Palau Güell

Posted on June 20, 2023 by admin

More Gaudí. More Güell. Visit Barcelona, and they come up time and again. If you have an interest in the built environment, that is, or follow guidebook and web site recommendations.

Gaudí wasn’t always so well known among English-speakers, if my 1929 EB is any indication. He has no entry. Neither does Eusebi Güell, which is a bit more surprising, considering his prominence as a Catalan industrialist – foodstuffs, wine, cement, more – in the freewheeling late 19th century, and indeed as a local politician and one of the richest men in Spain. Of course, we moderns have found skeletons in his closet, or at least the family closet, by modern standards.

These days, Güell is best known as a patron of Gaudí, who (among many other things) designed him a mansion in the 1880s that is posh almost beyond belief: Palau Güell.

The mansion is just off La Rambla. We strolled for a time down that thoroughfare, as much of Barcelona and its tourists seem to do all of the time, and had jim-dandy seafood al fresco at tourist prices (entirely worth it) at a small joint near the entrance of La Boqueria market, which was closed for Sunday.

La Rambla looked a lot like this, except we saw a lot more t-shirts and shorts.

La Rambla, 1905
Wikimedia/Montse liz

The front of Palau Güell.

The interior, as I mentioned, is posh, and a little hard to photograph. Still, I took some details, such as the basement, where carriages and horses were kept.

Stained glass near the main entrance celebrating Catalonia.

The dining room.

A view of the back, including ironwork on the balconies.

There was a lot else besides, but what I really enjoyed were Gaudí’s rooftop chimneys, which is the last place one visits. Some of the more famed chimneys anywhere, I believe.

They come in singles.

Or groups, depending on how you look at them.

The crowning star.

I was also able to create images of Barcelona rooftops from this vantage.

You know, just like Picasso. I must be in my Blue Period.

Parc Güell

Posted on June 19, 2023 by admin

It has happened to me in a lot of places over the years, and I can’t quite account for it. In various parts of the United States, but also in Europe and Australia – anywhere I might blend in with a crowd, including places where I don’t speak the language. What happens: a stranger asks me directions. It happened in Barcelona, too, during our return from Parc Güell (Güell Park), down a fairly steep slope in the Gràcia district.

This street wasn’t our actual path, but branches off from it and gives some idea of the hill you need to climb – partly assisted by an outdoor escalator at one point – to reach the park.

It was a neighborhood of political graffiti as well. A whiff of old Barcelona, I guess. Much of it in English for some reason.

While coming down the slope, Yuriko had gotten somewhat ahead of me, so I was walking alone for a few moments. A woman with some small children in tow asked me directions to the park in Catalan (or Spanish). I was able to point in the direction I’d come and say “park,” which conveniently is the same in all the relevant languages. She seemed happy to hear it, and I was certain I’d given her some correct information.

Parc Güell is a large place, though only a section of it includes architectural elements by Antoni Gaudí. The city has charged admission to that section for the last 10 years or so.

“[Industrialist and Gaudí friend] Eusebi Güell entrusted Gaudí with the project of making an urbanization [sic, neighborhood] for wealthy families on a large estate he had acquired in the area popularly known as Muntanya Pelada,” the park’s web site (machine translated) says. “Its situation was unbeatable, in a healthy environment and with splendid views over the sea and the Plan de Barcelona.

“In October 1900, the land began to be leveled and the works went at a good pace. On January 4, 1903, a description published in the Yearbook of the Association of Architects stated that the two pavilions at the entrance, the main staircase, the shelter or waiting area, the external fence, the viaducts and part of the large esplanade, as well as the water evacuation system [sic, were complete? Under way?]”

In any case, only two houses were ever sold, so as a new neighborhood, the place was a failure. Eventually Güell’s heirs sold the would-be development to the city. The common-area work that Gaudí did remained, to great acclaim in future years.

A path from the entrance leads to a large esplanade, or perhaps best called a terrace, originally planned as a place for outdoor shows.

An undulating bench marks the edge of the esplanade.

It offers a sweeping view of Barcelona, plus other Gaudí structures in the park.

It’s a popular place.

Gaudí collaborator Josep M. Jujol did the bench mosaics.

Stairs lead down from the esplanade, which is supported by 86 columns that form the Hypostyle Hall. It was supposed to have been a sheltered marketplace.

From there, the Dragon Stairs. The figure is actually a salamander, I’ve read.

