Fiesta Day in Ybor City

We all have large and small annual events we like to attend. You may already know of my affection for Tampa’s Gasparilla celebration. My other favorite Tampa event is just weeks later in the city’s historic Latin quarter, known as Ybor City. It’s Fiesta Day, a celebration of diverse ethnic cultures that influence and strengthen the area’s character. You can count on Spanish, Central and South American and Caribbean influences all coming together to make for a grand party.

For as many years as I can remember, the event followed Gasparilla Day by a week or two and always marked the last weekend of the the Florida State Fair. For whatever reason, it came later this year, on Saturday, February 28th. Maybe that was a blessing. The weather was perfect. Last year the event was cancelled due to rain.

I can’t quite say what distinguishes this event from so many like it. For me, I suspect it has to do with my youth. Both my parents worked just beyond Ybor City’s border and I attended kindergarten and elementary school there. Every week day, until I graduated from high school in 1972, there was a pretty good chance I drove through or near the area. Years later, I continued to shop there for Cuban bread, wine and Latin-influenced groceries. You can only imagine the changes I have seen through the years.

The event is free, parking is easier than ever with the new parking garages, and you may spend as little or as much as you want on food and drink. I just love walking from one end of La Septima to the other, and then back again, taking detours to visit vendors along the side streets and in Centennial Park. La Septima? No, I never called it that either. It means “the seventh,” referring to East Seventh Avenue. When I was young, we just called it Broadway. One of my father’s closest friends worked at the Broadway National Bank. That’s one way I remember the old name.

I won’t really brag about all there is too eat as you walk the street. Some food vendors are better than others. It was good to see Pipo’s serving roast pork, yellow rice and black beans (the Holy Trinty of Cuban Food), and no Fiesta Day is complete without sampling a cannoli or other Italian treats on the street in front of the magnificent Italian Club. But before you eat anywhere, you must enjoy a free bowl of Spanish Bean Soup, a piece of Cuban bread and a cup of “cafe con leche.” They dish it out at the western end of the street and it is some of the finest you will ever taste. It used to be only for out-of-town visitors. You had to show your driver’s license. My family didn’t move to the beach just to get free soup in Ybor City, but it was some consolation for being so far from somewhere I feel so close to. These days, the free soup is for everyone.

For many years, at the other end of Broadway, the bigger treat was the Columbia Restaurant’s annual spectacle of cooking the world’s largest paella. If I recall correctly, that, too, was free, at first. But even when they began to charge for it, you would be hard-pressed to eat better anywhere in the world. Somehow, I never made it to the other end of Broadway this year, which is a little disappointing, but I am not certain Columbia is making paella out on the street any longer, so it could be worse.

So after the free food, the things I liked best about this Fiesta Day was watching all the people, marveling at all the well maintained or restored architecture, hearing all of the Latin-influenced music, and ending up face down in a bowl of flan.

Say what?

In recent years, Fiesta Day has expanded significantly into Centennial Park, and now features a competition known as Flan Fest, where real people compete to create the most beautiful, and tasty flan, a carmel-crusted, egg custard dessert that is beloved in Spanish cultures. A local Spanish radio station was was holding a flan-eating contest, just as I was passing the stage. They called for volunteers and I didn’t hesitate to respond. With both hands behind my back, I sucked a complete flan from the bowl in just seconds. Alas, others apparently suck more than I do. It was good fun, and the flan was great, too!

Two of my favorite memories of Ybor City were the Silver Ring Cuban Sandwich Shop and Las Novadades Restuarant. Both are closed now, though the Silver Ring made a second go at it a couple of years ago, ironically, in the same building that began as Las Novadades. The building has housed any number of restaurants and night clubs through the years, including the provocative La Goya, if I remember correctly. Today it is home to The Nest, a Mediterranean Tapas and Pasta Bar which Elena and I agreed to try for a late lunch.

To begin with, this place has something of an identity crisis. A sign on the window directs you to a web site called thepastanest.com (the site seems to be under construction). The thing is, there isn’t any pasta on the menu. Speaking with the waiter, he indicated that customers didn’t respond well to the pasta offerings, so the restaurant is retooling. There are currently only five entrées on the menu for either lunch or dinner, but there are a respectable number of tempting tapas and salad offerings that seemed ideal for a late afternoon lunch following a face full of flan.

I ordered an Italian draught beer called 1812 ($5.00) and the Piquillos Rellenos ($7.00), three sweet Spanish peppers stuffed with mushrooms, spinach and goat cheese, all swimming in a pool of yellow pepper coulis. In a word, perfection. The beer was quite smooth and rich. Elena had the Arugula Salad ($7.00) with Manchego cheese, Granny Smith apples and walnut vinaigrette. The salad, too, was perfect. Served with bread and olive oil, the tab came to a mere $19.00, a fact I am certain our waiter found wanting. Still, we liked the place and how they had decorated it. I wouldn’t hesitate to return.

