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. 

The Owls, episode 2. In which immigrant owls take flight.

When I was recently forced to pack up all the belongings in our kitchen and living room to prepare for a summer remodeling project, even I was surprised at how much "stuff" I had accumulated in the 24 and a half years that we've been living in our home.  It shouldn't have been that much of a surprise considering all the collections that have found their way into my life and considering the kitchen is primarily my domain, it's all actually my (fault) stuff.  When I finished packing the fourth Lowe's medium-size box full of cookbooks and was only about halfway done, I had concrete (almost as heavy) proof that my cookbook collection was out of oven-mitted hand.

During this summer that Mari and I have been squeezed into the back half of our house, spare bedrooms packed with furniture and boxes, I have had some time to consider my boxed and bubble-wrapped collections and do some mental organizing.  I know I should release some of my collectibles back into the wild and give others a chance to share in the joy they have brought me.  Eventually I will, of course.  An important yet difficult part of collecting is knowing when it is time to let things go.  Otherwise, those speed-dial presets for the hoarding authorities may actually get some use.

My home office owl shelf (pictured in last week's episode) has begun to bulge, too, but I think its denizens are all contentedly crowded.  There are a few strays that have wandered away from the floating collection and migrated to other perches around the house where they have more sensible homes.  There is an owl-shaped snuff bottle, for example, with the snuff bottle collection (you knew about that, right?) in the guest bath.  There is also a very helpful owl-shaped stoneware ginger grater in the kitchen whose sharply ridged belly has served me well on stir-fry nights.

No real owls have been injured (or sauteed) on stir-fry night.

Four owl-shaped ice cubes are also currently freezing away in their hot pink silicone tray in the mini-fridge that has been our main fridge since late May, awaiting the opportunity to luxuriate in another summer sweet tea.  

Okay, I know.

Call the authorities.

WeatherOwl has a few international friends which are among the most recent additions to my hovering hoard.

This slender and elegantly mosaiced Spanish gentleman caught my eye in a tiny touristy souvenir shop a few years ago as we strolled the tree-lined boulevard known as La Rambla in Barcelona in search of both shade and souvenirs. Señor Lechuza is about two and a half inches high and made of resin, but covered completely (except for the surprisingly sage saucer eyes) in a bright, multi-colored enamel mosaic treatment that serves brilliantly as his own feathered technicolor dreamcoat.  The bright colors and geometric shapes forever remind me of the eclectic retro-modern and bold architecture of the colorfully engaging city we enjoyed so much.  When a simple souvenir can evoke such wonderful memories, it deserves a place in your home.

This most recent owl travel souvenir made a brief appearance during my labored (but educational) lament about the nativity set that almost got away in Vienna (Vienna Markets, episode 3) where he was pictured still in the artisan's booth amongst his handicraft brethren.  Here he is today in his new home, getting his very own "glamour shot."

I loved being able to buy a hand-crafted, wooden owl directly from the craftsman.  It is an important memory for an amateur collector like myself, similar to having a book signed by a favorite author.  His deeply-set, perfectly round eyes are stained a little darker than the rest of the body, giving Herr Eule a certain air of mystery, like an international spy or a distant relative who has suddenly joined the family for an unexpected but welcome visit.

Time for one more traveler.

The smallest, but dearly treasured owl pictured here is actually a tiny (just barely an inch in diameter) brass hinged box from Portugal that has patinaed gracefully in the five years that he has been looking down on me.  Along with the majestically poised owl on its lid, Senhor Coruja is also adorned with two tiny owl siblings around its fruited and leaf-embossed outer rim.













I don't know if the gifter intended the symbolism of the two small owls protected by the larger owl from above, but I will never forget the thoughtfulness of this seemingly simple souvenir.

As with most collectibles, it is sentiment that often defines value.  As many of my friends would argue, I'm full of it, but my collections wouldn't have it any other way.

A final visit to the floating shelf next time.

The Owls, episode 1. In which parliament is in session.

I have mentioned it a few times now and among my beloved collection of owls lies a three-dollar childhood memento that is one of my most special possessions.

It need not be an object comprised of precious material that becomes the most precious to a collector.  The object need not have cost a precious amount of money.  It need not be precious to any other collector (or Tolkienian creature).  Sentiment will always allow a three-dollar porcelain import to emerge victorious.

Meet my oldest collectible:  a lowly weather owl, deemed so because when first introduced to me, its surface would change hue depending on the perceived humidity.  Today, there is a very slight variation if I take him out of doors and introduce him to the 100 degree daily sauna that currently engulfs deep South Texas, but his superficially magical effect has worn away with time. What has not worn away, however, is the smile that floods me when faced with his countenance as I sit down to my seven-year-old iMac, above which it hovers with its kinsmen on a floating shelf.

Although not the tallest, nor boldest, nor most colorful of my ever-expanding parliament of owls, WeatherOwl always greets me first when I sit to write, pay bills, or play online poker with fellow internet-addicted procrastinators.  Below is a panoramic glance at the full collection of his brethren.

A few of the others are now clamoring
for their own blog moment.

I'm not sure how or why it started, but I've always liked owls.  WeatherOwl found me in the mid 1970s when I was in elementary school at St. Teresa's in Sleepy Hollow (the town formerly known as North Tarrytown), New York.  He was part of an annual fundraising collection of sundries with which we student-salesmen were entrusted in a cardboard sample case, samples of orderables which we shared with family and neighbors who would (hopefully) order multiples to help us students meet our sales quota.  The Franciscan nuns of my childhood were nothing if not savvy marketers of Catholic faith and future relics.  I estimate it has been nearly 40 years since I paid three dollars for my painted porcelain prognosticator of old, a solid, if not sentimental childhood investment.

