Three Hundred Bucks at Bacchanalia

When Joe asked me where I wanted to go to celebrate my sixty-fifth birthday, I think he was hoping for Free Beer Glass Night at Taco Mac, but I picked Bacchanalia.  Bacchanalia has been on my radar since I first moved to Atlanta and saw it at the top of every list of best restaurants in the metro area.  I became even more interested the first time I happened upon Star Provisions with my friend, Nancy.  Star Provisions is owned by the Bacchanalia folks and it is made up of a darling set of small shops where you can buy wine, cheese, meats, and gifts for any foodie or foodie wanna-be.  You can even grab a deli sandwich and a pickle there and eat on the premises, which is what Nancy and I did.  

However, the most interesting part of the Star Provisions Bacchanalia connection, to me, is that you must walk through Star Provisions to get to Bacchanalia, kind of like a high-end Cracker Barrel. 

So I chose Bacchanalia and sweet Joe agreed, even though he knew it was pricy.  They have a prix-fixe menu, which means that, once they get you in there, you aren’t getting out without some pain to your pocket book or an attempt to sell one of your grandkids.  They also have wine pairings for each of their five courses, glasses of which they will be happy for you to purchase in addition to the five courses for which you are already paying an astronomical amount.

I must say I was nervous.  Joe and I had worried over the wine part since we aren’t exactly wine enthusiasts.  We kept hearing that the wine with each course is part of the experience and that we should immerse ourselves in the experience.  However, we also needed to immerse ourselves in paying our February bills and survive the drive home.   

In addition to worries about the wine and the bank we were going to have to rob to pay for our outing, we also couldn’t quite figure out what to wear.  We didn’t want to look like Bacchanalia virgins so I nixed my evening gown and rented tux idea.  

We eventually decided to dress somewhat up but not way up, hoping not to stand out, and arrived a few minutes early for the first seating.  But even as early as it was, it looked like the lights were out in Star Provisions.  Had they closed early in honor of my birthday?  

Perhaps because of the darkened demeanor of the Star Provisions entry,  and instead of listening to logical birthday-girl me and trying the door, Joe decided to take it upon himself to see if there was an alternative entrance.  Before I knew it he was jiggling the back door of Bacchanalia of all places, where the entire waitstaff was collectively hiding, trying to enjoy their last sane moment before the wild rumpus began.

To their credit, the waiting/hiding waiters were kind about our faux pas and assured us that they would escort us to the front door, and that we weren’t the only ones ever to arrive through the service door. So there we went, in our middle-best clothes, the only people not dressed in white toques and starched jackets, being guided like little lost lambs to the front, to the place we were supposed to be.

Because we were early and a bit unraveled, we opted to sit at the bar and have a drink before being seated at our table.  The first thing I noticed was that the décor wasn’t at all what I had expected,  based on the name of the establishment.  When I think of bacchanalia, I think of Rubinesque opulence.  This Bacchanalia was minimalist, with sand-colored ceramic-tiled walls and simple shades instead of heavy draperies.  Aside from the large window giving us a view of the kitchen with prep underway, the only other decorative touches were two large paintings.  The one closest to us was of a woman who was working in the field (perhaps picking our second course?) with a tiny unformed head  and  her body large and square - Picasso-esque at the top and Diego Rivera-ish at the bottom.  And, as Joe pointed out, she wasn't wearing any panties. 

After we finished at the bar, we were led to our small table, and that’s where the coddling began.  Reams of people kept stopping by and offering us delectable things.  This gifting reminded me of the times my cat brought dead or dying rodents to my door, lovingly placing them on the mat for me to enjoy.   

Water?, bread?, another drink?, an amuse bouche?, more bread?, more water?  Then, as our heads were beginning to swim what with all the water, the main attraction lady came by with the menu, the dreaded menu with five choices for each of five courses along with the wine pairings!  She quickly put us at ease, however, explaining how it all worked and how we didn’t have to have wine if we didn’t want it, sweetly indicating that they wouldn’t be laughing their asses off at us back in the kitchen, with our firstly not knowing where the door was and secondly refusing their perfectly-paired wine.

