THE BEST DAMN AIRPORT IN THE WORLD EAST OF LAKE MICHIGAN AND WEST OF OCONOMOWOC
Who says travel has to be a drag with nothing but plastic over-priced food, long stress filled lines and TSA officials with big chips on their shoulders. If this has been your travel scenario then you haven't been to Milwaukee. General Mitchell Airport is no slouch of an airport.
In "Love Actually" you see Colin Frissell entering the US and leaving from an airport with Milwaukee Airport signage placed in a snow covered art director's version of Christmas in Milwaukee. Had it been the real MKE Colin might have thought twice about his hasty departure.
First there's the shopping. For the conservatives there's a Brooks Brothers
and the PGA Tour shop filled with monograms, Weegens, and LaCoste. It's all a little stiff for me so I'm safe bypassing these two shops. But if tartan plaids and shoes with tassels and spikes on the bottom are your thing Milwaukee's got 'em.
For those with a bit more zip there's a Harley-Davidson shop for your Easy Rider side. If the smell of leather and feel of real steel are your thing then spread those legs and mount a hog at this store. Actually I'd never connect my desires and the word "hog" in the same sentence but the leather fashion can still be a real turn-on.
The gift stores sell the ubiquitous objects you can find worldwide: earphones for your ipad, blow-up neck pillows and four dollar bottles of filtered water but what makes these gift stores special is the ability to purchase real synthetic Wisconsin cheese heads. You can drop some real coin for cheese heads in four different sizes from Papa bear to Mini Me.
Yet the most impressive retail outlet on the concourse is Renaissance Books, a rare and used bookstore that would be equally at home on the Left Bank in Paris as it is in Milwaukee.
Peter Greenberg, The Travel Detective, said it is one of the reasons he inserts a trip through Milwaukee into his itinerary at least once a year so he can submerge himself in the smell of old books at Renaissance Books.
History is not left out of the package of things to do at General Mitchell. There's, appropriately, the Mitchell Gallery of Flight. A museum dedicated in general to the history of aviation and in particular to how it connected to the Milwaukee area.
There's a replica of the Wright Brother's plane attached to the ceiling rafters.
A model of Lindbergh's "Spirit of St. Louis" flies just outside the museum entrance commemorating Lindbergh's visit to Milwaukee on August 20, 1927.
General Mitchell was a significant military figure and is considered the father of the U.S. Air Force establishing air power over ground conflict as the over-riding force in combat.
There is also a large tribute to the astronaut, James Lovell, another Milwaukee hometown hero.
The dining and drinking, what would Wisconsin be without beer, are not neglected at General Mitchell. There's a standard food court,
the ever present and ever needed Starbucks (at least for me)
and one of the best burger and malt joints this side of the Mississippi. I've downed a slider and slurped a super thick black and white while waiting for a flight sitting at one of their formica table and vinyl chair sets.
The newest addition to the food emporium is the Miller Brewhouse. The swankiest bar in Milwaukee serving perch tacos, steamed edamame, the world famous Wisconsin butter bacon cheeseburger and what else…beer.
You can sit at your own personal pub table with self-serve draft beers purchasable with a credit card. The only catch, a two-pint maximum on your card.
But the most amazing bit of Midwestern creativity isn't in the shopping experience but occurs after having passed through the metal detector machines on your way to your departure gate. After having suffered the humiliation of stripping off my watch, my shoes and my belt, after having to place my computer in a separate plastic bin and then being asked to take off my jacket, after dumping my change in a small plastic cup, after having to walk through the detector for a second time because I forgot I had my cell phone in my back pocket and had to dump it on to the conveyor before I could proceed through the metal detector for the last time, I finally crossed to the other side and what to my wandering eyes should appear but an area with extra chairs and a very official sign designating it as a legitimate recombobulation area. Now I know the word and I can easily define it but my spell check won't recognize it no matter how I try to reconfigure it. With my shoes, belt, jacket, watch and change tucked under my chin, wrapped around my arm and grasped tightly in my hand I could think of nothing more likely to put a genuine smile on my face and diffuse any hostility I might be harboring than an area officially designated as a place to recombobulate. I dumped my belongings onto the floor just in time to catch my unbelted pants before they slipped to somewhere above my ankles and below the point of decency and began recombobulating. As I secured my pants and redistributed my worldly wealth of quarters and dimes to their proper pockets I began to relax and reflect. My recombobulating made me wish the world had a recombobulation area, a place where we could all reombobulate. It's nice to see that even in the most serious of places, an airport screening area, TSA employees in this part of the world still have a sense of humor and you can have a laugh without feeling as if you're jeopardizing the safety of the planet.