At the base of the stairs is the Porter’s Lodge, which houses exhibits about the 19th- and 20th-century history of Barcelona. Its interior walls are bright colors.

Other parts of the park include the paths and viaducts that Gaudí designed. We did some wandering.

I was reminded a bit of Brackenridge Park in San Antonio, but the similarities aren’t really that deep.

Lush bursts of flowers adorn parts of the park.

Springtime in Barcelona. There’s a romcom in there somewhere. Probably not a very good one, but how many are?

Sagrada Família

Posted on June 18, 2023 by admin

In a (mostly) low-rise town like Barcelona, high-rises stand out. Even unconventional high-rises. Even one of the world’s most unconventional high-rises, Sagrada Família.

You can see the basilica and its modern construction cranes from the roof of Barcelona Cathedral.

Or from Parc Güell.

From the Montjuïc Cable Car.

Or from the entrance of Recinte Modernista de Sant Pau, looking down the fittingly named thoroughfare Avinguda Gaudí.

In full, the structure is Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família. Lauded around the world these days. Not everyone has had praise for basilica down the years, however.

George Orwell was not, of course, a tourist in Barcelona in 1937, but he did visit the Sagrada Família at one point, which he mentions in Homage to Catalonia.

“For the first time since I had been in Barcelona I went to have a look at the cathedral – a modern cathedral, and one of the most hideous buildings in the world. It has four crenellated spires exactly the shape of hock bottles. Unlike most of the churches in Barcelona, it was not damaged during the revolution – it was spared because of its ‘artistic value’, people said. I think the Anarchists showed bad taste in not blowing it up when they had the chance, though they did hang a red and black banner between its spires.”

Sage about much, but Orwell wasn’t right about everything. Still, before I visited Barcelona, I was a little skeptical myself. Something that receives that much praise inspires a bit of skepticism, or should, and the many pictures I’d seen didn’t quite convey greatness, at least to me. Oddness, yes. Maybe strangeness for the sake of strangeness, as envisioned by Antoni Gaudí and carried on for decades by his successors down to the present day, but not to completion just yet.

So on our first morning in Barcelona, May 18, after a pleasant breakfast in the hotel, and a walk of only a few blocks, we approached Sagrada Família from its western corner. Despite its height, basilica emerged into view only as we rounded the last neighboring block. Then it was time to gawk.

Often enough images don’t do a place justice. That is really the case for Sagrada Família. Whatever skepticism I had evaporated. It has a presence, rising there in front of you. It is still quite a strange church, but a great strangeness — a strange majesty? — expressed in innumerable details.

Naturally, despite realizing that seeing the structure with my own eyes is the best way to experience Sagrada Família, I proceeded to take a lot of pictures. We passed by the structure more than once, so I captured it at different times of day.

As I said, innumerable details.

One side is the Nativity Façade, mostly completed while Gaudí was still alive. He was fatally struck by a streetcar in 1926 at age 73, and is buried in the basilica’s crypt, which was closed when we visited. As you’d expect, that side celebrates the birth of Jesus.

The other side is the the more austere Passion Façade, a more recent completion, though expressing Gaudí’s ideas.

I didn’t know who Japanese sculptor Etsuro Sotoo was. Yuriko did, and she was keen to see the large door to the basilica that he designed, which is in the Nativity Façade. The door’s leaf motif not only includes many leaves in bronze and glass, but also some creatures that live in the underbrush.

That was the door through which we entered the basilica on the afternoon of May 19. These days, you have to book a tour to do so, which I did weeks before we arrived in Barcelona – the only thing I booked ahead of time for the trip besides the visit to the Book of Kells and the Long Room.

In we went.

Too many distinctive features to name, but what struck me most of all were the columns supporting the ceiling, which branched like trees toward the top.

There was no shortage of other tourists admiring the place, but the vast space inside held them all pretty well.

Everyone takes pictures.

I wonder how many tens or hundreds of thousands a day. Or an hour.

El Born & Parc de la Ciutadella

Posted on June 14, 2023 by admin

The first lines of the search results for the El Born district of Barcelona, sampled this morning:

El Born is sandwiched between Via Laietana and Barceloneta and is served by the metro stops Barceloneta and Jaume 1 which are on the same line. Las Ramblas and…

El Born brings to Greenpoint and NYC a taste of tapas y platillos from Spain and has a focus in Barcelona, where the owners are from.

