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The Pageantry Of A Tragedy: Titanic Artifact Exhibition
Titanic the Artifact Exhibition at Union Station is a strange synthesis of education, historical preservation, and highly commercial entertainment. It is by turns enlightening, moving, and unapologetically gaudy.
The “edutainment” aspects of the exhibit work perfectly for kids. There is just enough flash and spectacle to keep them interested in the substance.
My 6 year old was certainly engaged. He was thrilled to touch a “real” iceberg, and stopped to read all of the ominous icy sea warnings (from ships that preceded the Titanic on that fateful night) that are projected onto the walls in huge letters.
He peered into all of the artifact cases, and was especially impressed with a glass champagne bottle that survived the carnage with its contents intact. We searched the passenger list for the person on his boarding pass (cards provided at the entrance with biographical data about actual Titanic passengers) to see if she survived.
He commented several times that “the captain should have slowed down to see the icebergs,” and asked me “why did they keep the boat going so fast?” It was a good time to introduce some new vocabulary words, like arrogance and overconfidence.
There is a fascinating section towards the end of the exhibit that has large items (pieces of an iron bench, enormous cooking pots, etc.) alongside life size photos of those items underwater, before their retrieval from the bottom of the sea.
However, the item that stirred me the most was a minimal, elegant choker - a single strand of faded silk ribbon holding a row of small diamond hoops. It was the kind of graceful, unpretentious jewelry that I would buy myself, if I was a woman of means.
The delicate simplicity of that necklace spoke to me. It conjured up images of a singular owner. Someone with pluck, style and judicious taste. Someone full of youthful dreams and possibility.
And for me, those images were cheapened by our exit through the gift shop, where a printer was churning out photos of exhibit-goers hamming it up on a garishly digitized grand staircase, with a “ghostly” captain Edward John Smith tacked into the background. Yeah, someone at Premier Exhibitions really thought that was a good idea.
TweetThe Softer Side Of Orlando.
Orlando, Florida is the mother country of bizarre, themed attractions.
It’s a train wreck of tackiness, a hot mess of bad taste.
Where else can you dine at classy establishments like Arabian Nights, Al Capone’s Dinner Show, Treasure Tavern or The Titanic Dinner Event?
At the Holy Land Experience theme park you can catch a reenactment of the Last Supper, frolic inside the belly of Jonah’s Whale, snap a family photo at Pilate’s Whipping Post, or scarf down some turkey legs from Simeon’s Snackshop while watching The Crystal Living Waters choreographed fountain show.
However….if you look past the kitsch overkill, Orlando has some surprisingly simple pleasures to offer.
And no, I’m not being facetious. Here are my top three simple pleasure picks:
1) LAKE EOLA PARK (227 N Eola Dr, Orlando, FL 32801)
Downtown Orlando is probably not a place where many tourists venture, but young, trendy Orlandians abound here. So many that we had to circle the lake to find parking on a Sunday afternoon (and it wasn’t cheap!).
The neighborhoods surrounding Lake Eola are full of local eateries, boutiques, and historic homes restored to perfection.
Hipster parents and their offspring flock to the innovative playground overlooking the lake, and young professionals jog by the water.
An aggressive grandma stole a picnic table right out from under us in the crowded children’s area.
You can take a swan paddle boat for a spin, or get back to nature and commune with the real thing.
2) NEW SMYRNA DUNES (2995 N. Peninsula, New Smyrna Beach, FL 32169)
Most Orlando area beaches are polluted and jam packed with cars that are invited to drive out on the sand. Exhaust fumes, traffic gridlock and encroaching condos – not exactly a recipe for seaside relaxation.
New Smyrna Dunes Park is a bit off the beaten path, but well worth the effort it takes to get there.
The area surrounding the beach is a protected ecosystem. That means absolutely no cars and no condos, just footprints in the sand.
As you explore the wooden boardwalks and sandy trails, you will see countless birds and burrowing turtles that have made this pristine paradise their home.
And if you have an exceedingly ornery husband, like I do, be prepared to ward off wriggling crab attacks.
http://www.volusia.org/parks/smyrnadunes.htm
3) WINTER PARK (251 Park Ave South, Winter Park, FL 32789
You could spend several happy days just hanging out in the posh suburb of Winter Park.
It was founded in the late 19th century as an exclusive resort for new money magnates and still boasts the brick streets and elaborate buildings of its heyday.
Park Avenue and the adjacent green belt beckon with thoughts of a picnic lunch or coffee at one of the cozy sidewalk cafés.
I highly recommend the Bosphorus, an upscale Turkish restaurant with views of Central Park. http://bosphorousrestaurant.com/
My 2 year old would recommend squirrel stalking.
If museums are your thing, Winter Park has several fine offerings: the Albin Polasek Museum & Sculpture Garden, Cornell Fine Arts Museum, Morse Museum (which has the world’s largest collection of Louis Comfort Tiffany works), and the nearby Loch Haven Park complex with a Science Center and several art museums.
http://www.cityoforlando.net/fpr/Html/Parks/LochHavenPk.htm
So, when you have satisfied your yen for kitsch at the likes of Gatorland, seek out the more tranquil quarters of this much maligned city.
They are there if you take a closer look.
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A Garden In Winter. Kauffman Memorial.
A haven of serenity and silence is hiding in the midst of our urban landscape.
At The Ewing and Muriel Kauffman Memorial Garden, tranquility sits within plain sight of Troost and Taco Bell.
