the calm amidst the city rush

A good friend of mine–very much an overachiever–recently invited me to accompany her to a yoga session. My experiences with yoga have been scattered but generally positive: from attending an advanced session with my mom, when I shouldn’t have, to doing yoga in the morning air of the City of Rocks before a long day of rock climbing. Furthermore, I knew of Urban Breath Yoga because an instructor there used to be associated with one of my favorite nonprofits in the area, Redevelopment Opportunities for Women. So I agreed to attend an evening yoga session.

Urban Breath is in Dogtown, which I already find to be a very laid back part of the city, with a bit of a funky vibe (they also host a heck of a St. Patty’s Day celebration). Thus I had high hopes when I entered my first session.

Admittedly I was a bit surprised when I discovered that the studio is little more than a single classroom, with the capacity to host a class of 10 or so students. In a way, however, the size of the studio made for a more intimate experience. I could see how one would easily get to know the instructor’s name, get more personal attention on style & technique, and perhaps even find calm more easily with fewer people rustling about as they pursued their own relaxation through yoga.

Having not attended yoga since that rock climbing trip in the summer of 2005, I certainly needed some personal attention from the instructor–and it was much appreciated. After about an hour of stretching, slowly bending, thinking, and lying down to meditate, I left the session feeling quite refreshed.

I’d encourage others who are interested to check out Urban Breath, because they recently closed their second location; now Dogtown is the sole spot to experience their great instructors. Go and find that calm amidst the city rush!

the fu manchu experience

In theory, a bar hidden in a secret alley is an alluring notion. Thus I felt the tug of adventure when my fiance revealed that he and few friends had discovered such a bar, called the Thaxton Speakeasy. Indeed, when a man with a long white fu manchu answers a door in that secret alley, asking for a password, one might certainly feel that they’ve stumbled upon something unique, something underground. The opportunity to turn this allure into action came a few weeks ago. After beginning the evening at Jazz at the Bistro, we headed to said alley for my introduction to the modern-day Speakeasy.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that an alley is not, in fact, alluring. I hadn’t considered, for example, that dumpsters would be involved.

Despite my shattered notions of romantic alleys, the Thaxton pleased me to no end in every other respect. I should mention that in order to gain the attention of the man with the fu manchu, you must ring a doorbell under faded lettering reading “Speakeasy”–which certainly completes the picture. We were prepared with the password; in fact fu manchu man seemed a bit disappointed that we knew it so surely. He had another potential patron in the entry area who’d been waiting and guessing in vain for some time before we arrived. I’m not sure if our revelation released him from his purgatory, but we proceeded straight downstairs.

I should mention that this (literally) underground gem is also smoke-free. (See this for a list of several other venues doing the same.) Perhaps I can best sing its praises, though, with a short anecdote about my inaugural night there. We settled in to a table near the dance floor. Seating there is sparse, perhaps because you’re supposed to move about, to dance, to mingle. Not so much the type of moving you’d see in a club; moreso the type of mingling you’d see at a successful event at which people are being genuinely sociable. After a short while, Matt left our table with a friend to approach the bar. He returned, beaming, and the friend insisted upon telling us the story: when he and Matt had approached the bar, the bartender had not only recognized Matt from a previous visit, but had said–ah!–he had a bottle of scotch for Matt. Indeed, the last time Matt was in, he’d asked about the types of scotch the Thaxton carried. The bartender, sensing that Matt had some knowledge on the topic, had written down a couple of Matt’s suggestions for variations of scotch to acquire.

Thus, that night, the bartender opened that new bottle of scotch for Matt. And in retrospect I’m not sure an alley could be more alluring.

the (not so) lonely dessert-tini

I find that my local tourist hobby is, for the most part, a simple chronicling of places I happen upon in my life as a St. Louisan. In other instances, however, my ‘tourist’ activities are much more deliberate–and my visit to the Fountain fit into this latter category. A fellow graduate student (not a St. Louisan herself) mentioned the Fountain to me, saying that she’d heard great reviews about the place.  Not to be outdone in knowledge about great St. Louis spots, I decided to give the Fountain a try. Having heard from Metropolis that this was a place to have drinks, and having alternately heard from my grad-school friend that it was an ice cream shop of sorts, I tried to enter with an open mind.