A local’s guide to El Born district of Barcelona. The 26 best hotels, museums, bars, restaurants, shops and guided tours of El Borne for 2023.

Located in between the Gothic Quarter and the Ciutadella Park, El Born is one of Barcelona’s trendiest and most popular neighborhoods.

Once home to Barcelona’s affluent merchants, noblemen, and artisans, El Born is now one of the hippest, liveliest, and most creative…

That last line is from a site called “travel away” (no caps), which looks like an Afar knockoff, and the headline is “A Curated Guide to El Born, Barcelona.” Of course it’s curated. You must visit that perfect tapas place that serves unique craft sangria, or you’ll come down with a bad case of FOMO. (We had tasty tapas and swell sangria during our Catalonia holiday, but not in El Born.)

Anyway, you can’t just wander around to see what you can see, can you?

Of course you can. I wasn’t hip enough to know that El Born is trendy, but we were intrigued by our surroundings as we ambled along the mostly pedestrian thoroughfare Passeig del Born, where we acquired a drink and snacks to eat on a bench.

The soda in question. All the way from Hamburg. We’d never heard of it, so we gave it a go. Now I can’t remember what it tasted like, so it must have been neither that good or particularly bad.

At one end of the passeig is a large plaza featuring an imposing cast-iron structure.

That’s El Born Centre de Cultura i Memoria. The main part of the inside was free to walk into; just follow the rules.

The El Born Centre was once a large public market (Mercat del Born), and the first cast-iron structure of its kind in Barcelona, dating from 1876.

I was inspired to take a few black-and-whites.

I should have take more of those in Barcelona, which has a lot of good contour for monochrome. Ah, well. The iron framework over our heads wasn’t the only thing to see at El Born Centre. Beneath the ground-floor walkways is an archaeological site with a connection to Barcelona’s bloody past.

A neighborhood once existed here, as it becomes clear staring down on the ragged wall stubs and stones. In 1714, after the Principality of Catalonia capitulated to Bourbon forces toward the end of the War of Spanish Succession, the victors leveled the neighborhood to build the Ciutadella (citadel) and its security esplanade, presumably to help keep the Catalans in line. Well over a century later, after the hubbub in ’68 (1868, that is) the city assumed control of the site and eventually built the market on a relatively small part of it.

Much later, the ruins were uncovered, and archaeological investigations proceed. Sources tell me the ruins of 60 houses in 11 separate blocks can be found in El Born’s archaeological site.

We exited from the opposite end of El Born Centre that we entered, and from there a short street leads to the sizable Parc de la Ciutadella (Citadel Park), which is the use 19th-century Barcelona had for most the former military facility. Good choice. It’s a grand place for a stroll. Or just to hang out.

A water feature. Reminded me a little of Chapultepec Park in Mexico City.

Plus an assortment of monumental structures. Such as the Catalonian parliament building.

A thing called Castell dels tres Dragones, which seemed to be closed for repairs. Later (as in, today) I learned that Lluís Domènech i Montaner designed it. We’ll come back to him. He did something much more amazing that we saw later.

A Catalan gazebo. Note the difference in detail from Castilian gazebos. Catalans are reportedly fiercely proud of their gazebo heritage.

We were too tired to climb these stairs, but we did admire the work from some distance.

That’s the Ciudadela Park Cascade, which as far as I can tell doesn’t honor anything specific, but was built in the late 19th century to celebrate Barcelona’s revival. And in time for the Universal Exhibition of Barcelona in 1888, which is yet another place to visit once that time machine is up and running (and 1929, too).

The park, like Jackson Park in Chicago and Hemisfair is San Antonio, owes much of its modern shape to a long-ago world’s fair.

The West Virginia Capitol

Posted on April 11, 2023 by admin

But for an unfortunate fire a little more than 100 years ago, you might see this when you visit the West Virginia Capitol in Charleston.

In history as it was, there was a fire, and West Virginia needed a new capitol, which was completed by 1932. Nice job. Design by none other than Cass Gilbert, whose body of work is astonishing.

“Like the predecessor capitols Gilbert designed for Minnesota and Arkansas, the West Virginia capitol is dominated by its dome, which rises 292 feet above a colonnaded drum, and is embossed with gold leaf,” says the Cass Gilbert Society.

“The design was inspired by that of the Pantheon in Paris. The main entrances to the building are through monumental pedimented Corinthian porticos, set below the dome. Shallow domes at the ends of the main capitol block mark the location of the legislative chambers. The interior walls are faced with Vermont marble. The floor of the rotunda below the main dome is of Italian and Vermont marble.”