The meal was lovely, with each of us ordering different dishes for each course and tasting the others choice.  And, because it is what they call a "tasting menu" we were able to enjoy each delectable bite without puking.

They even brought me a tiny cake with Happy Birthday written in perfect chocolate penmanship on the plate because Big Mouth told them the occasion.  And they didn't make me stand up while the entire staff marched out singing and clapping like they do at Golden Corral.

After Joe paid the three hundred dollar bill (including tip)  and we were leaving through Star Provisions like we were supposed to do, I noticed  a group of people sitting at a farm table, eating bread and cheese from the cute bread and cheese shops and sharing a bottle of wine from the wine shop.  At first I felt a tad duped in that I was pretty sure their meal wasn't costing them as much as ours did Joe.  

But, then again, they didn’t get to see the lady with the tiny head and no panties.

Haute Cuisine

Neither Joe nor I can cook, although he can grill up a mean steak in his back yard or even in his kitchen with George Forman at the ready.  However, at some point after we started hanging out, we decided we needed something to go with the steak, so our first foray was into the realm of the baked potato.  Now, I know how to cook a baked potato as I eat them all the time.  However, I believe God would never have invented the microwave if He’d not wanted people to “bake” their potatoes in one of them.

Joe disagreed, being the Yankee purist he is.  He said we needed to bake our baked potatoes.  That’s when the degrees argument ensued.  He said 400 for an hour.  I said 350 (because basically 350 is my setting of choice for all cooking).  I won and what we won was a rash of rawish potatoes after an hour.  Joe was smug and said he told me so but I just put the potatoes in the microwave for a few minutes and that way I won again.

Next we tried quiche because Joe is a Francophile, plus I guess he feels manly enough to withstand any aspersive remarks toward said manliness based not only on his quiche eating but also his quiche cooking.   The quiche was good and we ate it for the next three weeks.

Next, we decided to take a cooking class.  Again, because Joe thinks he’s French, we chose the Spring in Paris Hands-On Class at the Cooks Warehouse in Decatur.  It started at 6:30, which is not only late for me to cook or eat, it’s also past my bedtime.   However, I womaned up and we set out for the class (after stopping by Taco Mac so Joe could get his free beer glass because it was Free Beer Glass Night).

Our class consisted of 12 participants in two groups, a bevy of sweet volunteers, and Chef John Wilson, who was not only not French, he was also a bit of an ass.  Our group had Joe and me, an adorable mid-20s couple who were just moving in together, a woman who was a history professor at Agnes Scott, and another woman who just liked to cook.

Chef John yelled a lot, although I don't entirely blame him.  He had an ambitious menu and 12 morons in the kitchen, people who couldn't follow directions very well.  The menu consisted of:

Three Cheese Spread with Olive Oil

Corn, Tomato, and Basil Individual Souffles

Green Beans with Bacon and Mushrooms

Pan Seared Sea Scallops with Beurre Blanc Sauce

Buttery Madeleines

Chef John was an equal opportunity yeller and we all caught some of his wrath; however, I was the only one he told to step away from the stove and to "go stand over there."  Somehow, though, having John abuse us only brought our group together in that weird common foe way.   And the class was really fun, although I think we should wait until after our instructor retires and opens that bed and breakfast he's planning before we show up for another one.

Since the class, we haven't used anything we learned, although Joe spent about thirty bucks on a Madeleine pan and a lemon zester.  We did cook a pot roast (at 350) in 80 degree weather a few weeks ago.  It took us all day but tasted good and certainly warmed our bones.  We still go to the Waffle House for breakfast most days and supper is often a bag of Lay's Salt and Vinegar potato chips.

I can't remember the temperature for baking Madeleines.  I wonder what Chef John would say if I were to tell him I just cook them in the microwave.

What I Learned from the Gypsy Farm Story

 Black Jack at the Smith Family Farm

It was one of my first days volunteering at the Smith Family Farm at the Atlanta History Center and I wasn’t all that enamored with the visiting school group.  Oh, the children were cute and inquisitive and relatively well behaved; it was the adults who were bugging me.  The kids were on a field trip and they were from a Megatively Conservative Mega Church Private School and, since I couldn’t blame the kids for sending themselves to such a school, I could only blame the parents (some of whom were serving as chaperones).  Everyone was vanilla and coifed and all the same, generally the kind of people who don't interest me all that much.  However, I was on my best behavior, trying to be helpful without anyone figuring out I had absolutely no clue as to what I was doing.

