In over my head
Who, me? Canoe? This indoorsy gal takes a trip down the James River.
No one would call me outdoorsy. I’m scared of bugs. I burn easily in the sun. I don’t like dirt. It’s not that I’m unadventurous—I just generally avoid hiking, biking, or anything that involves the word “trail.” I get my exercise in the gym and my tan from a can.
So, when I called James River Reeling and Rafting to set up a canoe trip from Scottsville down the James River, I actually had heart palpitations. I’m not afraid of water, per se—I can take my share of cruisin’ the deep blue, as long as it involves, say, a yacht with a shiny teak deck and one of those tasty premade Lynchburg Lemonades. But remember that movie The River Wild, with Kevin Bacon stalking Meryl Streep through a really intense whitewater rafting trip? That’s the stuff of my nightmares.
However, in the adventurous spirit of summer, I decided to venture way outside my comfort zone and booked a seven-mile downriver canoe trip, which ran through some Class I and II rapids. (Wimpy stuff for you river buffs out there, I know—but more than enough fuel for my phobia, O.K.?)
To help me conquer the insurmountable, I called the one person I knew could be my calm second—my dad.
On the big day, he woke me at 7:30am, wearing sunglasses, a wide-brimmed Crocodile Dundee hat and a plaid lumberjack shirt. I must admit that, despite the early hour, the gorgeous scenery and winding roads on the 22-mile drive to Scottsville had me feeling calmer about my impending watery doom.
But when we pulled up to Reeling ‘n’ Rafting, I felt the old stomach flip again. We were surrounded by tan guys carrying big canoes, a bus painted bright blue, racks with ambiguous, intimidating equipment and dozens and dozens of 8- to 12-year-old boys. I had forgotten it was Boy Scout day.
“Well, if they can do it, so can you!” my dad said cheerfully. So, with that optimistic encouragement spurring me along, we checked in, paid ($26 each), hopped into a van (with the big, blue, Boy Scout-stuffed bus on our tail) and were driven a few miles upriver to Warren.
By then I had confessed my river woes to our tan young guide.
“Don’t worry,” he said, grinning roguishly. “The water snakes’ll only nip at your toes a little bit.”
Great, I thought. Cute and funny.
Thankfully, once we really got going our trip was more A River Runs Through It than The River Wild. We could clearly see the rocks on the river bottom, and their smooth, shiny surfaces seemed tranquil, not menacing.
The rapids, if you can call them that, were mild and fun. Dad and I bonded over how best to navigate the rocks with Twain-ian cries of “Put the nose just between those crests!” Really, the unabashed Americana was almost too much to bear.
We finished the seven-mile paddle in about two hours, unloaded our unused provisions, and then had nothing left to do but to soak up some Scottsville charm.
We capped off the day at Pee Wee’s Pit Barbecue. With a sign above the door that proclaims proudly, “Nothing smells like Pee Wee’s Pits,” it was the kind of lunch you certainly can’t get on the Downtown Mall. The barbecue was delicious and the mac ‘n’ cheese was out of this world.
All right, so maybe I won’t earn much street cred from people who routinely navigate Class V rapids. But for someone whose idea of adventure is hiking the incline on the treadmill, canoeing on the James was a pretty wild ride.
So consider this comfort zone…busted. —Meg McEvoy
Dance hall daze
Two left feet, one nervous partner and a room full of obstacles—what could possibly go wrong?
Organized dancing frightens me.
My phobia began, I think, when I was 9 and saw the 1985 Chicago Bears perform their own song and dance video, “The Super Bowl Shuffle,” in which offensive linemen in full pads boogied and rapped: “We ain’t here to start no trouble/We’re just here to do the Super Bowl Shuffle.”
In subsequent years, my generation contributed several officially named dances to American culture. Do you remember the Cabbage Patch, the Running Man, and—forgive us—the Macarena? It’s not a proud history. I confess I’ve done these dances, and I always feel ashamed afterwards, as if these moves were acts of seemingly harmless vandalism that later gnawed at my conscience. Faced with these awful dances, my generation prefers the all-purpose two-step with a little twist and hip-hop hand waving, preferably conducted in a dark and crowded room.
To step outside my comfort zone this summer, I decided to face my fear of organized dancing. Instead of revisiting the Macarena, though, I looked back to the Jazz Age, the heyday of organized dancing, when men and women could Lindy Hop all night and still face each other the next morning. Concerned for the safety of myself (and others) I eschewed salsa, tango and pole dancing; I signed up for a lesson in beginning foxtrot at Shergold Studios.