We stopped in Charleston on our way out of West Virginia on March 24. The warm, sunny weather of the day before had disappeared into rain and cold wind, as happens in the spring. So a walkabout outside the capitol wouldn’t have been pleasant. As I pointed my camera at the capitol, I had to brush water off.

Inside was another matter, nice and dry. A spare but impressive design, owing more than a little to Greek temples.

Gold leaf outside the dome. Inside, coal black. At least, that’s what I see. Incidentally, the neoclassical West Virginia capitol dome is the last of its kind among U.S. capitols — or, put another way, the most recent one.

The West Virginia House of Delegates.

The seats were roped off, but you can get close enough to some of the backbenches – literally at the back – to take in some interesting detail. Nothing surprising is a U.S. flag or a cross or even a Don’t Tread On Me flag or what I take to be some coal – but what’s that earth-colored disk?

Does that particular delegate sympathize with flat-earthers? Seems unlikely. Also, if you look carefully at the wider shot of the House of Delegates, those blue disks seem to be on some, but not all of the desks. A sizable minority of the delegates are flat-earthers? No, I won’t assume it. People believe the damnedest things, or say they do, but even now that would be too far around the bend. Still, I wonder what that disk is supposed to mean, in its pride of place on the desks.

There isn’t a lot of statuary, but West Virginia could hardly forget Sen. Byrd, here in a Solonian pose.

Or that western Virginian, Stonewall Jackson. He didn’t quite live long enough to hear about the formation of West Virginia, though the estrangement of western Virginia was well underway in his lifetime. He probably had other things on his mind, anyway.

He doesn’t have a statue, but JFK rates a memorial.

A president, paying attention to West Virginia! Of course, it probably helped that the state was solidly Democratic in those days, but with a political history of more swinging than most of the states to its south.

Like many capitols, portraits of old ‘n’ moldy governors hang on the walls (and sometimes not so old). Here’s the first governor of West Virginia, Arthur I. Boreman, with that distinctly mid-century vibe (mid-19th century, that is), and Lincolnesque beard. Probably no accident.

Boreman pushed for the establishment of West Virginia, which by itself ought to be better known. After all, it was the only successful secession of the Civil War era.

Another gov: number three, William E. Stevenson, another member of the founding generation of West Virginians, which aligned with his pro-Union and anti-slavery convictions.

That’s a striking portrait, unusual among governors long gone but still hanging on the wall. Wonder if the artist took liberties, or whether the governor actually had movie-star good looks well before anyone saw any movies.

Fallingwater

Posted on March 29, 2023 by admin

On the grounds of Fallingwater, there is a path with signs that lead you to The View. That’s what the signs call it. When you get there, The View is there for you.

Search for “Fallingwater” in Google Images, and the vast majority of the images look something like the above. For good reason: it’s arresting. I will give Frank Lloyd Wright his due on that. The placement of the house was a stroke of genius from The Genius.

Originally the idea had been to build a house with a view of the falls, but he made it part of the view. Had the original idea prevailed, people might still visit if the house still existed — it would be a FLW design, after all — but it wouldn’t be nearly as distinctive as it is.

Before we visited Fallingwater, I wondered what other views there were of the famed FLW creation in rural Pennsylvania. The answer is, any number you care to see.

We arrived on the morning of March 20, the vernal equinox, though as far as I know that fact didn’t affect our experience in any way. The low season of March, on the other hand, definitely added to the experience. Guided tours, the only way for ordinary folk to visit Fallingwater, had begun for 2023 only nine days earlier.

We might not have seen the place clothed with the greens of summer or the multicolors of fall, but we did enjoy how few people were around. For a few minutes at The View, for instance, I had the place to myself, because you don’t actually visit it as part of the tour. That comes afterward, when you amble down there yourself.

If you’re so inclined, of course, there’s really more than one view even at The View. For instance, straight up. You’d never know you’re on the grounds of a World Heritage Site at that angle.

We took turns touring the house, while the other waited with the dog. Originally I’d scheduled a 10:30 tour and one at 2:30, with the idea that we’d have lunch in between. But not all of the tours in between were fully booked – as I’d think they are in the summer and fall – so after I went on the 10:30 tour, Yuriko was able to move up to the one starting at 11:30 without any issue.

Signs greet you in front of the visitors center.