I’d heard Ava, our Kitchen History Maven, telling the kids that she was cooking up some carrots they’d been keeping down in the root cellar, and minutes later, I found myself outside, standing next to the door of said root cellar, wondering if there really were any carrots down there and what else might be down there and if there really was a down there.   

The Smith home, an1840s era house and detached kitchen, are the real deal, having been moved to their present location from Dekalb County in the early 1970s, but the additional out-buildings, while historical, aren't from the Smith family.  In addition, some of the accoutrements are faux (although firmly-documented fine faux) because, well, because everything can’t be all real all of the time, even in a place as wonderful as the Smith Family Farm at the Atlanta History Center.

So, there I was standing by the either real or faux root cellar as a field trip mom stepped up to me and said, “Root cellars give me the creeps.”   

Like she would know anything about root cellars, this lily-white, suburban, probably gas-guzzling SUV driving, tennis-playing trophy wife, I thought.    But I went into docent mode anyway, using the only information I had.  

“Yeah well, the Smiths stored things like carrots down there,” I said, hoping she wouldn't ask me anything else that would indicate I'd already given her everything I had.

“My parents kept their homemade wine in ours,” she offered.  

What?  This transparent mega-church-going, private-school-sending mom had parents who kept bootlegged booze in a root cellar?  I was envisioning some color spilling on to her pallid cheeks, like Two-Buck Chuck Premium Red on a perfectly pressed linen napkin.

“You grew up on a farm?  Where?”

“Up in Michigan.”

“Your parents were farmers?”

“Well, not really.  At some point, they got a wild hair and they bought a farm.  From gypsies.”

“Your parents bought a farm from gypsies?”

“Yeah, and when we moved in, there were still gypsy wagons on the property and apparently they’d kept their animals inside the house.”

“You mean dogs and cats?”

“More like goats and chickens.” 

It turned out that this woman had grown up on a former gypsy farm and her parents had raised their own chickens and goats (outside) along with cows and vegetables and grapes for wine making, reading books as they went along to figure out how to keep everything alive, all while running a family business in a nearby town.   And these very same parents now lived with this women here in Atlanta because she was a divorced mom of three who was struggling, finishing up nurse’s training, specializing in flesh wounds.  

It was like at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz, you know the part when the black and white goes all technicolorish as Dorothy and Toto start out on the yellow brick road? Suddenly, this lady's family story and personal history brought her into a full and interesting light, and she became a reminder for me to avoid judging what could be a great book by what seems to be a stereotypical cover.  Here stood this colorful, vibrant woman who was interesting and absolutely worth getting to know, with a story only she could tell.  All I needed to do was open my mind and listen.

 By the way, there really is a root cellar under that door at the Smith Family Farm at the Atlanta History Center.  Just like the woman I talked to that day, it's  real.

 

For more information about the Smith Family Farm at the Atlanta History Center, see:

Smith Family Farm

Buying Toilet Paper in Cabbagetown

It just felt right.  I was in Cabbagetown and out of toilet paper.

 

When I first moved to Atlanta seven years ago, someone took those of us who toiled together out to lunch at a funky little restaurant called the Carroll Street Café.  That someone, who was a native, said the restaurant was in Cabbagetown, a former working-class neighborhood that got its name from – well, I bet you can guess.  The restaurant was cute and crowded during the lunch hour and it was difficult to find a place to park.  The area looked like it was in the midst of some gentrification but it still appeared very different from midtown where I’d just moved.

That was the last I thought about Cabbagetown until I discovered Whittier Mill, a former mill town up by the Chattahoochee River, while I was writing my children’s  book about Georgia history.  I was telling a friend about Whittier Mill, saying I hadn’t realized there had been mill towns so close to Atlanta, when she responded with “How about Cabbagetown?”  Duh.  The things I don’t know continue to amaze me.

