California, here we come, episode 6. In which we dropped the top.

When I was a kid playing with my Hot Wheels cars (toy of choice unless you count books), I fantasized about having a (red) sports car some day and, better yet, a convertible. Of course, growing up in New York didn't exactly make owning a convertible a practical dream, but it was a dream. A dream which eventually followed me to the sunny and impossibly warm ("hotter than the mouth of hell" to quote my dad's first impression) heart of South Texas.

My 30th birthday present to myself (which pooped out last April at barely 86K miles and almost 20 years if you are keeping up) was a convertible, of course. One of my happiest memories is driving the car to Florida for the 1996 Christmas holidays (trusty copilot Mari safely ensconced in the passenger seat for two thrillingly long days) and surprising my dad, who was a bit of a car enthusiast himself, but who always thought a convertible was an impractical (stupid) car to own.

Driving my parents to the beach with the top down the day after Christmas that trip is one of my happiest memories. Eventually, Mari and I enjoyed a long drive all the way to Key West, stopping halfway for the best key lime pie ever. Maybe it was the South Florida sun, or driving a few hundred miles with the top down, or maybe it was simply singing along with Mari and The B-52s, but that was damn good pie.

While I was planning our LA trip, I decided it was a good time to revisit my childhood fantasy, if only for the (five-day) weekend.  I'm also the prince (not quite king yet) of online coupons, so the convertible was actually cheaper than a standard car thanks to a coupon-code-favored-customer-discount combination that will likely not repeat until I turn 60.

I want to indulge in a moment to highly recommend The Channel Road Inn, a 5-minute walk to Will Rogers State Beach in Santa Monica.  We were treated better than family at this beautiful B&B and made to feel as special as a 50th birthday celebration warranted.  I was actually welcomed with a birthday card and warm chocolate chip cookies!

Much to Mari's disappointment, she learned long ago that a vacation for me is about being out and about checking one landmark, museum, church, concert, Broadway show, restaurant and/or hot dog (and/or meatloaf) off my travel list (don't forget fleamarkets!) and not about lounging around in a hotel no matter how cozy.  You can sleep and relax when you get on the plane and return home.  I must admit, though, that The Channel Road Inn did certainly invite rest and relaxation and I would love to return some day just for that.

Visit the inviting site to be sufficiently tempted.

channelroadinn.com

Sorry, must be present for warm cookies (and smiles) and evening wine & cheese.

I discovered this especially charming and comfortable place to sleep and stash our luggage by searching the hotels.com site and ticking the "Bed and Breakfast" box under "Accommodation type." Hotels.com is one of my go-to searches when planning a trip, but I don't always book directly through them.  Sometimes, contacting an inn or hotel directly and explaining how special your upcoming stay will be goes a long way to snagging a correspondingly special discount or a remarkably resplendent room.

I'll tell you about our 20th anniversary room upgrade at the Hilton Hawaiian Village in a future series, but (fair warning) a lot of smiling was involved.

Ask me about the 734 square foot luxury suite at the Austin Renaissance Hotel for all of $1.34 last month if you are wondering about hotels.com rewards, too.

Anyway, we didn't need to drop the top (or anything else, thank you very much) to get ourselves down to the beach on Tuesday morning. What a great way to spend a work day!  Naturally, the morning at the beach was actually on our itinerary, but that's because we had a few other to-dos to do Tuesday including rendezvous with James Dean, 2 Broke Girls, and a couple of "Pink" hot dogs.

Not surprisingly, as you can see, not too many people on the beach on a Tuesday morning to admire my 50-year-old beach bod.

Their loss.

A few hours, a few dips in a very refreshing Pacific Ocean, and a few snapshots of our well-rested tootsies, and we were off to not spend our day relaxing at the inn.

Channeling my inner rebel next time.

California, here we come, episode 5. In which the price is right.

The plan was to hold onto my 30th birthday present to myself until I won a "brand new car!" on The Price is Right.  When said birthday present pooped out after 19 years and seven months (and only 85K miles) this little old lady from Pasadena was crestfallen but still determined to win big.  No longer in need of a car after an unscheduled (you know how much I hate unscheduled) visit to a local car dealership this past April, the plan now was to win a brand new pool table.  In particular, a pool table emblazoned with TPIR logo on its fabulous felt.