If you end up having to fly from New York to San Francisco or any itinerary that could possibly pass through Milwaukee. Take the one stop flight and rest a bit at General Mitchell.
Southwest Boeing 737-700
Jeffrey Milstein, photographer
Represented by Kopeikin Gallery, Los Angeles
We were sitting at a table next to an open window in a tiny French restaurant in the West Village. It was a Friday night in August some time in the mid-eighties. Not the dog day kind of August evening but a refreshing version of mid-summer. The sun was just starting to fade. Three green bottles of Chardonnay were turned upside down in the wine bucket standing to the side of the table catching the light of the setting sun.
"What do you think Paris looks like tonight?" Rick was swirling the last bit of our fourth bottle of Chardonnay.
JoHannah, who had been toying with the last few Haricot Vert on her plate, did a slow slide of her eyes from her French beans to the voice that she thought had mentioned Paris.
"Yea, I was just thinking how great it would be to get away...do something spontaneous, something besides ordering another bottle."
"I dare you."
"What, to do something spontaneous?"
It was my turn, "Yea, something beyond ordering a fifth bottle of wine."
"Okay y'all let's go."
Before the buzz could wear off the three of us were on the last plane leaving La Guardia that night. It wasn't Paris. We could only get as far as Chicago. Without the aid of sobriety Chicago seemed way far enough. We spent the weekend doing the Midwest including a trip up I90 to Madison and a Wisconsin dinner of steak and potatoes with my family. It was New York to Wisconsin.
Many many years later the little French restaurant at the corner of Waverly and Christopher has gone in the reverse direction via a group called Little Wisco, a collection of six restaurants scattered throughout the West Village all the inspiration of Gabe Stulman, a University of Wisconsin graduate. These culinary jewels are the new links in our chain of restaurant hopping through the city that doesn't lack jewelry. We've now completed tastings at two of Gabe's six Wisconsin inspired restaurants. Joseph Leonard has taken over the space of our French spontaneity from many years ago.
We went for Sunday brunch. The restaurant was packed with what one might have been mistaken for a clientele made of Wisconsin graduate students recovering from a Badger football blowout. The only seats available for us were at a counter looking into the kitchen.
This was a bonus. Our chef stood on the other side of the counter. He was the final hands that touched the food before it was picked up by the wait staff and delivered to a waiting customer. This meant we got to see more than our own order and we also benefited from his ongoing commentary.
In addition to our meals, where I had a warm mushroom and panzanella salad with a pair of poached eggs, torn bread and a drizzling of sherry broth and gruyere
and Rick had a fried chicken sandwich with mayo, tangy Tabasco, honey, and bread and butter cucumbers all topped with a side of Wisconsin cheddar grits, we got to see a lot more.
There was a trio of biscuits smothered in Thai gravy, pork sausages, red curry and coconut milk
A plate of saucisson a l'ail; pork and garlic sausages, fried eggs, hash browns, crème fraiche and arugula slide across the counter and wafted its aromatic fragrance across our noses.
Rick made me go to the bathroom hidden behind door 149. He wouldn't tell me why. He only said I had to go. Over the toilet was typed a manifesto titled, "Why Write????" It was worth the trip even if I didn't have to pee.
The second restaurant we hit was right across the street from Joseph Leonard. We walked in for a late lunch on a weekday.
Not so crowded. Jeffrey's Grocery has a similar ambiance to Joseph Leonard.
Despite their enticement of "It is a beautiful day for breakfast and booze" we both started out with a pair of non-alcoholic cocktails they had predominately placed on their permanent menu.
Rick chose the Island Moon DJ, a mix of pineapple, honey, lime and coconut while I grabbed a Loosey Goosey a shaken combination of pomegranate, orange, ginger beer and jack ruby grenadine.
The restaurant swims in a nautical theme and features a menu developed mainly from the sea.
The raw bar is their strength with oysters high on the menu.
I opted for a crab grilled cheese with pimento cheese and fries topped with fried green tomatoes.
Rick grabbed the daily salad special of mixed greens, shaved almonds and Wisconsin tart cherries, a slab of sourdough toast smeared with chevre on the side.
Both of their restaurants possessed the kind of atmosphere conducive to a leisurely lunch or a repeat five bottle wine dinner with a trip to Paris for dessert.
We still have four more restaurants in the Stulman stable of eateries we are destined to try: Montmartre, Chez Sardine, Perla and Fedora. We'll let you know how that all works out.
