Clear Eyes, Full Tank, Can't Lose - Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Every city brought its own challenges.  In Chicago, Ari and Shima clashed with law enforcement.  In Detroit, we wrestled with ticket scalpers.  In Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, we dodged the ushers.  In Cleveland, we battled Cleveland.  But our toughest foe may have been our last: the Ford Focus.

When we rented the car in Kansas City 12 days ago, the Avis rep offered us a deal.  If we pre-paid for one tank of gas, Avis would waive our obligation to return the car with a full tank.  This seemed like a good idea.  Instead of paying New York City gas prices for our last fill-up, we would pay Kansas City prices.  We wouldn't have to make that last, annoying stop at the gas station before we turned in the car.  And, best of all, it turned the rental into a game.  "You'll want to return the car with a tank as close as possible to empty," said the Avis rep.  In the words of Barney Stinson and Danny Dawson, challenge accepted.

Fast forward to late Tuesday night in Philadelphia.  With Ari's Manhattan apartment just two hours away, we forsook a hotel in Philly and opted for the late-night drive to New York.  The Ford Focus said we had 102 miles until empty.  The GPS on Ari's iPhone said we had 91 miles to the Avis in New York.  This was no accident; we had estimated our remaining mileage when we chose how much gas to add earlier that day.  So when we saw that we had only an 11-mile cushion, we didn't even consider refilling.  

Powered by coffee and some outstanding gelato, we started the drive at 11:30 PM.  Ari took the wheel.  I took charge of constantly monitoring our remaining gas and remaining distance.  With 60 miles left in the tank, we had only 45 miles to Manhattan.  With 30 miles left in the tank, we had only 12 miles to Manhattan.  Not only were we winning, but our lead was increasing.  "We got you, Avis," I said.

I celebrated too soon.  As we neared the Lincoln Tunnel, we realized we weren't battling Avis.  We were battling the horrible car we rented.  Without warning or explanation, the "Distance to E" display started dropping precipitously.  For every mile we drove on the road, the "Distance to E" would drop by two or three.  Our lead evaporated.  The math was no longer on our side.  "We need gas," I told Ari.  

We stopped at one of the many toll booths as you approach Manhattan.  The attendant gave us confusing directions to the nearest gas station.  Five minutes later, we found it -- and it was closed.  The Focus said we had two miles before empty.  

We drove around and somehow found ourselves back at the toll both, now with only one mile until empty.  A different attendant gave us even vaguer directions than the first guy had.  

"Where is the closest gas station?" Ari asked.  

"To the right," he said with the interest level of a toll both attendant at 1:30 in the morning.  

Was he saying we should take the first exit on the right?  That we should go right once we left the freeway?  "What do you mean?" Ari asked.  

"To the right," the attendant repeated.  

"We're about to run out of gas.  Can you please be a little more specific?" Ari pleaded. 

The guy spoke more slowly this time, so we could fully comprehend the message.  "To ... the ... right," he said.  What is the worst thing I can wish upon that attendant without being a bad person?  

We considered stopping right there at the toll booth and calling AAA.  At least then we'd be easy for them to find.  But we pushed our luck and picked one of the freeway exits "to the right."  The Distance to E sunk to zero.  The iPhone had no answers; it kept suggesting the gas station we already knew was closed.

Finally, we spotted a few lights and a line of trucks in a parking lot.  We followed the lights.  It was a gas station.  Thank god.  There are probably worse things than running out of gas in the middle of the night in a desolate area of New Jersey, but I can't think of any.

We pulled up to the pump and a guy appeared at my window.  In New Jersey, you're not allowed to pump your own gas.  "Fill it up?" the Texaco man asked.  "No, thanks," I said, handing him a five.

We got to the Avis in Midtown at 2:30 AM.  We parked in the entryway of the facility, turned off the engine, and handed over the keys.  If the Focus hadn't tried to screw us with the remaining mileage, it might have been an emotional goodbye.  

