NOT YOUR AVERAGE MONKEY BUSINESS

I’m a sucker for monkeys.  Their expressive eyes, curious nature, and playful demeanor have captured my heart since childhood.  And so it was no surprise the day my car veered into a parking lot off Burnet that had an animated circular face with tiny ears resembling the classic 80’s stuffed sock monkey.  The little primate’s paws and curled tail grip a circular sign with bold letters identifying the establishment, Monkey Nest Organic Coffee and Bakery.

Article continued... http://austinot.com/?s=monkey+nest


 

 

 

THANKS BOB, FOR GETTING ME TO LAND

Showing up at the Moody Theater in Austin, I was the demographic: middle-class female, 30-60, chasing a raspy masculine voice known only through airwaves.  When my husband surprised me with tickets to see Bob Schneider for Valentine's, I was thrilled!  But the real surprise didn't come until 30 minutes into the show.  

Lex Land.  There was nothing grand about her introduction or entrance onto the stage.  She walked with slow calculated steps up to a microphone and looked out upon a crowd of couples.  Her black floor length sequined gown didn't hold a candle to the sparkle that ignited once her sultry voice spilled out lyrics that cracked with slow rendering heartbreak.  Her cover of Bonnie Raitt’s "I Can't Make You Love Me" captured a spirit I wasn't searching for on Valentine’s Day and have managed to avoid since marrying. My soul crushed as I listened and remembered the blistering pain that accompanies unreciprocated affection.  Like a jar of lightening bugs springing from release, her voice offered a flurry of painful recollection of times past.  The memories were unavoidable and inescapable.  My eyes searched the room full of romantics and wondered how many clasped hands would ultimately survive the roller coaster ride that accompanies commitment.  It may have been a day to bask in love, but the silent phantom that drifted overhead made me question love and its inescapable tragic beauty.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible to turn a Bonnie Raitt classic into something more. In an instant the original was replaced. Poof. Gone. It was exhilarating, scary and unnerving to have the ability to toss Bonnie aside.

I took solace the night those memories were awakened by the velvet voice of Lex Land. And as the warmth of my husband’s shoulder nestled against my own, I paused to be grateful for the moment.

On the tumultuous sea of love, I’m thankful to have found Land.

A MUSICAL AWAKENING

It seemed like a good idea, at first.  My husband and I were sober the day we purchased our 14 and 15 year old daughters tickets to see Pitbull and Enrique Iglesias.  The girls were ecstatic when they heard on the radio these guys were coming to our town.  Neither thought to ask for tickets for Christmas, which made the purchase that much more exciting.  Our goal was to give the girls a gift they’d remember long after the scent of pine, scotch tape, and cider faded from air. 

The girls were excited, initially.  Not only were they going to their first concert, but they were going alone.  That’s right, mom and dad were staying out of the picture.  But I noticed as the two month countdown began to the big day, no one was counting but me. When I asked if any of their friends were going, the answer came with a perturbed eye roll, “no mom.”   And I was surprised neither of them bothered to mention the concert to their grandparents.  This is when I started to question the purchase.  Was this a bad idea?  Our city claims to be the “Live Music Capital of the World”, but maybe we were thrusting our girls into a world they weren’t ready to experience? And why wasn’t I sharing the idea I thought was brilliant with my friends and family?  Was I embarrassed by my actions?  And then I realized something I’m not proud to admit, I was.  I was afraid of being judged, poorly.  What kind of mom thinks it’s a good idea to throw her girls into an arena with 17,000 strangers and no parental supervision? 

The ugly word “doubt” ruled my brainwaves as I sat at the laptop and searched online for reviews of the previous performances.  Any crowd induced deaths?  No.  Any muggings? No.  Any fights? No.  Instead of finding proof that my doubts were justified, I read things like, “it’s one giant party…everyone is out of their seat dancing… an amazing night worth the money....Enrique really bonds with the crowd and Pitbull is incredible.”  Doubts diminished.