It seemed like a wise choice. Vaudeville star Harry Fox invented the foxtrot in the summer of 1914, and it became a favorite of the ballroom craze because dancers could move through crowds, switch partners and converse while performing the easy steps. How hard could it be?
My utter ignorance of dance emerged immediately, as I perused the class sign-up sheet. “Am I a leader or a follower?” I asked aloud. Erica, the instructor, looked at me with the compassion of a kindergarten teacher. “I think you’re a leader,” she said. When the class began, I learned that leaders are the men. Lead? I thought: This could get ugly.
The class began with men facing women in a bright studio with mirrored walls. Erica performed the basic steps with perfect dancer posture and military precision: left, right, left, together. “Slow, slow, quick-quick,” she counted as I followed along, my arms held out to embrace an imaginary belle.
“Now find a partner,” said Erica.
“It’s my first time,” I explained to a patient-looking woman who assured me I would do fine. Erica cued a crooning big-band jazz number. Rigidly clutching my partner’s hand and shoulderblade, I stood motionless, trying to figure out how to start. Finally I just said, “One, two, three go!” and commenced foxtrotting, murmuring, Slow, slow, quick-quick under my breath as we danced. So much for conversation.
We changed partners every few minutes. My steps improved, but navigation was a serious problem. Veering dangerously close to the sound system, I abandoned the foxtrot and dragged my partner away from a potentially expensive collision. When a graceful couple glided too close, I stopped in mid-trot until the coast was clear. “One, two, three go!” I said each time. Somehow we always ended up trapped in a corner as other couples danced by, like a new driver who can’t figure out how to merge onto the freeway.
Erica showed me how to turn, and she showed me a neat little side-step called a “promenade,” a handy escape move that saved my partner from crashing into a row of cocktail tables. “You’re the leader,” said Erica. “That means even if you’re doing it wrong, you act like you&rsquo
;re doing it right.” That’s a life lesson if I ever heard one.
After 45 minutes I was back with my original partner for the final dance. “You’re a lot better than when you started,” she said as I clumsily blended the basic foxtrot with turns and promenades. Whew. No one got hurt. No broken toes. And the next time I’m at a club and the DJ tells everyone to throw their hands in the air, I might just grab some dame and do a little foxtrot. It’s 10 times cooler than the Cabbage Patch.—John Borgmeyer
As pro as I wanna be
My mother says I could golf like Tiger Woods if I’d just put my mind to it. Reality suggests otherwise.
For me golf is like numbers: people start talking par this and par that, and my brain waves promptly flatline, with not even the occasional blip of activity. In my opinion, watching golf is, literally, watching grass grow. So, instead of sending me to a calculus class—because a classroom is hardly summertime-friendly—my malicious co-workers quickly decided, “Wouldn’t it
be funny if we sent Nell to play golf?” Ugh. O.K.
Luckily, I was able to coerce my friend, Kelly, into coming with me for companionship. We donned sporty outfits and off we trotted to the Pen Park golf course off Rio Road.
Forget expensive Philadelphia consultants—upon arrival, I suddenly realized where the City’s money goes. Move over, Farmington, this place looks like a real, live country club! Acres of green grass and luscious trees stretch out as far as the eye can see, and there’s even a fancy little clubhouse, complete with mahogany woodwork. And the course was absolutely teaming with golfers. This was no amateur hour. Thus, Kelly and I quickly realized that an actual game was out of the question—after all, we didn’t even know how to hit balls yet. It was simply a matter of manners: We didn’t want our good time to ruin everyone else’s good time. The driving range it was.
Hoping, at the very least, for a summertime tan to come out of the experiment, Kelly and I hit 135 balls (for the bargain price of $15!) between the two of us. Some balls went 2′, some balls went 20′. Some even went 120′ (maybe). Some sailed up into the air, making a graceful arc across the hills, a few shot straight across the ground like some strange, terrestrial animal. But whether hitting the ball, hitting the sod, or missing both and just hacking at air with my club, I discovered that there is, indeed, one true glory to golf: Each little, white sphere holds the possibility of releasing its own short story of pent-up aggression. I hit one for the boy who told me my nose was too big in the sixth grade. I hit one for the jerk who ran over my cat. I hit one or two or 10 for that ex-boyfriend who—well, no need to get into that…
After an hour, I was feeling quite in touch with all of the wrongs I’ve suffered, but was also beginning to experience the pitfalls of summer sporting. I had a blister on my thumb, and Kelly was looking flushed and sunsick. So we returned our ladies’ right-hand clubs to the clubhouse, thanked the gracious pros, and on the way home took a detour. Two dresses and a pair of pants later, my blister felt much better, and a more humanoid hue had returned to Kelly’s face.