The Avis man gave the car a complete physical, checking the mileage, the trunk, the cabin, the glovebox, even under the hood.  He forgot, however, to do one thing.  Minutes later, after I signed the paperwork  -- and received a statement verifying that we had returned the car in acceptable, working condition -- the Avis man got in the car.  It wouldn't start.  The last sound we heard as we carried our luggage in search of a taxi was the hiss of an engine that had just endured 2,100 miles in less than two weeks.  

The cab dropped us off at Ari's apartment building.  We looked up at the six flights of stairs between us and Ari's door, and we looked at our suitcases, backpacks, souvenirs, and many, many bottles of barbecue sauce.  It took two trips, but we were rewarded with a slobbery welcome.

This is Maximus.  Here are his vital statistics:

Full name: Maximus Decimus Meridius Bernstein

Birthday: December 28, 2008 

Weight: 102 pounds [Ari's Note: He finally grew into his ____.]  [Justin's Note: I won't print that.]

Breed: 50% Labrador Retriever, 35% horse, 15% puma

Occupation: Fake Service Dog

Nicknames: Bubbi, The Wild Animal, 'Mus

Favorite Movies: Gladiator, Seabiscuit, Shawshank Redemption

Level of ferocity: High

Wednesday brought our final game of the trip: Yankees versus Bluejays at the new Yankee Stadium.  I was excited.  Even though I hate the Yankees more than any team in professional sports (I say "professional sports" because I despise USC and Stanford football even more), their ballpark has a special history -- the simple design, the short right field, the retired numbers.  When I lived in New York during law school, I went to seven games at the old Yankee Stadium, including the Bloody Sock Game.  This would be my first trip to the new Yankee Stadium, built in 2009.

But first things first.  We needed food.  I walked from Ari's apartment in Chelsea to Faicco's Pork Store in Greenwich Village.  At Faicco's, they take their meat seriously.

I ordered an appropriate number of sandwiches and headed toward Washington Square Park, right across the street from NYU's law school.  We were meeting Neil Thakore, my former mock trial student at UC Irvine and now a 1L at NYU.  Neil likes tennis, surfing, and accessories that make him look ridiculous.  

Too Cool for School Neil

Newsy Neil

Mariachi Neil

Rudolph Neil, with his girlfriend Sheila

The three of us rode the subway from West Fourth to the 161st Street.  We bought some tickets outside the park, saw an uncomfortable amount of Yankee memorabilia, and found our seats in time for both national anthems -- O Canada for both fans of the Toronto Bluejays, and The Star Spangled Banner for the rest of us.

I hate the Yankees.

Ana, it's your flag!

I have mixed feelings about Yankee Stadium.  It's impressively gigantic; it feels larger than any ballpark I've visited.  It does a great job of honoring the Bronx Bombers' historic success and litany of Hall of Famers.  The grounds crew delivers its famous YMCA performance with gusto.  The crowd is pretty good, turning out for afternoon game on a Wednesday.  But overall, the stadium is a little disappointing.  It feels sterile and corporate.  Billboards, ads, and business logos are everywhere.  The park lacks intimacy.  It mistakes grand for great.  [Ari's Note: Yankee Stadium feels more like a mausoleum than a baseball stadium.  If the Baseball Olympics existed, they would definitely be held here.]

Ari asked me how many corporate logos I could spot from our seats.

I counted more than 60.

It's fun to stay at the YMCA!

In the seventh inning, we snared some empty seats in the field level.  

The game couldn't have gone much better.  The Yankees blew an early lead.  Their ace, CC Sabathia, got knocked around for 5 runs and 9 hits.  Their captain, Derek Jeter, struck out in his last at bat.  The pinstriped pests kept threatening to catch up but, bless their $200M payroll, they came up short.  Bluejays 8, Yankees 5.  

We enjoyed the Yankees loss while snacking on our sandwiches.  Our five sandwiches.  I asked Faicco's to weight them before I left.  They totaled more than seven pounds.  They were so delicious that, two days later, I made sure to  stop at Faicco's on my way to JFK Airport.

Half of an Italian sub: capicola (cured pork shoulder), soppressata (dry salami), prosciutto (thinly sliced ham), thick fresh mozzarella, roasted peppers, lettuce, San Marzano tomatoes, and oil and vinegar.

The other half

Neil is better at mock trial than he is at eating sandwiches.