As we walked back to the car in the mid-afternoon sun, the blue sky offered sharp contrast to the aging, but beautiful, red brick buildings that make Ybor City so distinctive. It was a fine day, and if it fits your schedule next year, I recommend you go celebrate.

You are invited to see 36 of my favorite 2009 Fiesta Day photos on the Parsons-Wilson Picasa site.

The Pasta Nest (or maybe just The Nest, by the time you read this) is at 1430 East 7th Avenue, in Ybor City, just a block or two from the Centro Ybor Parking Garage.

Sunset, diapers, my cell phone and the police

I already had taken one walk on the beach and didn’t feel the need for another, but Elena had a rough day and needed to move some. I agreed to accompany her, grabbing the Frisbee on our way out. We found Tara and the kids there, the first time in recent memory, and it was young Aiden’s very first time in the Gulf. He was a handful, returning to the water time after time. Elena and I headed south, tossing the Frisbee between us and catching another great sunset.

And then I realized my cell phone was missing.

I returned south, Elena headed north. I was cursing myself for bringing it. That belt clip never held it very securely. Tara caught up with me and dialed my number from her cell.

A man answered. He was inquiring whether a reward was being offered for the return of the phone.

“But you have the phone in your hand,” Tara exclaimed. “It’s not lost. You have it!”

She handed her phone to me and the man asked what I thought might be a fair reward. I explained that the insurance would replace the phone and it wouldn’t work within minutes of my calling the carrier.

That did not seem to concern him. He was interested in immediate gratification. We tentatively agreed to twenty dollars but, I explained, I needed to walk home to get the money and would then drive to the gas station he was waiting at, just a few blocks away.

You can imagine my mood. I was thinking that maybe this was a message to me to just quit using the damn thing, to cancel my service and not replace the phone.

What really bothered me was that this was happening in my community. I didn’t care about the phone or the twenty dollars, but I was concerned about the personal information on the phone and how it might lead to identity theft. And I knew the direct line to our local police dispatcher.

I called to ask their advice. The dispatcher said to come to the station and that a police officer would accompany me to the “exchange.”

“Do not give this man money,” instructed the police officer. “Get your phone and walk away. We’ll take care of the rest.”

The man in question stood conspicuously at the edge of the gas station, my phone in his hand, just a block away from the police station and only a few blocks from our home. I circled around so that he would be on my side of the car. No sense exposing Elena to any more risk than necessary.

“That’s a nice phone,” he exclaimed, handing it to me. “Hey, I’m just trying to afford some diapers for my child.”

“I don’t think the police would look at it that way,” I replied, looking in the rear view mirror and wondering where they were.

“Well, that’s the way it is.”

“Look, I’m sympathetic to the child and the diapers thing,” I explained, “but these are tough times for everybody. I closed my company and my wife is only working half time.”

“In tough times like these, we all need to be nice to each other. This isn’t the way to do that,” I suggested.

“Oh well,” seemed to be his response.

And then three police cars converged on our little corner of the world.

I pulled my vehicle to the other side of the parking lot. A police woman walked over and asked how I liked my Honda CR-V. She had a Toyota RAV-4. We briefly compared our reasons for choosing our vehicles and then she asked if everything was okay. We said yes, thanked her and drove away. A double Martini was clearly in order.

I don’t know what the police will do with the guy. The officer I spoke with actually used the word extortion. It didn’t seem he would be too sympathetic about diapers. The guy wasn’t threatening or anything. Everyone was amazingly calm and casual. But I can’t help but feel he was telling the truth about why he was standing on that corner with my phone in his hand. These are tough times. Look how it effected one man’s judgement. I’m sure seeing three police cars show up may have raised that very question in his mind.

I meant what I said. If we don’t all look after each other, and be nice, these hard times won’t get any easier. On the other hand, a lot of people are bound to grow more desperate. Nice may not always carry the day. We should probably learn to be more careful, too.

Visiting Aldi, Switzerland

No, it is not some city in Switzerland, but it feels almost as foreign. I've been meaning to stop in and see what this generic-looking store was about. On my way back from the usual round of grocery stops, I gave it a try. I have to admit it was unsettling at first.

Right away, you feel like you're in a foreign country. Don't worry, all of the signs and labels are in English, but you won't recognize any of the brands. I had already explored nearly two aisles before I spotted a display of Pringles potato chips. Small comfort.

It's an upscale warehouse feel, clean and brightly lighted, with more boxes and less shelves. Prices are pretty good, but you simply don't have much to triangulate on to know what you're getting. There is just about everything you would find in a small grocery store, including produce, meats, frozen foods and dairy products.