And, true to my expectations, the Fountain does seem to have its hands in more than one pot. We went on a weeknight, after dinner, expecting there to be a few young patrons like ourselves. After all, the Fountain is in the old Automobile Row of Locust Street, which has become host to a number of new bars and spots attractive to the twenty-something crowd. Yet our arrival time must have been slightly off. We were too late for the dinner crowd, and apparently too early for the drinking crowd. Indeed, we discovered that the Fountain only stays open for bar-like hours on Fridays and Saturdays. We did, however, take advantage of the versatility of the place by ordering dessert martinis, thick with ice cream and sweet ingredients.

Further, being pretty much the only patrons in a newer establishment such as this gets you some special attention. The owner of the Fountain came over to our table as we sipped our dessert-tinis, personally welcomed us, and asked how we’d heard of the place. An added benefit of our timing was that the near-empty dining area was more conducive to studying the detailing of the interior–which, I might add, is fascinating.

All in all, I’d say the Fountain is well-suited for lunch or a weekend-night haunt. The potential exists for a great intertwining of St. Louis history and a fresh urban vibe.

the place where plastic isn’t so fantastic

I first learned of Mom’s Deli in a manner befitting the establishment: from a person, not an advertisement, website, or other inanimate communication. Out with a coworker while training for a part-time nonprofit position, she asked if I’d ever heard of Mom’s Deli. No? Well, it was a great sandwich shop tucked away in South City–and if I could finish a Mom’s Special, then I’d earn the respect of those back at the office.

I discovered that Mom’s is truly a gem among those who know it–mostly South City folks or those who work in the area. The shop is small, with a candy-striped awning and a modest interior, which looks about the same as it might have in the 1950s. Perhaps the only hint of a newer technological age is the ATM machine in the center of the shop; Mom’s still accepts only cash, so put away that plastic. The deli is often formidably crowded, but luckily they move customer traffic like a well-oiled machine.

Since that first visit (and after successfully finishing that Mom’s Special), I discovered that the real challenge among St. Louisans who frequent Mom’s Deli is to couple a Mom’s sandwich with dessert from Ted Drewes, situated immediately around the corner. Though I may never accomplish that culinary feat, I will continue to give Mom’s my business; as a grad student on [a lot of] loans, I find that even feeding groups with Mom’s party sandwiches is astoundingly cheap. For that matter, their adoption of a seemingly timeless business model–a small, locally run shop with reasonable prices and an unwillingness to speak the consumerist language of plastic–continues to be astoundingly successful.

the number is the name

I’ve taken a particular interest in chic, locally-based restaurants lately; by locally-based, I mean not only local ownership, but a menu grounded in local ingredients. This gets back to last summer’s locavore goal. And, I have an ulterior motive: since I’m in the wedding mindset, I’m on the hunt for a locavore-friendly rehearsal dinner spot. Eleven Eleven Mississippi has been one of the restaurants on my list of potentials, and I recently got the chance to give it a go.

The restaurant (whose address is its name) sits just north of historic Lafayette Square, so needless to say, the architecture in the area is beautiful, and reflective of the French influence in this part of St. Louis. I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for the architecture of many of the old homes within the city limits, especially the 3-story-red-brick type (see some of the links to St. Louis architecture blogs in my blogroll for pictures of the same).

Certainly, the atmosphere fit my expectations–modern decorations in a restored brick factory building, with low lights to match the mood for a Friday night celebration (a friend’s 24th). In fact, the lighting was so low that Matt had to discreetly shine his cell phone light on the menu in order for me to know what all of my chic-locally-grown options were. I discovered that many of the options couldn’t have been local, as they were seafood–a delight for Matthew, but a challenge for me, as I generally steer clear of seafood served in the Midwest.

What I did end up ordering, though, was a mushroom medley on a bed of creamy polenta–an absolute delight. It was so rich that I insisted I would be full for days, until, of course, I devoured a serving of white chocolate bread pudding (peer pressure and an incorrigible sweet tooth convinced me this would be a good idea).

One of the highlights of Eleven Eleven is its proximity to the Soulard area; we were able to head directly from our great dinner to some of Soulard’s well-known bars. If you’re feeling as though you have particularly deep pockets for the weekend, I’d say the Eleven Eleven dinner/Soulard after-hours combination is an easy recommendation.

…Though I’m keeping my options open for the rehearsal dinner; next on my list is Sage, so stay tuned.

the sobering setting–with a twist

Let’s just start out by being honest. Yes, I grew up in St. Louis. And yes, despite this fact, I had never been inside the Cathedral Basilica. Luckily, however, this project gave me the motivation to make the trip–to set up a tour, even!–and finally claim my status as a ‘true’ St. Louisan (assuming that seeing the Cathedral is a sort of rite of passage).