For some reason probably having to do with being born a Democrat, I’ve been attracted to mill towns since I was a child, riding in the backseat of the family car as we traveled by the collections of houses all looking the same, houses situated in close proximity to each other like a large toothy grin.  I was used to farms, cities, and suburbs and these small communities looked so different and appealing in some way.

So, recently, with my newly-acquired retirement time, time that allows me to visit the Carroll Street Café between the hours of lunch and happy, I decided to give Cabbagetown another look. 

But first, I revved up my trusty computer and did some research and found the following from Profiling Solutions:

In the Battle of Atlanta, The Atlanta Rolling Mill was a primary target of Sherman, as it was one of the South’s largest producers of rail track, cannons and two inch sheets of steel. Destroyed during the Battle of Atlanta by the retreating of the Confederate army, the mill site was acquired by Jacob Elsas and Isaac May, German Jewish immigrants who came to Atlanta during reconstruction. Starting out as rag, paper and hide dealers, they transformed their business into a container business focusing on cloth and paper and incorporated the Fulton Cotton Spinning Company in 1881.

The International Cotton Exposition of 1881 was held in Atlanta in an effort to attract investment to the region. With many industries relocating to the post-Reconstruction South in search of cheap labor, the partners acquired the site and built their factory. Expansion of the complex occurred over the years with addition of a bag mill, but a dissolution of the partnership and change in business direction lead to the incorporation of the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill with Jacob Elsas and his family having control of the site in 1889.

Cabbagetown was built as the surrounding mill town. Elsas built a small community of one and two-story shotgun houses and cottage-style houses surrounding the mill. Like most mill towns, the streets are extremely narrow with short blocks and lots of intersections. At its height, the mill employed 2,600 people which consisted mostly of poor whites recruited from the Appalachian region of north Georgia. A protracted strike in 1914-15 failed to unionize the factories workforce. For over half a century, Cabbagetown remained home to a tight-knit, homogeneous and semi-isolated community of people whose lives were anchored by the mill, until it closed in 1977. Afterwards, the neighborhood went into a steep decline which didn’t end until Atlanta’s intown renaissance of the mid-1990s. The mill itself was named to the National Register of Historic Places in 1976.

What I found when I went were cottages that appeared to be inhabited by people who didn’t seem to mind being a bit different, some were pristine, others barely hanging on.

  There was some yard art, including a shrub pruned to look like pacman and a large sign on a front porch proclaiming, “You are here.”  And my favorite sight was someone manning a skateboard with a twelve-pack of Pabst under his arm.

 
I stopped by the Carroll Street Café for a Diet Coke, which I enjoyed out front on a gorgeous and not terribly hot September afternoon, looking up at the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill smokestacks that were looking back down on me, as were the inhabitants of Oakland Cemetery,  I was thinking about the people who've walked Carroll Street throughout Atlanta's history. The Fulton Mill is now the nation’s largest residential loft community but the cemetery still only houses dead people, some of whom were famous. 

While I enjoyed the Carroll Street Café and the sun warming my face, I fell a Little in love with Little’s Food Store, just down the street.  Not only do they sell fruits and vegetables and hamburgers and beer and wine, they also have toilet paper.

  

For more information about Cabbagetown and its history, see

Fulton Bag and Cotton Mills Digital Collection

Naked Bike Riding

How many things are wrong with that?

Whereas Atlanta has its Purple Dress Run, Portland has The Naked Bike Ride. The Purple Dress Run is an annual event sponsored by the Atlanta Bucks Rugby Football Club. It’s actually a pub crawl, and their website touts it this way:

“Put the Atlanta Bucks in purple dresses and run them from bar to bar, and it’s no prim-and-proper Southern cotillion. The burly Bucks and their supporters don their gay apparel Saturday for one of the rugby team’s two biggest fundraisers of the year.”

 

Photo taken from my Sun Room Window in Atlanta

So you get it. Burly gay guys dressed in purple dresses and careening from pub to pub to raise money for AIDS awareness, etc. Although often in sequins and boas and size 14 stilettos, they are clothed, at least mostly.

Then on to Portland's Naked Bike Ride. Here’s some info about the latest one:

"The World Naked Bike Ride took to the streets of Portland Saturday night, exposing the city to a reported 13,000 cyclists who in turn were exposing themselves to the city. In spite of a cool evening, cyclists rode with little or no clothing, staying warm with exertion and camaraderie."