The story could end there with a “happily ever after,” but I would be remiss if I did not add that the next day, while getting my morning latte, I felt that unmistakable forearm burn that makes frothy coffee drinks feel ounces heavier than usual. This, I think, points to an inevitable truth: Psychiatric benefits aside, I’m unfit for golf. My big, beautiful nose, however, was thankful for the Vitamin D the golf course afforded it.—Nell Boeschenstein
Making up time
A latecomer to cosmetics faces her most fabulous fears
Speaking as a girl, I’ve always been uncomfortable with public displays of girliness. I’m not sure why. All I know is that, at some point, I adopted the idea that women should shake hands strongly, change the oil in their cars themselves, and rely on inner beauty rather than external remedies. But don spiky heels? Chatter about moisturizer in public? Not me. I wore the same three t-shirts with baggy corduroys for my entire college career. I shun fashion magazines. And I sometimes feel—to put it bluntly—rather drab.
Along with summer, much to my trepidation, come extra opportunities for feeling underdone. Think garden party; think Friday-night strolling on the Downtown Mall; think winery-hopping. On such occasions, I will admit to a longing for a bit more sparkle in my shimmy. And really, I suspect, just knowing how to apply some mascara once in a blue moon won’t destroy my credentials as a down-to-earth gal.
Propelled by an urge to experiment, if not actually reinvent myself, I decided to go straight to an expert—Kore Russell, proprietor of Oasis Day Spa & Body Shop—for advice. I wanted to try out some makeup; Kore recommended starting with what she called a “mini-facial,” so she’d have a clean slate for her art.
And that’s how I found myself in a softly lit room, tucked under extremely clean sheets, with pillows under my knees. So far, so good, I thought—and it only got better once Kore started pressing hot towels onto my face and chest, then massaging various cleansers and exfoliators into my skin with her incredibly tender hands. Forget being girlie—everyone, of any gender, should experience this at least once.
As she worked, Kore asked me with great tact about my skin care habits. I was a little embarrassed to reply that I usually just wash with soap. But the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, and I learned something important: Soap is actually bad for the face. Kore told me (and at this point, I was so relaxed I would have believed anything she said) that soap has a pH similar to that of Ajax. As a replacement, she gave me a teeny, tiny, girlie bag of skin-care product samples to take home: cleanser, toner and moisturizer, all labeled entirely in French.
Clean and moisturized (but not greasy!), I steeled myself for what was actually the most intimidating part of the entire experience: eyebrow waxing. Mercifully, Kore was minimal in her deletions; still, it was undeniably painful.
Finally, Kore and I emerged from our soothing lair and I climbed onto a stool in the front of the spa, where she displays her makeup products. Here’s where Kore’s expertise shone: She applied three colors of eyeshadow that I never in a million years would have chosen (all various shades of grey), and they worked beautifully. I got a touch of mascara, too. Then she put a powdered bronzer on my cheekbones before applying lipstick in a subtle color, well matched to the actual color of my lips.
For the rest of the afternoon, I collected compliments and unabashedly admired myself in every mirror I passed. My lips were sparkly, my cheeks seemed to swell just slightly, and my eyes had an intriguing “punch.” Overall, the effect was amazingly…beautiful. And I’m not just saying that because Kore told me I had great skin.
I didn’t have any outdoor soirees scheduled that evening. But I’ve never looked so fabulous while digging ditches in my garden. —Erika Howsare
How does your (bog) garden grow?
With muck and rocks and rain and blisters, if you really want to know the truth
While other C-VILLE Weekly staffers were out canoeing and singing and golfing, at least one of us had to do our duty to the city. So I meet with Susan Pleiss, volunteer coordinator for Charlottesville Parks and Recreation, to spend a few hours trying to enjoy capital-N Nature with some volunteer gardening.