I really hadn't planned on buying anything, but the low prices began to appeal to me. I hadn't grabbed a cart or basket, nor brought my own bag (it was already filled and in the car), so my arms were full by the time I got to the register where I encountered two more unsettling differences: Cash or Debit only (I'm a big fan of double points for groceries on my VISA Card), and no shopping bags. Like at Sam's Club, there were a few small, empty, cardboard boxes available to carry my goods out, so no worries.

I checked Aldi's web site and learned I might have been in for another unsettling surprise if I had reached for a grocery cart. They require a twenty-five cent deposit! Bring the cart back in, you get your quarter back. They also charge for grocery bags, but my cashier didn't offer to sell me one.

Their web site says that almost 95% of their "premium products are sold under exclusive ALDI select brands," meaning labels you won't recognize, or look suspiciously similar to familiar brands. I did chuckle when I saw soda called Mountain Mist in a familiar green and red can.

Still, I couldn't help sense a European influence, kind of like walking through an Ikea store or something. And then I found the discreetly-placed link to Aldi International. Indeed, they're in 17 European countries, including Switzerland. See? I told you so!

Bottom line: Yeah, give it a try. I really didn't see anything objectionable at all. But be warned that it will be a different, if not unsettling shopping experience at first. The prices are good though, so that may well make it worth the adjustment. Just remember to bring a quarter for the shopping cart, your own grocery bags, and enough cash or a debit card.

There are five Aldi stores in Pinellas County, two in Hillsborough County. I visited the one at 6700 66th Street in Pinellas Park.

Farewell Circuit City

This will be short and sweet: Farewell Circuit City.

Just about every TV, camera, radio, cell phone, and gadget I've purchased in the last ten or more years came from your store in St. Petersburg. You had a great car audio garage, too. I stayed loyal to you when Best Buy moved in across the street. I'm a Mac user, so you didn't get my computer business, but I did get a printer from you. OK, I confess, I did buy my GPS online, but you still got most of my money. Sorry you couldn't cut it in this new, cutthroat business climate.

Bricks and mortar just aren't what they used to be. Throw in a sour economy and the writing was on the wall. You aren't the first to fall. You won't be the last. We all need to get used to this idea: Evolve or become extinct.

Feeling a little guilty, I did stop by to see what last deals you were offering. I think the vultures had already passed through. Shelves were pretty empty. I picked up the last Flip Mino video camera for a decent price (never know when another Macaca Moment will occur), a box of DVDs, too, but I resisted all the flat screen TVs that called my name.

Well, I did say short and sweet. Good luck to all of the employees now, or soon looking for work.

In Praise of Babalu

I first ate lunch at Babalu in the early 1990s, shortly after I moved my firm’s offices to Fourth Street North in St. Petersburg. I’m not certain what exactly persuaded me to try the place. A sign out front exalted their tackiness for years. I’m guessing what drew me into the small, bright yellow building with red trim were the cars that jammed the parking lot every day—a good sign at any restaurant. Upon entering, it was easy to be underwhelmed. Stained wooden walls, uncomfortable plywood booths, an old bar lined with stools that divided two dining rooms, and dim lighting all signaled this place was a dive. There was no window in the back dining room...just an air conditioner installed into the wall and a TV set on a corner shelf. A couple of white boards conveyed the day’s specials.

Make no mistake, Babalu earned my trust and my loyalty the first day I ate there. For many years since (at least even-numbered election years), I was a regular every week for either lunch or dinner. Some time in the last decade I adopted a waitress named Holly. If she was not there (a rarity), or if all of her tables were taken, there was a good chance I might eat elsewhere that day. Of course she would always serve me at the bar, and that was usually an acceptable compromise.

I won’t claim to be an expert about the restaurant businesses, but I’ve always imagined that the smart owner knows when to change, and when to leave things alone. Babalu has done far more of the latter. For years, they featured various All-You-Can-Eat specials at dinner. When they discontinued that practice, I know a customer or two they lost, but only for a couple of years. As the economy headed south in the last year, Babalu was among the first and the few to introduce a robust budget menu to keep patrons loyal and well-fed.

There are a number of “specials” every day that are so predictable, I know when I will eat there, and what I will be ordering. Thursday’s Roast Pork Dinner became something of a weekly, religious observance. Sadly, they changed their recipe about a year ago, and I switched my allegiance for pork to a competitor down the street. I haven’t been back on a Thursday for some time now.

Another notable menu feature is Babalu’s recognition of people on diets. Maybe the Atkins’ Diet isn’t for everyone, but they’ll gladly limit your carbs and load you up with lots of protein (some would say fat), offering different specials each day.

Many a day, and more than a few nights, members of our firm would hold court at one of Holly’s tables in the back room. I knew where the TV’s remote control was kept and could choose the channel of my liking. Sometimes it was baseball, sometimes it was some of our nation’s most important breaking news. No matter how many, or how few other customers were there, it seemed rather like our own private dining room.

