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Published: 05 September 2012

Created: 05 September 2012

Last Updated: 05 September 2012

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All summer, I've read with dismay the patently false vacation stories people have submitted here. People, stop fooling Scarsdale10583.com's lovely yet naive administrator with crazy tales of visits to mythic lands such as "Europe" and "The Catskills." (If you have to make up a name, must you combine "cats" and "kills"? That's just sick.)

As everyone knows, the world begins and ends with Scarsdale. Drive too far north, and you reach a raging ocean teeming with sea serpents. To the south lies cratered earth, while a mile past Central Avenue yawns the Wild West, with roaming buffalo and hardy folk who drive cars with more than 36,000 miles on them. And east of Post Road lies...

Well, I didn't know. Till recently. Someone among us had to be the true summer adventurer; to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations...to boldly go where no Greenacres resident has gone before.

Yes, my friends. In a mere few days, I visited every other neighborhood in Scarsdale.

I know, it sounds impossible: Who has the courage, let alone the stamina? Read and believe.

Journey 1: From Here to Eternity (a.k.a. Fox Meadow)

Having obtained the necessary vaccines, I closed my eyes and crossed Fenimore Road. Immediately I was besieged by honking noises from wheeled border patrols, and cries of "Watch where you're going, you crazy b..." Well, that last word must be some regional patois, since I don't know it.

I continued to the residential area. Suddenly, I spotted a female of the Fox Meadow tribe. She was the slave of a small, shaggy animal, who used a leather strap, wrapped around her wrist, to force her onward. Still, her cruel master was not without grace: Occasionally he would pause to genuflect by a little yellow temple, lifting his leg with the grace of a young Nuryev.

By now, it had been an agonizing eight minutes since I'd eaten. I wheeled around in horror, realizing there wasn't a Patisserie Salzburg in sight. Then I heard a sizzling noise. I rounded a corner and encountered a tribal male standing before a metal box, using a primitive tool to flip disks of meat.

I approached, waving the beads and feathers I'd brought for trade, while snapping photos. The man pulled an object from his pocket and spoke into it. Minutes later, a white, wheeled transport with red and blue flashing lights pulled up. A diplomat emerged, asked where I lived, and graciously escorted me home. As a parting gift, he presented me with something called "a summons," which I believe is the local term for "certificate of distinguished travel."

Journey 2: Life Among the Quakers

Next it was time to cross Post Road - which, obviously, is short for Post-Apocalyptic Road. I popped an iodine tablet and dressed for my trip. Fortunately, I knew how to blend in with the locals, since I'd seen a portrait of their leader on a box of oats. In a disguise of modest black clothing, I slipped past the border undetected.

I wandered aimlessly until, to my delight, I spotted a group of similarly attired folk headed south. I fell in and was welcomed to their command center, where we chanted, drank wine from a silver cup, and consumed marvelous round carbohydrate units topped with a whitish spread.

I was invited to return next Saturday for "Noah Gopnik's bris." I don't know what that means, but I plan to arrive early and snag a front-row seat for an extra-good view.

Journey 3: The Horrors of Heathcote

I opted to explore this remote outpost by automobile. I'm forever grateful to a neighbor who warned me that crossing its "Five Corners" would require extensive supplies. Indeed, I consumed three meals and finished "War and Peace" in my car before the traffic light changed.

I resolved to memorize a local landmark so I'd have a point of reference. To my right, I found a turreted building bearing the sign "HEATHCOTE TAVERN." I immediately settled upon it as my proverbial north star. Yet moments later, its sign had changed to "BACKALS." I did a u-turn; the sign was now "BAR CITRON." Utterly flummoxed, I did a 360 in my car. Now it read "MASSA." Beware this land of shape-shifters.

The diplomatic transport again appeared as if by magic. I wept for joy at the sight of its flashing lights, and the man with the badge gave me another personal escort home. For a second time, he provided me with a souvenir. This one, he called "a ticket." Must translate.

Journey 4: Into the (Edgewood)

Now I pressed south again. Unable to find a Starbucks or a Lange's Deli, I became hungry and dangerously undercaffeinated. My thought processes jumbled. Along the Post (Apocalyptic) Road, I reached a regal stone building. I ran inside and, in my delirium, shouted, "Am I too early for Noah Gopnik's bris?". This caused some confusion among the natives gathered there - an adorable race of miniature people wearing blazers and plaid skirts. They politely explained I must be lost.