The night was clear and the drive downtown was quiet.  I put a Pitbull CD in hoping it would bring life to the backseat, but the girls didn’t offer a word – only looked out their windows.  As we made our exit off the interstate, traffic came to a halt.   A beat up little Hyundai next to us had windows rolled down, and two young men wildly bobbing their heads to a beat in tune with ours.  The tiny metal on wheels shook with excitement as their bodies jumped up and down.  A few guys and a lady roamed the street selling t-shirts. I could feel energy surging, not from the backseat, but from my own. Knowing our girls were going to their first concert released memories that fluttered back with vivid clarity.  I was their age when I was released in the wild to my first big venue concert.  Unlike the girls, I didn’t go with my sister.  I had a cool Aunt a decade older than me that invited me to tag along.  My Aunt’s sprayed hair (it was the 80’s) was the only thing higher than my spirit! I recalled the thrill that came with my entry ticket. I understood why some guitars were called “electric”, my ears rang and carried the beat long after the concert ended, and I loved it.  The experience also taught me if you’re going to a concert where the musicians are getting a workout performing on stage, they sweat…and it flies onto anyone within spitting distance (which isn’t always good!).  Most importantly, I learned the exhilaration that stems from being in a room full of people who share your musical tastes.  The energy and excitement are tangible, electric!  That magical night opened up a new world, one where I was on the fringe of something beyond comprehension.  No longer a girl, and not yet a woman.  I was in a state of becoming.

And I let them go.

The traffic wasn’t moving, and the girls only had 20 minutes before the concert started.  My husband pointed out a sidewalk that appeared to go in the direction we were heading.  It was a ½ mile walk to the stadium.  We could get there in time, but I would have to get out of the car with reluctant girls, dodge traffic, cross multiple busy intersections and walk – fast.

As we reached the front of the arena, I wasn’t sure if my heart or the radio station playing Pitbull tunes overhead pounded harder. A helpful man looked at my girls’ tickets and pointed them in the direction closest to their seats.  I watched as their body language shifted from doubt to eager anticipation.  And I smiled when they went through the entrance without me, and didn’t look back.

Two hours into the show I received a text along with a photograph, “This is awesome, OMG!” 

I let them go. 

They survived.  And memories were made, for everyone.

NEWORLDELI: AN OLD SCHOOL CLASSIC

 

We first met a decade ago. I was a nervous mom with three girls: 7, 4, and 2. Every Wednesday I would pack up my two-year old and commute to her four-year old sister’s ballet class in Hyde Park.  Parents weren’t allowed to see the twirling pink confections practice, as we were expected to wait in a quiet, damp, narrow hallway for one hour.  This didn’t work for me; I’m socially awkward and had a toddler in tow which made waiting in a hall unbearable.  Stepping outside with my daughter strapped into her stroller, I set out in search of a spot where we could both find comfort.  After passing a colorful assortment of homes with front porches and picket fences, the stroller stopped in front of a café called NeWorlDeli.  It didn’t look snooty or pretentious.  It wore a patina that's often accompanied by history, stories.  As we entered, the man perched behind the counter welcomed us in a thick New Jersey accent.  He embodied the Garden State: rugged and genuine, with hands that were worn and weathered from use.  His face didn’t offer smiles generously, but exuded a warmth that made a smile unnecessary.  His head was topped with a battered baseball cap and as he tinkered with prepping the day’s menu, he effortlessly interacted with both customers and staff, I realized my daughter and I had found our spot.

Eventually, my father-in-law joined us for coffee and tacos.  I have fond memories of the three of us sitting by the back door of the café, the area closest to the coffee thermos and bathrooms.  We would laugh as we watched Emma fumble as she tried to maneuver her gigantic taco into her gumball sized mouth.  As food remnants hit the floor my father-in-law applied the “five second rule” and devoured anything dropped.   It was a happy time.

Years passed.

We moved back to Austin last year.  I was fearful returning.  The friends I kept in touch with consistently depicted the home we left, “You won’t believe how much Austin has changed.”  I was uneasy with that word, change.

