Fine and dandy, it’s a film of no consequence, but I must ask the filmmakers: Why on Earth would you set a film in Maine and cast no one with a New England accent? Maine!–which has an accent as thick and distinctive as Georgia! And yet , in a lead role we get the distinctively Queens, New York honk of Ray Romano. At least Maura Tierney was born in Boston, so her flatter intonations are not glaringly inappropriate. Most disappointing were the bit characters, the quirky old guys and gals who looked like all sorts of flat vowels and dropped R’s would come out of their mouths. But no, they sounded Midwestern, at best. This did not stop bothering me through the entire film.

Just ‘cause there’s moose in the movie doesn’t mean you’ve captured Maine.

“Place” is so much more than just … place. It’s food. It’s idiom. It’s smell. And it’s dialect … one of the particular joys of U.S. travel. I remember on my first visit to New Orleans, wondering why there were so many Brooklynites there; the N.O. accent sounds remarkably similar to Brooklyn’s. And after decades in Texas, what New York accent I had is being overwritten. I hear this most in the word fire—which sometimes comes out of my mouth as fahar. And I love how the Scandinavian rhythms of some Midwestern speech keep alive immigration patterns of generations long past.

Contemplating American dialects brought me to a couple of fascinating websites, where I’m trying not to squander too much time. “Do You Speak American?” is a PBS site examining aspects of our language. And the International Dialects of English Archive has audio samples of dialects coast to coast. Good luck getting anything done now.

And remember, filmmakers…we’re not just watching. We’re listening, too.

(P.S. I screwed up my knitting anyway.)

During a visit to the Ogden Nature Center, which runs an incredible injured bird rehab program, I fell for the art birdhouses that dot the nature trails. I thought at least a few of you might like them, too. Not in the mood for silence? Hit play on the calls of the Black-chinned Hummingbird or the Mountain Chickadee–both now-and-again residents at the center. Download the center’s bird checklist to see who else flies in.

Slideshow get you thinking you could build a better birdhouse? Ogden Nature Center’s 17th Annual Birdhouse Competition, which “encourages creative, backyard habitats for birds,” kicks off March 29.

Not only that, but because food has no calories when you travel (you didn’t know that?), even if we are oatmeal people at home, we are pancake or migas or chocolate chip waffle people on the road.

And so today, the topic is YUM! BREAKFAST! Our guest writer is Helen Husher, who was my horseback riding teacher at Camp Sunningdale in Naples, Maine a few decades ago. We have reunited through the miracle of Facebook. These days, Helen lives in Montpelier, Vermont where she writes books about Vermont culture and destinations. She also has published a memoir, Conversations With A Prince: A Year Of Riding At East Hill Farm and blogs at sixty-four strings, which is the number of strings on the hammered dulcimer she plays. A very interesting person, our Helen.

***

The Skinny Pancake, part of the growing local foods movement, started as a homemade pushcart.

The Skinny Pancake in Montpelier (and Burlington), Vermont started as a pushcart made from a discarded boat trailer and leftover flooring. These days you can sit down to eat anything you can stuff inside a crepe, but it’s the breakfasts that are to die for. The smoked-salmon “Atlantic Monster” with local eggs and spinach-artichoke cream cheese, and frumple cakes, a house specialty that starts as a plain crepe until it gets, well, frumpled, then topped with sugar and cinnamon. If you must eat an Important Meal, frumpling turns duty into pleasure.

Best of all is the wall of windows overlooking a town where everybody walks everywhere, often in unusual clothes–it’s a cold climate so we’re big on layers, monstrous boots, earflaps, and ten-foot scarves. It’s impossible to be bored.–Helen

Yes, that is a smile you see on their potbellied stove. It likes breakfast, too.

I remember feeling slightly embarrassed while eating at Michael’s Kitchen in Taos, New Mexico. A devout breakfast eater, I think I horrified the friend I was with by the hectic pace with which I both spoke about and devoured the delicious mess of tortillas and eggs and cheese and beans and diced green chile in front of me. There’s a chance I drank more coffee than most people deem natural, too. But Michael’s felt totally comfy. I just really liked being in there. Oh, be prepared to wait when you go. Buy some chile cheese bread from their bakery to tide yourself over.–Jenna

Not much to look at, but that's OK. It's all about the eatin'.