On a few occasions, I would risk taking a client to Babalu for lunch or dinner. The look on their face as I led them into the dark and dingy back dining room was predictable. Holly never missed a beat, recognizing that I was accompanied by someone who might be “important,” she won them over with good service and a sense of loyalty that is all to rare in restaurants these days.

The most striking change at Babalu began about a year ago, and it struck fear in my heart: total renovation. They stripped the wood from the walls and replaced them with beige and pastel stucco. New windows were installed at the front of the restaurant and natural light now pours into the room and bounces from the walls. They hung lights, too, and installed flat-screen televisions. The old bar was removed and replaced with a modern, new version that now fills the back room.

Frankly, we watched in horror as more and more each day, Babalu began to take on the appearance of (gasp) a fern bar restaurant.

Holly was not happy. She lost tables (and tips) from the back dining room. She serves at the bar and now has only two tables. She still doesn’t sound happy about the change, but she is still a good part of the reason we return, dutifully waiting our turn for one of her tables.

The good news is that Babalu has left the most important ingredient of their apparent success alone. Their menu remains surprisingly long and rich with comfort food at reasonable prices. Though certainly not gourmet, there really is something for every appetite. If you don’t mind casual, this is as safe a bet for lunch or dinner as any restaurant I know in this part of town. And they deliver, too!

I joined my business partner for lunch at Babalu yesterday. We had not been back since our “election season” ended last November. Holly greeted us like dear friends, lamenting how it had been so long since she had seen us. Tim swears by Babalu’s tuna salad sandwich. Predictably, I had the Wednesday pot roast special, subbing “double-veg” for the mashed potatoes and gravy and passing on the dinner roll. And yes, that’s bacon in those green beans. It doesn’t get much better than this. As dining out becomes more of a luxury with every passing day of this sour economy, Babalu was packed with so many patrons, I had to park a block away on the side street.

Thank God they haven’t hung ferns yet, and I do miss my “private dining room” out back, but the heart and soul of Babalu remains strong, as does my trust and loyalty.

Babalu is located at 9246 4th Street North, St. Petersburg.

Taking The Train To Ft. Lauderdale (Part 2 of 2)

The next morning, with ticket already in hand, I needlessly arrive at the Ft. Lauderdale station 30 minutes early, affording me the opportunity to sit outside and listen to the roar of passing traffic on I-95 and watch the pigeons at my feet. As Tri-Rail and Amtrak share the same tracks, I get a closer look at one of Tri-Rail’s double-decked trains and pick up a copy of their map and schedules. It looks like a system well-integrated with local bus service in each of the three counties served, including stops near the three major airports in the area and Miami’s Metrorail. I wish Pinellas County offered something like this.

The train arrives and departs on time, the same conductor from yesterday instructing Tampa passengers to a single car at the rear of the train. It’s a newer, somewhat more attractive car but, to my slight horror, there are no electrical outlets. Guess I was spoiled by the southbound train. I note the passenger next to me setting up his DVD player and I think, why didn’t I think of that? A movie would be a good idea! Still, I have a book, magazine and laptop to keep me busy. I could, after all, get some work done.

But no, I think lunch is a better idea. I encounter the conductor on the way forward and ask if I can move to another car with electrical outlets. I should have learned yesterday that short answers were not this guy’s strong suit. Bottom line was no, though largely empty, these other cars were going to be used for reserved seats for passengers going the Carolinas, but there are plenty of outlets in the lounge car. That sounded like a fine compromise.

The dining car was only slightly busier today, but there were still empty tables. I chose a table to myself looking forward. I was drinking respectable iced tea before we reached West Palm Beach. I note again that the wait staff are mature adults with a sense of calm that reminds me of eating at the yacht club. One man, two women and a cook make up this dining crew, with another man in a second car that serves snacks and offers a full bar. My particular server, George, is obviously a seasoned Amtrak veteran, willing to answer any questions and address any complaints from any part of the train, though he is quick to add that he is not in charge.

The Chef’s Special was chicken and rice again, only this time with a curry sauce. I opt for the Angus Steak Burger with cheese. It was delivered to me in less than two minutes and was quite good, save for the lettuce chopped, as if for a salad, rather than leaves that might stay longer between the buns. Potato chips and a pickle spear round out the meal. I’m thinking I should have ordered the chicken and rice again for a meal I might have savored longer, so I order a piece of raspberry-lemon cream cheese cake and a cup of coffee. By this time the train is passing by pine forests to my left, and then the massive Pratt and Whitney plant, parallel to the Beeline Highway to my right. We are well on our way to Okeechobee. The cake and coffee are quite tasty. Really, no airplane or car can match this.