Coincidentally, our first two weeks back we rented a Hyde Park bungalow one block behind NeWorlDeli. One afternoon I gave my two teenagers a few dollars and suggested they walk over and grab a cookie or brownie from the deli.  As they returned, all smiles, they gushed over how nice the people were and how rich and delicious the brownie tasted.  My oldest went on to say, “Mom you didn’t give us enough money, but the girl checking us out gave us the extra .86 cents.”  Later that evening my husband and I dropped by the deli to pick up our takeout order, I wasn’t surprised to see the Garden State man standing stoically behind his counter, just as he had a decade earlier.  We explained how we appreciated the staff helping our girls out when they didn’t have enough money for their sweets.  He shrugged as if this were common and mentioned the deli being “old school.”  Out of the corner of my eye I could see a giddy employee with a Cheshire grin winking at me. Returning to our rental, we unloaded our dinner order and found an unexpected surprise.  A big fat brownie had sneaked in with our meals.  We were happy.

Arranging to meet a friend for 9am coffee recently, I opted for something new, I suggested we meet at a trendy café right off the UT campus.  As I heard warnings on the radio to stay away from campus: it was the first day of spring semester, I called NeWorlDeli to see if they were open – no one picked up.  A few seconds later my phone rang. A thick New Jersey accent asked, “Did you just call the deli?”  Explaining my dilemma, the voice explained they weren’t open until 11am, but he and a chef were prepping for lunch.   “Why don’t you come here and we’ll put on a pot of coffee.” 

As I pushed the door open, I could see there were two cups and saucers waiting near the register.  And as I thanked the Garden State man, he grumbled something along the lines, “We’re old school, it’s nothing. This is what we do.”  My friend and I felt special, happy even.

 My visits to this neighborhood deli over the years have been just as unpredictable and sporadic as my hair color.  My twirling pink ballerina traded her dance shoes for soccer cleats years ago and enters high school in the fall, the taco eating toddler I laughed with is a 6^th grader with a schedule, and my father-in-law moved away several years ago.  Life has changed, Austin has changed, and I have changed.  But thankfully, in an ever-changing world, NeWorlDeli remains constant and reliable.  Thanks for the smiles...and the memories.

 

NeWorlDeli Owners: Greg and Sarah Bontempo

 

 

 

Gruene Hall: A Snake. A Beer. A Memory.

Walking into Gruene Hall, boots are greeted not only by worn wooden floorboards, but with a clacking sound as heels scoot over weathered metal license plates that are nailed to the floor. I wasn’t sure if their purpose was to add visual interest or just plain necessity to cover up decaying wood: in any case, I liked it.

Feeling the lightness of an empty pocketbook (it was the day after Christmas!), this sojourn was inspired by one word, free.  And if this four letter word wasn’t sufficient enough to prompt a visit, it was kid and wheel-chair friendly too.  With two other generations in tow, we were in need of both. 

Walking in the open doorway I was welcomed by a bar with a Lone Star neon sign to remind me where I was.  My feet followed my ears.  Around the bar’s corner, our crew of seven waltzed into a large, dimly lit space with the tunes of live country music drifting overhead.  After finding a table we ordered a round of drinks and a few bags of chips and nuzzled into one of numerous picnic tables. The multitude of carved etchings that decorated our table made me wish I had brought a Swiss Army or Sharpie.  It also prompted the memory of the last time I carved my name into a piece of wood.  A visit to the Principal’s office followed, along with an apology and sanding paper to erase the small trace I aspired to leave behind my 8^th grade year. 

 

 

Current reality reappeared as I cradled my long neck.  A family played Scrabble next to us, while another gathered to exchange Christmas gifts on the dance floor.  The woman sitting at the end of our table took the liberty of freeing her toes from restraint and sat happily with bare feet swaying to the band’s melody.  The combination of beer, live music, and my surroundings soothed my soul. 

As I made my way to the ladies room, I was startled to see a young girl with a small snake curled around her neck, its name – Willie, and she wore it like a prized accessory.  On a normal day, I wouldn’t have attempted small talk with a snake totting individual: I would have scrambled – bolted, but not the day I went to the Gruene Hall.  This Texas gem slithered its way into my heart.