Winning a pool table was the only way I would be able to get one in the door of our home, since Mari would never approve such a frivolous purchase.  She suspects (knows) I would play billiards and practice my trick shots for all of a weekend before I grew bored with it and then it would sit there like a ten by five foot lump of uselessness and constant reminder that she is (almost) always right.  If a 50 square foot prize, delivered via TPIR and my superior game show skills, however, arrived on our humble doorstep, then what could we do but invite said lump into our home?

Remember that The Wicker Lounge, even with all its World Bazaar glory, was still only

(I can't believe I lived in an 84 square foot space!) twelve by seven.

That was the plan, anyway.  I was also planning to bid $50 (in celebration of my birthday) every time Drew asked me my best guess.  Fortunately for everyone involved (except yours truly), my best laid plans never had a chance.  I did not win a prize on TPIR, but I still feel like a winner.  I'm hoping everyone in our live studio audience during the September 19 afternoon taping feels the same way.  It was an incredibly uplifting and happy experience.  I can only imagine what it felt like for those called to Bidders' Row and those six who earned their way up on stage.  The Price is Right is not about winning fabulous prizes nor getting the prices right.  It's about communing with happy, excited, and (yes, of course) hopeful people.

All I really wanted,

to be completely honest,

was a lousy T-shirt.

Our experience began when we lined up at 11:00 AM along Fairfax Avenue outside the CBS Television City complex.  The line on the sidewalk was already about 100 people deep, but we had reserved tickets thanks to my fanatical (2:00 AM on the morning of July 7th) internet persistence.  Still, we didn't want to take any chances.  Eventually (and in this case eventually felt more like an eternity), we walked through heavy velvet drapes into the lusciously loud and incredibly colorful Bob Barker Studio at 4:30 PM.  That five-and-a-half-hour black hole of time was our audition process.
While you wait you are being watched and you are interacting with fellow future contestants who have also traveled from afar to celebrate anniversaries and birthdays and milestones public and personal alike with similarly silk-screened and cleverly colorful T-shirts.

There is a little (smaller-than-expected) gift shop and (thankfully!) bathrooms in the first holding area with long benches where you sit facing another row of fans.  Your picture is snapped (not exactly sure why), you are given a neatly-printed name tag (no cool nicknames like "Lou" allowed), and you are also presented with a multiple-page contract detailing the legal implications of "winning" a fabulous prize. Basically, you are responsible for paying taxes on winnings and there is no cash option in case you win a pontoon party boat for which you have absolutely no practical use.

Does anyone have a practical use for a

pontoon party boat?!

Next, your party is photographed at a "green screen" for a souvenir photograph like my jazz hands photo to the left and you are moved to the next holding area where you wait and mingle (and smile and chat everybody up if you want to be considered as a viable contestant).  Next, you are lined up 20 at a time for a quick interview and screening with veteran TPIR producer Stan Blits.  This is your one and only opportunity for a close-up slash audition, so DON'T BLOW IT!

I blew the interview.  I'm fun, funny at times, and sincere.  That almost-as-big-as-my-sophomore-year-dorm-room pool table was mine!  For some reason, though, I stood there and smiled at Mr. Blits and answered his simple questions like any old unprepared non-DVR-recording-fan.  "I'm from McAllen, Texas and I'm a high school librarian."  I might as well have said, "I'm Lou and I'm an idiot.  Don't pick me."

True, I was only asked two simple questions, but that shouldn't have stopped me from telling him I knew every rule to every game, knew the odds of winning every game, knew how easy it was to win $10,000 playing Pay the Rent the "safe" way, but that I was savvy to winning $100K by not playing it safe, that anyone can win Cliff Hangers by guessing $25 then $35 then $45 for the three prizes...  Wait!  You'll get no more insider super-fan secrets from me.  I'll save it for next time.


