Subject
[Fwd: Vladimir Nabokov fell in love with America while living in
Ithaca ...]
Ithaca ...]
From
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EDITOR's NOTE. NABOKV-L thanks Sandy Klein for this charming description
of Nabokov's "hometown" in the U.S.
--------------------------------
-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Vladimir Nabokov fell in love with America while living in
Ithaca ...
Date: Sun, 02 Jun 2002 12:09:16 -0400
From: "Sandy P. Klein" <spklein52@hotmail.com>
Reply-To: SPKlein52@HotMail.com
To:
CC:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A40473-2002May31.html Dipping
Into the Finger Lakes By Ambrose Clancy
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, June 2, 2002; Page E01
At the end of "Tender Is the Night," F. Scott Fitzgerald dooms his hero,
Dick Diver, formerly of the Riviera and Paris, to wander New York's
Finger Lakes. After spending some time here, my only reaction is that we
should all be so lucky.
It's a simple place -- just villages, towns, orchards, vineyards, corn
and dairy farms sprawled on hillsides, dipping into glens. Serene small
towns are set in landscapes mostly free of billboards or roadside
attractions.
The area's borders are, roughly, Lake Ontario to the north, Syracuse at
the eastern end, Rochester to the west and the town of Elmira to the
south. A line of 11 slender lakes, all running north to south, define
the region. These exceptionally deep lakes (Seneca is more than 600 feet
to the bottom) are sailed, fished and swum, and take their character and
color from the changing skies. Stands of birch thrash in the wind,
bordered by meadows, and the land rolls away to the silvery shine of
waterfalls.
Vladimir Nabokov fell in love with America while living in Ithaca, the
college town at the foot of Cayuga Lake. He taught at Cornell and set
his novel "Pale Fire" in Ithaca, which he renamed New Wye and moved to
Appalachia. The fictionalized region was apt; the country surrounding
Ithaca has hollows, streams, dirt roads, the '84 Pontiac rusting next to
the beleaguered porch that someone didn't quite get around to.
"Ithaca Is Gorges," say the bumper stickers. That's right on both
counts, and a good place to start for a two- or three-day drive around
the area. The downtown pedestrian Commons is clean, quietly funky,
without chain stores or "Clockwork Orange" attitude. The Saturday
farmers market has ragamuffin kids running free past stalls selling
everything from Cambodian food to Hawaiian shirts patterned with '40s
bathing beauties. Slow rags and jump blues are played by blissed-out
musicians. Most vendors look as if they came to school here in 1970 and
never left.
Gorges are everywhere throughout the Finger Lakes, and to explore one
cutting directly through the heart of Ithaca, start at the corner of
Court and Linn streets. In the distance is a waterfall with a path
sliced out of rock leading up to it. This is Cascadilla Gorge. Like its
countless mates and the 11 lakes, it was formed -- the Iroquois have it
on good authority -- by the Great Spirit who blessed the country by
laying on his hand, creating the fingers of water. Some people don't
believe this but insist that 550 million years ago glaciers pounded
through north to south and, when they thawed, carved out a singularly
American place.
The waterfall is about an hour's hike up through the broken light of
Cascadilla, and on late mornings it's rare to encounter another person.
Within minutes you feel as if you're in wilderness, the town gone and
forgotten, and find yourself whispering when the gorge flattens to water
moving as slow as syrup past high walls of shale. Approaching falls and
rapids at the next bend of the stream, you have to shout to be heard.
Smells of moss, grapevine, wet sandstone stay constant up to the top,
where a wooden stairway leads to the lip of the gorge and a sudden,
startling reality worthy of Nabokov: bicycles, cars, buildings, reversed
baseball caps and backpacks. Cornell University.
After your hike, stay healthy and have lunch at the Moosewood
Restaurant. Yes, that's the same Moosewood beloved by hippies and
vegetarians, the same people who produce the best-selling cookbooks. It
is an unpretentious place with an attentive staff of college kids. The
curried egg salad and vegetable soup with wild mushrooms is delicious
with a glass of the local Riesling.
As you drive up the eastern shore of Cayuga Lake, the country opens out
with lush farms and tall white silos anchored to weathered red barns.
