Old Man Winter has overstayed his welcome in Central Minnesota

Minnesota, the state where the water is still frozen solid on April 6, and I’m not talking about the frozen margaritas.

I took this shot of the Mississippi River in Little Falls this afternoon. My father tells me other parts of the river not behind a dam are open, and in fact, he’s planning to do some open water fishing next week (equipped with mittens, no doubt).

Here’s a look at my parents’ yard at dusk tonight (at least dusk lasts until 8 p.m. this time of year). Dad, who’s lived in Minnesota all his life and turned 70 last month, says he’s never seen this much snow on the ground on April 6.

I admire the endurance of Minnesotans who not only persevere through this kind of winter but actually enjoy it.

But I’m so glad I’m no longer among them.

Life of SPI

These changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes
Nothing remains quite the same.
Through all of the islands and all of the highlands
If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane.

~ Jimmy Buffett

South Padre Island is referred to as SPI, as in Ess-Pee-Eye, by the locals, and life on this island in the wintertime is a world away from the frozen north for this Minnesota Transplant.

Having performed a little scientific research in my time here, I thought I share some of my “Eureka!” findings:

The pelicans are just a bonus.

• As a half-mile-wide island, SPI boasts both great sunrises on the east side and fabulous sunsets on the west.

• Yard waste in this latitude is quite different from what’s on the curbs right now in say, the northern states.

• At least 23 beach shops filled with every kind of $9.99 beach tchotchke including bikinis, customizable T-shirts, beach towels and postcards line Padre Boulevard. They sport such creative names as “Mirage,” “Atlantis” and “Blue Sky.” How that many stores selling essentially the same products make enough money to stay in business is beyond me.

• Every single bar, restaurant and beer hangout in this town offers fried shrimp on the menu. The more upscale places offer a veritable Forrest Gump buffet of shrimp dishes. Being fresh from the Gulf of Mexico, it’s all delicious. Given that SPI is a hair’s breadth away from Mexico, most entrées are served with beans and rice.

I didn’t get a picture of it, but let me assure you: The trash on this island is different from what I might find on the streets of my little Chicagoland suburb. More than once when I was walking my dog, I spied used condoms in the street,  and this past weekend, I found an empty condom box abandoned in the bushes near our condo. I’m told this sort of madness (ha, ha, ha!) completely overtakes the island in March when the spring break crowd replaces the winter Texans. But I’m not sticking around long enough to find out.

“It’s important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse.”

~ Yann Martel in “Life of Pi”

 

The best salsa on South Padre Island doesn’t have tomatoes

The creator is a native of India who’s lived in Brownsville, Texas, for 30 years, and he serves up the best fusion cooking around.

You can find him and his bawdy jokes at Padre Bar, a nondescript locale on the island’s No. 1 Beach Access — not necessarily the best beach access, but the first.

He keeps us coming back, not just for the cold beer (which one can find anywhere on South Padre Island) but for the green salsa.

I can confirm that while Zeste Gourmet Market & Cafe serves a killer red salsa ranchero, Harry’s green stuff is like nothing else. Served with fresh fried tortillas, it’s the perfect combination of fresh, hot and zowie.

Harry’s salsa touts cilantro, a mysterious combination of Serrano and cayenne peppers, and peanuts. Blended until smooth. Served with a fully dressed beer.

I didn’t get the recipe though he promises to email it. Until he sends it and I can share it here, you can get some at 1500 Gulf Blvd., South Padre Island. Enjoy.

Man o’war: All splash, no substance

Portuguese man o’war on the beach of South Padre Island

These grotesquely beautiful creatures litter the Gulf shores of South Padre
Island.

Sometimes referred to as jellyfish, their correct name is Portuguese man o’war. Some mornings, thousands of these blue critters are scattered on the shore. It is said their tentacles deal a painful sting even when castaway on the sand. I keep my distance, and I make sure my dog does, too.

One can drive legally on the beach here on South Padre Island (with a permit), and one day during high tide we couldn’t avoid the inflatable bodies of the man o’wars (men o’war?). They popped like popcorn that’s been in the microwave 90 seconds.

Their bodies are filled with a combination of carbon monoxide, nitrogen, oxygen and argon, according to a Wikipedia post on the subject.