So, naturally, being a much-sought-after landmark in the city, the Cathedral only seems to offer tours during the most convenient times–daytime working hours. (Though you can just walk in and look around at any time, I wanted the full shpeel of the tour.) Since that happened to coincide with my 8:30 – 5:00 working schedule this summer, I had to put off my visit until my precious one-week, end-of-summer vacation.

Having set up my tour in advance, and having been told there would only be 2 others on my tour, I stepped into the Cathedral expecting to meet with cavernous silence. In fact, the opposite was true. The front lobby was simply filled with chattering, tanned, sprightly looking elderly folk. (This, of course, should have been my first clue.)

I approached the security desk, asked to be directed to the tour guide, and was told that she had “just gone into that office back there.” Following the direction of the guard’s pointed finger, I asked a lady near “that office back there” whether she knew if the tour guide was inside. She said, “The tour?! No, honey, the lady leading that tour is the one in the red vest. She’s over that way.” Showering me with a coercively generous smile that said, “you’re so innocent and inexperienced,” she turned back to her conversation, and I walked back the way I came.  Seeing no such red-vested lady, I decided that the tour guide would present herself when the time was right, and I entered into the sanctuary/main Cathedral to pass the time until the tour.

And, wow. Words can hardly do justice. In fact, the pictures posted on the Cathedral’s website hardly do the space justice, though they are wonderful. Assuming that camera flashes were not allowed, I had left (read: forgotten) my camera at home–turns out they are allowed. But they hardly could have captured the feeling one has when staring up at that unimaginably intricate ceiling.

Interrupting my serene thoughts, a lady with a red vest (!) suddenly opened the doors connecting the main Cathedral to the entryway, announced, “it’s time for the tour,” and encouraged all of us — all of us — to gather in the front entry space. I obliged.

About five minutes into the tour, of course, I realized that I was part of a group of elderly tourists, all wearing painfully obvious nametags, including the red-vested tour guide, who was in no way affiliated with the Cathedral Basilica. I thought maybe if I just hunkered down and willed my hair to look a little more gray, I might just pass as a part of the group.

I did spot the tour group I was supposed to be with, about halfway through my tour–two individuals accompanied by an official-looking woman who was wearing a decidedly not red vest. I decided I liked my tour better, anyway–folks kept winking at me, and the cheerful red-vested tour guide didn’t even realize I was there until about 3/4 of the way through. When she did publicly acknowledge my presence, the entire contingent of elderly tourists turned around, stared, and smiled congenially.

And truly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. A local tourist with the real tourists.

the wandering sweet tooth

Since the local tourist project is about both places and people, I write this post as a special tribute to a friend now overseas in Iraq. My friendship with MattJo is one in which no matter how much time passes between our visits, I always feel as though no time at all has elapsed. Our friendship is further strengthened by our mutual, slightly-obsessive love for ice cream–which we’ve been nursing since high school–and thus the story of this adventure in pursuit of some sweet treats.

Crown Candy Kitchen has long been rumored to be the best old-fashioned ice cream & candy shop in the downtown/north St. Louis area. Indeed, after my visit there this summer, my grandparents relayed stories of the vibrant business it used to be, situated amidst a thriving neighborhood. Certainly, the ice cream shop still hosts a steady influx of customers, eager to wolf down the ice cream that’s made on-site in huge copper barrels. Yet, Crown Candy is seemingly the only business in the area that’s not boarded up or selling questionable merchandise.

Though the ice cream I ate was divine, what I remember most about that day was our journey there. After assuring Matt and Colin that I knew “exactly how to get there,” downtown construction abruptly thwarted my safe route to unsafe North City. So we started wandering.

These are the moments, I think, when you truly get to know your city. What exit is this? This can’t be right…these streets are abandoned. (Matt asks whether we should call someone for directions, and I stubbornly refuse.) We make u-turns, Colin makes jokes, I lock the doors. The one or two pedestrians we pass give us seemingly hostile looks. Or is that just my imagination? There are virtually no other cars on the streets besides ours. Who lives here? Am I nervous because of stereotypes about this part of the city, or because of a correct instinct of fear?

