random notes about Hampton Roads

Virginia Beach is a giant suburb of Norfolk with a cloying beach drag at the far end. Virginia has weird laws that make it more practical to incorporate an entire county as an Independent City, so all seven cities in the Hampton Roads turf did this in the 1970s or so.

Eleven miles of expressway probe into a snarl of drag routes like a fork left in a bowl of linguini. Many of these main drags seem parallel until each meets. Many of them share names, which is annoying: the Lynnhaven Mall is at the intersection of Lynnhaven Blvd and Lynnhaven Drive, which are different but equally prominent strip mall hosts. I've been living in Boston so long that I'm almost in awe of these multi-lane streets with coordinated traffic lights and long stretches where you can go 60 and not be noticed.

I have a horror story to tell about being dragged to Hooters. I haven't had such a lousy dinner event in a long time. Please understand: I am a long-time fan of breasts and I still hated being there.

I walked in with grace_of_gemini and three of her friends and we were hit with a wall of loud. After waiting a while for someone to seat us, we were then hit with the evening's louder attraction: the first game of the NBA Finals.

When I drive to work, I take Beacon Street to Storrow Drive, then I-93 up the Zakim Bridge and almost to I-495. Storrow Drive meets I-93 at the North Garden, where last night's game was played. I had driven over 600 miles to avoid being near that building during my commute to work (when the crowd would be leaving the place). Suddenly, I was in worse pain.

I have a wandering... okay, leering eye. Shouldn't I have been happy? Oh hells no. I was creeped out once I figured out the waitresses' outfits were all polyester, from the shirt to hot pants to support hose. Even though the cleavage was mostly real, everything else was covered in plastic. These were live Barbie dolls. I find unblemished people frightening.

Do not be fooled by claims that you can get a meal at Hooter's. You can get decent (but smallish) wings for a high price. The garlic sauce was decent. Nothing else was good.

The testosterone was high in the room. The girls swirled around and kept it mildly simmered. My waitress kept claiming they had no clean coffee mugs, which is why I waited forty minutes before she realized the place was out of decaf.

The server was a ditz about the coffee but nothing else. This mental block about coffee extended to the bill, where she claimed it wouldn't be on there but it was. I simply rounded down instead of ripping her off -- she had brought food promptly and was otherwise friendly. This wasn't mind-blowing service, even by lousy Boston standards.

The noise made me very unhappy. I wore ear plugs a lot of the time. It siphoned my energy and made me crabby. I barely contributed to the conversation. I wound up taking a nap later.

The hookah lounge we went to on Wednesday night was a lot more enjoyable. This was not the typical hookah joint because it didn't serve food, was run by some dudes in their twenties and had a mostly under-21 crowd. However the prices were fabulous, the brands of shisha were superior to the usual cough-laden crap and the house mint blend was smoothing. Oh, and the staff totally rawked -- checking the coals, carrying on fascinating conversations, keeping the place rolling and never letting bad vibes take over. We spent a fine few hours chatting and chilling. If you're ever in Newport News, take the exit for US 13 south and look for the strip mall on your right with the lighted "Hookah Lounge" sign. Oh man, good stuff...

I'm leaving tomorrow morning I think. I want to tell the story of this crazy house where I've been staying. However I wait until I am no longer its guest.

-plenty more to tell, Ps/d