Day 2.5

Day 2-1/2

You will recall that yesterday's blog finished half way through day 2 as we had waded through the local protesters on our way to lunch.  Lunch was at a local bistro and we ate at the bar where a college football game was on TV.  Had a nice cheeseburger and Ann had a salad.  We learned from the bartender that Cornell was playing Harvard and the game was underway.  We decided to go up and watch the second half.  We were struck by the steep hills going up from Ithaca proper to the Cornell campus.  Probably contributes to a healthy separation of townies and college kids.

Ann and I are both accustomed to college football at Big Ten schools—she at Ohio State and me at Michigan.  She is quick to remind anyone who will listen that she actually graduated from her Big Ten school while I did not.  Whatever.  Anyway, Ivy League football is a very different proposition.

I've been to a few Ivy League games in the past.  A game at Yale where a surprising number of old crusty Elis were actually wearing their coonskin coats and yelling “boola, boola” or whatever arcane (read: stupid) cheer they use there.  A game at Columbia vs. Brown where I witnessed one of Columbia's defensive linemen go behind the bleachers during the game and smoke a cigarette (Columbia at that point had not won a college football game in two years).  And now Cornell vs. Harvard.  To date the Ivy League had impressed me more with the bizarre off-field antics than the athleticism on the field.

We drove to the parking garage adjacent to the stadium hoping against hope (based on our Big Ten experience) that there might be an empty spot.  To our surprise, half the lot was empty.  And there was no charge for parking.  We then had the challenge of getting a ticket at halftime for what we were sure was one of Cornell's big games of the season (Harvard is traditionally at or near the top of the Ivys).  We walked about ten paces from our parking spot to the stadium and asked an usher where we could get tickets.  He cheerfully handed us two free tickets and showed us in.  This was clearly not the Big Ten.

The crowd might have been a little bigger than you would see at a Thursday afternoon practice at St. Ignatius high school on Cleveland's west side.  But not by much.  We were on the Harvard side and, as the game progressed, it became clear that the majority of the fans in our section were friends and family of the players (there is something different about the way a fan says “come on Billy!” and the way a mother says it).  The football was actually pretty good.  Cornell played well and could have won the game but for some mistakes, but Harvard prevailed in the end.  We left, walked the ten yards to our car and drove away—no traffic jam, no mosh pit of tailgaters—nothing. 

We had the remainder of the afternoon to goof around and were faced with a dilemma: back to the B&B to read books and nap or more hiking?  Ultimately we decided that the downside of running the gauntlet at the B&B (the gauntlet being Mitch and the Wine Trail gang) outweighed the attractions of the nap.  We pressed on for a hike at Buttermilk falls, another of the area’s famous gorges.

Here I made a miscalculation.  Buttermilk falls had a gorge trail (i.e., in the gorge itself) and a rim trail (well above the gorge).  I decided it would be better to go up the rim trail and down the gorge trail on the theory that the gorge might have more extreme elevations at spots and that it would be easier to be going downhill.  I was right about the former and wrong about the latter. 

After a nice hike up the rim trail, we returned down the gorge and discovered that the trail was carved out of shale and was generally wet and slippery from the water that was seeping everywhere out of the shale.  Ann who, as I mentioned earlier, has some mild perception issues, immediately came to the conclusion that we were going to lose our footing and fall hundreds of feet (in her mind—it was actually about 12 feet) into the rushing torrent below (actually a burbling brook) leaving her mother childless (other than her other five children) and Daisy an orphan.  The hike was spectacular.  (Editor’s note: We totally could have died.  Totally.)

At this point the need for a nap was strong enough that we had no choice but to go back to the B&B and accept the consequences.  We pulled into the driveway slowly, got out of the car carefully and skulked furtively up to the front porch.  Punched in the code in the front door and made a quick move upstairs, arriving at our room unmolested.  We heaved a sigh of relief at our good fortune and went to our naps dreaming happy thoughts of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and Mitch slipping at the edge of the gorge while telling a stupid joke and disappearing into the dark abyss. 

That evening I asked Ann what she wanted to do for dinner.  She answered her ususal, “Oh, whatever you want to do is fine.”  It has taken me most of the last year to learn but I now know this is a trap.  It is like playing 20 questions.  I make a suggestion and then watch for subtle facial expressions to learn whether it was the right answer.  If not, I move on to the next option.  Eventually if I don't come to the right answer on my own she might offer up hints—“it might be nice to consider...” (fill in correct answer).  I have been known to screw up even at this point which of course makes me an insensitive, unfeeling bastard, ultimately requiring forgiveness and understanding.  Fortunately Ann is good at forgiveness and understanding.  However, this whole kabuki dance strikes me as inefficient.

(Editor’s note: We had actually found a lovely place during our lunch trip to Ithaca.  I had ‘yelped’ it and we decided early on to go there.  However, I will not confuse our dear readers with the facts.  A non-emotional wife making rational decisions doesn’t make good copy.)

(Author’s note: The editor should get her own blog if she’s so smart)

This evening the right answer was a place in Ithaca called Mercato Bar and Kitchen.  It was an elegant little place near the same pedestrian walkway we visited earlier (protesters had apparently retired to Starbucks to continue planning the downfall of the capitalist system). The restaurant was run by an established chef from Ithaca who had gotten tired of working for other people so he started his own place and hired his entire family to work there.  The place was small and he could monitor everything from his perch in the open kitchen in the middle of the restaurant.   The food was good and sophisticated but simple.  I think Ann felt she had been treated like a lady.

We headed back to Trumansburg but it was still early for a Saturday night so we went back to the Little Venice and ran into our best friend the bartender from the night before.  This time, however, he was on our side of the bar.  He introduced us to all the cool kids in Trumansburg and we ordered a beer.  Turns out the drinks were free since one of the couples we had been introduced to had just gotten married.  What the wedding couple was doing in the Little Venice was a good question but we did not look a gift horse in the mouth and enjoyed our free drinks and the company.  Headed back to the B&B and scoped out the property before making our move.  Some guests again out by the firepit in back so we pretended not to see them and made a bee-line for the front door.  Sprinted upstairs, locked the door and went to bed.