It’s a short walk from the visitor center to the house, but enough to get a sense of the surrounding Laurel Highlands.

Amazingly, the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy, which has owned the property since 1963, allows photography inside Fallingwater. Actually, only in the first-floor living room, but still. That’s one of the few FLW properties I’ve visited that does so.

Once upon a time, owning a successful urban department store (in Pittsburgh, in this case) meant that you could hire a starchitect to design your summer house in the woods, even as the Depression lingered. After quarrels with said starchitect and vast cost overruns, naturally, Fallingwater was completed in the late 1930s, including the main house, but also adjacent guest quarters.

A portrait of the original owner, Edgar Jonas Kaufmann (1885-1955), looks out into the living room, but as a young man – before Fallingwater ever came to be.

Because Kaufmann’s son, Edgar Jonas Kaufmann Jr. (1915-89), oversaw the transition from family summer home to house museum in the early ’60s, the family’s furnishings and artwork are largely still there, another novelty for a FLW house.

I was happy to see an orrery. It’s actually a Trippensee Planetarium, a brand that vanished with the 20th century.

From the main balcony, you get a view of The View. That is, you can see the spot downstream on Bear Run creek where people stand to see The View.

Note the people gathered down at The View, looking up. They’re hard to see in the image, but they are there.

At that moment, for them anyway, I was part of The View.

The Little Bank and the Big Basket of Newark, Ohio

Posted on March 28, 2023 by admin

If you happen to find yourself in Newark, Ohio, I recommend a look at the Licking County courthouse, a Second Empire structure from the grand age of U.S. courthouses, which was between the wars (that is, the Civil War and WWI).

Even though our visit coincided with exterior construction that mars its appearance temporarily, and a wicked cold wind, I knew I had to park the car and get out for a look.

Impressive. The visit to Newark was a digression. The most direct route from Columbus, Ohio to Uniontown, Pa. doesn’t pass through Newark, which is maybe 20 miles north of I-70 and U.S. 40 both. But we had a sight in mind there, so we made the detour, arriving in that large town (pop. 50,000) on the morning of March 19. As you’d think, the main road into town leads directly to the courthouse square.

Some county seats have intriguing buildings facing their courthouses, some don’t. Licking County, Ohio does.

A closer look at that last one.

Wow, an unexpected trove of details.

We’d stumbled upon the Home Building Association Co. bank building (with nickname The Old Home right above the door), a work by Chicago School patriarch Louis Sullivan, dating from 1914. The exterior has been nicely restored, but I could see peering through the windows that work is still underway inside. I understand that the building now belongs to the Licking County Foundation, and will eventually house the county’s convention and visitors bureau.

Notes Wiki: “The ornamentation included a winged lion quite similar to the ones to be found in Cedar Rapids, Grinnell and Sidney. Little mention is made in the literature about Sullivan as to why these creatures populate his banks. Also unique is the presence of Sullivan’s name in the tile mosaic over the front door.”

Yep, there it is. I didn’t notice when I was standing out in the cold.

Underfoot detail at the courthouse square speaks of a time of stronger faith in progress. Or at least when slogans had that faith.

Even so, Newark seems to abide, economically speaking. The U.S. industrial economy contracted, but it didn’t disappear. A sizably lighting products maker and a glass manufacturer run operations here, as do a welter of smaller factories across the county. Regional offices of larger banking and insurance companies are here, and OSU has a large regional campus in Newark as well.

About a block away from the square is the former sheriff’s residence and county jail, in a suitably sturdy Richardson Romanesque edifice. One Joseph W. Yost designed it.

A plaque outside the building told a story of mob violence – against an officer of the law, no less – from the early 20th century. The plaque’s a good deal newer than that, however. RIP, Deputy Marshal Etherington.

The backs of nearby buildings – mostly facing the square – feature history-themed murals in places that would otherwise be drab parking lots. Nice civic touch, Newark.

As interesting as downtown Newark turned out to be, that wasn’t actually the reason we came to town. This building was.

On the outskirts of Newark stands the seven-story former headquarters of the Longaberger Co., which used to make baskets whose look inspired the look of the building, and not in any abstract sense. They were sold via a multi-level marketing scheme.

The building opened in 1997 and is the sort of place that has articles written about it. For obvious reasons. In our time, the grounds and its large parking lot are freely open to passersby.

Company sales peaked at $1 billion in 2000, but it was downhill from there. Maybe its baskets, while handsome enough, were the kinds of possessions that eventually ended up in garages, and one was enough for most households.