Still lots of alcohol involved and a good cause, this one to protest against society's reliance on automobiles and Big Oil.

I can see myself taking part in the Purple Dress Run (as long as I didn’t have to run). I’d actually be one of the better looking participants, trust me. But as to the Naked Bike Ride, please see below for just some of the ways this is wrong:

• It was only 50 degrees the evening described in the article I cited.
• At my age, there's no telling what body part might get stuck in the spokes.
• I can't ride a bike sober so .............
• You know the adage about being the lead dog in a sled race and how if you aren't the lead dog, the view never changes.  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be the lead dog in this race, and, if I remember correctly, don't people stand up from their bike seats when they accelerate or start up a hill?
• Speaking of the bike seat, who's in charge of cleaning that after the race?
• Do the participants go naked into the bars too?
• Can you imagine where the scrapes might be if you fall off?
• What about chafing?
• Where do you keep your credit card and phone? How about your identification for when they find you naked, drunk, and dead in the gutter?

But what I find most wrong about Portland's Naked Bike Ride is the point they are trying to make, that of protesting our over-reliance on automobiles and Big Oil.  Nothing makes me want to climb into my big old gas guzzling car fully clothed more than considering the alternative of Riding a Bicycle with my Sixty-One-Year-Old Completely Nekked Body on a Cold Spring Evening in Portland, Oregon.  Or any place else, for that matter.

Peas All Gone!

A few evenings ago, I dined with old friends, Gene and Charlotte, at the iconic Atlanta eatery The Colonnade. As Charlotte was enjoying her veggie plate, I, my chicken-fried chicken, and Gene, his salmon croquettes, he reminisced about growing up near Atlanta in the 1940's and 50's, describing memories of driving downtown with his mother to shop at Rich’s and Davison’s Department Stores and the small magic shops that were situated between those two Grande Dames of Southern Shopping. He told about following his mother up and down Peachtree Street, to and from Forsyth Street, and how the trip was made less painful as he was allowed to stop at both of the magic shops on the way. He said that, all the while he was eating lunch at Rich’s Magnolia Tea Room, he’d be trying to decide which one of the magic tricks he would be allowed to buy.  As Gene was talking, my own Rich’s memory hit me like a….well, like a mouthful of English peas. 

Living way down in Waycross as we did, we didn’t make it up to Atlanta very often. However, I did have two aunts who lived here and we would drive up to see them from time to time. My first memory of an Atlanta visit must have been in about 1954, which would have made me four. I remember looking in the Rich’s window and seeing my first television screen ever, all lit up in vibrant black and white. I also remember eating lunch in the tea room there.

As a child, I was a picky eater. On one occasion when I was quite small, a nice neighbor lady asked what I liked on my hamburger, and I responded with “everything but the meat.” I’d like to think I was ahead of the  times with my vegetarian sensibilities, but I guess my recent chicken-fried chicken selection would belie that. And a vegetarian I definitely was not, as, to my child mind, vegetables were to be avoided at all cost. 

I’m pretty sure that, for my nice luncheon at the Magnolia Tea Room, I ordered either a cheese sandwich or my extra-special favorite, peanut butter and jelly. I’m also certain that my sneaky mother mouthed something about a vegetable to our complicit waitress in her frilly white apron.

It doesn't take much of an imagination to conjure up what happened next in the midst of a nice meal in a lovely restaurant full of happy post-WWII hatted and white-gloved matrons and very few children.  To my horror, English peas arrived in a neat little pile on my plate; Mama told me to at least taste them, and I said no.  She ordered and I cried.  She put her foot down and I petulantly took a spoonful.  But, determined to have the last, albeit silent word, I refused to swallow.  

The rest of the meal was spent with me full-cheeked and teary-eyed, but Mama didn't relent.  Finally, the bill was paid and my Mary Janes insolently followed my mother's spectator pumps past the other patrons, out the door, and into the elevator to take us to the first floor where the perfumes and hosiery were displayed and sold.  Midway through our downward journey, I looked up at Mama and smiled my best smile.  In the midst the packed elevator full of  other shoppers and diners, I said, in what my mother later reported to have been an extremely loud voice, "Peas all gone!"