(Although Cayuga is the longest lake, it is only 40 miles south to
north, so you can easily meander along its shores, then visit Seneca
Lake, and make it to Canandaigua Lake by late afternoon.) Past the town
of Aurora, a narrow road rises to a brick plaza next to a converted
dairy barn high over the white-capped lake. This is MacKenzie-Childs,
where 240 artisans create pottery and furniture in a style where country
inn meets the Casbah.
A tour takes you through workshops where you can follow raw clay and
rough wood making their way through skilled hands to brightly finished
products. The restaurant's ceiling looks like the Sistine Chapel, if
Michelangelo had used found objects instead of paint: chairs, dolls,
desks, bird cages, Coke bottles, tasseled pillows. Outside are gardens
and livestock, including a herd of shaggy Scottish Highland cattle --
four-legged representations of the MacKenzie-Childs idea.
The lovely drive along Cayuga, tracking hills rising and falling next to
lake coves, can remind you that it's difficult to go anywhere in
America, even the most idyllic spots, without traveling over a strata of
tragedy. In August 1779, Gen. John Sullivan came this way, carrying a
brief from George Washington to make total war on the Iroquois and "lay
waste all the settlements around so that the country may not only be
overrun but destroyed." It was the end of the Iroquois confederacy of
six tribes, a centuries-old organization that kept peace among
themselves, one so successful that New York Gov. George Clinton named
them the "Romans of the West." Sullivan's men massacred or put to flight
everyone in their path and burned everything to the ground.
In the 19th century, the Finger Lakes area was called the "burned-over
district," not in memory of Sullivan's rampages but because of the fiery
religious passions the place inspired. Joseph Smith went into the woods
surrounding Palmyra and came out as the first Mormon. Other groups, who
believed in celibacy for all members, weren't thinking too many moves
ahead. There were Perfectionists burning for converts along with
Spiritualists, as well as Jemima Wilkinson, who changed her name to
Publick Universal Friend. Born of this spiritual heat were earthquake
social movements, including abolition and feminism, the latter
celebrated in Seneca Falls by the National Women's Hall of Fame and the
Women's Rights National Historical Park.
Poet Deborah Tall, who has lived in the region for more than 20 years,
understands the catastrophic history and palpable sense of mysticism
that seems to rise organically out of the landscape as easily as mist on
morning lakes. "Everywhere I go now, I see things no one else sees," she
writes in her beautiful book "From Where We Stand." "One eye on the
road, one eye on the invisible, I straddle the here and there, the now
and then, and feel surprisingly at home."
Finger Lakes weather is often a series of dramatic gestures, such as a
storm gathering one recent afternoon in high skies over Geneva, at the
top of Seneca Lake. Twenty miles to the west, in the countryside outside
Canandaigua, we could see the storm flashing and rumbling up the lake
from Lisa Herrick's upstairs porch at her B&B, Villa Bianca. When the
rain finally swept down on the hilltop house, it was time to go inside
through dark velvet curtains at the porch door. A chenille throw lay on
the four-poster bed and Herrick had set a plate of mozzarella, basil and
tomato on a table next to two wineglasses with a basket of freshly baked
bread.
Of course, we allowed some time for vineyards and wineries -- an easy
task with close to 80 sites to choose from. In the heights above Keuka
Lake, Konstantine Frank, a European immigrant, proved 40 years ago that
vitis vinifera, the classic European grape varieties, could thrive in
Upstate New York. Two hundred years of conventional wisdom had said that
winters were too cruel for the aristocratic vines. Frank, who had
managed estates in Ukraine, knew better, and persevered to the point
where the winery bearing his name produces truly superlative vintages,
by any standard. His son Willy and grandson Fred continue to improve the
tradition. Their quality reds consistently beat French and Napa
offerings at blind tastings.
"Wow," said a visitor, setting down a glass of pinot noir. Willy Frank
nodded and said, "Of course, wow. Now try this Chateau Frank Champagne.
It's better than wow."
Stopping for lunch in Penn Yan (a town named for its original
population, Pennsylvanians and Yankees), we found another version of
Finger Lakes picturesque, at a place called Holly's Red Rooster --
Dwight Yoakam on the jukebox, waitresses who call you "honey" and
"doll," trays of fish sandwiches, coleslaw and iced glasses of draft
Genesee beer.
Afterward, heading for Hammondsport, we missed a turn and ended up on a
dirt road that bumped down through woods, curved and rose up to a
crossroads. Across the road, four cows in a meadow turned and four heads
came up at once, chewing, staring. A hawk sailed a wide spiral. Sun
shadows fled across the fields toward the lake. Time passed. We were in
no hurry to check a map.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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of Nabokov's "hometown" in the U.S.
