The 2025 Condo Week Trip, part six

This is part of a series of posts, which you should read in order. Read the first part here. And you can see all the pictures from this trip in the Google Photos album here.

Saturday, August 30

  A magazine called Racine County that we picked up somewhere along the way had an ad on one of its pages for the Racine Art Museum, touting the fact that it had "the largest collection of contemporary crafts in the country." I was sold: Houston has a contemporary crafts museum that I always enjoy going to, and it's much smaller than this place in Wisconsin. So Racine was our first destination for the Milwaukee add-on portion of the Condo Week trip.

made of plywood

 There were three main exhibits in the museum. First was a collection of trompe l'œil works by a Canadian couple. Hers were ceramics painted to look like ordinary objects; his were enamel on copper. They look incredibly real, in those cases where they represent real objects, and you can hardly believe that they aren't. Next is a collection of works by an artist named Ron Isaacs; everything is made out of plywood, but done in such a way that you would swear they were actually cloth or sticks or leaves. Some of the works made to look like clothing were so realistically done that I actually tried blowing on the material to see if it moved. (It didn't; it really is made of plywood. If you look at it edge-on, you can see how thick the material actually is, about 3/16". )

 But for me the best part of the museum's exhibits was the glass work. I first encountered a small gallery with perhaps a dozen glass perfume bottles. Nice, I thought, and I punched the elevator call button at the end of the gallery. I got off on the second floor to find another dozen or so perfume bottles, and these were also very impressive little works of blown glass. Then I came out into the main gallery on the second floor and was presented with a large room filled with my favourite art form. There were probably 75 works on display, maybe more, and some of them were just stunning. (I was also gratified to find that some of the artists featured here are also represented in my own collection back home.)

 Here are some of the best:

Judith Candy, Spring

Etsuko Nishi, Lace Caged Bowl

Baldwin & Guggisberg, Chartreuse Sentinel

Toots Zynsky, Untitled #9

Jane Bruce, Black & Red Object

Clayton & Clayton, Ornamental Vessels

 I'm so tempted to include all the pictures I took of these works, but I know I'm more a fan of glass than most people. Besides, pictures of art glass by amateur photographers like me really don't to it justice. But they're all in the Google Photos gallery with all the other pictures from this trip, and there's a link at the top of this post if you're interested.

 The raison d'être for this exhibit is that all the works were by women, or by women in collaboration with men. Where's my soapbox? Ah! Here it is. I'm frankly getting a little tired of this celebration of women who can do things, not for being capable of doing things, but because they're women. In all the centuries that only men did things (mostly), none of them were ever celebrated for being men; they were celebrated for being capable. This is the sort of thing that makes right-wing morons angry about what they call "DEI" (which most likely, they don't really know what those letters stand for). I understand the importance of presenting women's accomplishments to inspire others, particularly young girls; but because they're accomplished, not because of their chromosomal arrangement. Now we've gotten to the point where young men are starting to feel incapable. They need to be inspired, too, and exemplars for them should be celebrated -- as they always have been -- not for their sex but for their abilities. 

 The attendant at the museum made some restaurant recommendations for lunch for us, and we took her up on one at the Reefpoint Marina, not far away, because she said it had nice views of the harbour. I suppose it did; we asked for a table outside with a view, and got one on the inside of a walkway with big sheets of clear plastic over the open side of the area. It was nice enough, and even though the plastic rippled a little in the breeze, and distorted the view slightly, we could see well enough. For most of the time we were in the restaurant, there was a loudmouthed captain of a local tour boat at the next table, explaining his business to his tablemates like it was the Cunard Line, but otherwise it was a pleasant atmosphere. The waitress was unbelievably chirpy and had a voice that ventured occasionally into an octave that only dogs can hear, but she knew her job and did it well. I thought the food let her down a little. But the entire experience was made glorious by the fact that a clothing-slash-souvenir shop on the ground floor below the restaurant was having a big Labor Day sale, and I got a nice warm sweatshirt for $12, I kid you not. 

Wind Point

 Nancy, it turns out, has a thing for lighthouses. Racine has one of the tallest on Lake Michigan, possibly the tallest, at Wind Point, so we drove up there and had a look at it. It's a beautiful little shoreline park, with a stunning view out across the water. There were a good number of people in the park, but not so many that it felt crowded. I sat for a long time watching people on the beach, and their dogs, and enjoying the beautiful sight in such beautiful weather. 

 Following the lighthouse, we made a quick trip to a Danish bakery, for which Racine is known. There are like six of them in town, not counting the additional locations of one chain (the one we went to). Danish pastry is big in Racine. Sherry got an apple fritter, which was way better than any apple fritter I can get back home; I forget what Nancy had, but whatever it was I didn't get a taste of it. Jeff and I each got something called an Elephant Ear, a flaky pastry cut in half, then partly dipped in chocolate, then sandwiched around Bavarian creme. Can you say "messy"? But oh! so good! So now I've been to a Danish bakery in Racine and never have to go back.

