48 Hours (or so) in Rochester, NY

I knew I was in trouble, and I only had 48 hours to silence my critics.

The whole fiasco was related to one measly line, one which I stand by, but one that apparently ruffled a lot of feathers.

In my bestselling book, The Essence of Rochester, New York, I casually tossed in what I thought was a relatively benign sentence:

“…the affordability and painless roadways allow Rochesterians to fully engage with the copious cultural amenities, helping them come across as more well-rounded than their big-city analogues.”

I was wrong about the benign part—the backlash, particularly from the large-metro crowd, was rapid and severe.

(Note: I’m still not sure if anyone has actually bought and/or read the book.)

So I was left with only one option—I had to prove that I might have had a point.

In 48 hours (or so), without excessive planning, I would lead the life of a stressed-out and suburban family man—Rochester style.

It began with a trip to the Western New York countryside, where hills meet farms meet…a monastery. The Abbey of the Genesee is home to contemplative Roman Catholic monks of an order known as the Trappists, originating in 17th-century France. After noting the scenic beauty and the peaceful silence, I took in a monastic mass.

The countryside offered multiple surprises that day, another being the Sri Rajarajeswari Peetam, also known as a Hindu temple. This particular one was known for its unorthodox and progressive approach to prayer and pluralism. Always a fan of fusion, I would have stayed longer, but incense and asthma don’t mix particularly well.

From there, it was back to suburbia for my forte—parenting. I made sure my son was set for his high school prom later that day (i.e. did nothing) and confirmed with my daughter that she would be sleeping over a friend’s house that night (i.e. did nothing).

After a quick bite of the elevated Ramen noodles I had made, it was off to the city of Rochester for the Greek Festival. The Greek community, while not particularly large, is quite active and always eager to share its heritage.

First on the agenda was a tour of the Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church, a nice complement to my earlier introduction to Roman Catholicism, from which the Orthodox Church had formally split in 1054. Of course, education pairs well with ingestibles, and upon completion of the tour, the next destination was a tent for saganaki (fried Greek cheese) and a Fix (Greek beer). I browsed the numerous items available for purchase, but I opted to save my money for the rest of the day.

In keeping with the European theme, the next landing place was an Irish pub, relevant as it was showing the Super Bowl of European soccer—the Champions League final between Paris Saint-Germain and Inter Milan, which turned out to be a 5-0 snoozefest in favor of the French side.

After that flop, I returned to suburbia to reconvene with my wife. As the nest was transiently empty, we headed back downtown to check out a new wine bar—Unwine’d to be exact. We did, in fact, unwind, aided in part by a charcuterie board with fancy cheeses whose names I recall as non-cheddar.

Not in the mood for caloric restriction, we walked to a trendy eatery in the lobby of the former Chase Tower. The bank had long ago vacated, but apartment dwellers had more recently moved in. A few tofu sliders later (my wife’s choice), we moved on to something more up my alley.

The Bug Jar is a Rochester institution, known for decades as one of the city’s best spots for original live music. You’ve never heard of the vast majority of bands that have played there. On the other hand, at least a few acts—The Black Keys, The White Stripes, Vampire Weekend, Modest Mouse, Arcade Fire, and Lizzo come to mind—have gone on to hit it big. I wasn’t familiar with the band we saw that night, and my recollection of its name mirrors that of the charcuterie board.

We thought about staying for the next band, but my neighbor’s offer to stop by took precedence. Back in suburbia, I recounted the events of the day, and to provide a fitting bookend, he served me Chartreuse, a French liqueur which for centuries has been a secret recipe of monks at the Grand Chartreuse monastery in France.

The next day was full of exciting family activities—grocery shopping, laundry, loading the dishwasher, and the like. We did, however, leave room for one jaunt downtown, this time to the Geva Theatre for Beautiful: The Carole King Musical. I was embarrassed to admit I hadn’t realized the extent of the gifted songwriter’s portfolio, though I’ve since made amends by repeatedly streaming the album Tapestry, King’s masterpiece.

We contemplated a return to the Greek Festival but opted instead for an impromptu barbecue back home (along with some napping).

The final day of this sequence was a work/school day, meaning my ability to add anything of note was limited—that is, until I remembered I was a blogger. The afternoon began with a walk through Highland Park, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, better known for his work with New York City’s Central Park. I took some time to appreciate the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, a reminder of the young, local lives lost (and the fact that such moments don’t require a trip to the nation’s capital).

Later that day, after dropping my daughter off at her dance studio, I stopped by the Eastman School of Music, one of the world’s best music conservatories. The draw was a performance by the Eastman Youth Jazz Orchestra, whose pianist had recently attended his prom.

When it was all said and done, I knew I had exceeded the allotted 48 hours. But who writes about 56 hours?

For effect, 48 hours it would be.

My imaginary critics, after all, would expect nothing more.

Disclaimer: Unless you consider $0.14 on Medium worthy of mention, none of the above was met with appreciable household revenue.

Acknowledgement: Dr. Srinivas Jonnala was instrumental in choreographing these 48 hours (or so), including the 10 minutes at the Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church when he fell asleep.