Several more hours, "holding areas," and (thankfully) a snack bar await before you finally enter the Bob Barker Studio.  Walking in from the back, I felt like I was entering Wonderland. There was loud it's-got-a-great-beat-and-you-can-dance-to-it music playing and everything was so freakin' colorful!  The ushers were most methodical in their arrangement of colorfully-attired audience members and directed us to specific seats.  It seems they were trying to balance T-shirt colors on a broadcast palette so there would be an even "mix" throughout the studio.  Even after being seated, people were asked to switch seats until someone deemed the placement practically perfect.

Our episode aired Monday, December 12th. Given my own persnickety penchant for pre-planning, I'm impressed that a seemingly simple game show is prepared that far (nearly three months) in advance.  That's a long time to keep a contractually-bound secret, especially if you win a car playing Let 'em Roll as did the really nice young man (Donovan, a youth counselor from NYC) next to us in line and first one up on stage.  Mari and I were anxious to watch the episode (amateur screenshots at left) because there was so much we missed sitting in the audience.

It was nearly impossible to hear what was going on because it was just so loud in the studio. George's and Drew's microphones didn't seem to serve at the pleasure of the studio audience, but the home audience.  That's why it sometimes takes a while for contestants to realize their name has been called.  It's not because they are shockingly stunned, but because they must read their hand-printed name from a cue card (waved frantically by a page standing on stage) as George announces the name.  We also found the studio and stage to have a cozier feel than expected.

The stage is not as big as it appears on television and at any point there are up to a dozen crew, pages, and ever-present contestant coordinator (AKA birthday-pool-table-dream-crusher) off to the side while Drew takes center stage.  Even from our cozy perch near the middle of the back row, you couldn't see all the prizes that were being offered when they opened the doors on stage.

Between games, the audience is kept energized by thumpingly stimulating music, insider stories from a very funny George Gray, as well as questions and interactions from a very warm and genuine Drew Carey.  For about an hour and a half you are transported to Game Show Realm, a colorful, loud, and frenzied fantasyland where everyone is deliriously happy with or without a new car.

This last photo is our afterglow view of CBS Television City (white building off in the distance) from a patio table at the Cheesecake Factory at The Grove shopping mall were it was wisely recommended TPIR contestants and future pontoon party boat owners park their car for the day.  It took three glasses of tropical iced tea before my 50-year-old body rehydrated and I stopped seeing the impossibly bright colors of the Bob Barker Studio every time I blinked.

Birthday wish list experience and birthday cheesecake slice both crossed off the list.
A productive day if ever there was one.

We take a slightly less psychedelic, but ever refreshing respite next time.

California, here we come, episode 4. In which a Chicago dog bites back.

Among my list-making travel rituals is hunting down fun places to break bread (or cheesecake) with my travel companion.  Although she is not quite as adventurous as I am when it comes to new food experiences, Mari sometimes surprises me with the occasional piece of sushi (Nobu), grilled calamari (the former Ruby Foo's in Times Square), or fried oyster (K-Paul's in New Orleans).  Most of the time, though, we both enjoy revisiting familiar foodie favorites and comfortingly tasty reminders of past journeys.  Little did we know that we would find such a familiar reminder in the familiarly friendly form of an authentic Chicago dog at an authentic Chicago institution.  In California!  I have previously waxed Portillo's poetic (Chicago-Indiana-Michigan, episode 8), so it was a special birthday (still my 5-day-weekend birthday, remember?) treat to come across that comforting combination of Vienna Beef, radioactively emerald green relish, tomatoes, sporty-spice peppers, mustard, and celery salt on a poppy seed bun.  It was also a most satisfyingly welcome relief to two market-weary fleamarketers in bad need of nourishment.  

The Buena Park diner is Portillo's first location outside of Illinois and was just a 10-mile easterly jaunt (a detour in the seemingly wrong direction as we headed back to Santa Barbara if you really must know) on fleamarket Sunday.

Sometimes going 10 miles in the wrong direction can be oh-so-right.

Unfortunately, my favorite chocolate eclair cake did not make it onto the local menu, so I was still birthday cakeless.  I really didn't mind substituting an Italian beef sandwich for dessert, however.

