Rochester, Hold the Mayo
Chapter 2: Roch N' Roll
Party tent? That's one of my favorite two-word combinations in the whole of the English language; ranking right up there with beer bust and summer sausage. The party tent in question was the one available at Rochester's minor league baseball stadium where the Rochester Honkers do battle with other teams of the Northwoods League. It was where Tracy was taking us tomorrow.
For today's now, we were dragging our bike-worn muscles downtown to a fundraising music fest for St. John's Church. Orange cyclone fencing for a few blocks, bad acoustics, get a wristband if you want some semi-tepid lukewarm beer, middle-aged sunburnt white dudes in tucked-in tank tops dancing. You know the drill. Think of a fun-size version of the Basilica Block Party. Secret Agent Goodtush and I had attended the Block Party on a covert op the previous night. Despite Pete Yorn headlining that evening, she ended up going home with me. So I knew I had nothing to fear from the mighty sexual prowess of the BoDeans.
The dipping sun was still potently fusing hydrogen into helium, reflecting off the windows of the Mayo Clinic and turning it into a crystal palace. Rochester is clearly a company city--just big enough to have outgrown the moniker of 'town'. Granted the main industry is saving lives, but the dynamics of a company city are evident everywhere. For starters, there is more Mayo than a Scandinavian grandma's tuna salad: Mayo Park, Mayo Mansion, Mayo this, Mayo that. And rightfully so, they've created an amazing legacy. The name is held in a just-above-a-hush reverence by the citizenry. Fortunately, it hasn't sunk to Mayo bobbleheads or sandwich spread humor at local delis.
Secondly, it seems like everyone knows everyone else. We met up with several of my sister's co-workers who had commandeered a picnic table near a tight swing band playing a tune they called 'Semi-Mental Journey'. They all knew a number of the band members who came over to join us once their set was done. We met a local music teacher, who was trying to pull my sister. His name was Micah, which is Hebrew for "one who is like the Lord". But the Lord would never be caught dead or resurrected in a bandana, black socks and enough rings to be a Mr. T starter kit. A more appropriate spelling would have been Mica: as in being pretty, but flaky.
It was fun listening to the other nurses at the table who worked on the transplant floor with my sister. They're responsible for several lives every day and here they are downing Mike's Hard Lemonade, belting out the lyrics to "Closer to Free" and scanning the crowd for a local constable known only as Hot Cop. They thought it funny to see doctors and surgeons, usually a rather serious lot, out in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, shaking their Iliac fossas to the break of dusk. Given the severity of some of the surgeries, patients and families are in town for extended periods of time, so it's not uncommon to run into them. Last year, my whole family was down for a visit and a Korean woman came up to my sister and thanked her for looking after her father after his kidney transplant. Tracy then went on to describe the operation and its aftermath. Mmmmmm, pass the portabella marsala.
In the morning--blessedly, the late morning--we lingered over our eggs and waffles until it was time to bust a move to the ball game. Another sign that this was still a small community was, literally, a sign. It was posted at the local bank and basically said "Hey, if we're closed, feel free to park here for free. It's cool." So we did.
Advance apologies to those of you who've attended a Base Camp Live reading and already heard me wax lyrical about the joys of outdoor baseball. I could probably stop right now and your imagination would fill in the rest of the details pretty close to the experience. Short of a bunch of old White Sox coming out of a cornfield, this was a pure baseball experience.
Granted, they had the goofy games in between innings, but even these only added to the fun and usually involved a player from both teams. Like the milking contest where they brought out real cows. Or getting a free meal at Perkins if you hit their outfield fence advertisement with a water balloon launcher from second base. Or having a designated 'beer batter' for the visiting team: if he strikes out there's $1 off beer for the rest of the inning. One fan even got to coach first base for the bottom of the second. If someone scored, he'd win a prize. I would have sent every runner.
When a foul ball went out into the parking lot--and you could literally park within a few feet of the stadium--the announcer would play a breaking glass sound effect and then shout:
Announcer: "Oh-oh! Who you gonna call? Acme Auto Glass at 5-2-5..."
Crowd: "One thousand!!!"
Ms. Goodtush and I were the only ones who didn't know about this tradition the first time and after all four hundred or so in attendance shouted it out, we were more than glad to join in the next time. Cheesier than a Lifetime movie of the week, but awesome. Five bucks for a bleacher seat with some shade, a Honker dog and a Honker Red beer and it was a pretty great day. The Honkers fell 4-1 to the visiting Mankato Moondogs, but that didn't damper our mood.
We walked downtown to a great Italian restaurant called Victoria's. I know the title 'Best Italian Restaurant in Rochester' doesn't carry much weight, but it delivers the goods. The chicken picatta was rife with flavorful capers on a subtle underpinning of lemon. It was so big even I had to take half of it home. And because of the slight wait upon our arrival, our waitress bought us our tiramisu. Mmmm. Add free tiramisu to my list of favorite two-word combos.
Victoria's was next to the Kahler Hotel, which is hard to miss because its name is on a huge lighted sign high above Rochester's barely above treeline skyline. Tracy said it was where King Hussein bin Talal of Jordan stayed while he was in town battling renal cancer. How rich was he? Well, he got an American Legion meeting moved, so he could take over an entire floor and remodel it for his stay. It's good to be the king.
The Mayo has played host to a variety of other famous patients, including Ronald Reagan, George Harrison, JFK and Montgomery Burns. Yep, that one. If you'll recall the Simpsons episode, he was diagnosed as having every disease known to man, but is only alive because they perfectly and precariously counteract each other. This is known as 'Three Stooges Syndrome'.
Thoroughly full, we walked back to our car and made room in the cooler for our leftovers by taking out a bottle of wine and a jug of gin and tonics to enjoy down by the riverside at a concert by Johnny Lang's sister, Jesse Lang. The city puts on free concerts every summer Sunday and all are welcome to show up with a cooler and a blanket. There were about 800 or so of us who did. Even the mayor of Rochester was seen wandering through the lawn chairs, one hand shaking the hands of constituents, the other wrapped around a cold can of Bud.
Jesse Lang was clearly riding her brother's guitar strings, but she was a legitimate talent. They could rock and she had her brother's whiskey and cigarette blues growl honed scalpel sharp. So what if her only 'waiting-for-the-guitar-solo-to-end' dance was to grab the mic stand and bend over, shaking her head like someone had just punched her in the gut? She was hotter than a metal picnic table at high noon on Venus. The number of little kids dancing in front of the stage was only surpassed by the number of guys 'passing by' who stopped to get a quick picture of her flying hair or tight jeans strutting past the drummer.
As the band was winding down their set, Tracy leaned over and asked how we enjoyed our stay.
"We've already got a list of what we'd like to do next time."
"Good. You don't have to be a patient to visit your sister, you know."
3:38:43 PM 
|