The company folded in the late 2010s and the building emptied out, remaining vacant to this day. Another company owns the rights to the baskets and other products, but the operation isn’t here. For a time, redevelopment plans called for a boutique hotel, but that didn’t happen, and at last report the building was the subject of an ownership dispute.

Tri-State Appalachian Equinox Road Trip

Posted on March 26, 2023 by admin

Old Chinese proverb, I’ve heard: even a journey of 1,000 leagues begins by backing out of the driveway. That we did on Friday, March 17. We pulled back into the driveway on Saturday, March 25. In between we traveled 2,219 miles, using the ragged marvel that is the system of roads in the United States.

My fanciful name for the trip refers to three states that were the focus: Ohio, Pennsylvania and West Virginia. We actually passed through seven states, also including Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and very briefly, Maryland.

We saw a lot of places, but two in particular motivated the trip as a whole. One was Fallingwater, the Frank Lloyd Wright sculpture – I mean, house – perched over an irregular drop on Bear Run, a creek in rural Pennsylvania. Visiting Fallingwater had long been an ambition of Yuriko’s, maybe since before she lived in this country, since FLW is known far and wide; but I needed no persuasion to go myself.

The other was New River Gorge National Park and Preserve in eastern-ish West Virginia. This was my suggestion, since I keep up on national parks. But I’ve wanted to go there a good while, long before Congress promoted it to national park, which only happened in 2020. Besides, it was high time I spent a little more than a few minutes in West Virginia which, for whatever else it has, is known for its surpassing scenery. This reputation, I can confirm, is deserved.

Weather-wise, spring travel is a crap shoot. The day we left a cold, unpleasant wind blew in Illinois, Indiana and Michigan, and it followed us under the same gray skies and at temps barely above freezing the next day, into central Ohio.

By last Monday, in southwest Pennsylvania, temps had moderated with the appearance of the sun, and each day was more pleasant than the last as we headed south into West Virginia, where the grass had greened and some bushes had too, though most trees were at the barely budding stage. Thursday, March 23 proved best of all, with sunny skies and temps in the 70s, allowing us to enjoy the best meal of our trip — ricebowl meals — at a picnic table in Fayetteville, W.Va.

A cold rain came calling on Friday as we headed from West Virginia back to Ohio. On Saturday, again in central Ohio, it wasn’t bitterly cold, but the wind was so strong at times that it jostled my car as I drove and my body as I walked. Rain squalls came and went, with a spell of sleet I actually enjoyed, sitting in our parked car listening, knowing that the ice was too small to do any damage. Returning home yesterday, Illinois was pretty much as we’d left it, chilly and not-quite-spring.

The upshot of it all is to pack for the weather variety you’re going to encounter, and I was more than glad – as I returned to the car in a stiff wind, crossing a green field in small-town Ohio, feeling wind chill that must have been around zero (and I mean Fahrenheit) – that I’d brought the coat I use most of the winter.

We brought the dog. We don’t want to leave her at a kennel any more, and no one was at home to mind her. Having your dog along is something like traveling with a small child you can’t take into restaurants or a lot of other places, but we don’t regret a bit of it. Long drives in the car don’t faze her at all, since after the first few minutes, that’s like lying around the house and, as the comedian said, a dog’s job is lying around the house.

She had her energetic moments too, more than you’d think for an ancient dog, such as walking the trail to Diamond Point overlooking the New River Gorge, with its smooth straightaways through forests giving way to patches of mud, large rocks or tightly packed tree roots underfoot, sometimes all of those in a single stretch. Our reward for the sometime-slog was a vista of rare beauty. Her reward? I don’t think it was anything so visual. Maybe following the pack is its own reward for her.

Companion dogs also mean you acquaint yourself with the look and feel of the front office and main entrance of limited-service hotels during the empty early a.m. hours, well lit as a Broadway stage but without any players. Except maybe for the night clerk, just outside the door, who is peering into his phone, cigarette in other hand. Probably our dog, as any dog, could be trained to pee on a disposable rug in the room during the small hours, but somehow we’ve never wanted to do that. There’s something appealing somehow about the ritual of dressing as simply as possible a few minutes after waking at 2:30 or 3, or 25 or 6 to 4, hitching a leash to the dog’s collar and repairing to the first patch of green, or pebbles ringed by a curb, outside the hotel door

Take me home, country roads. I’ll say this for West Virginia, it’s got some crazy-ass serpentine roads through its ancient and forested mountains. The Laurel Highlands in southwest Pennsylvania was no piker in that regard, either. You need to keep an intense focus on the road as it winds this way and that, rises and falls, and passes ever so close to boulder walls, massive trees and wicked ditches. If you don’t mind thinking about your mortality every now and then, that’s some good driving.

