Rhinebeck Aerodrome

Yesterday, on the way home from the Vanderbilt Mansion, we passed through Rhinebeck for the 4th, 5th, maybe 6th time. The first day we drove through, Michael mentioned Aerodrome—that flew straight over my head. Yesterday he also said the two words, air show, and so I Googled it and said out loud, “They have them every weekend. And—they offer biplane rides. That sounds like fun, and they aren’t terribly expensive. We should do it. It can be your birthday present!”

Second Thoughts

Now, as I stand here looking in the mirror, brushing my teeth, getting ready to leave for today’s adventure, I wonder why in the world I said such a thing and how in the world I can get out of it. I remember thirty years ago standing in line to ride the Judge Roy Scream Rollercoaster at Six Flags and being so nervous; I think I went to the lady’s room six times before it was finally our turn to board the ride. Now I realize that I am going to get in a biplane with no roof—practically floating free—and fly over the Hudson River. I practice excuses.

It will be too cold.

Isn’t it dangerous?

My hair will get blown to bits.

What if I throw-up?

They’ll probably be sold out—we shouldn’t even try.

One of the pilot’s crashed in the Hudson River last May—and died!

In August they had trouble with a landing—with a passenger onboard—and the plane turned upside down.  And there is no roof! And even if there was…he could have died.

I’m scared.

I never tell Michael any of these things—except for the articles I read on the Internet about the crash in the Hudson and the pilot dying and the bad landing and the passenger and the plane turning upside down. None of this information fazes him. He talks about car wrecks. I take a deep breath, get in the car, and we head to Rhinebeck.

A Ride in a Biplane

It is an absolutely gorgeous day—the first real day of autumn—finally. At least there is that. The air is crisp. The sky is crystalline. The clouds, cotton ball white. Arriving at 12 p.m. on the dot, the airfield runway grass is a perfect golf course green. I step up to the simple outdoor ticket office and hand over my credit card.

“Two please.”

“As soon as this flight takes off and comes back, you will be next—unless the wind picks up.  Then we may have to cancel.”

Too bad, I think.

Michael goes back to the car to get his jacket.

I start texting friends and family to let them know what is about to happen in case something does happen. I have no faith.  And I’m scared.

Before I am ready for it, I am climbing up onto the wing of the plane—hoping I don’t fall and make a fool of myself—throwing my leg over the side of the bright orange aircraft and getting into the passenger seat in front of the pilot, finally strapping myself in next to Michael.  Together we are wedged in pretty tightly—not tightly enough in my estimation—with one seat-belt for both of us to share.

Without having time to think about what I have gotten myself into, we taxi up the hill to the end of the runway, turn around, slip down the grassy knoll, and are up over the trees. Am I scared? Am I having fun? I’m not sure. I wonder if holding my breath and closing my eyes will keep the plane in the air.

Michael is having a great time, turning around, taking pictures, recording the moment. I begin to adapt—not comfortably—but I adapt, and then suddenly, my stomach lurches. The plane is in a steep sideways turn, and I am not having fun. I look at the seat-belt and wonder how this one-inch wide flimsy piece of cloth can keep me safe.  I look for something to hold on to.  There is nothing.  I grab Michael’s arm and hold my breath. I close my eyes.

Back on the ground, I send texts across the country—We didn’t crash.  I didn’t pee.

Traveling Back in Time

Eyes open wide, breathing deeply, I look around.  I feel like I have either walked back in time or have walked into a movie set. It is America in the Roaring ’20s, and I am part of the spectacle that is barnstorming. We stroll the grounds amidst a carnival atmosphere. 1920’s music plays in the background. Pilots and hawkers walk around in costumes of the era. Some of the planes are as bright and as colorful as tropical birds, others a delicate as butterflies; they are a circus unto themselves. Kids romp—parents chase. Makeshift bleachers fill the hillside—many spectators are already in place waiting for the 2 pm air show to begin. We order hot dogs and burgers and sit at picnic tables, snacking on chips and drinking sodas.

The Air Show

Some of the planes are too light, too large, and too fragile to risk flying in the aberrant wind. Others are smaller, heavier, and take to the skies twisting, twirling, climbing, diving. I am super glad I am sitting where I am—not up there— and I love the spectacle and happiness and excitement that permeates this day.

Looking at Michael, I tell him, “I think this is the best day yet.”

“Except for the plane ride?” he asks.

“Well,” I hesitate, wondering if I should tell the truth, “I was just a tiny bit nervous.”

Dinner at the Red Onion

We have reservations for Michael’s birthday dinner in Saugerties, about fifteen minutes from the house.  Once home, I run upstairs, change clothes, and am back downstairs in ten minutes. I’m becoming a quick-change artist.

The parking lot is crowded—crowded-full-crowded—and we circle around several times looking for a vacant space. Finally, we make our own.

I am expecting to love The Red Onion. I want to love The Red Onion. As we enter the bar, the noise level alerts me to a lot of happy people—or a lot of shouting people trying to be heard—I’m not sure which.

First things first, I look at the wine list. It is different than the one on the Internet where I recognized some of the labels, but it is Michael’s birthday, I know he loves Zinfandel, and they have a Robert Baile from Napa for $80. If Michael knew how much it cost, he would have a heart attack—birthday or not. He’d order a beer and save a fortune. I look at him and say, “I have my credit card.  I’ll pay.”

Dinner is Served – Too Quickly

Conversation is difficult, and I really don’t want to yell. We lean across the table, trying hard to hear what the other is saying.   The service is prompt—our wine arrives, our appetizers are placed before us almost immediately afterward—too prompt.  I should have realized at the point we walked through the door, and I heard the dull roar in the dining area, that a leisurely fine dining experience might be out of the question.

My appetizer is House-Made Pierogi with Black Truffle Potato Puree, Melted Onions, Brown Butter, Sage, drizzled with Sour Cream. It is good. Not great. Michael, a fan of New York tomatoes, has Mozzarella Di Bufala with Story Farms Tomatoes, Frantoia Extra Virgin Olive Oil, Maldon Sea Salt, and Basil. I think he really likes his appetizer because he offers me a taste of the mozzarella.

For our entree, we are both seduced by the promise of Braised Short Ribs with Parsnip Puree, Broccoli Rabe with Garlic, Truffle Oil, and Gremolata. Michael orders a vegetable side dish of minted glazed carrots. The seduction doesn’t last long. If there is gremolata on the plate, I can’t find it or taste it. 

The broccoli rabe tastes of burnt garlic and is so bitter it is unpalatable. After the first bite, we both ignore it for the rest of the meal. The braised short ribs, which we are expecting to be an unctuous and melt-in-your-mouth experience—aren’t. The sauce on the beef has been reduced beyond the point of perfection.  But we both love the carrots and the parsnips and the wine. So, all isn’t lost.  But unfortunately, I do not love The Red Onion; Michael confesses that he doesn’t either. Perhaps we ordered the wrong thing.

We fall into bed at 10 o’clock wondering what tomorrow will bring.