Everything's up to date in Kansas City....

I went to Kansas City for a long weekend, catching the train from Lamy station, outside of Santa Fe.  For reasons that pass understanding, there is no station in the state capitol.  The official reason given is that the terrain is too rough, but considering the jaunt through Apache Canyon and over the Raton pass, that excuse just doesn't jibe.  My guess is there was some gerrymandering back in the 1880s.  Be that as it may, it's a beautiful little station, with old wooden benches inside and lots of brick waiting areas outside.  One of Roosevelt's train carriages is at permanent rest there.  I chatted with a couple bound for Chicago.  They make this trip regularly to be with the elderly Mom.  They say there used to be a nice restaurant (a former Harvey House) across the street, and the town itself was quaint and sweet.  Now the restaurant is closed, and it all seems pretty derelict.  And, it appears that the Lamy station may be closing, as well, with passenger traffic routed from Albuquerque through Texas, instead of up through Colorado and Kansas.  That would be too bad:  it's a beautiful ride.

The Amtrak employee was around my age.   She called everyone "hon," and her name was Cheryl.  I had spoken with her on the phone, trying to get the scoop on the parking lot.  The Amtrak page said "NO LONG TERM PARKING!" and that just didn't make sense.  Yes, there's a shuttle (the details of which are well hidden), but surely I'm not the only person who doesn't want to make friends or family drive for an hour to this back-of-beyond place.  She said, well, we don't officially provide parking, but the townsfolk keep an eye on things, and nothing has ever been vandalized.  That was good enough for me.  However, I was apparently still a little nervous.  Just as the train came in I thought, "Did I remember to lock the car?"  Fortunately, the station is so small, a few steps to the side brought me close enough to the car to point my key and click the lock button.  The headlights flashed reassuringly, and I boarded the train.

The train takes 18 hours to get from Lamy to Kansas City.  It's an enchanting ride through north eastern New Mexico, past Starvation Peak, through S bends where you can see the other end of the train, and across the prairies.  Both times I've taken this train, the moon has been full.  Both times I've curled up on my seat and dozed.  Both times, I've been exhausted when I reached my destination.

Union Station in Kansas City is old and beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, tall decorated windows and echoing marble.  The wood benches are gone from the old waiting room, which is a long hall in the middle of the station.  The current waiting room is small and low-ceilinged, with glaring fluorescent lights and unlovely vending machines.  I don't get it:  why not use the perfectly good and beautiful old space?

I arrived half an hour early, and M overslept, so I had breakfast at the Harvey restaurant (a nod to the old Harvey House, I gather.)  The atmosphere was lovely:  Judy Garland et al on the sound system, a circular covered structure in the middle of the lobby, dark wooden chairs and long tablecloths. I had really bad coffee and mediocre eggs and limp bacon.  I could taste the oleo butter substitute.  Erk.

Then M arrived and we drove back through the freeways to the Drury Hotel, out east on I70, across from the two sports arenas.  Kansas City's downtown is encircled by a rounded rectangle of interstates, with state highways paralleling and intersecting.  I couldn't tell if there was a reasonable public transport system, but we needed the GPS the entire time we were there.  The maps didn't make sense, nor did the exits.  D, who did most of the programming, said, "Trust the voice," and eventually we did.  As a passenger, I never did figure out the topography. But it was typical of midwest river towns:  the freeways soared through off-white sandstone bluffs and bottom lands filled with thin scrubby trees.  The U district featured 2-story brick houses with wrap-around stone porches and the occasional porte cochere.  Other districts had wood frame houses with wrought iron railings leading up to the concrete stoop at the screened front door.

It was cold and wintry, and I felt right at home.

When I got to my room, I was ready to crash for a bit.  But, I'd called V from the train the afternoon before and this was the moment she called back:  "What are you doing in Kansas City?"  She was scratching her head a bit:  while KC has apparently been on her list for the last 10 years, since the art museum built its addition, I had never indicated an interest.  I said, I'm here to listen to a reputedly wonderful blue guitarist from Canada, and to visit the art museum.  (And, as it turned out, to eat excellent BBQ.)  She said, if you were going to wander on your days off, why not visit me in Phoenix, it's 70 degrees here.  (It was 20 degrees in KC.)  I promised to do some reconnaissance and come back with her when it was warmer.

We hung up, and the phone rang again.  This time it was my sister E:  "What were you doing in Raton?"  I had posted a sunset picture of Raton station on Facebook:  it was a smoking/fresh-air-break point.  Apparently it is also a destination for gun aficionados, and she had received some excellent pointers when she and D stopped by en route to California.  I explained again, and I could feel her shrug.  Well, as long as you're okay, keep me posted.  And we hung up.

Then I checked FB, and there was a message from JMR:  "What are you doing in Kansas City?"  I wrote back, listening to blues and eating BBQ, and then I went to bed.

D was not feeling well, so we left her to rest while we visited the City Market and the Arabia Steamboat Museum, which was located just off the Market.  The outdoor part of the market is the main draw:  booths and dancing and music and crafts, none of which are in evidence during the winter months.  The market is ringed by permanent shops and vendors, all of which close around 2:30 pm.  So, we focused on the Museum, which was quite enthralling.  Apparently, the Arabia had run into a snag, back in the 1850s and by the next day was sunk into the mud and murk of the Missouri River.  Salvage apparently wasn't possible right then, and the insurance paid around $10,500.  In the 1980's the Hawley family and friends excavated the ship:  the river had been shifted half a mile away and they were digging in a cornfield with pumps going non-stop to keep the ground water out.  The original intent was to sell the salvage, but instead it is in this fascinating museum, providing a unique window into pre-Civil War life.