I really didn't.

Back to the calorie-free business of fleamarket finds.  I couldn't pass up one final opportunity to tempt you with a colorful photo safari from our three-hour-tour of the Long Beach Antique Market.

From clothes to phones to photos to furniture refurbished and refinished, found objects galore (that's right, I used "galore") line the longitudinally long and laden rows.  You may not be following Mari with her magically bottomless fleamarket bag like I was when you visit the LBAM, but you will marvel in wonder at the magnitude of this market and the incredible variety of collectibles carefully laid out before you.  This being California, of course, there were some local "specialties" on display as well.  I'm venturing a guess, but the booth below contained some unusual, if not slightly familiar forms of film and television props (God, I hope they were props) and prosthetics.  Before you ask, no, I didn't.  If previous tussles with TSA have taught me anything, it's that attempting to board a plane with a spare arm would definitely cost me some extra time (not to mention an arm and a leg in checked bag fees).

Here are a couple of items we did successfully rescue from the friendly vendors that Sunday morning.  As you all know (and I love) Mari is a vintage jewelry finding fiend.  Fleamarkets are (in)famous for costume jewelry, both new and used, but on this particular Sunday the dearth of typical fleamarket jewelry baubles was overwhelmingly apparent.  The few vendors and former jewelry collectors (hoarders) who did proffer their wares, then, were a welcome sight for Mari's collector's eye.

Here, Mari presents a vintage silver Southwestern-style necklace with naja acquired from a very knowledgeable vendor who happily transferred possession to a long-time admirer of historical American Southwest jewelry.  While no blossoms were squashed here, the traditional and familiar crescent-shaped symbol of protection caught Mari's attention immediately.

Say, wasn't this MY birthday adventure?!

Now that I'm 50, my memory is not what it used to be.  Have I told you that I collect snuff bottles? If not, I collect snuff bottles.  Add it to the limitless list.  I'm not sure why I collect snuff bottles.  It has to do with my love for Asiana, I'm sure, but I don't know how that started, either.  I have just always been a great admirer of Chinese culture and artisan craftsmanship.  We'll explore that another blog time.  Like my hovering parliament of well-traveled owls, there is a shelf of snuff bottles collected from all over that help me re-collect my travels when I have a moment to admire them.

The bottle pictured here is the newest and I fully intend that double meaning.  It certainly doesn't appear to be antique, but I just fell in love with it at first sighting.  It caught my collector's gaze immediately amongst an assemblage of scattered miscellany advertising itself as a five-dollar table.  I couldn't believe my cross-collectible luck!  The five-dollar fortuitous find did present a common collector's dilemma, however. Would it wind up nestled among the snuff bottle collection or merged with its rooster relations (there's a rooster collection) in the kitchen?  Tune in to a future series to have that melodramatic mystery solved.

In the meantime, there is more birthday adventure to explore next time when I finally come on down!

California, here we come, episode 3. In which we do not visit Sheldon's cousin.

At the time that all the trip planning was taking place this past summer, the only thing I knew about Long Beach was that Sheldon's concocted cousin Leo lived there and, of course, that I watch too much television.  After doing my due diligence, I came to realize that the Long Beach Antique Market was no ordinary flea market (there's actually no such thing as an "ordinary" flea market), but a memorabilia mecca for collectors of unique and vintage (if not technically "antique") what-have-you and ephemera.

Here I am with my newest blog fan, Ephemera.

Phemy's a little shy, but a great listener.

The LBAM is located in the parking lot of Veteran's Memorial Stadium on the campus of Long Beach City College.  Once you get off the 105, 405, 605, 710, or whatever local non-numbered shortcut you've managed to create for yourself, you'll spot a sign or two pointing you in the right direction.  There is even a (free) parking garage should street parking be full by the time you arrive (opening time is 6:30 AM).  This place was MADE for a fleamarket!

Actually, it was made for football,

but not on the third Sunday of the month!

Needless to say, Mari and I were impressed (overwhelmed) when we stepped through the entrance after paying our ($5 with coupon) admission fee.  I know.  I hate paying to enter a fleamarket, too, but the size and organization and ease of parking here made it worth every online-coupon-discounted penny.