Rich's Department Store, with its Pink Pig at Christmas and its Crystal Bridge spanning seven stories, is also gone, gone from downtown Atlanta and elsewhere.  All that's left are grown-up memories of little children reluctantly following their mamas in their pretty hats and white gloves up and down Peachtree Street; children just looking for some respite, perhaps a magic trick or a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no vegetables. 

Although Gene eventually understood that there were simple solutions to the magic tricks he obsessed over and purchased on his shopping trips to downtown Atlanta, solutions explained by the sales clerk as soon as he handed over his small bills and coins, I continue to dislike English peas to this day.

Home

I flew home to Atlanta the other day from my home in Portland. This is the first time I felt Portland to be as much my hometown as Atlanta and leaving was difficult. I know I’m lucky to be able to spend so much time with my grandkids while still having a space for myself. I’m also lucky to be able to live in two incredibly beautiful cities and in two spaces I truly love.

Below are things I miss about each particular place when I'm not there.

Portland

1. my grandchildren
2. hanging out with my very own grown kids
3. toys underfoot
4. my tiny front yard that I don't have to maintain
5. wandering around St. Johns
6. Sauvie Island
7. the rivers and bridges
8. my big bathroom
9. the weather in summer
10. my gas fireplace (even in summer)
11. Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens
12. being able to walk to the grocery store
13. my new Portland friends
14. Trevor's cooking
15. dancing with the family
16. not working
17. family field trips
18. happy hour in Grammy’s Garden
19. a new state to explore
20. a new life
    

Atlanta

1. closer proximity to Molly
2. family furniture
3. my job
4. my car
5. Friday early bird dinners with Allison
6. my old Georgia friends
7. going to the movies with Allison
8. not having to walk to the grocery store
9. my sunroom
10. the old ladies' Macy's at North Dekalb Mall
11. my ottoman
12. Publix Supermarket
13. Piedmont Park
14. walking through Ansley Park and by the High Museum and Atlanta Symphony Hall
15. my view of the Atlanta skyline
    
16. movie star neighbors
17. not having to put the trashcan out each week
18. my purple bedroom
19. an old state with many memories
20. an old life
    

My experiences in each place and space are quite different. My Atlanta home is old and historic. My building was completed in 1917 and Margaret Mitchell once lived in it. My furniture is comprised of mostly old family pieces and my decor is shabby not-so-chic with lots of things (the good, the bad, and the ugly) I've created and collected throughout the years. My Portland home is new and "green", built in 2004 to improved standards. My furniture is all new (at least to me) and the decor is still sparse, although I'm working hard on adding my own personal tacky to it.

My Atlanta home is private. What I put down stays down and all dirt is mine. My Portland home is communal, with kids and grandkids in and out, the toilet seat up and down, the refrigerator opened and closed (and occasionally slammed), toys and kid paraphernalia everywhere, sometimes a dog named Lou.

And so, I get to live two lives, both of which embrace and reflect my loves, my interests, and my crazy quirks. On the west coast, I get to be up close and personal as I pretty much think of myself as a full-time Grammy. And then on the east coast, I get to find my solitude and pursue my other selves.

Okay, I know it’s difficult to feel too sorry for me, but I have to say that the transitions are tough, and I'm not just talking about time zones. I have a hard time figuring out which keys are which and I can’t remember if I have any toilet paper or where I keep it. I can’t recall which aisle my Diet Cokes are on in each of my two grocery stores or where are my favorite TV channels are under which remote-control buttons.

And then there's the letting go of the little ones. It was especially hard this time as they are getting old enough to realize I’m leaving. Miles had a meltdown when it came time to say goodbye, his outward falling apart mirroring what I was feeling inside. My heart felt broken in two, each half situated on opposite sides of the continent.

Because there are so many people without even one home, it does sound a bit self serving to be complaining about "oh what a burden" two are, but it's the straddling that's difficult, and I know it would be even more difficult if I didn't have the means to have comfortable surroundings at both ends of the straddle.

So, since I’m not ready yet to give up either life, I'm back to feeling lucky, and I guess I’ll just continue to try to appreciate each place and experience when I'm in the middle of it all and to remember that the transitions will be confusing and painful.

