“Honey, honey, honey … we’re in Cleveland.”
It was a natural response to a pointed question about finding a pair of
designer shoes, quickly, for a photo shoot.
In Cleveland.
There we sat, in a dusty old Hard Rock Café (don’t ask), planning for the
next day’s fashion shoot at the nearby Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.
We’d brought a whole crew of folks to town for the occasion, from lighting and
camera people to stylists, wardrobe assistants and me, whose purpose at these
events has yet to be determined (except to gain material for the Travel Snob
column, apparently).
I’ve found myself in stranger quarters, no doubt. Gliding down a river on a
bamboo raft in Jamaica … eating live shrimp in Shanghai … falling off a horse in
Santiago. But I never expected to find myself in Cleveland, doing a fashion shoot
no less. It’s just not the type of destination the Travel Snob considers when jet-
setting.
Seriously, Cleveland is where you get your metal pipes. Send your
recycling. Stop for re-fueling en route to Teterboro. Or maybe it’s where that
one cousin with the funny eye worked before getting buried in the salt mines.
Observant TV watchers also know it as the setting for The Drew Carey Show, a
dreary comedy about office colleagues wearing cheap suits to work. The
Economist may have voted Cleveland the Most Livable City back in 2005, but
that’s The Economist, the magazine your parents read if only to leave on the
coffee table to impress the neighbors during Parcheesi night.
But it’s Cleveland I found myself -- for four days in the heart of its bustling
downtown. And to my great surprise it was one of the nicest, cleanest, most
attractive big cities I’ve visited, with streets lined by trendy restaurants, bars and
nightclubs, upscale shopping and interesting museums, exhibits and attractions.
And I assure you, I’m entirely sober and conscious as I type this, save for the
Vicodin I just popped to alleviate me from the pain that has become “Desperate
Housewives.”
The first sign that something was amiss, and by amiss I mean “Cleveland
not as bad as I imagined,” was the airport experience, made only more jarring by
the contrast to New York’s very own LaGuardia, a cesspool that tests your faith
in humanity and all that is good in this world. It’s Dante’s Seventh Ring of Hell
occupied not by Brutus or Cassius but hostile ticket agents, clueless security
screeners and Cinnabon employees whose gasp of math ends with Fitty Cent.
Thankfully, after umpteenth gate changes, we boarded our shuttle and arrived
in Cleveland in a record 45 minutes flat.
What we found surprised all of us: our luggage, waiting for us like a bunch
of spoiled kids whose mom is late picking them up from Pilates. Our driver was
there too, parked outside near the curb and not six stories up in some parking
garage a’la JFK. He loaded us into a shiny new Escalade ready to whisk us to
the hotel ... although the term “whisk” has far too much of a whimsical
connotation for my taste. It implies actually wanting to go where you are being
"whisked" too, like the recurring dream I have involving a certain "Battlestar
Galactica" star flying me off to some far away colony, even if its been devastated
by nuclear holocaust (you say radiation, I say suntan!) Unlike Cleveland, which
to the best of my knowledge not radioactive but not exact whisk-worthy either.
What is worthy is The Ritz-Carlton, which all but threw a ticker-tape parade
for our arrival. I know, I was as surprised as you to find Cleveland had a Ritz-
Carlton, and even more relieved to not have a flashing neon sign advertising
“Free HBO” invading my window at night. The staff greeted us warmly, and then
brought us up to our luxury accommodations, which measure up to any other
properties in its chain, except maybe Key Biscayne. Oh, and Palm Beach is
fantastic. Wait, Georgetown is awesome, too. Whatever, you get the point, and if
you don’t you need only witness the snappy service, fawning staff, elegant décor
terrific food and wine brimming throughout the property. Owing to its ties to the
nearby Rock Hall, the hotel placed in my room a giant guitar made of chocolate,
which I wisely chose not to use as a prop for a quick game of “Guitar Hero” not
because they didn’t have an Xbox but because I was wearing Armani.
