On the Road Again
05/02/17 11:07
Welcome to Hartford, CT! It's a beautiful, brisk, and sunny late January morning here in the city. I've already been up, had something to eat, and walked down to the Blue State Coffee store which is a 5 minute walk. We are in downtown Hartford, CT. No mistaking that. The busses started rolling down the main boulevard here in Hartford starting at 5:30 am or so. The stopping and starting of the behemoths, the hissing of the their brakes, the squealing of their tires as they brushed up against the curb time and time again, were part and parcel of the inner city sights and sounds. I felt happy not to be one of the masses going off to a job and my gait probably betrayed that but the early morning temperatures kept me going just fast enough so as not to impede the flow of humanity going about their business. On my way back upstairs I stopped briefly to ask the desk attendant at the front desk why they didn't do a better job washing the windows in our suite. His response was measured but polite. Now that I think of it, I think he wasn't sure if my comments were a real complaint or just an observation. People routinely stopped by the front desk making idle chatter so it was important to be able to tease out the real complaints from idle chatter which was just that. He promised to pass along my comments to upper management and I continued on my journey.
Sitting on the counter right next to the register in the coffee joint was a small chalkboard with the inscription, "Yes we can." The author's name was hand written clearly and plainly at the bottom of the board: "Obama." I weighed the wisdom of asking the largely minority service staff, yes, we can what? There are a lot ways one can construe such a question and I finally decided against it. If I were to get an inferior cup of coffee I would prefer it be something other than a deliberate act on their part. That question coming from a Caucasian could be considered an incitement so I was not one wanting to start a race riot or kick off a Black Lives Matter revival in my hastily put together stroll down to the local coffee shop for a quick latte. We were all off to a good start as I placed my order and I had no intentions of wanting to veer from that place by asking such a "racist" question. They were no doubt still smarting from Trump's victory so pouring salt in their wounds would would likely prove counterproductive.
It's almost funny if it weren't so sad. We ended up at a restaurant called "Trumbull Kitchen" last night after a long drive from the rural backroads of New Hampshire to the city streets of Hartford CT some three hours away. Once at the hotel, we left Evan behind at his request and set out on foot through the dark city streets in search of food and drink. I grabbed a latte at a local Starbucks after which Nancy and I crossed the street to the aforementioned restaurant. It had all the requisite characteristics that we typically look for in a restaurant: Clientele looking unceremoniously middle class; service staff appearing sufficiently attendant; a hustle bustle hinting "local hotspot"; and a menu with prices neither too low nor too high. In other words, I wasn't looking for a $35 Reuben but a clean table might have been nice. If the staff was polite, or even friendly, all the better.
Problem was, they wouldn't seat us since I brought my own beverage into the restaurant. I wasn't wearing a hat, sandals, or shorts all of which would have likely disqualified me from stepping inside the front door. But the coffee was a show stopper. A night that had started with such promise was spiraling out of control and we were just not in the mood to fight city hall so we left. Not spitting and seething, mind you, but in good humor all of which suggests to me that we were the very types they not only wanted as customers but ones they hoped would come back again and again. They lost out on a chance to wow us with their panache, dazzle us with their culinary skills, serenade us with a well crafted ambiance, and with any luck have us come back again as devoted patrons. Our second choice of the evening was a disaster on too many levels to count. It was a sports bar of sorts where the service was horrible, the food even worse, and it didn't help that we were just not in the mood after a long long day. There are better days ahead I told myself. There just are.
Sitting on the counter right next to the register in the coffee joint was a small chalkboard with the inscription, "Yes we can." The author's name was hand written clearly and plainly at the bottom of the board: "Obama." I weighed the wisdom of asking the largely minority service staff, yes, we can what? There are a lot ways one can construe such a question and I finally decided against it. If I were to get an inferior cup of coffee I would prefer it be something other than a deliberate act on their part. That question coming from a Caucasian could be considered an incitement so I was not one wanting to start a race riot or kick off a Black Lives Matter revival in my hastily put together stroll down to the local coffee shop for a quick latte. We were all off to a good start as I placed my order and I had no intentions of wanting to veer from that place by asking such a "racist" question. They were no doubt still smarting from Trump's victory so pouring salt in their wounds would would likely prove counterproductive.
It's almost funny if it weren't so sad. We ended up at a restaurant called "Trumbull Kitchen" last night after a long drive from the rural backroads of New Hampshire to the city streets of Hartford CT some three hours away. Once at the hotel, we left Evan behind at his request and set out on foot through the dark city streets in search of food and drink. I grabbed a latte at a local Starbucks after which Nancy and I crossed the street to the aforementioned restaurant. It had all the requisite characteristics that we typically look for in a restaurant: Clientele looking unceremoniously middle class; service staff appearing sufficiently attendant; a hustle bustle hinting "local hotspot"; and a menu with prices neither too low nor too high. In other words, I wasn't looking for a $35 Reuben but a clean table might have been nice. If the staff was polite, or even friendly, all the better.
Problem was, they wouldn't seat us since I brought my own beverage into the restaurant. I wasn't wearing a hat, sandals, or shorts all of which would have likely disqualified me from stepping inside the front door. But the coffee was a show stopper. A night that had started with such promise was spiraling out of control and we were just not in the mood to fight city hall so we left. Not spitting and seething, mind you, but in good humor all of which suggests to me that we were the very types they not only wanted as customers but ones they hoped would come back again and again. They lost out on a chance to wow us with their panache, dazzle us with their culinary skills, serenade us with a well crafted ambiance, and with any luck have us come back again as devoted patrons. Our second choice of the evening was a disaster on too many levels to count. It was a sports bar of sorts where the service was horrible, the food even worse, and it didn't help that we were just not in the mood after a long long day. There are better days ahead I told myself. There just are.