Humiliated, I stumbled out, driving along a row of houses. I heard a humming noise and steered toward it. A man was (note: the remainder of this tale may be unsuitable for some) attacking the very earth on which he stood with a machine equipped with blades. Bits of green flew this way and that. I'll admit I'd sometimes seen that in my own neighborhood too, but had the composure to mask my outrage at the wanton slaughter. Now, with my electrolytes in perilous flux, I aimed my car right toward the green-stuff-murderer.

Perhaps it's best of all of us that at that moment, my car ran out of gas, a result of my Five Corners ordeal. I panicked, trembling with fear lest my ONstar button not get reception so far from Greenacres. Miracle of miracles, though, it did, and a very nice truck pulled up and towed me home.

I'm still considering turning in that crazy man with the blade machine...but who would believe?

Journey 5: The Full Edgemonty

I almost didn't make this last leg of my incredible journey. But how could I call myself a true explorer if I didn't visit Scarsdale's West Pole? Crossing Central Avenue, I traveled on foot down winding roads, wondering who on earth would ever opt to live here, so far from The Yoga Station

But then something extraordinary happened. The landscape grew familiar. I began to anticipate what house, or tree, I'd see around each corner. Suddenly, I found myself standing before a split-level ranch. I walked down the driveway. Repressed memories began flooding my brain circuits...of playing in that back yard...of riding my bike on the street...of swinging in a hammock between two trees...

Who would ever live in Edgemont? I once had, I suddenly realized!

"KUNTA KINTE! AT LAST, I HAVE FOUND YOU!" I shouted, tears streaming from my cheeks. My mother appeared on the sundeck. "Deborah, is that you? Are you off your meds again?" she called. Then she ushered me inside for spaghetti and meatballs.

Truly, all roads lead home.

Deborah Skolnik is a Greenacres mother of two, a senior editor at Parenting magazine, and an unseasoned traveler.

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Published: 22 August 2012

Created: 22 August 2012

Last Updated: 22 August 2012

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It’s been a disappointing year for gardeners – scorching sun and high temperatures have been tough on plants, and many have withered and browned much earlier in the season than expected.

Especially troubling has been the performance of impatiens – often a staple of the suburban yard. In past years impatiens have thrived even in poor conditions – and by August produced colorful borders on residential flowerbeds.

We spoke to Al Krautter, owner of Sprainbrook Nurseries on Underhill Road in Scarsdale to find out why some impatiens are leggy, limp and dying and learned that a blight called downy mildew has afflicted almost all the impatiens in our area – with the exception of New Guinea impatiens which are not susceptible to the disease. Even more depressing, he predicts that there will be no impatiens in this area for another three years! There is no known cure for the downy mildew and Krautter thinks it will take three years to subside as the spores remain in the soil, even through the winter months.

He says that “Impatiens became so popular because they are so easy to grow, produced an abundance of color and inexpensively grown from seed. In the long run, the solution will have to be in hybridization and in the short run gardeners will have to choose alternative plants.

What can you plant instead? Begonias have always been a good garden border. With their waxy leaves in green or brown and red, pink and white flowers, they add color to the landscape, are shade tolerant and last until frost.

Krautter has converted his entire operation to an organic approach and recently published a book called “12 Steps To Natural Gardening” which is a guide to gardening without the use of toxic pesticides, chemical fertilizers or harsh additives. The book include 34 personal stories and horticultural principles and you can learn more about it here.

We also spoke to Elaine Yellen a Scarsdale resident and landscape designer about the flowers and she said, “Yes, the impatiens are suffering from a fast spreading fungus which has affected almost 100 per cent of all impatiens we planted last spring. Apparently the fungus stays in the ground even over winter, so I will not be planting impatiens next year. Other shade tolerant plants I will use include torrenia, coleus, various begonia types (I love the tuberous ones) and caladium."

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Published: 09 August 2012

Created: 09 August 2012

Last Updated: 09 August 2012

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Is The Campaign a winning ticket for weekend moviegoers? Scarsdale resident Deborah Skolnik got a sneak peek. Read her review. Ever trudged to the voting booth with a heavy heart because both candidates seemed like big losers? Be glad you don’t live in the 14th district of North Carolina, the setting for The Campaign. You’d be choosing between a pair of political rivals who’d make a Richard Nixon/John Edwards faceoff seem like an embarrassment of riches.

