[Obvious] Travel Tip: Check the Map

The Rhône and Arve rivers join just east of downtown Geneva. Before the Rhône's green water swirls in completely with the Arve's brown, the two rivers seem to resist each other, almost forming a line -- green on one side, murky tan on the other (after looking at lots of pictures, I think there's actually a low wall that intensifies the effect).  

The first time I saw the confluence, I was on the bridge that spans the rivers just above the junction. I had a perfect view of the rivers meeting and the V of land that ends their separation. The colors stopped me that day, and when I returned to Geneva last month with my husband, I wanted to show him this spot. 

I'm good with directions and can usually find my way back to places I've been once without too much help from Google. So I led my husband down the banks of the Rhône, reassured by signs warning us against swimming (the icy Arve waters were just around the corner!). 

I got us to the confluence, but if you ever go yourself, make sure you're on the right side of the river. A quick Google map check would have reminded me to walk down the north bank of the Rhône, where you can access the bridge that provides this lovely view: 

Photo by wbayercom/Flickr

The south bank takes you to that peninsula, where you get the stench of the Arve and this view: 

Still cool, but not as good. 

Check the map, people Linda.

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Just Exploring the Tinguely Museum

Hike. Visit family. Drink Rivella and eat sausage on mountains. These are the things I usually do in Switzerland. Visiting museums is not a top priority on Swiss trips, but I would visit Basel's Tinguely Museum every time. 

Jean Tinguely was a Swiss sculptor best known for his kinetic sculptures. He collaborated with his second wife, Niki de Sainte Phalle, on the Stravinksy Fountain next to the  Pompidou Center in Paris. He's got a piece, Chaos I, in Columbus, Indiana. Basel has his Faschnachts-Brunnen  (literally, Carnival Fountain, but apparently it also goes by just "the Tinguely fountain") -- and the museum. 

I love a good interactive museum. The City Museum in St. Louis is less of a museum and more of a dangerous playground, but the Tinguely reminds me of it. In the main hall, you can climb stairs up and through a two-story conglomeration of steel, giant wheels, ladders, a carousel horse, fake geraniums in a window box, and an upside-down garden gnome dipped in and out of a vat of water.

Another garden gnome

Stamping on large buttons placed on the floor in front of the sculptures sets them into motion.To preserve the sculptures, timers monitor how frequently button-pushing activates them, so sometimes you push and nothing happens. You move on. Then the next guy comes along, and the sculpture's clanking scares you into scurrying back to catch it in action. 

This one makes music

The Tinguely is also home to one of the more terrifying sculptures I've seen. Tinguely used the remains of a burned-down farm house to build Mengele-Totentanz. It is like a nightmare you're shocked your brain would give you. With time, this room's shadows, chains, and skulls fade to a creepy memory, pushed aside in favor of the museum's big, clangy, fun pieces. I thought maybe it was a temporary installation, but no, it's always there, waiting for my next visit. And despite the creepiness, I'll always be open to another visit. 

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Kentucky, you have ruined me

I am not that well-versed in liquors, but since moving to Kentucky, I've learned about bourbon and have started taking it for granted. I expect a selection of bourbon behind the bar, and when I ask for bourbon on a plane, I don't expect the following: 

Me: Do you have bourbon?

Flight Attendant: Is this bourbon? Shows me Jack Daniel's 

Me: Um... no... 

FA: I have bourbon, hang on. Goes to front of cabin, comes back and shows me Dewar's 

Is this bourbon? 

Me: No, that's Scotch

FA: Is this not bourbon? Shows me Jack Daniels again 

Me: No, but it will do.   

I have been that confused server ("What is 7&7?") -- and would probably still be confused if asked about brandy or Scotch. I just forget that outside of Kentucky, bourbon is not a given. 

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#FriFotos - Road Trip (and Hot Chicken, Round 2)

I'm rarely enthusiastic about the from-the-car photos I take on road trips. This one from last weekend's jaunt down to Nashville is no different. I want to share it because in the first seconds I saw this truck, I thought (hoped) it was actually a truck full of coffee. 

Now that we've discovered hot chicken, no trip to Nashville will be complete without it. This time, we visited Hattie B's, near Vanderbilt. Hattie B's is a little fancier than Bolton's, but you still order at a counter and sit at picnic tables. They also have beer.  

Since I survived the "hot" at Bolton's on our last visit, I thought I should see how I would handle the hottest chicken, the Damn Hot. I was nervous, and rightly so. That first bite was deceptive. I even thought Hattie B's might be faking it. When the server came around with a second dish of potato salad, her warning of, "It's a slow build," was too late. I was already there. And I never really crossed over to a place where I wasn't looking for something to eat that would ease the burn. I ate most of our four sides (pimento mac 'n' cheese!) and drank two beers in about 15 minutes. The chicken was delicious, and I ate half of Gabe's even though I said I was done before mine was gone. But when you feel like you've removed a layer of esophageal tissue, it's too hot. No more Damn Hot chicken for me. 