Having never engaged in the task, is it wrong for me to consider gardening the tepid pastime of the emotionally lukewarm? Is it any wonder that John le Carre chose the titular Constant Gardener’s hobby to accentuate the man’s detachment and naivete? As for “volunteering”—well, whenever I hear the word, it seems to be coupled with some unpleasant or downright dangerous task, like parachuting into a Nazi fortress. It’s not that I avoid thinking about plagues or injustice—it’s just that I prefer the macrolevel. Which means reading a The New York Times article on homelessness instead of “volunteering” at the soup kitchen.
According to Pleiss, there are two types of volunteers for Charlottesville parks: the introverts—who dig the alone time with the plants—and the extroverts, who don’t really care for the work itself but enjoy the socializing aspect inherent in group activities.
Having always split on the Myers-Briggs, I tried both. Despite a light rain, I met Susan for an hour of weeding in Washington Park’s bog garden, a natural depression where runoff from the park slope pools to promote wetlands-style plant life. Rattling off plant names that I immediately forgot, Susan showed me the primary target: jewelweed. An hour rapidly passed as we weeded to expose the plant diversity in the bog garden, and (as long as I don’t get any poison ivy rashes) it wasn’t so bad. I could imagine spending a couple of hours a week out of the office helping to beautify the city, kneeling in foliage redolent of spring showers.
Unfortunately, my next hour with Charlottesville parks passed more like an hour in the gulag. To experience the group vibe, I joined about 20 high school students, whose teachers had told Susan they had “a lot of high-energy boys.” Susan, who works to match groups with appropriate tasks, brought us to Greenleaf Park to mulch a trail and haul rocks from a bad landscaping job out of a streambed.
A stick figure barely capable of lifting my own laptop, I naturally joined the group hauling 40-pound rocks. The work certainly wasn’t tepid: It was dirt-attracting, back-breaking, sweat-soaking labor. I was beat within 15 minutes. Rocks whizzed by my head as boys in the creek threw them on the bank where I was, so that I could, in turn, throw them on the grass to be placed in a wheelbarrow and delivered to a truck. A teacher worked to give the kids (and me) perspective: “Just think. If you were in certain parts of Latin America or sub-Saharan Africa, you might have to do this kind of work all day for a living.” Which didn’t exactly make us start cheering our good fortune.
When Pleiss told us to call it a day, and we gathered for a snack of Capri-Suns and Doritos, tired smiles suggested the mutual experience of hard labor actually could entrench a sense of camaraderie and support—assuming, of course, that no one inadvertently split your skull open with an ill-aimed rock.—Will Goldsmith
Cracked pipes
Can’t sing? Painfully shy? Don’t worry—it’s nothing that a little liquid courage won’t cure.
Don’t get me wrong—I love to sing. I do it in the shower, in the car, and (when there’s no one within screaming distance) when I’m out on a bike or hiking trail. But I have absolutely zero delusions about the range or quality of my voice. To be brutally honest, it stinks. When I break out my lung-busting rendition of Joe Jackson’s “Is She Really Going Out With Him?” on a solo hike, angry hawks dive-bomb my head. When I sing along to the car radio, it automatically switches to an all-sports frequency in disgust.
As you might imagine, karaoke is not exactly my idea of a good time. Oh sure, I’d like to think that I’m Chris Daughtry (only with hair, and a more dedicated fan base), but I know, deep down, that I’m really William Hung, destined to be kicked off “American Idol” in the very first round for egregious crimes against music. The idea of showcasing my tuneless warbling in front of a room full of would-be Simon Cowells is nerve-wracking in the extreme, to put it mildly.
But, in the service of good journalism, I’m willing to do almost anything. So that’s how I found myself at the Baja Bean on a recent Tuesday night (smack dab in the white-hot center, I was assured, of Charlottesville’s improbably large karaoke scene). The bar was already stuffed to the gills when I arrived, and I was none-too-pleased to find that the mic was set up front and center—so completely the focus of attention that new arrivals had to step around an earnestly vocalizing performer as they entered.
I, of course, made a beeline straight for the bar—I knew that, if I were to have any hope of taking the stage that night, I would need more than my fair share of what the Japanese wisely call “liquid courage.” That’s when I ran into a stroke of unexpected luck: Before I could order my first drink, the bartender took one look at me and said, “Hey, were you in court this morning?”