--------------------------------
-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Vladimir Nabokov fell in love with America while living in
Ithaca ...
Date: Sun, 02 Jun 2002 12:09:16 -0400
From: "Sandy P. Klein" <spklein52@hotmail.com>
Reply-To: SPKlein52@HotMail.com
To:
CC:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A40473-2002May31.html Dipping
Into the Finger Lakes By Ambrose Clancy
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, June 2, 2002; Page E01
At the end of "Tender Is the Night," F. Scott Fitzgerald dooms his hero,
Dick Diver, formerly of the Riviera and Paris, to wander New York's
Finger Lakes. After spending some time here, my only reaction is that we
should all be so lucky.
It's a simple place -- just villages, towns, orchards, vineyards, corn
and dairy farms sprawled on hillsides, dipping into glens. Serene small
towns are set in landscapes mostly free of billboards or roadside
attractions.
The area's borders are, roughly, Lake Ontario to the north, Syracuse at
the eastern end, Rochester to the west and the town of Elmira to the
south. A line of 11 slender lakes, all running north to south, define
the region. These exceptionally deep lakes (Seneca is more than 600 feet
to the bottom) are sailed, fished and swum, and take their character and
color from the changing skies. Stands of birch thrash in the wind,
bordered by meadows, and the land rolls away to the silvery shine of
waterfalls.
Vladimir Nabokov fell in love with America while living in Ithaca, the
college town at the foot of Cayuga Lake. He taught at Cornell and set
his novel "Pale Fire" in Ithaca, which he renamed New Wye and moved to
Appalachia. The fictionalized region was apt; the country surrounding
Ithaca has hollows, streams, dirt roads, the '84 Pontiac rusting next to
the beleaguered porch that someone didn't quite get around to.
"Ithaca Is Gorges," say the bumper stickers. That's right on both
counts, and a good place to start for a two- or three-day drive around
the area. The downtown pedestrian Commons is clean, quietly funky,
without chain stores or "Clockwork Orange" attitude. The Saturday
farmers market has ragamuffin kids running free past stalls selling
everything from Cambodian food to Hawaiian shirts patterned with '40s
bathing beauties. Slow rags and jump blues are played by blissed-out
musicians. Most vendors look as if they came to school here in 1970 and
never left.
Gorges are everywhere throughout the Finger Lakes, and to explore one
cutting directly through the heart of Ithaca, start at the corner of
Court and Linn streets. In the distance is a waterfall with a path
sliced out of rock leading up to it. This is Cascadilla Gorge. Like its
countless mates and the 11 lakes, it was formed -- the Iroquois have it
on good authority -- by the Great Spirit who blessed the country by
laying on his hand, creating the fingers of water. Some people don't
believe this but insist that 550 million years ago glaciers pounded
through north to south and, when they thawed, carved out a singularly
American place.
The waterfall is about an hour's hike up through the broken light of
Cascadilla, and on late mornings it's rare to encounter another person.
Within minutes you feel as if you're in wilderness, the town gone and
forgotten, and find yourself whispering when the gorge flattens to water
moving as slow as syrup past high walls of shale. Approaching falls and
rapids at the next bend of the stream, you have to shout to be heard.
Smells of moss, grapevine, wet sandstone stay constant up to the top,
where a wooden stairway leads to the lip of the gorge and a sudden,
startling reality worthy of Nabokov: bicycles, cars, buildings, reversed
baseball caps and backpacks. Cornell University.
After your hike, stay healthy and have lunch at the Moosewood
Restaurant. Yes, that's the same Moosewood beloved by hippies and
vegetarians, the same people who produce the best-selling cookbooks. It
is an unpretentious place with an attentive staff of college kids. The
curried egg salad and vegetable soup with wild mushrooms is delicious
with a glass of the local Riesling.
As you drive up the eastern shore of Cayuga Lake, the country opens out
with lush farms and tall white silos anchored to weathered red barns.
(Although Cayuga is the longest lake, it is only 40 miles south to
north, so you can easily meander along its shores, then visit Seneca
Lake, and make it to Canandaigua Lake by late afternoon.) Past the town
of Aurora, a narrow road rises to a brick plaza next to a converted
dairy barn high over the white-capped lake. This is MacKenzie-Childs,
where 240 artisans create pottery and furniture in a style where country
inn meets the Casbah.