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#FriFotos - Boats

I learned a few things from my first visit to Stow Lake. There are some spots along the lake where two people can easily board someone else's boat; however, management will notice that your party left with two and returned with four. Stow Lake's paddle boat management also disapproves of standing in the boats as you attempt to make a triumphant return to the dock. 

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Just Exploring Crabbing

I feel like I got in more touch with my grandmother's side of the family last week.

I have vague memories of crabbing at a 1989 family reunion in Virginia Beach. I would have been five, almost six, and my memory of floating in a rubber dinghy, crab line in hand, is either real or derived from photos. But I know this part of family -- my grandmother and her siblings, their offspring, and their offspring -- crab. 

Photos show a grinning cousin holding up a bushel basket filled with blue crabs; my father and uncle, waist-high in the water with lines; my grandmother and great aunts and uncles sitting around a table covered in newspaper and boiled crabs.

Apart from that family reunion, I have crabbed maybe once on the Outerbanks, out of shallow, reedy ditch. We threw back everything we caught. It was based on this little experience, emailed instructions, and some YouTube videos that I lead my husband and friends on their first crabbing experience. 

I tweeted my concern about our expedition, to which my brother replied, "How hard can it be? Twine + fence post + ocean = crab."

Turns out he was right, although that equation is missing "raw chicken" and "fishing weight." We caught 14 crabs and cooked and ate six of them that night. 

Here are a few things I learned from my first grown-up crabbing venture: 

1. 7 Elevens do not sell twine. Walgreens does. 

2. You can use kite string (on a handle or a spool) for your line. 

3. Apparently, leaving your chicken necks outside over night increases the nibbles.  

4. You can simply stand in the water with your net and line. A low dock would probably decrease the chance of a crab running across your feet. 

5. You'll know when there's a crab on your line -- there is a definite tug. 

6. Putting blue crabs in fresh water for 30 minutes doesn't drown them. 

7. A crab can crawl out of a plastic colander 

#FriFotos - Hikes

I'm half Swiss and have hiked all over the Bernese Oberland. Every few summers, my American grandparents met us in Switzerland for a week of walking. Our most recent visit together was in 2009. For the first time, we hiked a little slower. Spent a morning on a boat instead of walking around the lake. Took the bus up the mountain and walked back down.

My grandfather still runs 5 and 10k races, but 2009 may have been the last summer of hiking together. Here they are, walking up a rocky trail, lead by my dad. 

The Other Side of Spicy

"…hot chicken is a unique brand of fried chicken that's highly seasoned, some would say to incendiary proportions."

I was intrigued by the special "Hot Chicken" section in our Nashville guide book. When our friend saw it and also expressed interest, we had our dinner plans. 

The guide book recommended a hot chicken place near us, Bolton's (the only spot that also does hot fish, according to the fifth edition of Insiders' Guide Nashville). We ordered through the window -- medium spicy wings to share, and various levels of spice from medium to "as hot as you can make it" on our individual orders of quarters and legs. The guy in line behind us overheard our friend order his chicken "hot" and said, "Oh… you don't want hot." 

Now. I love spicy food. I grew up in Texas, and Picante commercials taught me that my home state knew salsa (and to me, salsa means heat, or don't bother). My dad ate Tabasco on everything, and my mom made him (and later me) homegrown Scotch Bonnet-Habañero relish. I like it hot and am stupid about it. So yes, I do want it hot. 

I volunteered my Texan origins to this wise gentleman, which convinced him that I'd be "good." I'm glad others will so easily join in my delusion. 

Bolton's waiting-and-dining area has four tables and hardly enough room for the crowd that gathered, so everyone overheard our order. They were eager to witness our first hot chicken experience (I think they just wanted to see if we'd cry), but we got our chicken to go. On the patio of our weekend home, we spread out our boxes, napkins and beers. The chicken comes with slices of white bread and two sides. These, I suppose, are to ease the burn. 

I started with the medium-hot wings and knew I was in trouble, Texas roots and all. Next to me, our friend drank his beer and announced he was burning. I was officially concerned about my hot chicken leg and knew I would not try my husband's "hot as you can make it" chicken. We soldiered on, tongues and stomachs burning, gulping beer and sides -- mac and cheese, greens, baked beans, slaw -- fists clenched, "experiencing THINGS."

And then it happened. My husband knows this feeling, and though I believed him, I had a hard time imagining it. But it happened. We passed to the other side of spicy. I could still feel the heat in my stomach, but slowly, the pain was gone. And I felt… good? I really did experience things and was able to eat the rest of my meal without feeling like a cartoon of a guy eating a hot pepper. 

If you're headed to Nashville and want to experience your own spicy feelings, in addition to Bolton's, 400 Degrees, Prince's (here's a great video about them), and Hattie B's were recommended to us. There's also a Hot Chicken Festival in July. I will be looking for something comparable in Louisville, and I welcome tips -- not just for chicken, but any really spicy food. Have you ever traveled to the other side of hot?