The sleeping car is immediately forward of the dining car. Leo is the steward and clearly enjoys his work and is dedicated to the comfort of his passengers. George arranges for me to meet him in order to get a tour of the rooms. They come in three flavors: The Sleepette, The Sleeper, and the Handicap Sleeper. Each includes seats that fold down into a bed, similar to a futon mattress. Additionally, a bunk pulls down from the ceiling for additional sleeping space. The Sleeper offers adequate storage for your luggage and a combination private toilet and shower, similar to what you would find on a yacht. Passengers in the Sleepette must share the bath facility elsewhere in the car. I noted that passenger seats in the Sleepette face each other and offer noticeably less leg room. The Handicap Sleeper is large enough to accommodate an electric wheel chair. The bathroom is huge. Of course this room is the last to go, made available to someone in legitimate need, but it is well worth asking for.

None of the rooms are luxurious, but the privacy, the bathroom, the included meals and, of course, someone as dedicated as Leo, all combine to make this option worth considering for an overnight or distant trip.

I return to the dining car and spend some time talking with George. He explains how the cars are easily forty years old, how they still have trouble maintaining wired connections with the PA speakers, and how pipes still freeze. We both agree it is surprising these challenges haven’t been solved in 200 years of rail travel. The cars on our line are among the oldest in the fleet for a reason though. Apparently the route to New York passes though some Civil War-era tunnels that cannot be enlarged to accommodate taller trains. The tracks belong to CSX, so it seems Amtrak must deal with the hand they’re dealt. George says he believes new and improved cars will come on line in the near future but, like those we’re now driving, they’ll be smaller.

One important tip George shared with me was about power surges. He said he wouldn’t worry about plugging a cheap DVD player into their power grid, but he uses a surge protector when he plugs in his own computer. That seemed like the best advice I had heard all day.

I inquire if he believes the construction we encountered yesterday will cause the train to arrive late in Tampa. No one was certain, but it turns out that the construction will soon represent a greater problem than you would immediately realize. There was a reason for all of those railroad ties and the construction equipment I saw lining up along the route. CSX will be closing and rebuilding a whole stretch of track for about six weeks that will necessitate routing trains on alternative tracks and using busses to transport passengers and their luggage between effected stations. This is all part of track maintenance that understandably happens throughout the rail system. If I recall correctly, a trip from Tampa to Ft. Lauderdale next month will involve a bus ride from Tampa to Winter Haven. As we pass through Avon Park, I see more signs of pending construction as the train slows to a crawl. I’m thinking we’re going to be late.

Amtrak’s use of busses aren’t limited to routing around regular maintenance. I overheard the station master in Ft. Lauderdale advising a young passenger that she would need to get off the train at Lakeland and take a bus to Gainesville for the remainder of her trip. I’m thinking Amtrak has a larger fleet of busses than most people realize.

Nature finally called in time for me to add sensitive detail to this journal. I can report that each coach includes two restrooms that, in every way, resemble those found on airlines, except they’re three times larger. A rough section of track that sways you gently side-to-side is a train’s equivalent to mild turbulence. Enough said, except it doesn’t appear you’ll ever have to wait in line, nor worry about breaking Federal Law that prohibits congregating close to the cockpit door.

As I return to my car at the rear of the train, I see that more passengers have boarded since I left for lunch. Someone is sitting in the seat I left and every row is occupied by one passenger. Rather than invade someone’s space by sitting next to them, I grab my things and move forward to a car that is virtually empty. You would think that I had learned my lesson earlier. I’m lucky I didn’t get thrown off the train. Still a different conductor “needed to know” where I was going in order to make sure I got off the train at the right station. He accomplished this by writing “TPA” on a small piece of paper that is placed in a crack above my seat. I’m going to guess that people failing to get off at the right station is something of a pandemic for Amtrak, but I have to believe that Tampa Union Station is impossible to miss (the train sits there for a while, rather like a stopover at an airport), I’m beginning to think these guys’ attitude don’t serve Amtrak as well as they deserve.

With the sun now low in the sky, I begin to recognize familiar landmarks on the outskirts of Tampa. The train’s whistle is blowing almost continuously now, stopping traffic at more and more crossroads. The conductor announces we’ll be “backing into the station” in about 10 minutes. Considering how fast we appear to be going forward, I wonder if the train turned around while I wasn’t paying attention, or just how this will be accomplished. Moments later, the train turns north into an area of warehouses just east of Ybor City and stops just short of I-4. I keep my seat as other passengers begin to stand, as if they might get off the train. The conductor comes up to me and asks if I know this isn’t where I get off. I allow that I grew up in Ybor City, pointed at I-4, and assured him that I would recognize Union Station when I saw it. I must be wearing my “dumb tourist look” today! The train then began moving backwards. Mystery solved.