My memory for collectible sentiment is quite good (Mari would argue quite insanely good), but I do not remember how many of these little weather owls I ended up delivering door-to-door when the nun's orders were later fulfilled.  Among my boxes of wrapping paper, Christmas cards, costume jewelry, and other fund-raised tchotchke to be delivered that year were several (my nearly half-century-old memory cannot distinguish better than several) small identical white paperboard boxes, each containing an identical mystical meteorologist flown directly into my hands from the magical land of Taiwan.

My weekend of deliveries complete, my cardboard "Christmas Kit" emptied, and my collected cache of payments neatly stacked and sorted, I found myself staring into the bright and cheery eyes of WeatherOwl, perched ironically redundant atop his porcelain book pile while perched atop a short stack of my own books.

I also found myself staring into one of my earliest childhood ethical dilemmas as I gazed (the collector's gaze came to me early) into the eyes of a second owl, a surplus future dust-collector which had found its way (via clerical accounting error?) into my previously uncomplicated life.  There are times as an adult when I sometimes feel an echoing pang of guilt (thank you Catholic school!) as I look into the effusively open eyes of my redundant owl (I never decided which would bear that designation as they both seem to share the moral authority).  I was young and I felt guilty, but mostly I was too embarrassed to return the extra owl that had been packed into my fundraising kit.

Four decades later, one owl greets me daily as I sit down to my library office iMac, its twin welcoming me home evenings when I sit at the desk in my home library.  The weather owl memento brothers thus bookend my days and my thoughts, comforting me and decorating my memories as treasured collectibles should.

Dust and guilt be damned.

More flutterings from the past (and the shelf above the iMac) next time.

Paris, episode 10. In which we flea-flea and can-can.

One of my favorite books is Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club.  (No offense to purists, of which I purportedly profess to be one, but this is a rare occasion in which the film is even better.)  When I was teaching high school students reading and writing as an English teacher, I especially enjoyed the opportunity to share favorite books with students.  On one of our fleamarketing visits to New York, Mari and I found a nice Mahjong set in a Chinatown shop and I was later able to share the game with my classes while we read the book so they could get a little hands-on experience with a treasured bit of Jing-Mei's colorful family background.  I had never seen a set of Mahjong tiles other than the computerized tiles I often enjoy unstacking in colorfully addictive solitaire games.  It wasn't until we started fleamarketing that Mari and I discovered authentic (American) Mahjong sets, popular entertainment in the 1950s and 1960s, and resurrected decades later in craftily clever jewelry forms like the ring pictured here.

As you know (and I love) Mari is a fan of vintage jewelry, especially hand-crafted and clever reimaginations of found objects. Recycling at its couture best!

On Puces Saturday, Mari found this and another treasure (below) in a tiny glass-enclosed boutique in the antiques market featuring vintage designer clothing and jewelry.  A friendly and fashion savvy English-speaking proprietor greeted us warmly and encouraged Mari to browse and admire treasures recollected and carefully curated from collections and decades past that now adorned the French fashionista's sparkling miniature museum.

The Wicker Lounge was only a tad smaller at 84 square feet.

As you would expect in Paris, lots of Chanel, including jewelry made from vintage buttons as we had previously discovered in Chicago.
I had not yet procured my porcelain M&M sorter, so Mari made the first (and second) catch that morning.  From a small display on a small glass shelf in a small mirrored cabinet, the piercing ribbed eyes of a now favorite feline snatched Mari's collector's gaze.

The Lea Stein celluloid pin didn't have a chance with Mari out on fleamarket safari.

I'm glad my wife loves bold jewelry because I enjoy admiring it (and writing about it) nearly as much as she enjoys wearing it.

You can easily and happily enjoy an entire Saturday or Sunday meandering through the (curated or cluttered) past as you wend your way through colorful collections and connect with colorful characters who vend their way there.  Some times and some days there is a place for new fleamarketed goods and souvenirs, but a trip to Les Puces de Saint Ouen doesn't seem like that time.  There is too much of the past to explore here and tourists or foreigners especially will lend Les Puces a unique perspective as they rescue half-buried objets d'art long neglected by French browsers.  Leave the new fleamarketed goods to the locals and you might catch a glimpse of your own past (or of a favorite book or pet) in a forgotten forget-me-not that's been waiting all these lonely years to find your faraway home.

Before heading back to our own home (and feline) the following day (it's still just a weekend, remember?), I had one more surprise to bestow as I commemorated our special anniversary.  With the help of TripAdvisor's Viator website, I had been able to secure tickets (including transportation) to the Saturday evening dinner show at Le Moulin Rouge.

Visit the site to view a wide variety of excursions all over the world.

viator.com

Here we are closing down the famed colorful cabaret on our last Paris evening.  Be prepared for a touristically-appealing spectacular and a bit of a tight table squeeze not unlike the glittery costumes which barely adorn the French dancers in the energetic revue.

The can-can

did not-not disappoint.

We had a truly unforgettable time during our very limited time in one of our very favorite cities, celebrating a very special anniversary, but there are more surprises to plan (more lists to make!), more cities to sight, and more fleamarkets yet to flea.  More flea favorites next time.