I wonder as I walk or run by them on the beach what it must be like to be washed up carelessly on the beach, unable to control my destination. I feel sorry for them to be victims of vehicle tires or the hot sun.

Then I realize I have almost as little control over my puny little human life.

Travel immersion

Planning a vacation? Find a way to take a walk and make a meal.

Author Patrizia Chen recently shared some great advice in Travel + Leisure magazine.

(Well “recently” is relative. It was in the January 2010 issue. I have no idea how that magazine got into my New Year’s Resolution pile of magazines to dump by Feb. 28. I don’t even subscribe to it.)

Her tip for living like a local:

Walk everywhere; you’ll get to know the city inside and out. And consider renting an apartment so you can cook with market-fresh ingredients.

As a runner, I love it when I get the opportunity to run around a city. I have great memories of jogging around Hyde Park in London and the Botanic Gardens on the harbor in Sydney. I better understand the lay of the land of Fort Myers, Fla., and Galena, Ill., too. It turns out Dubuque, Iowa, is a beautiful city, and parts of Dallas, Texas, are composed entirely of busy four-lane highways and Whataburger fast food joints. I know this because I saw them while on foot.

And thanks to our travels in a 1983 RV, we’ve prepared and enjoyed interesting local food, like yucca root and red snapper.

The best way to enjoy local food, though, is to snag an invitation to someone’s home. I remember a festive birthday party in a little house in Mexico City, and I savored the best fig cake while picnicking on the Queen’s birthday in Australia.

Multiple senses are required for both eating and walking, which contributes their value for travelers.

What are some memorable walks or eats you’ve enjoyed while traveling?

Little Graceland is the encore without end

Elvis Presley has the immortality for which the rest of us can only wish.

In the way only America can worship its celebrities, Elvis is a little like Jesus Christ. Almost everyone knows him by his first name alone. His art continues to mesmerize. People dress like him, wear T-shirts with his likeness, hang pictures of him on their walls. Some people believe Elvis lives. Elvis could be bigger than Jesus in that he has his own catchphrase (“Elvis has left the building”) and his own sandwich (peanut butter and banana, grilled; bacon optional).

Graceland is the second most visited private home in the United States (the White House is No. 1), and today I visited what is touted by owner Simon Vega as the sixth most visited private home: Little Graceland (I couldn’t verify this fact on Google, but trust me on this: Anything having to do with Elvis requires a certain amount of flamboyancy).

Little Graceland is an Elvis tribute museum in Los Fresnos, Texas, featuring a vast assortment of Elvis memorabilia including a replica of Elvis’s tombstone and murals of his favorite modes of transportation. Owner Simon Vega served with Elvis in the Army.

Rob Carter as Elvis (he was pretty good, but he didn’t sing my mother’s favorite song, “Don’t Be Cruel.”).

A visit to Little Graceland wouldn’t be complete without seeing an Elvis impersonator, and we were in luck. Little Graceland hosted an Elvis Festival today in honor of Elvis’s birthday Jan. 8; he would have been 78.

Our proximity to the border was evident in the origin of the last names of several impersonators: Carvajal, Salazar, Lucio, Corona, Gonzalez and Vasquez. The population of Winter Texans was evident in the composition of the audience.

Here’s what’s crazy (right, I haven’t gotten to the crazy part yet): I knew the words to the music so well, I could sing along. Yes, that’s right, Elvis died when I was 10, and yet his music is so popular, I didn’t even realize I knew the words well enough to recite them along with the impersonators.

Wild.

That’s a legend for you.

With the visage of Elvis in the flag, you know he’s eclipsed baseball, hot dogs, apple pie or Chevrolet on the Patriotic scale. Salute.

Close encounters of a beachcomber

One can drive for miles on South Padre Island’s beach and see nothing but sand and waves. There’s a certain meditative quality to it.

Then, just as big events punctuate the hum-drum cadence of life, one happens upon a real find.

This strange space capsule sits on the beach on the edge of the dune several miles north of the municipality.

And it’s mine.

Can’t you see the spray-painted sign?

Wild, huh?

The other side has a message, too.

It might be a rescue pod from a ship, but in any case, it’s been wasting away on the beach a long time. A man was inspecting it as I approached, and he told me it’s been there at least 7 years; that’s when he first found it.