There can be no doubt that I enjoyed this trip. Traveling by train afforded me the opportunity to do any number of things I could never accomplish as easily or as well while driving or flying. The train isn’t perfect, primarily because there is so little (or no) schedule flexibility. Unlike Southwest Airlines, with eight flights a day between Tampa and Ft. Lauderdale, Amtrak will leave in the noon hour and arrive in the five o’clock hour. If you can live with that single limitation, everything else about the trip is well worth the consideration. I know I’ll be back. Hope this journal encourages you to give it a try.

Be sure to check Amtrak’s robust web site for a lot more details that will familiarize you with how different train travel is from flying, and how to better prepare for your trip.

Taking The Train to Ft. Lauderdale (Part 1 of 2)

I travel regularly to the Ft. Lauderdale to work with clients. Ordinarily, most meetings are scheduled for late morning or the afternoon, necessitating a flight from Tampa, or a drive that, with stops, lasts nearly five hours. Flights can be expensive for meetings called on short notice and no matter how appealing I find the Florida Everglades, the drive is grueling. Today is different. I don’t need to arrive in Ft. Lauderdale before 7:00 PM, making this the perfect opportunity to try another mode of transportation. Considering the round-trip cost is only $61.20 (AAA Rate), I’m pretty excited about taking Amtrak from Tampa.

The response from most people I tell I’m taking the train is the same: really? Yes, really. Here’s my journal from the trip with this bottom line: Really, I’d do it again!

The Tampa Union Station preservation is impressive. Built in the era of the cavernous and needlessly large, it is still beautiful and well lit. I was pleased to learn of free, overnight parking located behind locked gates. Passengers are far less anxious, with no security or lines. Not a single suit or tie in sight like you see at airports. Some people may appear a little more down-trodden but, for the most part, they’re a civilized lot.

We’re instructed to stand on a covered, concrete platform outside as the train backs slowly into the station. Passengers are told to board one car at the rear of the train for Palm Beach and Ft. Lauderdale, another for Miami and all other destinations.

The car is empty and there are plenty of seats, so there is no real need to scramble to be first. Seats are comfortable with outstanding leg room. Most passengers’ legs might not reach the seats in front of them. I was surprised to see two, 120-volt electrical outlets at every seat, but they didn’t work when I plugged in my lap top. Turns out power is only working on the “port side” in this car. One passenger offered to trade seats with me without prompting. My view of fellow passengers immediately stepped up a notch.

Big windows afford maximum view. Guess it is asking too much for someone to wash them more often. The train left the station at 12:53, only eight minutes late, riding through the familiar back side of Ybor City I knew well as a child, though it looks far more gentrified today. We pick up speed pretty rapidly, too. The train is quiet and the air conditioning works well, but you will have to get used to the rocking back and forth on certain parts of the track. No need to pack your noise-canceling headphones, but you can hear the train’s whistle blowing often in the distance, which is a good argument for being seated at the rear of the train.

Not as much chatter from the conductors, like flight attendants on an airplane, but they do have a sense of humor, indicating they will find the stowaways when they collect tickets. Our conductor is a large, bearded man who seems polite, friendly and confident.

As soon as my ticket is taken, I head forward to the dining car. My first impression is less than expected. It’s really more like a snack bar. I indicate to the lady behind the counter that it is my first trip and she kindly advises I should check out the dining car farther forward. It was good advice.

Tables for four with white linen table cloths, glass salt and pepper shakers and real, metal utensils (you won’t find that on a plane any more). Sit where you wish, either alone or join someone at a table already occupied. Apparently this is appropriate train etiquette, as if we’re all the same on this train. I opt to sit with an older woman traveling this train for the third time to visit her daughter in Miami. She has already ordered a Corona.

The dishes are the harder plastic kind that might be reusable, but are still presentable. I’m drinking respectable iced tea before we reach Plant City. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served on this train, and there’s even a children’s menu. The short menu of main courses for lunch include Spicy Buffalo Chicken Wings as an appetizer for $7.50, Today’s Warm Sandwich ($8.00), Amy’s Organic Veggie Burger ($7.75), Angus Steak Burger ($7.75), Freshly Made Specialty Salad ($9.00) and the Chef’s Luncheon Special (9.00). Breakfast is reasonably priced, but dinner is going to set you back a bit more, with prices ranging from 12.50 to 22.50. But really, where else are you going to go? All entrees include coffee, tea or milk. Beer, wine and premium cocktails are all available at reasonable prices.

The burger seemed like the safe call, but I’m a sucker for Chef’s specials, so I take a chance, ordering grilled chicken and mushroom sauce over a wild rice medley, served with a small salad and a warm roll. Gourmet it’s not, but my lunch fell squarely in the comfort food category and was quite satisfying. Three baskets of T. Marzetti’s salad dressings, real butter and Promise, condiments and Mini Moos on the table assure you won’t be wanting anything, but the wait staff always seemed to be within eyesight and are friendly and responsive. There are several desserts available that sounded quite nice, including a warm apple crisp with ice cream, but I decline. I’m comforted knowing I can still try the burger on the way back.