 The other main attraction in Racine was to be the Jelly Belly factory. I went there a dozen years ago to get some fresh-from-the-production-line jelly beans for my former law partner, who kept a jar of them on his desk. But now the factory is closed and all the jelly beans are made somewhere in California. Boo hiss.

 At that point we were done with Racine, but -- oddly, maybe even uniquely for us -- it was still early enough to do something else; so I pointed out that the Basilica of St Josaphat was on the south side of Milwaukee and we could go there. Even though it wasn't as far south as I thought, it became our plan of the moment, so we plugged it into the navigator and set off for the Big City.

Altar of St Josaphat

 It's hard to believe that working-class immigrants of the early 20th Century could afford such a fantastic structure as this basilica. But consider the depth of their faith, and their ascription to divine providence of any prosperity they experienced. Also consider the providence that allowed the diocese to buy the materials salvaged from the huge US Customs House in Chicago, which was torn down at just the right time. The diocese of Milwaukee got a colossal amount of already-dressed building stone, along with doors, windows, stair rails, etc.; everything that goes into a city-block-sized building; and they got it for cheap, at a figure that was less than half the amount that had been quoted for building stone alone. As a result, according to the signboards in the basilica, there are hundreds of doorknobs throughout the basilica bearing the crest of the United States Treasury. (I didn't see any; all I saw were more modern replacements that are more suitable for use by disabled visitors.) The Lord truly works in mysterious ways. 

St Josaphat, exterior

 Anyway: Saturday evening mass was just starting when we got there. I took a couple of pictures while the service was going on, but felt too much like an intruder doing that, so I looked around in other parts of the building, and went across the street to get some photos of the outside. In an area off the porch they have large statues of Sts Peter and Paul* carved from some kind of pretty brown stone on black marble plinths, and there's a nice chapel in the undercroft that I forgot to take any pictures of. Then I waited until mass was done so I could go check out the sanctuary with a clearer conscience, 

 It is an extraordinarily elaborate sanctuary, all painted and gold-leafed, and again, it's extraordinary to think of what the people of the parish sacrificed to pay for all this. It reflects a dedication that we just don't see in religious matters in this country anymore. It's also a traditional attribute of the Romanesque style the church is built in, whereas the sparse decoration of the Holy Hill basilica is a reflection of the style of Gothic revival churches in countries where Protestantism has strongly influenced artistic sensibilities.

 Once that was done, we wandered vaguely toward downtown Milwaukee, where we found Veterans Park and got out and walked a little, then headed back to our hotel. No one was up to going out again for dinner that night. I had half a sandwich left over from lunch in Racine, and I ate that. Jeff had half his sandwich, plus some coleslaw in go-boxes that had sat in the car since about 1pm. He ate that. Sherry and Nancy, as far as I know, skipped dinner entirely.

 

Sunday, August 31

  This day started with two Premier League matches on television. In the early match, West Ham got their first win of the season by three goals to none at Nottingham Forest; that was a surprise. In the interim between matches, I started a load of laundry so someone -- I'm not naming names here -- would have enough underwear to get home without offending personal sensibilities. I also washed my new sweatshirt and a few other things, but not enough to make a noticeable dent in the laundry bag's fullness. If I'd known how capacious the washer was in the hotel's guest laundry -- there's only one, and one dryier -- I probably would have washed a few more things, but it won't really matter. 

 At home, I time laundry loads by the Premier League's matches on Sunday. Our washer takes about 45 minutes for a load, the dryer about the same. The washer here took about 50 minutes, but the dryer went on and on and on until finally I just said The Hell with it and took the clothes out. They were all dry, as they damn well should have been after an hour and a quarter on medium heat.

 On this occasion the vehicle for timing the laundry was the big match of the weekend, Liverpool v Arsenal. Even though it's only three matches into the season, it already feels like a must-win for both teams. They finished last season first and second, and when this one kicked off they were level on points at the top of the table. The match was cagey, even a little dull, but a good opportunity to see how new players are fitting in, and measuring up. Arsenal had Madueke on the left, matched up against Kerkez, who just joined Liverpool in the last week or two. I'd say Kerkez didn't have the pace to match Madueke, but in the end it did no harm, and I'm guessing Kerkez learned a thing or two about defending against a faster player. At the end, it was a magnificent 82nd-minute free kick by Szoboslai from 30 yards out that made the difference when it slid past the inside of the post for the only goal. 

 Once that important business was dispatched, we loaded up the truck and headed off to see the Joan of Arc chapel at Marquette University. Well, three of us did: it appears that the leftover coleslaw Jeff had for Saturday night dinner was an unwise choice, and he stayed at the hotel after barfing all night. Seems that choices do sometimes have consequences. 

still a pretty little thing

 Back when I was through Milwaukee twelve or thirteen years ago, I had been told, or read somewhere, that the Joan of Arc Chapel at Marquette was (a) the oldest building in the United States, having been built in the 1200s in France and moved to the US in the 20th Century; (b) that it was originally from Domrémy, where St. Joan grew up; and (c) that it had been her church in childhood. Turns out none of that is true. It was originally built in a village near Lyons; it was in ruins when it was bought by a rich obsessive francophile in Connecticut who wanted it to go with her French chateau, which she'd bought and had disassembled and reassembled on her estate. When the chateau burned down, she donated the (reconstructed) chapel to the Jesuits, who transported it (presumably disassembled again) to Wisconsin. And it's a 15th-Century chapel and wouldn't make the Top 10 list for oldest buildings even if it had been brought over intact. 

 According to materials we found on line, there is a stone that St Joan actually knelt on to pray, and even kissed. It's buried inside the back wall of the chapel, supposedly. Its provenance as a relic of the Saint was attested to by an official document from the French government in the 1920s, when, flush with cash after World War One, the government of France was happy to expend its resources on in-depth research and then lend its dignity to any old request for certification from wealthy Americans who would pay the requisite fees. 

 I have never faked a sarcasm in my life.

Mitchell Park Domes

 Our next stop was to have been the Mitchell Park Domes Horticultural Conservatory, but first we decided to find something for lunch. Google Maps, bless it, led us to Oscar's Pub and Grill, a short distance from the gardens. OMG! Wonderful burgers, good beer (Spotted Cow), good prices, good service, a convivial atmosphere ... We all loved it. I had the Big O burger and rate it five chili peppers; Sherry had the Big Foot, with bleu cheese, and Nancy had the Big Aloha. They were all, truly, big burgers, and soooooooooo good! Even the fries were excellent.

 Thus fortified, off to see the trees and bushes and flowers. What can I say? This stop was for other people's enjoyment; I just wandered along behind. I wasn't feeling it; though I will admit that some of Sherry's pictures of the things in the conservatory are really amazing.

City Hall

 The conservatory closes at five, so we only had an hour there. It being still early-ish, we went downtown for a look at the City Hall, a Flemish Revival building built after a court case determined that an architect who had submitted his proposal early had "cheated"; his rival won about $200 in damages and the right to design the building. (This according to a guide on a later tour, who said the winning architect "never met anyone he didn't want to sue.") The building that resulted is a landmark in every sense of the word. 

 Right across the street is the late 19th-Century Pabst Theater, a beautiful show venue, not terribly large, but popular for well-known stage acts. We also drove by the Empire Theater in a gone-to-seed neighbourhood north of downtown near the lakeshore, but the theater seems to have gone to seed even faster than its neighbours.

 We got back to the hotel and collected Jeff, then went just down the street (admittedly by an unnecessarily complicated route) for ramen at a place called Osaka. I've heard about how the poor-college-student standby that I used to buy for a quarter a pack has become a culinary meal of choice among young people, and I wanted to see for myself what it was all about. I was pretty sure they didn't just dump a package of dry noodles and a seasoning packet in hot water. 

 Sho' 'nuf, they don't. It'd be better if they did, I think.

 Now, the others in my party all got rice bowls, that is, rice with some commonplace ingredient: one salmon, one tofu, one chicken teriyaki. They all thought it was fine, except the teriyaki sauce was thin. Those things ran fifteen bucks each, which seems a little high for what they got. I was the only one who ventured to try a ramen dish: Tonkatsu, which consisted of two slabs of pork belly, bamboo, mushrooms, bean sprouts, fish cakes and a boiled egg in a "creamy, rich pork broth" for $17.50. 

 Pork belly is normally like a cross between bacon and gratons. A little bit fatty, yes, but firm and so full of flavour that it's like the word "delicious" was invented just to describe it. This pork belly was nothing but fat, flabby and with the texture of a slice of toast that's soaked overnight. The mushrooms were some repulsive rubbery strips of black that looked and felt like tar pulled from a telephone pole in mid-summer. The fish cakes -- there was only one -- was about the size of a half-dollar and the thickness of a quarter. At least it tasted okay, and had a reasonably piscine texture. And there was half a boiled egg that looked funny -- it had a reddish cast to it -- but tasted okay. I was thoroughly revolted by the whole giant bowl of mess. I ate the fish cake (two bites) and the noodles (which were fine) and the egg (despite the colour), but the pork belly and the mushrooms, plus the terrible saltiness of the "creamy rich pork broth" made my stomach turn. I tossed it in the trash, rather than tossing it later on in my hotel room, while watching Irene Dunne movies on TCM. (I now can recommend I Remember Mama, even to non-Norwegians.)

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* The inscription on the plinth for St Paul's statue, Scio cui credidi, is from his first letter to Timothy. It means "I know him in whom I have believed."