Meatball sub: sesame roll, red sauce, fresh mozzarella, and beef meatball peaking out to say hello

Chicken parmigiana sandwich: breaded and fried chicken breast, fresh mozzarella, red sauce, sesame roll.  I wonder how it looks in profile.

It looks good.

Amazing sandwiches, a lazy afternoon in New York, and a Yankees loss in the middle of a pennant race.  It was a perfect end to the trip.  

Tune in later this week for the final blog entry: your questions, our answers, and the announcement of who wins the bottle of Joe's barbecue sauce.

City of Big Brotherly Love - Tuesday, August 28

We arrived in downtown Philadelphia at 3:00 and found parking at 3:30.  With so many historic choices, we debated where to start.  The Liberty Bell?  Independence Hall?  Ben Franklin's statue?

We chose Village Whiskey.



Ari had the burger at Village Whiskey on his last trip to Philly, and he insisted that we return.  We each order the basic burger -- lettuce, tomato, house spread, sesame bun -- and while we waited, Ari made a startling prediction.  "There is a 20 percent chance we order a third burger," he proclaimed.  I expressed my doubt.  Not only would a third burger be excessive, but it might reduce the number of sandwiches I could eat during the rest of the day.  Then the burgers arrived:

Their burgers are spectacular, highlighted by perfectly cooked beef and a bun that tastes like a croissant.  I took one bite and flagged down our server.  

Good things come in threes [Ari's Note: TWSS]

After demolishing the third pastry burger, we headed to the Reading Terminal Market to pick up more food.  Philadelphia is known for heavy, heart-threatening sandwiches, and we weren't going to the game empty-handed.  Terminal Market has dozens of food stands and grocers.  The most famous is Tommy DiNic's.  A year ago, it already attracted more customers than any other food booth at the Market.  But when we arrived in Philadelphia, Adam Richman had just named Tommy's roast pork sandwich the "Best Sandwich in America."  Ari got a roast pork with provolone and broccoli rabe.  That sounded too healthy, so I ordered a chicken parmigiana sandwich at Carmen's.  

Fed and loaded with more food, we drove to Citizens Bank Pallpark.  Ari called Shima, who passed on some insider insider knowledge about free parking.  We drove into an industrial complex about half a mile from the stadium and parked next to a few other baseball fans.  


Ten minutes later, we approached the best sports experience I've ever encountered.  Philadelphia has teams in all four major sports -- the Phillies, Eagles, 76ers, and Flyers -- and their stadiums are all within one block of each other.  Across the street from the arenas and ballparks is Xfinity Live!, a mall of sports bars, restaurants, enormous televisions, and outdoor beer patios.  They also have a lawn where we played cornhole.  Cornhole is a game I had never played before: players take turns tossing bean bags at a platform with a hole in the middle.  Landing your bean bag on the platform nets you one point.  Tossing it into the hole gets you three points.  Ari had the three attributes of a cornhole champion:

(1) Incredible focus.  Behind those sunglasses, his eyes burn with cornhole intensity.

(2) Textbook form.  Look at the outstretched arm, the raised back foot, the straight left knee.  It's body art. 

(3) A horrific opponent.  In four games, I only sunk one throw in the hole.  I lost 21-3, 21-9, 21-14, and 21-16.  I kept getting better but my best was never good enough.

At 6:15, we crossed the street to Citizens Bank Ballpark.   Citizens is a big, fun stadium.  It's clean.  It has bright colors.  The scoreboard is great.  And it houses the Philly Phanatic, one of the few tolerable mascots in sports.   With our next stop in New York, where Ari lives and I used to live, this was our last true road game.  Philadelphia didn't disappoint:

Good ballpark

Great sandwich

The first inning felt like the beginning of a blowout.  The Phillies' leadoff hitter walked, their number two hitter got hit by a pitch, and Chase Utley walked.  Slugger Ryan Howard came to the plate with the bases loaded and nobody out.  Howard annihilated the fourth pitch, crushing it over the right center field wall for a grand slam.  The Mets surrendered four runs without recording an out.  But the New Yorkers clawed their way back, eventually tying it 5-5 in the eighth inning and winning it 9-5 in the tenth.