Mostly good driving. There are moments when a red sedan, or a black pickup truck, decides that tailgating you at roughly the speed limit as you wind around and navigate switchbacks, is a good idea, and blasts around you at the first marginal opportunity, double solid stripes be damned.

Yet I only got the smallest sampling of the twisty roads. No roads without pavement this trip, though plenty enough didn’t bother with details such as guardrails. Another, entirely unpaved and mostly unregulated network of roads and tracks, many perhaps pre-New Deal, must exist in West Virginia. Out away from the nearest town, while we were parked a national park site on a small paved road, three ATVs buzzed past, each with two people. They were headed toward town after emerging from the woods, their vehicles streaked with mud. I was just close enough to see in their faces they’d had a fine time out in the unpaved network.

Also, if you really wanted to get home to West Virginia, wouldn’t you take the Interstate?

We made stops in Ohio going and coming.

On Saturday, March 18 we made our way south from Ann Arbor, where we’d spent the first night, to Columbus, Ohio, to spent the second. On the way is the Basilica and National Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation, a Byzantine edifice rising in a small town, which we visited, but also sites associated with Warren G. Harding: his memorial and burial site, and also his home, in the large town of Marion, Ohio.

Our return home, beginning on Friday, March 24, took us back through Ohio, to Columbus for the last night of the trip. Saturday morning, after takeout breakfast at Tim Horton’s – for that part of Ohio is in the Tim Horton’s orb, we were glad to learn – we visited downtown Columbus and the Ohio Statehouse in a howling cool wind. Ate lunch, Korean-style chicken and salad, sitting in the car in a clearly gentrified neighborhood, the bricked-streeted German Village. We spent the rest of Saturday driving back, via Indianapolis.

On the morning of Sunday, March 19, we left Columbus and made our way east through the remarkable town of Newark, Ohio, then Wheeling and Moundsville, West Virginia and from there to Uniontown, Pennsylvania, a mid-sized far outer suburb of Pittsburgh. Or at least it will be in a few years.

On Monday, we paid our visit to Fallingwater, taking turns on tours, after which we had lunch in a low-season tourist town and took an impediment-rich hike in Ohiopyle State Park, along the rocky shore of the Youghiogheny River, at that point boasting a highly picturesque waterfall. That was enough for one day for Yuriko, who napped in the car (along with the dog) as I walked the much shorter and smoother path to Fort Necessity National Battlefield late that afternoon.

On Tuesday, we made our way back west a short distance, to visit the Palace of Gold in rural West Virginia, in the peculiar north panhandle of the state (which I’ve long thought of as a conning tower). We returned that day to Uniontown by way of Moundsville, W. Va., home of an ancient mound of remarkable height, a former penitentiary of remarkable solidity, and a bridge across the Ohio River of remarkable elegance. Those things, and some tasty if not remarkable barbecue.

The next day, we left for West Virginia, but not by the most direct route, because I wanted to see the Flight 93 National Memorial in deep rural Pennsylvania. Progressively smaller roads lead there, including – as we traveled it, which I figured would be the quickest route – a short stretch of I-68 through the oddity that is the Maryland panhandle. Late that day, Wednesday, we arrived in Beckley, W. Va.

We spent almost all of Thursday at the national park, at one sight or another, driving and hiking and pondering historic and sometimes crumbled structures. But that wasn’t quite enough. On Friday morning, before we left for Ohio, we went back to the park. Around noon, we headed west, passing through Charleston long enough to visit the West Virginia State Capitol and eat Chinese takeout, though not at the same time. A little north of Charleston, we crossed back into Ohio after gassing up near the small town of Ripley, West Virginia. Believe it or not.

One other thing: this was a vacation from the news, which following is part of my job. Except for the briefest snippets on the radio, when sometimes I didn’t change stations out of habit for some seconds, I ignored the news of the world, or even smaller parts of it. I think that’s a good thing to do.

But of course, a few things got through. I heard the opening bars of The Dick Van Dyke Show theme on a news program one day, and I jumped to the conclusion that he had died. That isn’t a big jump, since he’s 97. But no, merely a one-car accident.