Breakfast is absolutely my favorite meal of the day—especially restaurant breakfasts, that come with such a variety of divinely unhealthy things: hash browns, buttery grits, pancakes, bacon, greasy toast and strawberry jam in little tubs and, at the Omelet House in Las Vegas, warm, sweet, tender pumpkin nut or banana nut bread. Oh, mama. You’ll hardly think about your huge, fluffy omelet (mmm, but I’ll have the Popeye, stuffed with spinach, mushrooms and jack) once you start snarfing that stuff, smeared with butter. It’s a wonder the off-duty showgirls at the next table manage to keep their figures with a place like this around. This no-glitz spot way off the Strip haunts my morning dreams.–Sophia

This is not Pat Moon (or his team). Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

Pat Moon has a perfect beard for growing icicles. It starts at his ears and works its way down round the bottom of his chin, not spending any time on the front of his face. It’ll probably spend a good amount of time hiding inside layers of high-tech fabrics during Moon’s rookie run of the Iditarod but, at some point, icicles will hang off it. It’s just the way things go for bearded guys at the Iditarod.

Moon’s impressive beard was the first thing I noticed when I met him at Snow Days Chicago back in January. He was showcasing dog mushing, the sport he fell in love with back in 2006. His first Iditarod experience was as an Idita-Rider. The program gives non-mushing types the chance for a ride-along in the basket of one of the competitors’ sleds for the ceremonial start of the race.

As I’ve mentioned here before, I developed a thing for dog mushing when I went up to cover the race. But, while I still just follow it, Moon, 33, decided to do it. It happens to people. Dog mushing just pulls them in. The story usually begins, well I just thought I would get one dog and then…

While I bow to anybody who decides to take on a major dog mushing race–it’s quite a task, both physically, mentally, and logistically–Moon’s first outing at the Iditarod comes at a challenging time in his life. As he told me in Chicago, it’s possibly a now or never thing.

Moon was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in February 2009. He’s on chemo. It doesn’t make taking on a major endurance event any easier. A few veteran mushers who faced up to cancer in the past were, as he made it clear, concerned about his decision to do the race. OK, maybe more than concerned. They, strongly, advised him against it. Yet Moon would not be dissuaded. His health has tried to get in his way for years–he was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis when he was 15.

As Moon told me on that day in Chicago, a few sled dogs looking on from the bed of his truck, his life is not about his illness. His life is about getting out there and taking things on. He is, quite simply, one of the brightest spirits I’ve met in a long, long time.

The Iditarod starts March 6.

The New Mexico Museum of Space History. Cool beans! Photo by Tom Battles.

I heard about plans for Spaceport America over dinner one night in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico (at the very excellent Cafe Bella Luca). It’s the kind of thing you hear about and think, “Yeah, right … that will never happen. Well, smack my head and call me clueless … looks like it really is going to happen. Some day, you might be able to board a commercial spaceship in New Mexico for a little getaway in outer space.

Truthfully, my interest in outer space pretty much began and ended with Lost in Space and I mostly liked Mr. Smith, pissy old queen. But New Mexico’s outer space element is kinda fun, you could make a whole theme trip out of it even before Spaceport opens.

Fly into Albuquerque and drive to Truth or Consequences for a night or two in the Jetson’s Room at Blackstone Hotsprings. Visit the spacey landscape of White Sands National Monument en route to Alamogordo and the New Mexico Museum of Space History, which has a lot of cool stuff. (Sputnik!) Then, of course, a pilgrimage to Area 51 and the International UFO Museum. (The 2010 Amazing Roswell UFO Festival is July 1-4.) Finally, en route back to Albuquerque, you’ll pass the White Sands Missile Range and, after a thorough screening , (license, registration, and proof of insurance, please) can visit the White Sands Missile Range Museum.

Someday, your theme holiday can culminate with a little jaunt to, oh, I don’t know … Jupiter? But until then, a green chile cheeseburger at the Owl Cafe in San Antonio. Why? ‘Cause they’re out of this world, of course. (Rimshot.)

We like to shop for jewelry when we travel. Jewelry souvenirs make it easy to take your travels with you throughout your work-a-day week–and, if you don’t have room in your suitcase on the way home, you can just wear the purchase. But some jewelry glisters brightest because we didn’t buy it. And the memory of that bauble can burn a girl’s brain in a bad way for a long time. So, this week, some pieces we bought, others we were gifted, some we left behind.

Joining us for the glistery good times is Cathleen McCarthy, a writer who lives at the intersection of travel and jewelry. Based in Philadelphia, Cathleen writes for magazines including Town & Country, Art & Antiques, and US Airways, as well as her website, The Jewelry Loupe, and The City Traveler, which she runs with two other swell writers.

Bernd Munsteiner's son, Tom, carries on the cool pendant ($18,500) tradition. Photo courtesy of the Aaron Faber Gallery.