Maybe it’s better, sometimes, to get a little lost. When we did finally arrive at Crown Candy, it was harder to forget about the bleak surroundings of a once-vibrant North City. Even if the neighborhood has deteriorated, however, I would venture to say that Crown Candy itself has captured the memory of North City that my grandparents still hold.

the mystified visitor

Truly, what can be said about Venice Cafe? I’m not certain I have the words to describe my experience there. At the very least, it merits a second visit…just for the sake of processing the venue.

To be fair, it’s been a few months since my trip there. I simply felt that a blog about sights in St. Louis would be remiss if it didn’t make mention of this strange, lovely little place. If a hippie ever met and fell in love with a hoarder, they might come up with something along the lines of this kitschy bar.

I should mention, too, that we visited on a weeknight. Certainly, the weekend crowd might be of a different caliber. During our visit, we were part of a mere spattering of patrons, hardly substantial enough to convince the live band that it was worth continuing to play.

On a more positive note: there can be no lack of conversation in a place like this. For any lull in chatter, someone will inevitably comment on the walls that are literally covered–every square inch, mind you–with trinkets, toys, relics, stickers, and what can be described as nothing other than junk. Vintage junk, if you want to dress it up.

If the walls are not enough for you, never fear. There are statues. Little scenes throughout the bar. I can only imagine what this bar might become for the senses if an entire night were to be spent there, consuming alcohol and loosening one’s grip on reality.

Truth be told, if I were you, I’d throw caution to the wind and pay it a visit myself.

the local tourist abroad: hong kong

What I’ve noticed about visiting other countries is that in the first few hours, or even few days, there’s simply too much to take in. The way my brain handles this is by noticing things in snippets, and stringing those snippets together, or stacking them on top of one another, montage-like. There’s no useful connecting information available yet, so my brain just collects those snippets, like art. For example, in no particular order, I’ve noticed that Hong Kong is one of the few places I’ve ever seen with mountains and palm trees in close vicinity; that many of the minibuses look like the cleaner (and safer) versions of trotros in Ghana; that the colors and graphics splashed upon the ground floor of most buildings give skyscrapers an entirely different aura; and that, for the most part, Hong Kongers (which is apparently the correct term) are some of the quietest and tidiest people I’ve yet seen.

As jet lag wears off, and as I have further time to explore, hopefully the montage will unfold and reshape itself into a clearer train of thought regarding this city. For now, I’m forging ahead with the beginning stages of the summer exchange program with Hong Kong Polytechnic University–it’s a collaborative, cross-cultural social work program.

Also on the agenda as I navigate this culture is to glean some inspiration from Chinese wedding practices. There’s nothing more lovely, in my mind, than incorporating bits and pieces of other cultures into one’s existence back home…

the coffee connoisseur

I am constantly in search of a good coffee shop.

By “good” I mean boasting some sort of worthwhile ambience, as well as some carefully crafted beverages. Having worked in a coffee shop for over a year (Starbucks, admittedly), I’m somewhat familiar with the ways one can make or break the taste of coffee beverages.

Thus, when a good friend of mine (a St. Louis native) came in town recently and mentioned her long-standing fondness for MoKaBe’s , I knew I owed it a try. Unfortunately the coffee shop’s website doesn’t do the little cafe justice; I did find some of the background info in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch’s review, however, to be helpful. But allow me to relay my impressions, and do it a little justice myself.

MoKaBe’s is situated on the corner of Arsenal & Grand, at the edge of the South Grand district and across the street from Tower Grove Park. On the warm summer night that I visited MoKaBe’s, its generous patio was the obvious highlight of the evening. If you’re not intrigued enough by some of the characters meandering in and out of the coffee shop, simply crane your head toward the bustling streetcorner nearby, complete with a steady stream of South Grand pedestrians (all while calmly sipping your latte, of course).

To give you the complete picture, I should mention that there is also generous indoor seating, complete with a second floor that truly expands the coffee shop. Smoking is allowed, which makes the place seem somewhat hippie and somewhat–well–smoky. Just another reason to enjoy the fantastic patio, really.

During a second recent visit to MoKaBe’s, I quickly befriended two baristas by spilling my iced americano all over their beautiful patio. As I sheepishly tried to decide how best to clean up, two older ladies at the table next to me convincingly instructed me to go get another drink made. Inside, the two baristas immediately and relentlessly teased me about my clumsiness, in a way that made me laugh, and want to come back to spill my drinks more often.

In addition to all these vignettes, there is another aspect of MoKaBe’s that I have yet to experience: apparently they make a killer Sunday brunch.

Vegan hippie waffles, here I come.