Our crew would spend hours hanging out in the hotel’s lobby bar, eating
truffle fries and celebrating over its signature martinis, like the CEO (Chopin
Vodka with Extra Olives), which is what fueled a devious prank on our jet-lagged
photographer. Sensing the poor guy didn’t know which way was up, not exactly
what you want to see from the guy shooting your fashion spread the next day,
we sent two of our crew members upstairs to dress up as rocks stars and return
in the persona of INXS lead singer JD and his Russian wife Natasha, from
Belarus. The bet was our photographer would buy it, and he did, despite having
spent most of the evening with our two imposters, one of whom had an
unmistakable Australian accent. The rest of the bar bought the joke too, and
began snapping photos like Los Angeles commuters passing a car crash,
flashing their camera phones (though thankfully not thongs), and requesting
autographs, which we happily and hysterically obliged.
I was hoping our stunt would get US into The Ritz-Carlton, Cleveland’s
“Martini Hall of Fame,” but no. That distinction is reserved for boring community
do-gooders who can have martini flavors and glasses created and personalized
in their honor. The hotel imagines actual recipe for the recipient’s drink, using
personal characteristics as inspiration for the ingredients; next local glass
sculptor Skip Streeter creates a distinctive martini glass, which is showcased in
the Ritz-Carlton lobby display case.
The most commercial draw to the city is easily the Rock and Roll Hall of
Fame, the world's first museum dedicated to the living heritage of rock and roll
music, which, surprisingly, Cleveland has a big claim, having coined the genre
(ok, it was a DJ broadcasting from Cleveland). It was an interesting though not
off base decision to build the Rock Hall here, and the city has certainly
embraced the venue as a national treasure, which features dynamic interactive
exhibits, intimate performance spaces and which presents a rotation of artifact
and costume displays from the museum's permanent collection. Designed by
internationally renowned architect I.M. Pei, its building is a striking state-of-the-
art facility housing items like Bruce Springsteen’s outfit from the cover of Born in
the U.S.A., Prince’s Purple Rain coat, Madonna’s bustier from “Like a Virgin,”
John Lennon’s and Ringo Starr’s Sgt. Pepper uniforms, Telegram from Paul &
Linda McCartney to Neil Young, and John Lennon passport and green card,
neither of which he used to flee Yoko.
It was a natural response to a pointed question about finding a pair of
designer shoes, quickly, for a photo shoot.
In Cleveland.
There we sat, in a dusty old Hard Rock Café (don’t ask), planning for the
next day’s fashion shoot at the nearby Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.
We’d brought a whole crew of folks to town for the occasion, from lighting and
camera people to stylists, wardrobe assistants and me, whose purpose at these
events has yet to be determined (except to gain material for the Travel Snob
column, apparently).
I’ve found myself in stranger quarters, no doubt. Gliding down a river on a
bamboo raft in Jamaica … eating live shrimp in Shanghai … falling off a horse in
Santiago. But I never expected to find myself in Cleveland, doing a fashion shoot
no less. It’s just not the type of destination the Travel Snob considers when jet-
setting.
Seriously, Cleveland is where you get your metal pipes. Send your
recycling. Stop for re-fueling en route to Teterboro. Or maybe it’s where that
one cousin with the funny eye worked before getting buried in the salt mines.
Observant TV watchers also know it as the setting for The Drew Carey Show, a
dreary comedy about office colleagues wearing cheap suits to work. The
Economist may have voted Cleveland the Most Livable City back in 2005, but
that’s The Economist, the magazine your parents read if only to leave on the
coffee table to impress the neighbors during Parcheesi night.
But it’s Cleveland I found myself -- for four days in the heart of its bustling
downtown. And to my great surprise it was one of the nicest, cleanest, most
attractive big cities I’ve visited, with streets lined by trendy restaurants, bars and
nightclubs, upscale shopping and interesting museums, exhibits and attractions.
And I assure you, I’m entirely sober and conscious as I type this, save for the
Vicodin I just popped to alleviate me from the pain that has become “Desperate
Housewives.”
The first sign that something was amiss, and by amiss I mean “Cleveland
not as bad as I imagined,” was the airport experience, made only more jarring by
the contrast to New York’s very own LaGuardia, a cesspool that tests your faith
in humanity and all that is good in this world. It’s Dante’s Seventh Ring of Hell
occupied not by Brutus or Cassius but hostile ticket agents, clueless security
screeners and Cinnabon employees whose gasp of math ends with Fitty Cent.