Image being that well regarded, that your minor auto accident as a nonagenarian is national news. Anyway, glad not to say, RIP, Dick Van Dyke.

Thursday’s Theme: A Lot of Good Things Get Lost or Kicked Around

Posted on March 2, 2023 by admin

March came in like – an emu? Golden retriever? – came in pleasantly, with temps nearly 60 F. That didn’t last, of course, and chilly air is back today, with snow forecast for Friday, which will melt over the weekend.

The other day, I found a Sears bag tucked away in a semi-storage corner of the house under various things. This made me want to look up how many Sears locations survive. As of November, anyway, when Sears Holdings Corp. emerged from Chapter 11, there were 22.

That’s not even a shadow of its former self. That’s dryer lint of its former self.

I don’t know when we got the bag, or what we bought at Sears that needed such a bag. It’s fairly large, though. About as tall as a kitchen trash bag, so I decided to take its picture and then use the bag for trash. Interesting trademarked slogan. One the company maybe didn’t think through. Where else?™

There’s a lot of possibilities, Sears.

Last week, as mentioned before, there seemed to be overnight microbursts in the area, to judge by the tree branches on the ground afterward. This was the only tree knocked down that I noticed, a few days later, after it had been chopped up somewhat before being cleared away. Note the crust of soil it took with it.

I suspect it wasn’t just the wind, but also the fact that the tree stood in a low-lying area that usually fills up during a rain and takes days to empty, weakening the soil. Besides, it might have been a sick old tree whose roots didn’t have the grip they used to, so bam! Down it came.

But even healthier trees can take a beating if the wind is aggressive enough.

Speaking of fallen things, I learned today that the Hotel Pennsylvania is being demolished. That isn’t news, just that I don’t keep up with everything happening in Manhattan. I stayed there a couple of times in the early 2000s, where the company I worked for at the time put me up. I thought it more solid than grand, but I’m still sorry to see it go.

What else to say but, Pennsylvania Six Five Oh Oh Oh

One more thing about time passage, destruction and decay. Something I found unexpectedly. An algorithm suggested it. Might as well be by chance, then.

A poignant song from the point of view of an abandoned house, included on an album called The Rat Plague of ’66. The kind of thing that happens in Australia. Don Morrison seems to be a singer-songwriter from Adelaide, South Australia.

The Former McLean County Courthouse

Posted on January 31, 2023 by admin

Now we’re in the pit of winter. Temps last night and into the morning dipped below zero Fahrenheit for some hours and didn’t rise much higher than positive single digits afterward. As of posting time, it’s 3 degrees F. hereabouts. But at least the roads aren’t iced over, as they are in parts of the South.

As far as I’m concerned, zero Fahrenheit is the gold standard for cold, as 100 F. is for heat. Thus demonstrating the genius of Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit when it came to thermometry, though I don’t disparage those other men of science, Anders Celsius or William Thomson, 1st Baron Kelvin or even William Rankine.

Temps (F) weren’t quite as cold when I took Ann back to Normal on Sunday, and there was no snow, so the traveling along I-55 was easy enough. Once I’d dropped her off, I took note of the fact that it was still light. So I headed to downtown Bloomington, where I’ve spent some wintertime moments, and took a look at the former McLean County Courthouse, now home to the McLean County Museum of History.

Impressive. Design credit is given to a Peoria firm, Reeves and Baillie, who were busy in their time, it seems.

This is the third – or fourth – building on the site, depending on whether you count the restoration following a major fire 1900 (the small image is post-fire). Whatever the count, the building took its current form in the first years of the 20th century, and remained an actual courthouse until 1976.

For the last 30 years or so, the museum has occupied all four floors of the place. Ann told me she and some friends went there one day earlier this semester and found it worth the visit. I would have gone in, but it’s closed on Sundays. So I had to content myself with the sights to be seen circumambulating the building.

Such as war memorials.

It took considerably longer to get around to this one.

In Illinois, Lincoln Was Here plaques are plentiful.

Looks like Lincoln is still in Bloomington. Bronze Lincoln anyway, and those are plentiful in the Land of Lincoln too. Of course they are.

By local artist Rick Harney and dedicated in 2000. That’s the bearded, presidential Lincoln, so one that never actually would have made an appearance in Bloomington, but never mind. Lincoln is Lincoln.

Been There, Seen That

By Dees Stribling

Tag Archives: architecture