I obsess over jewelry wherever I am–craft shows, movie theatres–but what I covet is usually hand-fabricated and out of my reach. I’ve passed up many treasures but if I could time-travel with a pocketful of cash, I’d head for the Tucson Gem Show, c. 1998, where I fell in love with the elliptical-shaped pendants carved by Bernd Munsteiner: all stone and about 1.5″ long. I almost splurged on the rutilated quartz. Five years later, I spotted three more at the Aaron Faber Gallery in Manhattan and tried on the fiery Mexican opal (oh! painfully beautiful), now $2,000. Faber warned me Munsteiner wasn’t making them any more, but (drat!) I was saving for a house. Alas, he was right.–Cathleen

Sophia's getting her friend’s money’s worth out of this little souvenir.

A friend got me this shark’s tooth necklace in Corpus Christi, as thanks for driving her to the airport. I appreciated the gesture but didn’t think I’d wear it. I pictured it hanging on a rack in a souvenir store, next to key chains and tawdry postcards.

But when I divorced the necklace from that image, it became one of my favorite pieces of everyday casual jewelry. It’s a staple when I travel, since I don’t like to travel with anything expensive, and it perfectly suits my style, which is a little bit hippie, a little bit tough chick. It’s all about context, isn’t it? I look at souvenir shops differently now.—Sophia

Poor things aren't much to look at anymore. They could use a little reshaping.

OK, my choice is actually gold. I think. They’ve never turned my ears funny colors or made my lobes hurt so, yeah, I’m fairly certain they’re gold. They were my first purchase at a Nashville store that I now count as one of my favorites anywhere in the U.S. Whoever does the buying for Fire Finch just loads the place up with all sorts of crazy pretty goodness. It’s totally girly but, though I hate this word, I will use it, it’s got a bit of an edge. So these super simple earrings were there and they were on a super sale. When I put them on, cue the music, I just felt pretty–and ever so much slightly sassier than I did one second before. For that, I would have paid full price.–Jenna

Don't hold the dingy sign against them.

Though I found plenty to love at the small plate and I wish it was in my neighborhood! restaurants I dined my way through in Philly last weekend, I never felt more me than at Little Pete’s. As I’ve mentioned a time or two before, I grew up Jersey. Diners aren’t just a nice novelty for me. I need them–and their absolute lack of snootiness–as much as I need coffee and oxygen. The first meal in a good new-to-me diner gets me (internally) giddy. And I can be a harsh judge: diners get about five minutes to make me fall in love with them.

Now, Little Pete’s coffee could have been better but I’ll forgive it. The place is wee. A novice staff would be in the weeds within seconds if just one too many people came in the door. But the Little Pete’s staff has it down, shepherding customers to one of seven tables or a seat at the trapezoidalish counter. And though that counter, at first, felt a drop too high, I soon realized that it was the perfect height for propping up a book and an even better height for getting that coffee (good or not) into my system all that much sooner. The cup didn’t have to go very far before I could tip it back. Considering the head discomfort I was in from sipping menu items at Village Whiskey the night before, that counter height made my Sunday morning. And the egg white lox and onions omelet English muffin dry jam on the side was damned good, too.

Wintry enough for you?

Of course, it’s in the 60s here today and the snow is mostly a memory (except for cleaning up the extensive tree damage), but I feel for my friends in northern climes. While a big snow in Texas is a delightful novelty, the white stuff is a lot less wonderful by February in other places. So for today’s Three-fer, we’ve decided to think about summer. Ahhh, summer. Well, except in Texas, where the hot sun is a lot less wonderful by August than in other places. (And by October … don’t ask.)

Our guest writer this week is the very delightful Deborah Gaines. Who says you can’t make friends on Facebook? We met on Jenna’s page, trading witticisms about Jenna’s witticisms. Deborah is a recovering travel writer who now works in the corporate world, but as soon as she gets tired of actually making money, she hopes to hit the road again.

***

Argh.

I live and work in the vicinity of New York City, where politics and pretension go together like caviar on toast points. So it’s no surprise that my perfect summer escape involves something a little less PC. My guilty pleasure is New Smyrna Beach, Florida, ten miles south of Daytona (best known for its raceway and Nascar Museum), with its go-karts, wide swathes of drivable beach, manatees, and hot and cold running barbecue (try Piggin-N-Grinnin or Lil Neals). No one calls the Coast Guard when my eight-year-old takes the wheel of Grandpa’s speedboat. And did I mention I’m one of the skinniest people on the beach? –Deborah

My friend K. found these goggles at the Treasures & Trash Barn in Searsport. No way can you find that kind of fun on a beach.

My skin takes one look at the sun and, suntan lotioned up or not, surrenders. All my pale lights up like Rudolph’s nose. So, let’s just say that a nice beach sit doesn’t really do it for me. Instead, I’ll take a good summer wander through the woods or some crap, er, antique store and, most of all, a long lazy greasy breakfast any (and every) summer day. Deer Isle, Maine serves it all up in fine style. A few summers back, I rented a house in Stonington for a week. It rained most of the time. I didn’t even have to pull the SPF 73,000 out of my bag. There was no ripping that smile off my face. –Jenna

Can you say Mayberry in Yiddish? Me and my big brother, little. Photo by Merwin Dembling.