As it turned out, I had been in court that morning (on the ridiculous charge of running a red light on my bike—but that’s a whole ‘nother story). And so, before I could say, “Thank you, Charlottesville!” I had a celebratory shot of tequila sloshing around inside my butterfly-filled belly, courtesy of my new best friend (and fellow survivor of the City’s puritanical legal system).
Things moved pretty quickly from there—though not fast enough to keep me from obsessing about my upcoming karaoke debut. I watched as a couple of well-practiced UVA undergrads did a pitch-perfect version of Linkin Park’s “By Myself,” and then, with rising anxiety, as my friends totally killed with a Tony Orlando-and-Dawn-style performance of “You’re so Vain.”
I knew that I was up next, but I couldn’t even remember what song I had picked. I knew that I had chosen it as a tongue-in-cheek tribute to my girlfriend, and that it had a fair number of nonchallenging spoken-word parts, but I couldn’t for the life of me recall the exact song.
Then, just as the bored-looking DJ mumbled my name, it hit me: I had somehow committed myself to aping the most excessively charismatic man in metal, “Dia-mond” David Lee Roth. The rolling drums kicked in, the crowd cheered its approval, and I launched into what can only be described as a chaotic, cat-in-a-blender massacre of “Hot for Teacher.”
But you know what? I had a total blast, and the crowd didn’t seem to care one bit that my high notes were peeling the varnish off the tables. In fact, although it might just be the tequila talking, I could swear, as I executed my final spin-kick and dropped to one knee, Diamond-Dave style, there were actual cheers and applause (and not just the kind the fifth runner-up in the Special Olympics sack race might get).
So there you have it. Not only did I enjoy myself, but I also learned an important lesson: It’s not the strength of your pipes or pyrotechnic vocal
ability that make karaoke fun, it’s the pure, uninhibited joy of performance. (Oh yeah—and the free tequila.) —Dan Catalano
Want to follow in our adventurous footsteps? Start here.
Canoeing
The Denby family has been running James River Reeling and Rafting for over 17 years. They’ll take you canoeing, kayaking or rafting, but their most popular attraction is tubing. Grab 10 friends and float, lazy river-style, down the James ($17/person). You can even get a small tube for your cooler ($7). www.reelingandrafting. com or 286-4FUN.
You can also check out James River Runners at www.jamesriver.com or 286-2338. Same river, different folks.
Dancing
Shergold Studios (975-4611) on Berkmar Drive offers a wide range of classes in everything from ballroom to pole dancing. There are several other dance studios around town, including Wilson School of Dance (973-5678), FootNotes Music and Dance (242-0605) and Terry Dean’s Dance Studio (977-3327).
Golfing
The Meadowcreek Golf Course is located at Pen Park, just off Park Street. For the bargain price of $23 to $29 (depending on the day and whether the golfer is a city resident) golfers can enjoy 18 holes. If walking isn’t your bag, add an additional $16 per player for a cart. If you just want to hit balls, it’s $5 for a basket of 45 balls. For more information call 977-0615.
Makeover
We enjoyed our visit at Oasis Day Spa, and if you want to become lovelier yourself, there are many additional places to make it happen in Charlottesville. In other words, we’re rich in skin care and makeup services. Just don’t forget to call ahead for an appointment! Here’s a partial list of area spas and salons: About You Day Spa (296-1167), Boar’s Head Inn Spa (972-2253), Bristles (977-1411), Bubbles (973-0450), Escapes Day Spa (973-9440), Innovations (295-4247), Moxie (979-5556), Oasis Day Spa (244-9667), Paragon (295-3871), Salon Cielo (293-2667), Signature Spa (923-4646), The Spa at ACAC (817-7378), Three (923-0333), Vanity Salon (977-3332).
Gardening
Susan Pleiss works with volunteer groups that include UVA greeks, scout troops, corporations, and every local school. She also helps supply volunteers who wish to adopt a spot for individual gardening. If interested in volunteering either individually or as a group, contact her at 970-3585 or pleiss@charlottesville.org.
Karaoke
Charlottesville is absolutely overflowing with karaoke joints, so you don’t ever have to go a day of the week without performing in your own personal “American Idol.” One of the most popular takes place on Tuesdays at the Baja Bean on the Corner (293-4507), although others swear by Wednesday night’s “Kamikaze karaoke” at Jabber-wocky on University Avenue. (984-4653). And, of course, you can rent the karaoke room at Tokyo Rose any time (296-3366). For a complete list of karaoke venues, check the C-VILLE Weekly calendar listings.
