finally just gave up and took the first thing that wasn’t Dunkin Donuts. We had actually walked so long looking for grub that we had to dip into a Borders book store for a pee break. (In the men’s restroom, all the mirrors were hung with picture frame hangers — Haha! Boston ingenuity.) As for all the bakeries, they were awesome. In fact, they were so awesome I’m pretty sure all the weight I gained from our trips came from Boston. It all came down to one dessert: cannoli. Wow, Boston knows how to make them. We also had a more authentic, fresher sfogliatelle; it was better than the one from Florida, but still a little funky. We also went to Mike’s Pastry, which is super famous in Boston. The line was out the door and halfway down the block. And once we finally got in the doors, it was so crowded we couldn’t even see what was in the display cases. As crowded as it was, though, the Mama Corleones would wrap your order in this string that hangs from the ceiling, which was an interesting touch. In Arizona, they use tape, the same stuff you use to wrap up birthday gifts. Anyway, the pastries were amazing.

Later that night we wandered into what looked like a riot in the street. People were yelling in the street, tearing apart bags of stuff on the sidewalks and in the street, throwing big bins of stuff around, and just generally making a mess of the place. I called it a zombie apocalypse, because it looked pretty crazy. Once we got closer (and eventually walked through it) we realized it was the end of some kind of farmer’s market. Apparently at the end of the market, whatever the vendors don’t want anymore they just leave on the street, which then brings out homeless people and enterprising, non-particular foodies who come to rummage through the discarded fruits and veggies. We watched from a nearby restaurant as people savagely tore apart the stuff in the street. Suddenly, without much notice, a giant front-end loader comes screaming through running over all the stuff. It was surreal to see. He rolled over the stuff several time crushing stacks of garbage, splintering pallets, squishing all the fruits into a juicy citrus-smelling lubricant for the street. Once he pulverized it into a nice pulp he began scooping it up. It was hilarious.

Much later that night, after Becca picked us up, we went to Hartford to watch The Town, Ben Affleck’s new movie that was all shot on location in Boston. First off, it was an excellent movie. (I’m a professional movie reviewer, but I’m going to be brief and just leave it at excellent.) Secondly, it played like a recap of our trip in Boston. Ben Affleck and Jeremy Renner rob an armored car in the North End; we were in the North End that very afternoon. Ben’s main girl lives in the Back Bay; we had walked all through there the previous day. The robbers plan a heist in Fenway; what a coincidence, we had just walked their same route. It was all very cool.

Our last day we ventured out to the beach and romped around in the sand for a bit — Sara learned how to skip rocks. It was all very fun. I couldn’t help but think of the Kennedys while we were there: I knew why they made their compound in New England. The white houses, the boat shoes, the polo shirts, the sailing ... it was all so picturesque and peaceful. And then when we returned to Phoenix, everything was beige and brown and dirty — it really is a shock on the system. Here’s a funny thing about our return: at Sky Harbor we were waiting for our luggage and one of the bags jammed up the carousel system. Worst of all the bag that jammed was like the third bag down the chute, and it was like 11:30 p.m. — everyone just wanted to get home. So there we waited on this one bag. Finally a worker dislodged it and the carousel started back up again. Guess who’s bag had gummed up the works for 10 minutes. Yep, OURS! Ha!

At some point during the trip I asked Sara which city was her favorite: New York City or Boston. Her answer didn’t surprise me at all; she said Boston. She didn’t even have to ask me. NYC forever. But that’s me.