I caught Mari at left in an early morning predatory pose, her favorite (momentarily empty) market bag draping easily over her shoulder, awaiting a first catch.

This was our first visit to a new and overwhelmingly expansive fleamarket, so aside from following our usual game plan of starting in a corner and walking and looking in just one direction (no boy band members were sighted or harmed in the process) at a time, I don't have any earth-shatteringly brilliant advice for you.  

The Long Beach market is laid out meticulously in colorfully curated rows with vendors also purposefully positioned around the seemingly endless periphery.  Booths vary in size and states of organization, but most are comfortably browsable and affordably inviting.  The variety of collectibles and household goods (don't forget the ephemera!) is a fleamarketer's dream.  Every once in a while true vintage goods and antiques leapt out longingly and tantalizingly at us and a few easily-packable (and bubble-wrappable) goodies snuggled their way into Mari's eventually not-so-roomy market bag.

Visit the well-organized site for visitor info aplenty along with that $1 discount coupon.

longbeachantiquemarket.com

True confession time.  Mari and I barely managed to browse a third of the vendors on the tropically balmy Sunday of September 18th.  It had nothing to do with the colorful Nobu blends from the prior evening, but more to do with the exhaustive breadth of the surprisingly shipshape but unfortunately shade-deprived parking lot. We prudently embraced the vendors closest to the shade-laden stadium and that was plenty for this pair of fleamarket first-timers.

Since the Long Beach Antique Market is definitely a flea worth a revisit, we will each share with you a formerly-fleamarketed find. Next time.

And no, I didn't forget about that California Chicago dog, either.

California, here we come, episode 2. In which I have birthday cake by the ocean.

As a kid I never really liked fish.  This despite the fact that my parents were raised on fish, having grown up less than five miles from a beautiful beach teeming with colorful fishing boats harvesting succulent sardines daily.  (Now so good lightly grilled over an open flame, but just yucky as a kid.)  Mom and Dad's favorite was also salt cod prepared expertly by my mom as the local specialty of their region called Bacalhau à Gomes de Sá.  All I know is there was always a bowl with salt cod soaking in the basement laundry room for their Friday night fish fest during which I looked forward to my Friday fish sticks (no boiled potatoes, eggs, onions, olives, or olive oil for me).  I know.  Sad.  I'm not sure exactly why or where or when or how I finally came to appreciate seafood as an adult, but I could eat it every day now...

...except for fish sticks.

Nobody should eat frozen "fish" sticks.

Ever.

As I started planning our California adventure, my third priority (try to keep up:  TPIR was first, fleamarketing was second) was finding just the right location to enjoy a 50th birthday meal. That's even more pressure than I usually give myself, but the answer was right in front of me   (I was staring at the open Maps app on my iPad at the time of my epiphany).  Nobu.

No, Nobu Matsuhisa didn't suddenly add meatloaf to his restaurant menu, smarty pants, but dining at a Nobu restaurant has always been on my travel lists and our future proximity to the famed Malibu location made this the perfect foodie 50-is-fabulous opportunity.

Here are some excerpts from my diary this past summer...

Called Nobu Malibu immediately after realizing I would be near a Nobu and near Malibu.

Was told they take reservations 30 days in advance.

Called back 31 days in advance.

Told them I wanted a reservation for my 50th birthday in 31 days.

Was wished a happy birthday in advance and told to call back tomorrow.

Got the message.
Yada yada.

Got the reservation!

Admittedly, not as fascinating a read as Pepys or Jones (Bridget), but you get the idea.  I'm sometimes a frustrated obsessive planner, but I get the job done.  Birthday dinner was inked onto the schedule and exactly 30 days later, Mari and I snapped that happy little photo of ourselves about to walk into Nobu for our 6:00 PM reservation so we could enjoy dinner while watching the sunset.

I love my wife.

That 30 days gave me (barely) plenty of time to study the exhaustively appetizing menu so I could suggest some pleasantly palatable alternatives to my non-sushi loving wife.  Fortunately, the incredibly broad menu offered almost too many dining options for just one meal (almost).  I am not in the habit of photographing my food, but I did on this occasion so I could later savor the memories of one of my most mouthwateringly memorable and adventurous meals.