A tour takes you through workshops where you can follow raw clay and
rough wood making their way through skilled hands to brightly finished
products. The restaurant's ceiling looks like the Sistine Chapel, if
Michelangelo had used found objects instead of paint: chairs, dolls,
desks, bird cages, Coke bottles, tasseled pillows. Outside are gardens
and livestock, including a herd of shaggy Scottish Highland cattle --
four-legged representations of the MacKenzie-Childs idea.
The lovely drive along Cayuga, tracking hills rising and falling next to
lake coves, can remind you that it's difficult to go anywhere in
America, even the most idyllic spots, without traveling over a strata of
tragedy. In August 1779, Gen. John Sullivan came this way, carrying a
brief from George Washington to make total war on the Iroquois and "lay
waste all the settlements around so that the country may not only be
overrun but destroyed." It was the end of the Iroquois confederacy of
six tribes, a centuries-old organization that kept peace among
themselves, one so successful that New York Gov. George Clinton named
them the "Romans of the West." Sullivan's men massacred or put to flight
everyone in their path and burned everything to the ground.
In the 19th century, the Finger Lakes area was called the "burned-over
district," not in memory of Sullivan's rampages but because of the fiery
religious passions the place inspired. Joseph Smith went into the woods
surrounding Palmyra and came out as the first Mormon. Other groups, who
believed in celibacy for all members, weren't thinking too many moves
ahead. There were Perfectionists burning for converts along with
Spiritualists, as well as Jemima Wilkinson, who changed her name to
Publick Universal Friend. Born of this spiritual heat were earthquake
social movements, including abolition and feminism, the latter
celebrated in Seneca Falls by the National Women's Hall of Fame and the
Women's Rights National Historical Park.
Poet Deborah Tall, who has lived in the region for more than 20 years,
understands the catastrophic history and palpable sense of mysticism
that seems to rise organically out of the landscape as easily as mist on
morning lakes. "Everywhere I go now, I see things no one else sees," she
writes in her beautiful book "From Where We Stand." "One eye on the
road, one eye on the invisible, I straddle the here and there, the now
and then, and feel surprisingly at home."
Finger Lakes weather is often a series of dramatic gestures, such as a
storm gathering one recent afternoon in high skies over Geneva, at the
top of Seneca Lake. Twenty miles to the west, in the countryside outside
Canandaigua, we could see the storm flashing and rumbling up the lake
from Lisa Herrick's upstairs porch at her B&B, Villa Bianca. When the
rain finally swept down on the hilltop house, it was time to go inside
through dark velvet curtains at the porch door. A chenille throw lay on
the four-poster bed and Herrick had set a plate of mozzarella, basil and
tomato on a table next to two wineglasses with a basket of freshly baked
bread.
Of course, we allowed some time for vineyards and wineries -- an easy
task with close to 80 sites to choose from. In the heights above Keuka
Lake, Konstantine Frank, a European immigrant, proved 40 years ago that
vitis vinifera, the classic European grape varieties, could thrive in
Upstate New York. Two hundred years of conventional wisdom had said that
winters were too cruel for the aristocratic vines. Frank, who had
managed estates in Ukraine, knew better, and persevered to the point
where the winery bearing his name produces truly superlative vintages,
by any standard. His son Willy and grandson Fred continue to improve the
tradition. Their quality reds consistently beat French and Napa
offerings at blind tastings.
"Wow," said a visitor, setting down a glass of pinot noir. Willy Frank
nodded and said, "Of course, wow. Now try this Chateau Frank Champagne.
It's better than wow."
Stopping for lunch in Penn Yan (a town named for its original
population, Pennsylvanians and Yankees), we found another version of
Finger Lakes picturesque, at a place called Holly's Red Rooster --
Dwight Yoakam on the jukebox, waitresses who call you "honey" and
"doll," trays of fish sandwiches, coleslaw and iced glasses of draft
Genesee beer.
Afterward, heading for Hammondsport, we missed a turn and ended up on a
dirt road that bumped down through woods, curved and rose up to a
crossroads. Across the road, four cows in a meadow turned and four heads
came up at once, chewing, staring. A hawk sailed a wide spiral. Sun
shadows fled across the fields toward the lake. Time passed. We were in
no hurry to check a map.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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