We spent a couple of hours there, and I could have spent more.  M and our tour guide were both trained at the same institution, so they spent a lot of time chatting about that.  She steered us to Jack Stack for our evening BBQ visit.  I texted N and S, who had advised me to to try Oklahoma Joe's or BB's Lawnside.  N informed me that the tour guide was a poor benighted Kansas City-an who didn't know from Texas BBQ.  I said, what about Zagat's opinion, and she said, they don't know Texas BBQ either.  S, the actual Texan, was kinder about it, but still suggested I go with Oklahoma Joe's.

We went with Jack Stack, and I flirted with the 30-something waiter.  Clearly, I'm feeling better about myself.

The concert was at Knuckleheads Saloon, a ramshackle collection of indoor and outdoor spaces hidden away in an industrial district.  The Voice sent us around a General Mills factory and over the railroad tracks, and we ended up in a gravel lot catty-corner from the bar.  There was a lot of neon (my favorite proclaimed "no pissy attitudes allowed"), and plastic sheeting surrounded the outdoor venues.  Our venue was an intimate (read TINY) space, with some tables in the center, backless stools around the perimeter, and a small area with rows of seats off to the side.  We settled to the left of the entrance.  Ages were mixed, but most of the tables in the "spray zone" were filled with older couples.  A row of rowdy plaid-shirted young men and women sat across the back, nearby.  I would have been annoyed, but they clearly got the excellence of the performer, once he arrived, and it became part of the scene.

Matt Andersen is an ENORMOUS young man, with long scraggly red hair which he tosses back at intervals.  A wispy moustache sits above a cherry bud mouth from which a gravelly voice issues, and he wore the plaid shirt and jeans that are apparently his trademark, as he made mention of it during one of his intro monologues.  He was totally worth the trip:  could play the hell out of the guitar, and could also introduce subtleties.  I can see why M was impressed by him when he won the International Blues Competition a few years back.  I'd see him again.

 

Afterwards, we checked out the cover band in the larger venue, but were unimpressed.

The next day was dedicated to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.  They were featuring French Impressionists and photographers, and I could spend several days here.  The special exhibit was a mere $7, and the rest was free if we so chose.  As usual, I got pulled in several different directions.  The Asian art is pretty amazing, I was enthralled by the Islamic art, and there is a room dedicated to Thomas Hart Benton, whom I studied in college.  (It makes sense that he would be featured: he was a Regionalist and settled in Kansas City at the KC Art Institute.)

We spent 4 hours and then met another of Mike's online friends at BB's Lawnside.  D ordered a BBQ sundae, which was all about the presentation:  pulled pork, beans and cole slaw layered in a glass.  It was tasty enough, but not enough pulled pork:  word to the wise.  I got  burnt ends, which were new to me and quite wonderful:  all the taste and texture of ribs without gnawing on the bones.  However, the whole point of the place is the party atmosphere.  Live music is the name of the game, and there are no tables for two.  The bar is at one end, and the stage at the other, while in between are ranged long narrow picnic tables covered in red and white checked plastic table cloths.  We were lucky enough to find four chairs together, two on each side, in the middle of the table farthest from the door and music.  The noise was deafening.  Our waitress took advantage of a brief lull to get our orders, but there was no conversation for some time.  The music was so-so, but it was neat because it was a jam session.  These folks have been getting together on Saturday afternoons for 28 years.  Ages ranged from 20s to 70s, and the lady playing the spoons was worth the price of admission (okay, it was free, but you get the point.)

We went back to look at the art museum by night:  the new portion is totally lit up from inside and it looks like a floating iceberg on the dark hillside.  A bitter wind kept M in the car, and D and I ran outside to take pix with her phone (mine being out of juice by then.)

Our final day was spent at the Jazz museum and a sports bar (for the AFL playoffs.  Broncos won).  The museum was at 18th and Vine, and included a video of the area history.  There are actually two museums:  the other is the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which only M visited.  He said it was great.  However, I was absorbed enough by the jazz museum, and D got her own free concert, courtesy of a janitor who was testing out the Blue Room piano.  I spent a fair amount of time on the interactive displays that let you mix your own recording (shades of the Experience Music Project) and even more time in the area dedicated to old soundies.  The problem there was that the three screens were within a very small space, and you could hear all three simultaneously, which meant you couldn't hear any of them well.  It's an amazing collection, though.

After pizza, beer and football, they dropped me at Union Station.  Almost everything was closed, so I went to the big screen theatre and watched Frozen (not in HD.)  It was worth the $8 price tag, passed the time nicely, and gave me a chance to see a movie that none of my friends wanted to see.  And now I read that one of the songs is up for an Academy Award, so I'm vaguely in the cultural loop.  This is a good thing.

When I go back with V, I'll want to revisit the art museum and the BBQ joints, take in some music in the Blue Room, and check out the City Market in good weather.  I'll also want to have dinner at the Savoy, and maybe spend a night or two.  And I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time.