The man (who coincidentally happened to be from Willow Creek, Minnesota) told me someone had glued the crushed cans and lighters to the hull in the years since. I found this community art to be strangely appealing.

The man on the beach suggested we drive a few miles north, and we’d find another bit of community art, and we did.

Now one finds a lot of garbage on the beach including abandoned coolers, water bottles and clothing. But construction hats? That’s just bizarre.

Here’s what’s really weird: On our way back, the engine in the Escalade inexplicably quit within yards of the space capsule. It would not restart despite my Beloved’s best efforts. A Good Samaritan in a Jeep with a long tow rope towed us off the beach. While we waited for rescue (our cell phones had no service so we were at the mercy of passersby), the clock in the Escalade gained about 90 minutes (or lost about 22 and half hours, we’re not sure which). Only the battery worked the whole time; my Beloved suspects our fuel pump pooped out, not our electrical system.

So why did our engine quit, right there, next to the decorated space capsule? And if it really was the fuel pump, why did we lose time?

Cue theme from “Twilight Zone.”

Flying south for the winter Part 2

8:02 a.m.: Dallas, Texas, 28 degrees.

8:52 a.m.: Italy, Texas, 31 degrees.

9:54 a.m.: Lorena, Texas, 38 degrees.

10:53 a.m.: Sun City, Texas, 44 degrees.

12:06 p.m.: Seguin, Texas, 47 degrees and shrimp-stuffed avocado for lunch!

1:15 p.m.: South of Seguin, Texas, 50 degrees.

2:15 p.m.: Bee County, Texas, 52 degrees.

3:19 p.m.: Corpus Christi, Texas, 58 degrees.

4:34 p.m.: north of Lyford, Texas, 54 degrees.

5:38 p.m.: San Padre Island, Texas, 58 degrees.

We have landed.

Flying south for the winter

9:21a.m.: Hampshire, Ill. 28 degrees.

10:18 a.m.: Near Paw Paw, Ill. 32 degrees.

11:17 a.m.: North of Bloomington, Ill. 32 degrees.

12:15 p.m.: Lincoln, Ill. 34 degrees.

1:15 p.m.: Carlinville, Ill. 35 degrees

2:10 p.m.: St. Louis, Mo. 39 degrees

3:08 p.m.: Pacific, Mo. 39 degrees

4:13 p.m.: Doolittle, Mo. 39 degrees

5:13 p.m.: Conway, Mo. 32 degrees

6:23 p.m.: Halltown, Mo. 34 degrees

7:21 p.m.: Missouri-Oklahoma border, 32 degrees

8:13 p.m.: Pryor, Okla., 27 degrees.

9:15 p.m.: Checotah, Okla., 28 degrees.

10:03 p.m.: Kiowa, Okla., 27 degrees.

11:01 p.m.: Calera, Oklahoma, 27 degrees.

12:08 a.m., Saturday morning: Plano, Texas (I’m sorry I couldn’t linger, Texas friends), 28 degrees.

Isn’t it ironic that we drive 15 hours south, and the temperature at the end of the day is the same as it was at the beginning?

The best cheese (and pizza) is at Exit 81

Make a note: Exit 81.

That’s the exit off Interstate 94 in western Wisconsin for the Foster Cheese Haus. It’s a nondescript byway, but you’ll be amazed at what you’ll find inside: Wisconsin artisan cheese and wood-fired pizza.

I’ve written about this place before when I discovered basil pesto Gouda. Tonight, we enjoyed the pizza — my side had blue cheese, carmelized onions and walnuts (yes, it was delicious); my Beloved enjoyed haus-made sausage and green onions. The crust was thin and fresh tasting, and the cheese — blue and mozzarella — was distinctive. Do you add Parmesan to your ‘za? It comes freshly shredded here.

The cheese haus also features a “cave” of small craft beers from all over the country. Of course, six-packs are available but those who dine in can choose a single from literally dozens of labels.

Blink, and you’ll miss it. Unlike so many other exits along the interstate between Minneapolis and Chicago, there is not much besides the cheese haus and a gas station there. So I’m not kidding: Make a note to stop. You won’t be disappointed.