Why do I spend so much time at this broken down typewriter? Isn't it just a big waste of time? I could be watching television or get into a game of cards or some other recreation. And what is so great about writing? There is an answer and I will try to tell about why in the following paragraphs.
Something happens to the inner side of me when I sit down to type. I just get completely lost in what I am doing. It is just like I have entered a different world. My imagination is at it's highest peak. I am kind of floating in a sea of thought. I am lost in thought, please don't disturb. I want to be alone.
The spoken word is very volatile. It disappears into the atmosphere and does not stay with us. It is gone until spoken again. It only has instant impact. Words are usually soon forgotten.
A written message is different, it does not disappear and can not be altered unless rewritten. Interpretations by others might differ, but the wording remains the same.
Some times I have an instant desire to say something, but when I do say it it doesn't come out right. What I say and what I mean are often different. I am not a good speaker. But, let me at this old typewriter biding my time, I think I do a much better job of expressing my true feelings. Some thing just builds up inside of me and my one finger just keeps on telling what I am thinking. I think that I do a better job when this old machine and I are to-gether. We get along. I just love to type. Ideas come easier when I do. I wish I had found this out earlier in my life.
504 Oak Pk Dr.
Shawano, Wis. 54166
Framed on the wall in the bathroom at Joseph Leonard
Waverly Place, West Village, New York City
When you love two things equally it's a tough decision picking one over the other. We have an area at home we refer to as the snug. When used as a noun it's an English term meaning a small cozy place where only a few can sit. Using this definition our room fits perfectly within that description. The room used to be an open porch. Over the years it was enclosed with a band of windows and a door leading out to the backyard. It wasn't heated or insulated. During the winter it was closed off only admired through the windows of the French doors leading from the dining room and down a makeshift step into the room. My mother used the room as a storage area for her cookbooks and a game room filled with toys we had all grown out of years ago. When we took over the house two years ago we added the bookcases and but in thermal windows insulating the room against the harsh winter so we could keep it open year round.
The room has a chaise and single chair, seating for two. It was our friends JoHannah and Adam, who when visiting for Thanksgiving, insisted on calling it the snug. Adam is British. The term stuck. It may seem a bit pretentious but the term embodies the true quality of the space.
We began filling the room with our own collection of books; cookbooks, gardening books, vintage editions of the classics, torrid novels and part of our photography book collection. The books now spill out of the shelves and onto the floor and any other flat surface they end up resting on. The entire series of Martha Stewart's "Living" magazines circle around the room on a ledge suspended over the windows. An eclectic menagerie of crystal balls, vintage globes, ceramic vases and floral oils painted by weekend painters began filling in the gaps to breakup the continuous lines of book spines filling the shelves and cases. We've now arrived at the cliff where we risk falling into the pit referred to as hoarding if we continue trying to cram one more thing into the snug. The dilemma pits us against the choice we have to make. Do we stop and weed, do we continue in the direction we are going knowing that one day our daughter will come back and discover one of us dead and buried under a collection of mildewing ephemera, or do we look "outside the box" at an alternative solution?
There's a whole set of designers and homeowners facing a similar situation. One solution we've been toying with, and the whole purpose of this posting, is hanging some of our artwork in front of the books. You're overlapping two creative fields when you do this. The questions that arise are: is it functional, does it position one art form as being more significant than the other, and/or does this say something about the beauty of the space being more important than the material it contains?
Magazines have shown us bookcases filled with books categorized by the color of the book jackets. Beautiful yes, but I'd be hard pressed to remember if my copy of "Bel Conto" was red or navy blue.
There are retailers, I now see Restoration Hardware has joined the fray, providing faux books you can purchase to give your library the look of books without having to actually own a book. As silly as this sounds, it's a problem I've run into recently where I thought this might be the perfect solution. As new generations move into older homes the question of what to do with the library is going to become a more valid question to ask. My most recent client is completely a product of the technological age. They don't own a single book. This in no way means that they don't read. It only means that their entire library exists on a single paperless devise. The home they purchased had a magnificent library I had to somehow figure out a way to fill. The idea of the faux books with a little space for their Kindles was high on my list of possibilities.
So back to hanging art in front of literature.
I've found some examples where the users have decided to hang art in front of books.
I don't think this means you can't get to the tomes behind the art. It only makes it a little more difficult. I kinda like the marriage of the two,
but it does seem to work best when either the library is large
or the books behind are few.
I'm afraid our snug is both too small and too crammed already for this to work, but we're still on the fence on this one.
Gertrude Stein in Her Salon Writing, 1920
Man Ray, photographer
Found at Beinecke Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT