When we woke we were glad we had been talked into the full English breakfast buffet when we checked in the night before. We stuffed ourselves knowing we would not be eating until later when we met up with David and Chris. After breakfast, we grabbed our bags and walked the few short blocks to the Reading train station. A short wait and we were on the train back to London.

We arrived at Paddington Station a bit earlier than we expected, so we made our way to a coffee shop around the corner from the Pavilion, where we had booked the same room we had two days prior. At the coffee shop we sipped our drinks and shared a pastry while finishing up the last of the post cards.

We were at the hotel only long enough to drop our bags, and use the loo, before making our way to the Tate Modern. On the way to the museum we stopped for a pint at one of my favourite pubs, the Blackfriar. The place seems to be more of a tourist spot than anyone’s local, but the building is unusual, the decor is lovely, and the beer is good, and in warmer months than December one can sit outside in the garden and watch London rush past.

No time for such nonsense today as we still had plans to see lots and lots of art. We walked along the river and crossed via the Wobbly Bridge, cautiously making our way around the giant spider, and the throngs of tourists. Inside the place was a madhouse. We found a floor map brochure and made our way to the closest floor with free art, using the stairs to avoid the lift queues.

A former power station, the Tate Modern has huge spaces, which is probably a good thing when it is busy like it was. Sarah and I did our best to stay in the same room together so as not to get lost, but allowed ourselves the freedom to explore pieces on our own. It was very odd to be in an art museum and have it buzzing so, but the vibe was eventually something of an art itself, and when I wasn’t looking at the interesting (and sometimes odd) art works, I found myself watching the visitors. I heard so many languages, but rarely English. If you had asked me earlier if I would want to go to a huge museum knowing it would be packed, I would have said no. I’m glad I wasn’t asked.

We wandered for hours, looking at sculptures, paintings, video, and more; pretty sure we had seen everything available to us. I wish I had taken notes. With a dinner date at the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese coming up, we decided to drag our hungry selves away from all the culture, and go meet Chris and David.

We got turned around a few times, but eventually found the famous, and well-hidden, alleyway pub… which was dark … as in closed. We had checked the hours and they had Sunday hours listed, but perhaps their Fleet Street location and it being the Sunday before New Year’s Eve changed things. We stood outside the alleyway waiting for the Mears, and in the short time before they arrived, we noticed many people make their way toward the door only to return to the street with looks of disappointment on their faces. We hope we can visit the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese the next trip.

When the guys arrived we passed on what we knew, and then moved on, looking for food and drink. There wasn’t much open, so when we found a Thai place we jumped inside before they changed their schedule too. Dinner was delicious and we got a chance to catch up. It had only been a few days since we last saw Chris and David, but we missed them.

After dinner we followed Chris’ lead and found a slightly-posh place near the theaters, where Sarah was dismayed to learn they weren’t “making cocktails” at that time. My guess was because it was a busy theatre crowd, but no further explanation was necessary. Four pints please! And thus, without a word of discussion, began our pub tour.

After the posh West End pub we wove our way over to Covent Garden and had our next shout at a touristy little spot called The Salisbury. Being crowded, we stayed for one round and moved on again. Where, I do not remember. Not because I was drunk, but because I couldn’t keep track of where we were in the maze that is London. I do know that we finally ended up a cool, small, pub in SoHo, near Piccadilly Circus, named Glasshouse Stores, which served Sam Smith’s! Sarah and I each had oatmeal stouts to start, and eventually tried this cherry flavoured Sammie Smith’s that tasted just like cherry cola (C-O-L-A cola), which I didn’t particularly like, and could see how easily one could get drunk off of it.

When the last shout announcement went out, we staggered out of the pub and started making our way to the Tube. We were stumbling through the crowd and dragging our heals because we knew it was the last time we’d see Chris and David for a while. At the station we said our goodbyes as a busker sang “Fearless” by Pink Floyd.

We survived the Tube ride home, despite the movement of the carriage, and made our way back to our hotel room where we drank lots of water and watched some telly until the room stopped spinning enough that we could sleep.

Next: Tube, Tarmac, Tour Bus & Truck

When we went to bed last night the wind was howling and rain was beating against the windows. We were concerned we wouldn’t have good weather for our trip to Glastonbury; however, when we got up the sun was shining and the sky was a beautiful blue.

I went down stairs to rouse the sleeping, and loudly snoring Tait, which is how I learned the poor sod had been up half the night watching a film. I am not sure he could sleep well on the floor and so stayed up until he crashed. It was very nice of him to let us stay in his bed, but now I was feeling guilty.

Once we were all up, and had a quick cup of tea, we made our way to the train station, where we easily caught a fast train to Basingstoke. Waiting there was Tait’s girlfriend Paula, who was serving as our guide. We made introductions, hopped into her comfortable car, and I began to drift off in the back seat.

Our first stop was Stonehenge. I had toured it previously (with Tait, no less) but Sarah had not seen it, so Paula and Tait were kind enough to stop. The place is a bit of a zoo with tour buses, and they charge to get within 20 meters, so we decided to park the car and scurry across the highway to steal a peak and a photo without shelling out money. Sarah snapped a few photos of Stonehenge—as well as the sheep lounging around nearby—and then we all dashed back across the highway to continue on our way.

Not having had time for breakfast, we decided to make lunch our first priority once we reached Glatonbury. Most of the shops in the village of Glastonbury serve a community of spiritually-minded people and the like-minded tourist who flock there. Swing a cat and you’ll bump into a crystals shop. Same with cafes. We quickly found a quirky little bistro-ish place where we had a lovely lunch and espresso. The place was filled with paintings of musicians—pop icons and jazz greats. It would have been a fine place to sit and have a cup of one’s favourite beverage. And, perhaps, have a proper first chat with Paula. Up until lunch, I had only really seen the back of her head. She has wonderful hair, by the way. However, as luck would have it, there was a toddler nearby who had trained his mother to give him anything he wanted as long as he pointed at said item, and screeched as loud as his little lungs would allow. Lunch, therefore, was delicious, and brief.

After lunch we wandered around town for a bit, peeking in at the abbey, and browsed some of the many shops. Tait would pop into every music shop he saw, and purchase something at each stop. He is a dedicated—if not obsessive (in a good way)—lover of music. Consuming as much as time allows. We were glad to hear he is taking up the bass.

Many of the shops in town are tucked down tiny walkways between ancient buildings, which makes shopping a bit like solving a labyrinth. Sometimes you are rewarded, and such was the case when Tait found a beautiful angel harpist statuette for Paula. While they were finishing up in that shop, I wandered into the courtyard to window shop and snap a photo of Nicolas Cage who I had seen when we entered. He had a cap on and was walking with a cane and a distinct limp. When we went by him the first time he was posing with a lesbian couple—in matching rainbow sweaters—we had seen in the cafe earlier. They had asked him to take a photo with them. He smiled, and obliged. When I turned around again, he appeared to be signing something for another person. At this point I knew I wasn’t going to intrude, so I set my camera on zoom and pretended to be photographing something else. What I ended up with was a dark picture of Mr. Cage (and his wife?) glaring at me from 20 feet away. I was trying to be respectful, I swear!

Neither Tait nor Paula were interested in walking up the Tor, so they dropped us off near an entrance and said they would be back in thirty minutes. Sarah and I climbed the steep steps that wind up the Tor, stepping aside occasionally to let those descending pass. It was a much shorter climb than I had anticipated, but significantly breezier at the top than we expected. We circumambulated St. Michael’s Tower at the top of the Tor, and it took all our energy to move forward when the wind was in our face, and every muscle we had to keep from being blown off our feet when the wind was at our back! The wind brought a chill and after a short while we returned to the spot where we had been dropped off, and took in the view of the Tor as the sun began to set behind it.

Paula and Tait picked us up and we went back to the village. Sarah wanted to buy some local sheep’s cheese, but we ended up with a local cow’s milk cheddar. On the way back to the car we stopped in a pub for a pint, where Sarah and Paula talked about how to ideally record an instrument like the harp.

As soon we finished our beverages we hopped in the car and headed back to Basingstoke to catch a train back to Reading. The ride back was mostly in the dark, but we were still able to make out Stonehenge in the shadows as we passed. The train ride to Reading was short, so we made a bee-line for an (Australian) bar to catch the Arsenal match. When we arrived the Gunners were down 0-1. I went to the loo, which was down in the bowels of the places. While there I heard a huge cheer. Not knowing the bar patron’s allegiances, I wasn’t sure who had scored, so I chanted to myself “Come-on Arsenal.” When I got back to the pub, a quick glance at the giant telly screen showed that Arsenal had, in fact, scored the equaliser! They went on to score three more goals to beat Everton 4-1.

When the match was over, Sarah, Tait and I popped over to the local Pizza Express for a late bite to eat. The pizza was delicious, but damn if it wasn’t the most expensive pizza dinner I have ever had!

Stuffed, and tired, we made the long walk back to Tait’s to pick up our things and call a taxi. We had decided to stay in Reading that night—and based on a suggestion by Tait—we stayed at the Novotel near the train station. After staying in a cramped London hotel, this place was a luxury (shower and tub, Internet, etc.), and cost twenty quid a night less. Plus, the stay included a full English breakfast buffet in the morning! Sarah had a soak in the tub, I had a relaxing shower, and we both slept very well. We highly recommend this French hotel chain, and will seek them out wherever we travel.

Next: One for the Tarmac

Our first night away from the comforts of the Mear home was a hard adjustment, but we woke up ready to explore. The first part of the day was to wander around Oxford Circus and check out the insanity of post-holiday sales, and wow was today mad. We thought it was crazy when people were out doing their last-minute Christmas shopping, but this was much worse. Each store had signs advertising up to 70% off, and it made me wonder why anyone even bothers with shopping until after Christmas. We only braved the crowds in Liberty because we had planned to pick up a holiday ornament as a memento of spending our 2007 Christmas in England, and it seemed appropriate. The tough part was finding something we could bring back with us that wouldn’t end up as broken glass at the bottom our our luggage. We found a couple of cute little unbreakable items which were small, pretty and only cost a couple of quid.

Afterwards, we looked for a place to eat and decide to sate our desire for tapas by having lunch at a local La Tasca. The place was deserted when we arrived, and we settled in for a lovely meal. The menu was a bit overwhelming, so we ordered a pre-set sampling meal that had half vegetarian and half meat items. We also ordered wine, and after the meal a couple of glasses of sweet Muscatel. It was difficult to move after that large lunch, but the wine helped reinvigorate us for the crowds still out on the sidewalk.

We decided to head back to the hotel to drop off the ornaments we bought and the heavy backpack I was carrying. The latter was because we had the laptop with us to check-in with Tait about our plans to go to Reading to see him the next day. All day we had trouble finding anyplace with free wi-fi so we had to go to the local Apple store to check email, and firm up plans for the next few days. The lack of free wi-fi in the UK surprises me.

We dropped our stuff and got ready for the rest of our long evening of doing touristy stuff. We took the Tube to Embankment, walked across the Jubilee bridge, and took in the beauty of the Thames at night. It was a clear night and places like the London Eye, Parliament, and St. Paul’s were brightly lit and glowing in the rippling river which was at high tide. We wander along the river, past the London Eye and eventually crossed over on the Westminster Bridge just as Big Ben was about to chime five o’clock.

We continued down the other side of the river. We were still early for our London Walks meetup so we decided to head over to Covent Garden and grab some sweets and use the loo before the walk.

When people ask me what to do when they go to London, I always suggest they go on a London Walk (even more than one). They are a ton of fun, educational, and often times involve drink. The walk we chose—Apparitions, Alleyways & Ales—was no exception. We met up with our guide, Adam, at the appointed time, and off we went to explore the darker side of London with occasional stops to grab a pint. At least one of the pubs we stopped in was down an alley, and we would never had stumbled on this particular spot. We started at the Embankment Tube stop, made our way through the theatre district and eventually ended up in St. James’ Park, where there was a lovely view of Buckingham Palace. Adam informed us that all walks end between a pub and a tube stop so that people can make up their own mind as to whether they want to go home or grab a pint. We stopped briefly at the near-by pub to use the loo, and since it was mostly abandoned (being in a business area) we decided to head back toward home.

We were also a bit hungry so we wandered around the area surrounding the hotel hoping to find something open. We knew the Windsor Castle was open (they serve Thai food, of all things), but we thought the place was tacky—and the manager rude—the last time we were there. Running out of sit down options, we stopped by the local corner store and bought a cheese and onion pastie and a bag of crisps, and took them back to our hotel room to nosh while watching some telly.

Next: Ready for Reading

The day after Christmas (Boxing Day) we had a lovely breakfast of leftover Christmas sausages, eggs and toast. It was yet another delicious meal put in front of us by Jenny, but this morning we were a bit melancholy because our visit with the Mear family was coming to an end. We knew we had another week to our holiday, and we had no doubt we would have fun, but we were going to miss Chris, David, and Jenny. I joked with Jenny that she had spoiled us so much that the rest of our trip would be down hill by comparison.

That wasn’t the case on Boxing Day afternoon though. Jan swung by around 10 a.m. and we loaded our luggage into the boot of her car, and we headed of to destinations unknown… well, to us. Jan had a day planned for us. All we knew was that we were going to be shown Essex. We thought that meant we were going for a short drive to the near-by forest. It ends up Essex is much bigger than that, and Jan showed us a great day.

Our first stop was at Rod Stewart’s house for tea. Well, not really. We stopped in this little wooded area, and walked out to take in the view. Rod’s house just happen to be there. So, I shook my arse in the general direction of his manse while singing “Do you think I’m sexy” but he never came out to compliment me on my moves. Probably too busy making another crap standards compilation.

As Rod didn’t invite us in for a tour we decided to move on, hoping back in the car for the brief trip to Greensted where the oldest wooden building in Europe stands. The building also claims to be the oldest wooden church in the world. St. Cedd, a Saxon-trained at the Celtic monastery on Lindisfarne, began his religious work in the area around 654 A.D., and a church was probably started shortly thereafter. The building was added to over the next several centuries, but the oldest part—the nave—was probably built around the time of the Battle of Hastings. One of the most interesting things we saw was the grave site of a crusader, who was probably a local who was seen as a hero. Regular services are still held in the church to this day. This was just the sort of thing we like, and it was very nice of Jan to take us here!

Next we made our way toward Chelmsford. The idea was to stop in Chelmsford for lunch, but when we got there Sarah and I were still too full from our sausagey breakfast. We wandered around the town, admiring the pargeting on the homes, and checking out the village ducks.

But Jan had other plans for us, and so we hopped back in her vehicle and headed to our next destination. I found Jan’s road map in the back seat and tried to figure out where we were headed based on the road signs, in case she dropped us off in the middle of nowhere and took our luggage—not that Jan was capable of such a thing. I decided we were going to Maldon next, and it ended up I was correct.

Maldon is an adorable little seaside community on the Blackwater estuary on the east coast of England. We didn’t completely explore the town, but we did walk down the high street on our way to the docks. Along the water there is a walk path, that hugs the shore. People, young and old, stroll along the water; some with their dogs or children in prams. There are places to get food, and a little human-made pond for people to play with their radio-controlled boats.

As soon as we arrived near the docks, we saw huge crowds of people gathered. Some were watching dancers while others were gawking at a Bentley parked to attract attention. We wandered around, taking in the sites around the docks, before strolling down to the point where there is a statue of a crusader.It was a beautiful day, and it was a lot of fun to watch all the people enjoying their Boxing Day outings.

We eventually made our way back to the car and headed off in search of lunch, which we found at a newer pub that was designed to look old. There we had a nice pub lunch before Jan dropped us off at the tube in search of our hotel.

This is where our day went down hill.

Tired from our long, fun day we dragged our luggage to one of the many hotels that line Sussex Garden Road near Paddington station. We easily found the hotel—The Normandie—we had booked on travelstay.com before we left the states, but quickly wished we were mistaken. It took the man at the counter a while to find our resevations, but he eventually caught on and we paid for the full 5 nights we expected to stay. We schlepped our luggage—which was getting heavier by the minute—up a flight of stairs, turned the key in the door and then tried to put on our best faces. Online the place had been described as being recently renovated, and even in the lobby there was a brochure touting the fresh new look. What we found was a dingy room with wallpaper peeling in the corners, mold in the shower, broken furniture, roach traps under the beds, and used soap bars in the sink. The place lived up to its name, if you first think of the French beach that was the site of the D-day invasion. We put on our best faces, because we weren’t sure what to do. Neither of us wanted to stay in this dump, but it was already 9 p.m. on Boxing Day.

We decided we needed a drink and a place to think, so we left our bags, and walked around the corner hoping to find the pub we had been in on Saturday with Tait. That place, and most others, were closed so we ended up in the Windsor Castle pub. The pub was open, but was it ever tacky. When we walked in we were greeted by a old, little man who made fun of us for being American. Funny thing was, the entire place was populated by Americans. We ordered a couple of pints and made our decision. We were going to check out of the dumpy Normandie, and check into one of the myriad places on the same street, figuring any place would be better than the place were our bags were. On the way back to get our stuff and check out, we stopped by one of the places where the reception area looked nice. We asked a couple going in what the rooms were like and they referred to the place as “posh” so we went in and asked to look at a few rooms—we had learned our lesson on booking sight-unseen. The rooms were eccentric and interesting, each with a theme. They were also almost double what we had paid at the dumpy Normandie (yes, I hope to Google bomb them), but we decided it was worth it. We paid for a room for the next two nights and then went back to the Normandie to claim our things and check out. At the dumpy Normandie the man behind the counter at first refused to give us a refund claiming we had used the room already (giving me an idea of their usual clientele, and insulting me and Sarah at the same time) and therefore at least owed him for one night. I argued that the place did not live up to its online description (or the brochure on his desk) and that I demanded a full refund. He called his boss, chatted in a language I did not understand, and then told me that if I wanted a full refund I would have to come back the next day to speak with the boss. I snickered at him and said that I would not be returning and that I would get my money back through the issuer of my credit card. As much as I wanted to lay into this guy, he was not the slumlord, and yelling at him wouldn’t help anything. We walked the block or so to our new hotel, unpacked our bags in our cozy tiny room. The rooms had names rather than numbers, and we had decided on “White Days, Soul Nights” over “Indian Summer” or “Cosmic Girl.” After we had settled in, I walked to the corner store to get a few take away pints of Guinness.

It was a difficult end to an otherwise great day, but, as predicted, nothing could compare to the hospitality that Jenny provided. We were just glad to be out of the dumpy Normandie.

Note: Essexjan also published her photos.

Next: Apparitions, Alleyways, Ales & Appetites

For the first time since arriving in England we took it easy today. No shopping, no site-seeing. Mostly we hung out drinking tea, talking, watching Christmas-related shows on the telly, and occasionally slipping away to wrap holiday gifts. A nice, lazy, Christmas Eve.

In the late afternoon Jenny surprised us with another scrumptious meal. Sarah had told Jenny how her favourite meat was lamb and so there it was. Jenny is amazing!

After supper Sarah and I watched our traditional holiday film, About a Boy. Not exactly a Christmas film, but with some elements that we think display Christmas spirit. David joined us and seemed to enjoy our silly little tradition. Once the film had ended, Jenny, David, Sarah and I played Upwords. It was the first time I had played, and while it seems familiar to Scrabble fans like me, it is a game that requires a different way of thinking. Jenny and David competed with each other while politely watching while Sarah and I struggled. It was still good fun to relax and play a good board game.

While we were playing games, Chris was off practicing for the night’s gig… playing organ at midnight mass at St. Mary’s Church in Walthstow. He came back after rehearsal to pick up Sarah and I so we could join him for the jam.

It was short drive to the church, and we arrived well before the worshipers, so Sarah and I wandered around the ancient place, checking out the architecture and the burial stones. The only people around when we arrived were the Vicar, deacons, and another gentlemen—who later was revealed to be the new archdeacon … and a West Ham supporter. People were polite at that news, but it may have been because it was Christmas. There was at least one guy, sitting behind us, wearing an Arsenal jacket. I was polite when I met him (before the West Ham announcement, naturally) while I wandered around before the service. He asked if I was a regular, and I replied that I was visiting from the States and there to support Chris, the organist. He asked me where I was from in the States, and when I replied Vermont, we said “ah, yes. That’s in the west, correct?” I politely corrected him, we conversed a little more before parting ways.

Sarah, who had gone outside to wait for our friend to arrive, returned a few minutes later with Jan in tow. Jan took a few photos of Chris and then joined us in a pew nearest the organ.

The service was somewhat familiar to me, but still different enough that I kept my mouth shut most of the time. Even with the karaoke screens and monitors everywhere displaying the words to songs didn’t really help. Songs that I thought I knew had completely different words than I recalled from my childhood.

The vicar was nice, and funny. At the beginning of the service he made some announcements. He said that Jesus didn’t want us to hold it, and directed people to where the loos were located. He said that there was a carpeted area with toys if the kids or adults needed a lie down. He reminded people to turn off their mobiles saying that at midnight they would start beeping with text wishes from family and friends hoping to be the first to wish a happy Christmas; and that some of these people would no doubt have been indulging in a bit of holiday cheer.

We came for Chris’ organ playing though, and we were not disappointed. He rocked the house! The organ sounded great and Chris made it sing. Sending people home with Toccata from Widor’s fifth organ symphony.

Once the service was over the four of us wandered around the village near the church. We said goodbye to Jan and headed back to Chris’ place where we ended up staying up until 4 a.m. drinking scotch whisky and singing songs while David played guitar.

Next: Happy Christmas … pass the sausages.

The Justin Morrill homestead is in the middle of a renovation, which started a few years ago with the amazing—and very pink—gothic revival house, and now has moved on to restoring the beautiful gardens.

Justin Morrill was a successful storekeeper in Strafford, Vermont when he designed and built the house, but his prominence comes from his legislative accomplishments, and not his interest in architecture and landscape gardening. In 1857, while a U.S. Representative from Vermont, he became the chief sponsor of the Land Grant Act, which was to become the most important piece of educational legislation in the 19th century.

“The goal of this legislation was to create in each state a land grant college which would provide a liberal and practical education for farmers, mechanics, artisans and laborers. Inspired in large part by Morrill’s own lack of a formal education, these colleges were to teach courses in science, agriculture and engineering, in addition to the classics. The significance of this legislation was that it expanded American higher education to include practical training along with the classical studies traditionally offered only to clergymen, teachers, physicians and lawyers.” [source]

For the foreseeable future I will be volunteering my time helping to renovate the beautiful display and kitchen gardens at the former Senator’s beautiful—and very pink—homestead.

In addition, I want to thank everyone who submitted suggestions; there were some really awesome ones and many of them would have worked well. I went with the suggestion of the name simply because it won’t have to be changed depending on my geography.

Just in time for the world premiere of the website, I got to listen to Micah Blue Smaldone and the Kamikaze Hearts at the Langdon Street Cafe in Montpelier. It was a great show. Micah’s singing and playing style evoked old-timey blues of the 1930’s, while the Hearts pumped out one catchy roots-rock tune after another. I’d love to work with these artists, or at least hear them live again, soon.

So, which piano to buy? It’s a huge question and one I’ve been investigating for over a month. As Larry Fine points out in his well-respected reference work/consumer guide The Piano Book, the purchase of a piano can in many ways be likened to the purchase of an automobile. There are inexpensive pianos and costly ones, used ones and new ones, plain and fancy ones, and a huge selection of models and makers. One of the major differences between the purchase of a piano or an automobile is that the piano should, with regular tuning and care, last much longer than the average car. Well-made pianos that are maintained and kept in a stable environment are expected to last at least 40-50 years. It’s a big decision, and one I’ll have to live with for decades.

One of the factors limiting my choices is, of course, price. I’m not going to spend 30, 20, or 10 grand on a piano. The budget just won’t allow it, and I have to also budget for regular tunings and maintenance (again, much like a car, pianos need regular service). That narrows the playing field considerably. Also, we won’t have room for a grand piano, so I’ll be in the market for an upright, preferably a full-sized one (48 inches or taller). In terms of looks, my personal taste is for something that isn’t solid black. Glossy ebony just isn’t a look that is going to match anything else we own. I prefer something with a warmer character, even if it’s just a bit of wood grain. I also want a good quality instrument. I’m not looking for a rusty old plunker on it’s last legs or a cheap piano made from green wood and plastic. I’m still a beginning student but I want something that I’ll be able to grow into as my playing improves; I’d rather get a nice instrument now than one I grow to dislike and feel the need to sell later. But even with all those considerations in mind, I still feel daunted by the decision.

The few new-piano dealers I’ve been to didn’t rub me the right way. Walking into their showroom was like walking into (I know you get the analogy by now) a car dealership! Lots of high-pressure tactics and marketing speak. I can appreciate that the pianos they carry are good quality, I just didn’t like the experience of talking with those sales people. Then there’s the murky market of used pianos: trade-ins at dealerships, private pianos for sale by owner, and pianos for sale from institutions. The standard advice is to take a piano technician with you if you think you might want to buy a particular used piano (much as you would take a mechanic with you to inspect a used car). Well and good, but how long will a particular used piano hold up compared to a new one? What features am I looking for? (Piano “extras” such as mute bars for practice, special pedals for different sounds, etc have changed over time and from maker to maker.)