About the only down side to the meal is the view. With wide open windows, the dining car affords you both the best and worst Florida has to offer in the way of scenery. Unfortunately, the stretch between Plant City and Lakeland offers little to enjoy, but that is hardly criticism. I am well fed and watered, that battle already won.

The view begins to improve as we approach Winter Haven just after 2:30, passing close to large lakes and over the small canals that connect them. One momentarily unsettling event occurred earlier when the train slowed to a stop and was then passed by another passenger train moving at full throttle. Our train is clearly “the local,” virtually crawling through the city, whistle constantly blowing. I begin to feel sorry for the neighbors. Maybe a couple of passengers disembark at Winter Haven. The train doesn’t stop but for a couple of minutes, at most. Just past the station we cross over another canal-between-lakes. Four people on a pontoon boat wave at the train as it passes overhead. You won’t see that happen from an airplane.

The train doesn’t ever seem to maintain any given speed, and seems to slow more often than ever reach any noticeable speed. Still, I see orange groves, lakes and the wide, open spaces Central Florida is known for, along with white sand ridges covered with the palmetto, pine and oak hammocks that I happen to love. It appears the track is under repair every few miles, with wooden ties strewn along the grade and CSX (the rail line) workers and their equipment found in isolated locations giving reason for the train to slow. We pick up speed again on a straight stretch of track north of Avon Park. With my handy GPS in hand, driven crazy by my constantly driving off the road, I am comforted by always knowing where I am.

As we approach Sebring at 3:25 PM, the scenery improves dramatically with miles of orange groves to my right and big lakes and oak forests to my left. We pass a large RV park, filled with refugees from the cold north, the train, no doubt, something they’ve grown used to. Soon the orange groves engulf us on both sides, just before we pull into a small station on the outskirts of Sebring, the train’s whistle still blowing.

It turns out I was right about all the construction. Apparently it has slowed the train and we are predicted to roll in fifty minutes late to Ft. Lauderdale. At least we can use our cell phones to call ahead and change arrangements. I have to admit that I wouldn’t have known we were late if the conductor hadn’t told us. There is a timelessness to train travel that is dramatically different from air travel. There is a difference between sitting in frustration at an airport, waiting for a delayed flight, and sitting comfortably on a train in motion, largely doing as you please. I don’t think I will feel half as bad about being late by train as I would were I flying Southwest Airlines into Ft. Lauderdale’s airport.

I also learned the conductor isn’t as happy as he first appeared. Apparently “management” has chosen not to maintain the public address system on the train—he claims it hasn’t worked in over two years—so conductors must walk the length of the train, repeatedly announcing the next stop. Unlike airplanes, where you are instructed to stow all your electronic toys before you land, including those that involve headphones or earbuds, a lot of people are missing the announcements about the next stop, and failing to get off the train when they’re supposed to. The conductor was clearly unhappy about this and a little condescending of people who failed to pay attention. I considered his behavior less than professional, and certainly not the best face Amtrak would want to present.

Just short of Ft Lauderdale, the train comes to a complete stop, presumably to allow traffic on the rails ahead to clear. Unlike air travel, train travel is a very linear, two-dimensional concept. This stop affords me the opportunity to confirm gangs are alive and well in Broward County. The back side of warehouse buildings facing the tracks are covered with highly ornate graffiti. If they did not signify some form of lawlessness and danger, I could appreciate the art.

In Palm Beach, Broward and Dade Counties, Amtrak shares the rails with the Tri-Rail, a local train providing frequent, regular service. The stations take on a stark, open, modern look resembling bus, light rail and subway stations. That’s fine, I think, unless it is raining. As the train pulls into the station at 5:55 PM, about 45 minutes late, my impression of the trip remains strongly positive. I look forward to tomorrow’s return trip.

Gasparilla Before There Were Beads

I was born and raised in Tampa. My childhood home was on Channel Drive, on Davis Islands, along the main shipping channel. The mock-pirate invasion of Tampa known as Gasparilla was something I looked forward to each year. Even though I now live across the bay, on St. Pete Beach, I haven’t missed a Gasparilla invasion in 54 years.

While the celebration was founded in 1904, the pirate’s ship, named Jose Gaspar, was not built until 1954, the year of my birth. The invasion passed in front of our house each year, we had reserved seats for the parade on Bayshore Boulevard, and we almost always watched the night parade in Ybor City, where both my parents worked and I attended elementary school.

Nothing ever stays the same, and that is true for Gasparilla, too. For decades, the invasion and parade took place on the first Monday in February. It was a school holiday for children in Tampa. Many businesses closed as well. It seemed huge to us, it was family-friendly, and it was our event.