At left is my favorite, the Eggplant Spicy Miso; Lilliputian but potent.  Don't ask about the emerald green celebratory concoction (mostly because I don't remember what it was called or from what it was concocted).  Center stage is the Maine Lobster with Spicy Garlic.  Not sure this is what Maine lobstermen had in mind for their fresh catch, but amazing (if not well-traveled) nonetheless.  Finally, we had to try the signature Black (not my parents' bacalhau) Cod with Miso.  I want everything in miso now.

If you do make it out to Malibu for your own celebration, be sure to give yourself plenty of time to investigate the meticulously comprehensive menu online as well as plenty of time to inch along the last few miles of an always overflowing PCH.

noburestaurants.com

Unfortunately, there is no birthday cake on the Nobu menu, but we managed to share some sweet substitutes.  Besides, I'm definitely not a kid any more and a birthday creme brulee never fails to hit the spot nor fill a gap in a sweet tooth.

Lingering over an expertly paced meal and an equally satisfying sunset didn't leave much natural light for this final souvenir photograph, but you get the idea.

Now that I was 50, it was past my (California dreaming) bedtime and we had a fleamarket to get to the next morning in Long Beach.

Unearthing West Coast fleamarket treasures for the first time and the first of those few flavorful hot dogs next time.

California, here we come, episode 1. In which I am no longer very young.

Unlike Lucy & Ricky (and later, Laverne & Shirley), I did not visit California for a ratings boost.  Nor did I need a spiritual or mental boost despite the fact that I turned 50 back in September.  I was actually excited about being 50 because I am most fortunate to be happy with my life (and my wife!) and am looking forward to the future, however uncertain that future is painted by pessimistic prognosticators, pundits, and politicians. Despite the sadly unstable world now faced by intrepid travelers, my yen to explore and share the world and its widely wonderful treasures with Mari has yet to destabilize.  It was with a renewed sense of adventure and the promise of future fellowship amongst kindred spirits that I set out to plan a California adventure to celebrate the life with which I have been blessed by trailblazing new territory with my favorite companion.

Of course, the list making began in earnest back in March for our long September weekend.  So what item made the top of the list?  Walk of Fame?  Hollywood sign?  Disneyland?  Universal Studios?  At 49 I would have been a little embarrassed to admit to you that I have really just wanted to "come on down" since I was a little (television-and-gameshow-obsessed) boy. Now that I am 50, however, I'm feeling a bit more empowered.  At least enough to admit that attending a taping of The Price is Right was at the top of my birthday adventure wish list.  My five-day birthday "weekend" (just go with it) was the perfect opportunity to get down.

After studying the official website, I formulated a game plan of my own which included watching TPIR daily on the DVR.  Upcoming recording dates and tickets are available on the official site only a month in advance, so my typically advanced (obsessive) trip planning took a back seat to the show schedule.  In the meantime, I researched and listed every thing and every place I wanted to see and visit during my birthday "weekend."

Visit the colorfully friendly site for lots of
fabulous information about the show

(and the models).  priceisright.com

Next on the list (if you don't know me by now, you'll never never never know me) was a flea market, of course.  Had my mother planned my Caesarean birth a week earlier in 1966, my 50th-birthday-California-here-we-come-weekend would have karmically corresponded with the top-of-the-list Rose Bowl fleamarket. Fortunately, the monthly (third Sunday) Long Beach Antique Market came to the rescue.  Obrigado, mãe!

Visit the excellent site
for loads of juicy details.

longbeachantiquemarket.com

Since you asked nicely, here are a couple of juicily-detailed previews of our (digital) picture-perfect morning-to-afternoon in Long Beach.

Warning:  bubble wrap was involved.

So far, that's fleamarketing on Sunday and TPIR on Monday.  A pretty good start to the final travel itinerary, but there were still lots of sensational sites and lofty landmarks (and tasty treats) to squeeze in for my first trip to California and LA.   (I can call it LA now that I've been there.)