High stone walls shelter plantings and pathways that invite contemplative thought.
Playful bronze sculptures cast long winter shadows on carefully trimmed topiaries.
And when your frosty fingers have had enough of strolling, slip into the conservatory for a respite of warmth, color, and light.
Under the graceful glass ceiling, a resident cat has the right idea, snoozing amid lilies and poinsettias in the late afternoon sun.
And if the conservatory cat is not enough excitement, little ones will delight in seeing towering palm trees and exotic flowers flourishing in the dead of winter.
This little bit of horticultural bliss is located at 4800 Rockhill Road, Kansas City, MO, 64110.
The garden is open 8am to sunset year round.
TweetIstanbul. Part 2. Princes Islands. May 2005.
Princes Islands. Istanbul, Turkey.
May 23rd Journal Entry continued:
It was overcast when we boarded the ferry and more than a bit chilly, but I wanted to sit outside. The tour guide had us all sit together; and it felt like an elementary school field trip.
The Indian boy settled into his seat and immediately began to chain smoke and down cups of very strong çay/tea. Our guide pulled a glossy car magazine out of his bag and leafed through it, while the honeymoon couples snuggled together and ate snacks that they had picked up at the boat terminal.
The wooden bench seats were not very comfortable. I stood at the railing for a long time and snapped pictures.
The trip lasted about 90 minutes and the boat stopped 4 places (a busy harbor on the Asian side of Istanbul and 3 of the smaller Princes Islands) before our destination in Buyukada.
Buyukada was large, but about half of it appeared to be wild, green and covered in cypress trees.
The guide arranged for us to take a short tour of the island by horse cart (no cars allowed). I was worried that I would be paired with the unpleasant Indian boy, because we were both traveling alone. Thankfully, the guide wanted three people per cart, so I happily joined the Moroccan couple in a brightly colored “surrey with the fringe on top.”
The driver flew up and down the hilly streets, jostling us around in the back as we craned our necks to catch a glimpse of the sea or a majestic house from under the fringed roof of our cart.
At the top of the island we drove through a nature park, which was pretty much deserted expect for a group of teenagers lounging on the grass drinking beer. They gave us dirty looks as we trotted past and it was a little unnerving. I wouldn’t have wanted to encounter them in that isolated park alone! We passed an unused playground with ponies tied to the swing set and slide.
The Morrocan husband spoke a little English, but his wife none. And as I speak no Arabic or French, we tried to converse in stilted English. He urged me to visit Morocco and offered to give me their address, adding “You are Welcome!” They were very friendly, but with limited language, we soon ran out of things to say and enjoyed the rest of the ride in silence. The horse cart dropped us off in the center of the village and we went our separate ways for an hour of free time.
I wandered up one of the steep, winding streets and discovered wooden houses, each more exquisite than the last. Some were in pristine condition, with lush gardens behind imposing gates.
Others were dilapidated with sagging roofs and peeling paint. A few were abject ruins.
It was quite sad to see these once grand residences neglected and rotting, but still holding onto their privileged view of the sea.
Even the ruined houses had an air of mystery and grandeur to them. A crumbling marble pillar or sagging coffered ceiling gave me a glimpse of what they must have looked like standing tall, proud and glorious in the Mediterranean sunshine. I would love to go back to the Princes Islands with more time to explore these historic beauties.
The group reconvened for lunch in a charming little fish restaurant on the water. A stray cat sidled up to my chair and reached up to paw my leg, begging for fish. I indulged the little guy a few pieces before the waiter returned and frightened him away.
The Indian boy was late for lunch and turned up his nose at the plate of aromatic mezze/appetizers.
“I can’t eat THAT food,” he informed us. I wondered if it had something to do with his view of Turkey, which he readily shared with me on the boat ride out.
“The Turks are bad people; you should not associate with any of them,” he told me in an arrogant tone.
“Why not?” I queried.
“They are not friendly and not honest,” he said. When I challenged this and told him that all of the Turkish people I had met were very nice, he puffed on his cigarette and looked bored.
After the satisfying lunch of fried fish and salad, we had a few minutes of unscheduled time to relax along the waterfront and let our food digest before boarding the return ferry. I found a quiet spot where stone steps go down to the water and laid on my back soaking up the sun. It was wonderful, but I found myself wishing that Mark was there to “max and relax” with me.
The guide let us choose our own seats on the crowded return ferry. So, I snagged a spot on deck near the railing. A retired American couple came to sit by me and I chatted with the wife about their trip so far. She said that her favorite place was Cappadocia (which she mispronounced). She marveled that after a dinner in the countryside there, they were given fat, fresh lemons to squeeze over their hands.
A minibus met us at the ferry terminal and dropped me back at Hotel Divan. I managed to stay awake long enough to grab a strange fruit cake/scone type pastry for dinner and talk to Mark on the phone. I fell asleep watching TV around 7pm. At 9pm, the phone rang. It was a woman’s voice saying “Hello, Erika?” in heavily accented English.
“Um, Yes, this is Erika.”
“Helloooo Erika, here is your Mummy!!” Apparently my Mom needed help using the phone at their rural hotel and had asked the desk clerk to make a call for her. After a brief chat with my parents (assuring them that I was fine, the tour bus had delivered me back to the hotel as planned, all was well, etc.), I closed my eyes and slept like a baby. “Mummy” would have approved.
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