There was never any doubt that Tampa’s wealthy civic leaders, dressed as pirates, had been drinking. We later came to recognize that Ye Mystic Krewe of Gasparilla discriminated, was exclusionary, and all those bad things they have largely outgrown. Actually, come to think of it, I did miss Gasparilla in 1991 because the Krewe cancelled the event, rather than integrate. With Superbowl XXV in town, the city hastily put on something called Bamboleo. It was a huge, embarrassing bust, and a black eye for my home town.

Other than that, there have always been boats and parade floats and marching bands and important people sitting in antique cars and convertibles, waving warmly to happy crowds. As kids, we covered our ears as the pirates fired their guns in the air (blanks, of course), and then ran to catch the gun shells they threw to the pavement. If we were particularly lucky, they threw a gold doubloon. My collection of doubloons, which I still have today, was my most prized possession.

There were no beads.

In 1988, to make the event accessible to far more people, Gasparilla was moved to the first Saturday in February, (unless Tampa was hosting the Superbowl, in which case they rescheduled it to accommodate the game). Many new krewes of all stripe and color now participate, symbolizing that Tampa embraces diversity like it never did before. Southwest Airlines became the event’s “name sponsor,” and companies that produce alcoholic beverages seem to play an ever-increasing role in making the event possible. Many residents along or near Bayshore Boulevard have grown to dread the day.

Oh, and almost everyone throws beads now.

Most people attending Gasparilla today would probably think the absence of beads was the denial of some basic human right suffered during barbaric times. Maybe we just didn’t know what we were missing, but we all seemed happy, just the same. Those of us who remember those days, roughly prior to 1986, can’t help but notice the influence beads have on today’s Gasparilla. To be honest, it’s a mixed blessing. Like an invasive species of plant, there’s good and bad. Pretty to look at, but you can’t get rid of them. Beads are here to stay.

There is certainly joy in both giving and receiving. Beads have become the great equalizer for many. The giving is no longer limited to pirates. As hundreds of boats pass by the seawall, many on board throw beads to the glee of spectators. I often witness grown men and women making fools of themselves to attract a throw. Often, I see those catching the beads quickly share them with children and senior citizens around them, experiencing both the joy of receiving and giving at the same time. It’s a good thing.

The competition for beads also brings out the worst in many people. Greed and a lack of consideration for others is the obvious culprit, but I think it goes deeper than that. People who are particularly competitive about attracting or catching beads invariably inconvenience those around them. Small children and elderly spectators frequently fear for their safety or grow weary of the repeated yelling for beads. For too many, it’s no longer about enjoying the show...it’s about getting something for nothing. While I still come to see the invasion, that’s largely why I quit attending the parade 20 years ago.

It gets worse. Along the seawall, some come armed to pay back those who don’t reward their call for beads. Maybe they are envious and resentful of the boaters’ good fortune. Too often, I see water balloons thrown at passengers in passing boats. And, in turn, I often see those passengers fire back with water balloons. Understandably, it is more difficult to throw something accurately from a moving boat. This is when it really begins to quit being as much fun for the rest of us.

Please let me be the last person to deny others their fun at Gasparilla. We all need all the fun we can get. Like I said, nothing stays the same and beads are here to stay. The obvious charge I am guilty of is getting older and nostalgic. Personally, I don’t think I’m any less fun. I definitely plan to return next year for my 55th Gasparilla invasion.

And I will always have my doubloons and childhood memories from before there were beads.

You are invited to see 36 of my favorite 2009 Gasparilla photos on the Parsons-Wilson Picasa site.

Day One For My Blog

It's called Wilson Wonders. There were several other candidates for site names, but they were already taken. As it turns out, the "Wilson Wonders" blogspot URL is already taken, but that site hasn't been updated in years. Chances are you'll reach this blog via a redirecting URL (I do own wilsonwonders.com), a link from my central web page (still to come), Facebook, Twitter, or if you are really that interested, with some feed reader. In other words, no worries about the small details.

There is not particular meaning to the site's name. It is simply a place for me to begin my ventures into the online world. It isn't my first blog, nor will it be my only blog or web site. I simply wanted a place to hone my writing and online skills, while doing the least amount of damage. Something relatively personal like this seemed like a good place to start.

I don't plan to be especially controversial or provocative, but everyone has an opinion, and I realize it may differ from mine. If you don't like what you read, simply go away. If you want to comment, feel free, knowing I will aggressively moderate, and may simply not care to include your comments if I deem them disrespectful. I will pick my fights, and I don't intend for this blog to be where many of them occur.

Lastly, things may not post here in any linear fashion. One day, I'll talk about where I ate for lunch. The next day, I may post things from travel journals I wrote years ago. Like I said, this is an exercise for me. If it provides you with some small pleasure or useful information, I'll be gratified. If it doesn't, no worries! There are certainly enough blogs out there to satisfy every need.

So here I go...