Eventually, a lovely oceanside sunset birthday dinner, a museum, a planetarium, a dip in the ocean (on a school/work day!), and a few more hot dogs than even I had planned, helped round out a more amazing than expected (and deserved) weekend.

Oh, and a couple of Broke Girls, too.

The journey to 50 begins next time.

The owls, episode 3. In which hoots are heard from all over.

I didn't start out as an elementary Catholic school student who one day decided to become an owl collector. WeatherOwl and his bonus twin inhabited my childhood home and then my adult home for quite some time before announcing their desire for companionship.  Like most collections, you'll just know.  My lowly little childhood collectibles have made some wonderful friends over the years (decades!) since they first flew into my little hands back in the mid Seventies.  While owls were a popular decorating item during that groovy decade, they migrated away for quite a while before becoming cool again.  It's only been about five years now that the symmetrically friendly figure emerged resplendent from its formerly fashionable hibernation in a wide variety of decor-friendly forms, but I've managed (mostly) to restrict the collection to the floating shelf.
I admit there are a few (maybe more than a few) glass owl Christmas tree ornaments tucked away for an extended nocturnal (off-season) rest, but those don't really count, do they?

This little guy started out as a bulbous 2-inch gourd in Peru. Some clever local artisan saw promise in that pinguid shape and transformed the dried vegetable into the humble but delicately detailed beauty you see before you.  My little flightless FolkOwl has traveled many miles to join my collection.  From Paddington's Peru to the gift shop at New York's Museum of American Folk Art and then on to his permanent home in South Texas, FolkOwl has flown!

He started his crafty life as a Christmas ornament, but a simple untwisting of his temporary metal ornament cap has afforded FolkOwl freedom from holiday hibernation and I think we're both happy about that.

Similar in size and stature, my little Japanese owl crossed a different ocean to find his way into his South Texas home.  First, however, he made a quick stop at the museum gift shop at the Morikami Japanese Gardens in Delray Beach, Florida.

Polished to a bright golden glow, Mr. Fukurō reminds me daily of the universal appreciation for one of my favorite creatures and also reminds me of a beautiful and peaceful fall afternoon spent a few years ago walking the colorful and magnificently maintained grounds of the Morikami Museum.

Visit the inviting site.

morikami.org

An impromptu trip south of our local border released this festively colorful friend into my growing collection.  I'm intrigued especially by the simplicity of his shape.

It is really only the artist's imagination that created an owl from this simple form.  With little but mesmerizingly saucery dark eyes to give his simple round stoneware shape its unmistakable owl identity, my little Mexican owl holds his own among his more full-figured brethren.

Among the international brother- hood is this final owl treasure I wanted to share.  He makes his home with the myriad figures I have recollected from a wide variety of locations even though his figure shares only two dimensions with the others.

I wasn't looking to collect an owl plate and I'm not planning on it in the future, but something about this 3-inch diameter souvenir plate (you guessed it) caught my collector's gaze and just wouldn't let go.

Owls' big round eyes

are especially vulnerable

to collector's gaze.

The provenance of this bitty bird is also fairly stunning.  Made in Japan.  Sold (or a giveaway) by Owl's Nest Books in Calgary. Purchased by this New Yorker at the Wellington Goodwill Boutique near West Palm Beach for all of 99 cents.  And finally (you guessed it again!), migrated to South Texas in a simple little used and reused bubble wrap pouch.  I'm unclear about CalgaryOwl's past life for my two-dimensional friend has offered few fruitful clues since taking up residence over 2,000 miles away from his intended Canadian perch.  Multiple google searches since his last migration 10 years ago have revealed only a bookstore site, a beautiful bookstore site, actually, which has earned it a place on a work-in-progress travel list should a trip to Calgary or nearby Idaho-Montana ever materialize.

The tempting bookstore site boasts beautifully photographed owls.

owlsnestbooks.com

In the meantime, I am ever appreciative for that former Florida Snowbird with the discriminatingly wise good taste, and am ever overjoyed to take the treasured emblem under my wing.

More stories and secondhand travels next time.