Middle Cotton

Just recently, I was wandering around my beautiful neighborhood, which happens to sit right smack dab in the middle of the gorgeous city of Atlanta Georgia. The day was perfect, one of those warm February afternoons we Southerners complain about if they don't come around at least by Valentine's Day. Ansley Park is an historic community, filled with wide tree-sheltered boulevards showcasing stately old mansions along with some modern masterpieces, all surrounded by lovely cultivated lawns. You might say I live in high cotton.

But only around the somewhat seedy edges. My home is a one bedroom condo situated on the border of the neighborhood, a place purchased for a fraction of what the big houses cost. I'm just lucky they let me stumble by those mighty domiciles with my eyes wide in wonder and my mouth unattractively agape. So far, no one has called the Atlanta police on me or even that nice security guard the neighborhood association keeps on its payroll.

Despite my gawking, I have to say I'm not jealous at all. I now have enough life experience to know that a big house takes a lot of time and money, not to mention commitment to and talent for keeping it safe, sound, and fabulous. It's great to be at a point where I can be happy looking at how the rich folks live without wanting to be them.

Like most little girls of my generation, at least those lucky enough to have been born into the luxury of big dreams, I envisioned growing up, getting married, and living in a big house. That was, of course, after fulfilling my dream of being a Pan Am stewardess.

Although I never met the weight standards or understood the pre-flight-safety protocol well enough to be a flight attendant, I did grow up, I did get married and I did live in a big house, sort of. It was nothing like the houses here in mid-town Atlanta, but it was nice enough. It did take me a while to realize I didn't have the aptitude or interest to keep my house up to the standards of others, even those who were friends in my small town. They knew things I didn't know, like how to clean baseboards and have the sofa recovered every ten years or so. My idea of home decorating was partially painting a wall and deciding I liked the abstract impressionistic look of it, or finding a pretty bird feather and scotch-taping it to my china cabinet. My poor used-to-be husband must've often thought he'd won the wrong interior designer at the Marriage Fair, but, to his credit, he didn't complain (much).

But what I'm trying to say here has little to do with my lack of homemaking skills or decorating taste, it's about finally being at a time in my life where I know who I am, know where I've been, and know where I "ain't gonna go", which would be into one of those big houses on Peachtree Circle, at least not for long enough to unpack my beaded evening cardigan. Furthermore, with my skill set, I'm not going to show up in a Merry Maid's uniform either.

After living six decades, I'm beginning to see I'm pretty much the same person I was at seven, twenty-three, and forty-two, a person never destined to be a big shot in high cotton, more a medium-sized shot in middle cotton. Then and now, I'd rather be smart than pretty, clever than deep, and anything other than conventional. I remember my daddy describing himself by saying he was built for comfort, not speed. I now realize the same applies to me, which means I'll never be really focused or particularly well dressed, but I'll try to pick you up when you're down and I'll almost always endeavor to say something funny to make you laugh.

So, as I contemplate my elegant surroundings and count my many blessings, those blessings will certainly include being within easy walking distance to absolutely incredible beauty, beauty paid for and maintained by others, all of the benefits, none of the worry. Now, that's living!

Park n' Cry in the ATL

People talk about how scary it is to drive in Atlanta, but what about parking? I plan every outing around where I can park, how much it will cost me, and if I can possibly live through the experience. In fact, I quit a perfectly good job because of bad parking.

I moved to Atlanta in 2005 to work for the Georgia Department of Education. The people were great, the job okay, but the parking was a word worse than ghastly, something like supercalifragilisticexpialighastlydocious. For that first year in Atlanta, I worked on the sixteenth floor of the Sloppy Floyd Building. Speaking of Sloppy Floyd, wouldn't you think, if you were the type of person who would some day, perhaps, have a building named for you, you might have, at some point, re-thought that nickname? Anyway, Sloppy's building wasn't so bad, it was the parking garage attached to it that caused me to hyperventilate on any given morning as I entered that cavernous yawn of an underground opening with key-card portals and arrows pointing every way but my way. Not only could I never find the same space, I couldn't even locate the same level, not that I really wanted to. I kept thinking there might be a place to park where I wouldn't have to walk up a set of stairs, over a bridge, and then down another set of stairs, all the while dragging my government-issued computer, just to get into the building. I did have the additional option of two elevators (one up and one down), elevators so scary the nasty stairwells seemed a better choice. And to make it even more insulting, each month, $58.42 was deducted from my pay for the honor. There was one good thing about that parking lot. If I had to go somewhere after work, somewhere requiring a somewhat different outfit, I could totally change clothes in or near my car without being seen as it was just that dark.