As the Mets and Phillies had their petty skirmish on the field, a more important battle was being waged in the stands: our fight for good seats.  As usual, we purchased super cheap tickets.  As usual, the seats were at mountain altitude.  And as usual, we intended to improve our view.  These were the seats we purchased:

Right field, upper deck, close to the line.  They might have been the two worst seats in the park.  So we did what we had been doing for two weeks: we snuck into better seats.  No problem, right?

Problem.

The Phillies security team takes their job seriously.  At other parks, ushers only guard the best seats.  Here they guarded everything from the expensive seats behind home plate to the $5 tickets in the upper deck.  At other parks, one usher is assigned to a section.  Here each section is defended by two ushers trained to thwart bums like Ari and me.  At other parks, once you weasel your way into the seats, you're good for the rest of the game.  Here the ushers' vigilance never ends.

The Phillies even have an usher monitoring from above!  Big Brother was always watching.

In the face of this additional security, we stepped up our game.  We searched for large groups that were heading to their seats between innings so we could be disguised in a crowd.  Once, I distracted a pair of ushers with questions while Ari tried to slide past them into the good seats.  And anytime we actually got to the seats, we did everything possible to fit in: when we unwittingly sat down beside a family about to celebrate a 5-year-old's birthday, we stood and sang Happy Birthday with the rest of the family.

It didn't matter.  The ushers were unstoppable.  

They kicked us out of the great seats.

They kicked us out of the good seats.

They even kicked us out of the upper deck seats.

We tried and tried, but sometimes you have to tip your cap and acknowledge you've been beaten by a superior opponent.  So we went up to the head of stadium security.  "We've been on a baseball roadtrip," we told John.  "We buy the worst seats and sneak into the best.  It works everywhere -- Kansas City, St. Louis, Milwaukee, Chicago, Cleveland.  But not here."  We told John about how his delta strike force ushers were impenetrable.  He loved it.  "We run a tight ship around here," John beamed.  

John is smiling because he won.  We're smiling because we're in the presence of greatness. [Ari's Note: He looks like Lenny Clarke from Rescue Me.]

"So what are you gonna do now?" John asked.  I sighed.  "We're thinking about going to our actual seats."  John shook his head.  "Be persistent," he encouraged us.

We eventually tiptoed into seats in the left field corner -- much better than the seats we paid for, but far worse than any seats we'd occupied all trip:

If you look really closely, you can almost see a baseball game in the distance.

We settled in and enjoyed the game.  Of course, we never quite relaxed.  Every time the ushers walked by, I thought, This is it.  They found us.  

But they let us be.  We even grew bold.  After the seventh inning stretch, we asked one of the ushers to take our picture.  

It was the least he could do.

Us 1, Joe 0 - Monday, August 27

When the weather was perfect, we thought Cleveland was ugly.  But when we awoke to a rain storm Monday morning, Cleveland took Ugly to a whole other level.  We packed up the car, got on the freeway, and swore on our respective future children never to return.  We didn't even stop to enjoy Cleveland's beautiful scenery or Cleveland's Cleveland's best breakfast spot.

It took us just over two hours to make the 130 mile drive to Pittsburgh.  We decided to check out Mount Washington, an upscale suburb in the heart of Pittsburgh known for its beautiful views of the city skyline.  But Justin was navigating.  So we got lost.  Several times.  Once we were up there it was easy to see what all the fuss was about. 

Pittsburgh skyline, Cleveland weather

Can you get any more meta?

We got a better photo when we returned at night

To avoid paying for parking at the stadium we decided to leave the Focus on a local street in Mount Washington and take the incline down.  "What the hell is an incline?!" you ask.  Great question.  Back in The Day immigrant workers struggled to carry the city's large supply of coal from the flat surfaces of the city center up the steep hill leading to Mount Washington and its surrounding areas.  So they built several inclines -- which are basically functional chair lifts -- to transport materials up and down.  With minimal practical application, most inclines are out of service, but the city has kept a couple running for the sake of tradition (and tourism).