My summer daydream requires time travel: Reynolds Hills, circa 1960s. This summer bungalow colony in Westchester County, New York was formed in 1929, one of a number of camps established along the Hudson River by radical, left-wing, working-class Jewish immigrants like my grandparents. There, along with about a dozen other children (these folks weren’t big on procreation) and a hundred self-appointed grandparents (plus two real ones), I spent Utopian summers running free, getting toast-brown at the swimming pool, riding bicycles, playing Barbies, and doing Jewish folk dances every Friday night. Reynolds Hills is still there, as are some of my friends, though the founders are long gone. And those summers live deep in the hearts of all of us. –Sophia

Am I being too prickly? Photo by Jenna Schnuer shot at The Boulders Resort.

A funny thing happened on the way to my looking-back-on-luxury hotel list: I realized that, when it comes to luxury, it really takes something special for me to remember it. I love a plush king-size bed layered with high thread count sheets. I adore a soft and oversized bathrobe. I go ga ga over a deep bathtub (though I kind of draw the line at bath concierges–I can pour my own salts, thanks). But, unless the hotel that houses the goodness has a little sumpin’ sumpin’ extra–like, oh, personality–it all just….blends together. That’s why I love a place like Boston’s Liberty Hotel–it’s got it going on in the luxury department but also gets big style points and huge sense-of-humor bonus points. (Yes, I’m watching Olympic figure skating as I write this up.) So as I looked through Virtuoso’s Best of the Best hotel experiences list, I had several “I think I stayed there. Did I stay there moments?” Here, the ones that stood out for their sumpin’ sumpin’ extra (even when I didn’t get to test the beds):

Though I get a good giggle out of The Boulders Resort’s website photo of bathrobe-clad women walking the meditation maze, I echo Sophia’s take on the place. And it has a killer cactus collection. Oh, yeah, it gets bonus points for its Carefree, Arizona location. What place wouldn’t?

I didn’t get to stay at The Arizona Biltmore. I just got to lunch there. And that made me sad. The place put my brain into overdrive. I started fantasizing about a life holed up in one of the rooms, post-writing evenings spent walking the grounds. I don’t know what came over me. But there it was.

A hike up nearby Pinnacle Peak and a post-hike meal at the hotel’s outdoor restaurant: at the Four Seasons Resort Scottsdale, that was all I needed to understand that they do luxury in quite the memorable way. It’s a durned pretty place, too.

OK, just another lunch–I do luxury cheap, eh?–but a memorable one: San Diego’s US Grant is a stunner. I felt more elegant just for walking in the door. (Though it lost points for the odd art gallery off the lobby. Eesh.)

Let me make one thing clear: if you want to pay for me to live at Santa Barbara’s Four Seasons Resort The Biltmore, I will let you. The Spanish-tiled bathrooms are a bright and lively start to the day and the beds are the perfect place to end it. And the beach across the street? Its sunsets pair beautifully with champagne.

Photo by Jenna Schnuer shot on a balcony at the W New Orleans-French Quarter.

It was all about the French Quarter balcony. Though I hit New Orleans during that crazy-bleep cold snap a month ago, I immediately opened the French doors on my W New Orleans room and stepped outside. Flags snapped around in the wind but I just pulled my sweater closer to my body and enjoyed the view.

I love a little excess. The Bellagio does it so well.

Again, meals only. But what meals they were! Twist at Mandarin Oriental, Las Vegas served up an elegant night. It jumped to the top of my (elegant) restaurants-I-want-to-live-in list. (Yeah, I do have lists like that in my head. What of it?) It was a very good night. Very very good. (Oh, like The Biltmore in SB above? If you want to pay for me to live in the MO LV, feel free. The Dynasty Suite is lovely this time of year.)

I had a good day of horseback riding at the Hyatt Regency Tamaya Resort & Spa in Santa Ana Pueblo, New Mexico. I’d love to go back for more.

One of my favorites anywhere: Nashville’s Hermitage Hotel. What’s it go? A way cool public men’s bathroom–ladies, find your way in there somehow–so worth the trouble!–and very very very good room service oatmeal (which, by the by, is an easy thing to screw up) and deep bathtubs and a long and interesting history. And it’s just so very pretty.

Oh, one last note: while looking though the list, I developed a little crush on The Resort at Paws Up. I hate myself for wanting to go to a place with a tagline that reads “If a tree falls in the forest, the butler will handle it,” but there you have it.