Thankfully, after umpteenth gate changes, we boarded our shuttle and arrived
in Cleveland in a record 45 minutes flat.
What we found surprised all of us: our luggage, waiting for us like a bunch
of spoiled kids whose mom is late picking them up from Pilates. Our driver was
there too, parked outside near the curb and not six stories up in some parking
garage a’la JFK. He loaded us into a shiny new Escalade ready to whisk us to
the hotel ... although the term “whisk” has far too much of a whimsical
connotation for my taste. It implies actually wanting to go where you are being
"whisked" too, like the recurring dream I have involving a certain "Battlestar
Galactica" star flying me off to some far away colony, even if its been devastated
by nuclear holocaust (you say radiation, I say suntan!) Unlike Cleveland, which
to the best of my knowledge not radioactive but not exact whisk-worthy either.
What is worthy is The Ritz-Carlton, which all but threw a ticker-tape parade
for our arrival. I know, I was as surprised as you to find Cleveland had a Ritz-
Carlton, and even more relieved to not have a flashing neon sign advertising
“Free HBO” invading my window at night. The staff greeted us warmly, and then
brought us up to our luxury accommodations, which measure up to any other
properties in its chain, except maybe Key Biscayne. Oh, and Palm Beach is
fantastic. Wait, Georgetown is awesome, too. Whatever, you get the point, and if
you don’t you need only witness the snappy service, fawning staff, elegant décor
terrific food and wine brimming throughout the property. Owing to its ties to the
nearby Rock Hall, the hotel placed in my room a giant guitar made of chocolate,
which I wisely chose not to use as a prop for a quick game of “Guitar Hero” not
because they didn’t have an Xbox but because I was wearing Armani.
Our crew would spend hours hanging out in the hotel’s lobby bar, eating
truffle fries and celebrating over its signature martinis, like the CEO (Chopin
Vodka with Extra Olives), which is what fueled a devious prank on our jet-lagged
photographer. Sensing the poor guy didn’t know which way was up, not exactly
what you want to see from the guy shooting your fashion spread the next day,
we sent two of our crew members upstairs to dress up as rocks stars and return
in the persona of INXS lead singer JD and his Russian wife Natasha, from
Belarus. The bet was our photographer would buy it, and he did, despite having
spent most of the evening with our two imposters, one of whom had an
unmistakable Australian accent. The rest of the bar bought the joke too, and
began snapping photos like Los Angeles commuters passing a car crash,
flashing their camera phones (though thankfully not thongs), and requesting
autographs, which we happily and hysterically obliged.
I was hoping our stunt would get US into The Ritz-Carlton, Cleveland’s
“Martini Hall of Fame,” but no. That distinction is reserved for boring community
do-gooders who can have martini flavors and glasses created and personalized
in their honor. The hotel imagines actual recipe for the recipient’s drink, using
personal characteristics as inspiration for the ingredients; next local glass
sculptor Skip Streeter creates a distinctive martini glass, which is showcased in
the Ritz-Carlton lobby display case.
The most commercial draw to the city is easily the Rock and Roll Hall of
Fame, the world's first museum dedicated to the living heritage of rock and roll
music, which, surprisingly, Cleveland has a big claim, having coined the genre
(ok, it was a DJ broadcasting from Cleveland). It was an interesting though not
off base decision to build the Rock Hall here, and the city has certainly
embraced the venue as a national treasure, which features dynamic interactive
exhibits, intimate performance spaces and which presents a rotation of artifact
and costume displays from the museum's permanent collection. Designed by
internationally renowned architect I.M. Pei, its building is a striking state-of-the-
art facility housing items like Bruce Springsteen’s outfit from the cover of Born in
the U.S.A., Prince’s Purple Rain coat, Madonna’s bustier from “Like a Virgin,”
John Lennon’s and Ringo Starr’s Sgt. Pepper uniforms, Telegram from Paul &
Linda McCartney to Neil Young, and John Lennon passport and green card,
neither of which he used to flee Yoko.
| Cleveland on my Mind |
| Seriously, I'm Thinking About Cleveland. Please Help. |