We walked up to the incline station and met Dave, the station's attendant.  Dave's in his mid-40s and is a Pittsburgh native.  It wasn't long before our conversation turned to food and drink.  Dave suggested the ride on the incline is best appreciated with a beverage.  Dave was fun.  We doubled back and quickly found a Chinese restaurant advertising "Beer To Go."  The place felt shady from the jump.  The restaurant was completely empty aside from two workers: an elderly woman watching a Chinese soap opera and a middle-aged man running around in the back.  The man saw us and approached.  "What do you guys need?" he asked.  "We're for here beer," I proclaimed.  He gave us several options of bottles, cans, six packs, and 40s.  The exchange reminded me of the scene from Hangover 2 when -- attempting to find their lost friend -- the Wolfpack walk into a club and tell the manager, "We're looking for a kid."  The manager responds with, "Two thousand dollars.  Maybe more.  How young do you want this kid to be?"  [Justin's Note: The exchange did not reminder me of The Hangover 2.  This might be because I have not see The Hangover 2.]  I decided on a Miller Light and a brown bag.  Justin elected to take the unconventional approach and bought a root beer to accompany his flask filled with whiskey.

We inclined down and rode a short trolley to the stadium.  Downtown Pittsburgh is great if you bleed black and gold (all four of the city's professional sports franchises wear these two colors).  The streets are clean and have several eating and drinking options a short walk from PNC Park and Heinz Field, where the Steelers play.

We stopped in at Finnigan's Wake, a dive bar by any standard.  I walked up to the bartender and asked if they had a happy hour.  "At 5 o'clock we have $3 drafts," he said.  I looked down at my watch.  It was 5:00.  It was going to be one of those days.  

Justin took a seat and asked what local brews they served.  "Well, we have Iron City Lager," the bartender told us.  "Eh, that sounds a little too heavy," Justin responded.  "Do you have anything lighter?"  "How bout the Iron City Amber?"  "Not interested in that," Justin whined.  The bartender looked confused.  "We also have the Iron City Light, if that's your thing."  "Do you have another, say, more effeminate beer?"  Justin inquired.  "How bout the Iron City Mango?"  "Hmm.  Do you have that in Light?" Justin asked, fingers crossed.  "As a matter of fact we do."  "Perfect!" Justin yelped.  [Justin's Note: Almost none of this true.]  [Ari's Note: Did you or did you not order an Iron City Mango Light beer?]  [Justin's Note: Pictures or it didn't happen.]  [Ari's Note: Did you or did you not order the second beer from the right?]  [Justin's Note: Yeah, I ordered the second beer from the right.]  

After finishing our beers we left Finnigan's and stopped at a bar directly across the street from PNC Park.  Mullen's had a great atmosphere.  Immediately upon entering we were greeted by a pretty blonde overseeing a bucket of ice cold beers.  Any place that serves you beer on the way to the bar is fine by me.  We found a seat and ordered their housemade chicken wings.  By the time they arrived Justin was Billy-Joel-drunk and proceeded to dunk the wings into his beer.  [Justin's Note: Unfortunately, all of this is true.]  The strangest thing about Mullen's -- other than the fact that one of its patrons was dunking chicken wings into his beer -- is what we found in the bathroom: an attendant handing out breath mints, hand sanitizer, and paper towels.  The attendant had the shape of a male but the face of a female.  [Justin's Note: I thought it was the other way around.]  We had two questions.  Why was there a bathroom attendant in a dive bar?  And were we in the wrong bathroom or was she/he?  

Twelve wings and four beers later we were ready ... to walk to the next bar.  There, we each ordered a beer and a sandwich to take into the game.  About 30 feet from the stadium entrance I spotted a vendor with reasonable beer prices.  I couldn't help myself.  Twenty seconds later I was stumbling into the ballpark with unusually bulky shorts.

We saw this guy on the way to the stadium.  Justin tried to surreptitiously sneak a photo of him, but the guy saw him.  Instead of getting upset, however, he posed.  We have no explanation for what you see in this photo. 

The Pittsburgh Pirates are relevant for the first time since this happened.  We saw them against divisional rival St. Louis, which would normally mean expensive tickets.  But the forecast called for rain and we snagged 25-cent tickets on StubHub.  It costs more to mail a letter than we paid for each ticket.