At this point I have information overload. I’ve been to a few dealerships, I’ve been to a technician’s shop to try a refurbished piano she had for sale (pictured above), I’ve read Larry Fine’s book cover-to-cover and my mind is just spinning. I can’t buy a piano for at least a few months, which is a good thing, I think. The refurbished piano I tried out is gorgeous and is certainly a candidate. I also have a desire to try out some of the rarer brands of pianos that are imported to this country or made here. But in order to do that, I’d have to find a larger dealer or piano warehouse, because the local dealers usually only carry two or three brands. The Petrof pianos in particular sound like they’d be worth investigation. I’m also fascinated with the design of the Astin-Weight pianos, which have been made in Salt Lake City since the 1950’s and have some unique characteristics. Unfortunately, I have no idea how I’d be able to find either of these brands locally. This piano searching thing is exciting and frustrating at the same time. I may not have much of a budget, but I want to make the most of what I can spend. Anyone have any advice (or a piano for sale)?

Now, technically, I could keep my business name the same, at least for the time being, as Montpelier is the state capital. But I’m not sure this idea has much appeal or longevity. The idea, when in DC, was that the Nation’s Capital had it’s own musical sound. I’m sure there are a few aspects of Montpelier’s native music that are original, but my focus isn’t only on this town, even though it is my home for now. Burlington seems to offer a much more populated music scene, and I hope to explore other towns in Vermont as well as parts of upstate New York. I’m looking for a more open-ended name for the new incarnation of the recording business.

So, I’m asking all of you for your opinion on business names, and I’ll throw out some interesting words that Rick and I have been pondering. Keep in mind that the name should roll off the tongue and must be short enough (or easily abbreviated) to work as a website name. You can check out the existing Capital City Studios web site to get an idea of the business. The look of the new site will of course be revamped (less slick/dark, more friendly/groovy) once the new name is selected but the content will be similar.

Here are some interesting words; feel free to ignore them in favor of your own ideas:

• muse
• mountain
• green
• monte verde (which means green mountain)
• recording
• audio
• Vermont

I was going to avoid the word “studio” this time around because I don’t actually have a studio. (I use equipment to record on location.) “Music” could also imply that I am a record company and/or sheet music supplier, though it is more open-ended than “studio” and I’d use it in the right context. But there have got to be other inspiring, image-rich words out there that can catch the attention of potential clients, I’ve just run out of ideas.

As an incentive, I offer a CD of your choice if you submit a winning business name to the comments in this post. (Please submit your best ideas and limit yourself to three suggestions, and don’t worry, Rick’s disqualifited from this “contest”.) I’ll post the “final name” and link to the new business website once it’s all in place. Thanks in advance to everyone for your thoughts!

Mark’s was our comfort place where we went to relax and have nice meals served by people who quickly became our friends. We went every Sunday, and sometimes more often than that. But Sundays were special to us. When we were going to yoga classes, we would stop by immediately aftwards. When we weren’t, we would go early to avoid the rush. The place was so much like our own home, that Mark and the staff (Hi Kate, Ann, Sarah, Benji and Kiran!) would just laugh as we cleared our own tables, or got up to get any condiments we might want. A few times Mark called us honorary staff members and would knock 20 percent off our check.

When we left for Vermont, we half-jokingly said that job number one was to find a place for our special Sunday breakfast. We knew we couldn’t ever replace Mark’s Kitchen—especially not the numerous vegetarian and Korean options on the menu—but we hoped we would find a place to relax on Sunday mornings.

Our first attempt was a place across the street from our flat, named The Coffee Corner, but that plan fell through after a less than good experience with a lunch the second day we arrived. The fries were crap, the burger bland, and they left out the cole slaw despite promising Sarah it was in the bag. All that, and it was expensive. We may give it another chance for breakfast, but first impressions are lasting ones.

Our next attempt was a place called The Wayside Restaurant & Bakery. We had passed it a few times on our way to and from our storage facility in Barre. It looked almost like a truck stop, and the parking lot was packed with cars (not trucks) each time we drove by it. After getting a second opinion (so to speak) from Jessamyn we decided to give it a try.

The Wayside ends up being a great little spot. There isn’t much on the lunch and dinner menu for vegetarians such as Sarah but the breakfast menu has plenty of options. The place is clean, the wait staff very friendly, and the prices are amazing. We can both eat for under $15 and be stuffed for hours. It’s not Mark’s Kitchen, but that’s okay. Vermont isn’t Maryland either. We weren’t looking to replace our favorite restaurant in Maryland, so much as find a new place to spend our lazy Sunday mornings. We’ll certainly miss our friends at Mark’s, but The Wayside suits us just fine.