No Sharpie or Swiss Army required, unlike middle school, I would return…

 

 

http://gruenehall.com/

 

Baked by Amy's

Standing behind the counter was a petite, doe eyed woman with a button nose, rosy cheeks and a glowing sprit that nearly out sparkled the glistening sugar confections surrounding her – Erin Fellows.  If I didn’t know better I would have thought I was in the presence of a grown Cindy Lou, the adorable blue eyed animated toddler that was so cute she warmed the heart of the Grinch and made it grow three times larger.

Entering Baked by Amy’s is both cozy and inviting.  Fresh, brightly colored flowers are standard staples on their tables and the two black chalk board walls with pastel scribbles and drawings make the intimate space feel fun and whimsical - alive.  I’ve been quietly stalking this business since moving back to Austin four months ago.  My addiction started with their Reece’s Cupcake.   My mouth waters remembering the dense chocolate cake and whipped peanut butter frosting, topped with bits of crumbled Reece’s.  Biting into this luscious confection, your mouth is further rewarded by a hidden layer of thick chocolate that lurks beneath the surface of the buttercream.  Heaven. Putting pride aside, I have a confession.  I lick the paper clean, twice…every time!

Discovering the gourmet goodness within this little bake shop is nostalgic.  It reminds me of grammar school days, a time when I could go home after school and eat a whole box of Little Debbie Nutter Butters – guilt free (until mom noticed!).   I’ve grown, and so have my taste buds.  I no longer see the appeal of devouring a box of snack cakes, but I do see value in finding a treat that can make me recall a time when it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Not unlike the Grinch, my heart has grown since discovering my little neighborhood bakery…and possibly, my waistline too.   Head Baker and Managing Partner, Erin Fellows may not be Cindy Lou, but I’m secretly hoping her middle name starts with an “L”. 

http://www.bakedbyamys.com/#our-bakery

The New Thoreaus

Scenes from our backyard (and the van's posterior end, loaded!)...

Barefoot in Paris

Cemeteries train the eye to glance downward. As if the thought of death weren’t somber enough, most are flat and grey.  The only breath of life – the occasional wilting flowers that rest beside headstones. If you have the opportunity to visit the cemetery, Père Lachaise in Paris, you’ll find it challenging to look anywhere else, but up.

Paris has a way of making chipped paint look remarkably appealing.  Even the forgotten tombs that are overrun with weeds and bear headstones with etchings that have long faded, still manage to draw attention. My inspiration for the visit was to see the final resting place for people I’ve admired through history.  Maps are offered for a few euros that highlight the famous gravesites.  You’ll want to allow time to meander.  This cemetery boasts over 100 acres.  Stone pathways snake through the grounds, along with gravel paths that sneak around tombs. You will also want to wear good walking shoes…I didn’t, which is why I ended up barefoot.

Père Lachaise combines art and nature, seamlessly. It feels like a serene park, with graves being the decorative accent pieces to the gently rolling landscape.  Patches of greenery and the occasional stone bench allow you to sit and breathe in the stillness.  If you like sculpture and architecture, your eyes will be rewarded.  Countless grave sites are designed as tiny chapels; just big enough to allow one or two mourners to kneel inside.  It isn’t rare to find beautiful stained glass windows adorning crumbling walls, and relics from centuries past inside these architectural gems.  Some doors remain open, while countless others are bolted shut and overrun with decades worth of neglect that rears its face through thick masses of cobwebs.

After spending two hours within the stone walls of this Paris landmark, I had only made it to three out of ten historical figures I had intended to visit: Edith Piaf, Camille Pissarro, and Gertrude Stein.  Victor Hugo, Eugene Delacroix, Gustave Caillebotte, Jacques-Louis David , Jim Morrison, Balzac, and Oscar Wilde would have to wait for a future visit…or not.

Père Lachaise eloquently drapes death in serenity and beauty.  After leaving, I felt more alive.  My feet were bare, but my soul fulfilled.

http://www.pere-lachaise.com/