The rain also meant that a lot of people with good seats decided not to show.  Who were we not to take advantage?  We settled on the fourth row, directly behind the Cardinals’ dugout.  Our seats were phenomenal:

We had a great view of the scoreboard and left field.

We had a great view of the Pittsburgh skyline.

We had a great view of the action.

We had a great view of outfielder Matt Holliday's head.

Everything was fine until the top of the second inning, when the people whose seats we were in showed up.  Having spent two weeks on the road – and two weeks of sitting in seats that we did not purchase – we were accustomed to this.  Typically we just slide down the row to nearby empty seats.  

But not this time.   Not on Joe’s watch.  

Joe was the usher in Section 13 this fine night and he wasn’t going to have two scumbags like me and Justin mosey on into his section and get away with it.  “Get outta here!” he yelled.  “These aren’t your seats!”  Justin and I were not amused.  Or sober.  Justin looked straight into Joe’s eyes and boldly declared, “Oh, we’ll be back.”

In the meantime we had to leave.  We settled on seats atop the Pirates dugout, which afforded more great views.

The back of outfielder Andrew McCutchen's head.

Overall PNC Park offers an amazing experience to watch a baseball game.  When surveyed, most fans say PNC Park is the best stadium in all of baseball.  It’s easy to understand why.  Three things stood out to us:

• Despite having opened more than a decade ago the stadium feels brand new.  It was probably cleaner than any stadium we visited. 

Very clean.

• The seats are on top of the field.  No, not literally.  That would be weird.  But the stadium was clearly built with the fans in mind.  Our seats were closer to the field than in any other stadium we visited.  We were so close we could hear the runners’ feet pound the dirt as they sprinted towards first base. 

• The views are unparalleled.  Practically every seat in the house offers sightlines of nearby downtown. The city skyscrapers, multiple bridges, and the nearby Allegheny River just beyond the right field wall can make you forget you’re attending a baseball game.  

Pirates of the Pittsburgh rally the crowd with a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean.      

The game itself was entertaining.  It provided arguably the best pitching match-up of the trip: Kyle Lohse vs. AJ Burnett.  The Pirates jumped out to an early 2-0 lead, but it was only a matter of time until Burnett reverted to his former Yankee-pitching ways.  The game was tied in the fourth inning when the rain began pelting the field and the stands.  This delayed the action for thirty-five minutes.  

It was Walter White Night at the ballpark.

Justin and I deemed this a perfect time to try Pittsburgh’s famous Primanti Brothers sandwich, which happens to have a location at PNC Park.  Their calling card is that they take traditional sides – French fries and coleslaw – and place them inside their meaty sandwiches. We had heard from several locals that the hero is nothing special, but it’s a “definite must have.”  It turns out only one of those statements is accurate. The sandwich is, in fact, nothing special.  I didn’t anticipate it to be the tastiest sandwich in the world, but it was being lauded by Pittsburghsonians – manly, blue-collar, steel-carrying workers – as their signature delicacy.  I was expecting it to be messy, overstuffed, and manly.  It was none of these things.  As our Uncle Jonathan might say, it was “fine.”  To be completely honest, I’ve seen my dog Maximus prepare a more impressive sandwich.  And Maximus doesn’t even make that good of a sandwich.  [Justin's Note: Maximus makes a pretty good sandwich.]

Sandwich, about to be eaten

Justin, about to be disappointed

After surviving the rain and tolerating the Primanti Brothers sandwich, we decided it was time to make good on Justin's vow.  We returned to Joe's section above the first base dugout.

Hey Joe, we're in your section.

Hey Joe, you look Lou Holtz.

Of course, when we got to Joe's section, we celebrated.

When we finished celebrating, we decided to memorialize our victory.  I approached Joe and asked if he would take a photo with me.  He said yes.

As Justin got ready to take the photo, Joe had second thoughts.  Maybe he remembered us from earlier.  Maybe he's camera shy.  Or maybe he didn't like the bear-hug I gave him.  

I think the photo came out well.