By the time I left Sloppy Floyd for my new love, Morris Brandon, I had access to a convenient outdoor school parking lot where I can now leave my car for free as long as I don't get to work after 6:45 am. Later arrivals at my school still get free parking but in a much less convenient lot down past the playground. Really late arrivers are known to squeal into the front drive, run in to sign in before the tardy time of 7:31, and then run back out to move their cars to that far away lot, a process still better than the one old Sloppy provided.

When I bought my Atlanta condo, I made sure it had a deeded parking space, an expensive addition to an already expensive piece of property, but absolutely worth it to keep my car from being stolen on a daily basis. Speaking of stolen, I did once have a car break in, even in my somewhat safe and secluded parking lot. I was happy the thief left my teacher identification card but was appropriately insulted that my Shania Twain CD was excluded from the taker's stash.

As I said, my deeded space is certainly worth the money, but it's still problematic. Our lot is tight with each privately-owned sliver of real estate serving as a perfectly-placed piece in an intricate jigsaw puzzle of a parking lot. Because I have to leave so early to stake out my work parking spot, I'm usually the first person shimmying out of my space in a sort of automotive equivalent to those dance moves televised way back when on American Bandstand: wiggle to the right, lean to the left, back up, go forward, turn and dip, all to the easy-to-dance-to tunes of NPR's World of Opera at 5:58 in the morning.

One of my favorite things to do, now that I'm old, is to go to the movies, but parking for what should be a safe and sedate outing can be as menacing as some of the clips my friend, Allison, and I are forced to look at before our romantic comedy starts. We especially like to watch our movie at the Tara Theater, which should be named The People Who Actually Lived at Tara Theater. The median age of the typical Tara viewer is somewhere around 76, which is the reason we like it so much. Early on, I noticed, at that particular theater, they keep aluminum walkers next to the popcorn machine, something I considered unusual at the time. Now I realize how useful a good steady walker could be when trekking the three miles back to my car after a Saturday matinee.

But parking within that three mile radius surrounding the Tara Theater is still better than trying to catch a movie at Phipp's Plaza in Buckhead, as one wrong turn out of the parking lot can send you careening up Georgia 400, The Hospitality Highway, where, for a mere fifty-cent toll, you can have most thrilling ride of your life.

Nowadays, even parking situations which shouldn't be problematic are. I'm more than happy to turn over my keys to the cute valet parking boy at one of my favorite restaurants, but, when I'm ready to leave, I panic because I have no clue what I did with them. Parking at the mall causes me pain and confusion when I can't remember which Macy's door I came in, and I wander around the parking lot like, well, like an old lady, asking if anyone has seen my car.

Then there's parallel parking. I'm just not able.

I have had one good parking experience in the five years I've lived in Atlanta. A while back, after an especially exhilarating pot-throwing lesson in Decatur, I stopped by my personal Publix at Ansley Mall to find something for dinner. My shopping visit lasted longer than expected when I couldn't decide, while in the Deli Department, whether to get the honey-glazed or the Cajun wings, the mashed potatoes or the green bean casserole. After another fifteen minutes or so whisking up and down the aisles in my clay-spattered jeans, I finally returned to my car to find that, not only had I not locked it, I'd also left the keys in the ignition with the engine running. To my great surprise, no one had stolen my car, no one had taken my very attractive work shoes from my back seat, no one was even standing around the parking lot making fun of the fool who'd left her car running and unattended in an urban setting in the new millennium.

Since then, I haven't been able to decide if my good parking karma that day was because Midtown Atlanta really is safer than people say, or if it's because I drive a Corolla, or maybe it was that Shania Twain CD languishing in my passenger seat. Just to be safe, I left it there.