When we first meet incumbent Congressman Cam Brady (Will Ferrell), he’s standing atop a podium, flashing a million-dollar smile and sporting a $900 haircut (“My father worked with his hands,” he tells the working-class crowd….then adds that Dad was a stylist for Vidal Sassoon.) Morally, though, he’s bankrupt. When Brady gets embroiled in a sleazy scandal—the unfolding of which provides one of the movie’s funniest sequences—the door opens for the competition. Straight through it lumbers newcomer Marty Huggins (Zak Galfianakis), a local oddball with a pair of dainty dogs and a sweater collection seemingly swiped from the old Cosby Show props closet. And it’s on.

Just as so often is the case with politics, things aren’t what they seem. Milquetoast Huggins toughens up fast, backed by a pair of corrupt industrialists (John Lithgow and Dan Aykroyd) and a ruthless campaign manager (Dylan McDermott). Brady, so smug at the outset, begins to jitter apart as his approval ratings fall and both his “devoted wife” and frustrated advisor (Saturday Night Live’s Jason Sudeikis) take their leave. As the sparring intensifies, nothing is safe from the jabs both candidates throw—literally. Their families and reputations suffer as the poll numbers whipsaw.

Who wins? Who cares! The question is whether, for entertainment value, you ought to elect to go. To which I’d say it depends on your sense of humor. One problem is that American politics are such a dog-and-pony show already that it’s hard to lampoon them purely for satire’s sake. Given the recent brouhaha over President Obama’s birth certificate, for example, will you really collapse into shocked giggles when Brady accuses the mustachioed Huggins of being Bin Laden’s lost son?

Fortunately, Galafiankis and Ferrell—who have made careers out of delivering absurd lines with flawless deadpan—are fun to watch as always. And there’s plenty of semi-hidden treasure the supporting actors’ performances (bratty kids, pious neighbors, and Jack McBrayer from 30 Rock, even!). If you’re hoping for a strong female in the bunch, though, be warned: This is one flick that’s not down with that trend. You’ll get your choice of connivers or fools, but that’s about it. Still, if you’re in the mood for an amusing cinematic trifle, go ahead and join the party. Either party.

Opens August 10.

Movie mom Deborah Skolnik is a resident of Scarsdale, a mother of two and a senior editor at Parenting magazine.

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Written by: Joanne Wallenstein

Published: 29 July 2012

Created: 29 July 2012

Last Updated: 30 July 2012

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Those of you who missed the weekly email from Scarsdale10583.com last week may be wondering where we went. The answer is, far away. About as far away from Scarsdale as you can get. Here’s the story: Last winter a group of friends from town said they were taking a bike trip to Slovenia and invited my husband and me to join them. Now Slovenia was not on my bucket list – and to be honest I couldn’t even find it on the map. But they promised adventure, companionship and the experience of a lifetime so we took a leap of faith and signed on. To prepare, we biked when we had time, along the parkway and on county bike paths.

In the weeks leading up to the trip a few of the couples who were signed on to go cancelled their trips and sent some fairly ominous emails wishing us luck on the “technical descent” on Day 3 and the mountain pass through the 5,300 foot Vrsic Passage on Day 4. I realized I had not carefully reviewed the itinerary and that my training on the bike and on the tennis court may not have been enough for what the brochure called the “Tour de France worthy assault”  that would be required. But it was too late to look back so we pedaled on with our plans, so to speak.

Before the bike trip we travelled to Vienna and were treated to a wonderful retrospective of Klimt’s work and toured Schonbrunn Castle, home of the Hapsburgs who ruled the Austro-Hungarian Empire until 1918. We learned that the Austrians had dominated Slovenia – our next destination –from 1456 until the early 20th Century. More interesting was the Austrians' fascination with the beautiful Empress Elizabeth, a.k.a. Sissi, wife of the last Emperor of the empire. According to the audio-guide, the Emperor Franz Joseph I planned to marry Sissi’s older sister but asked for Sissi’s hand instead when she was only 15. Against her will, he moved her from Bohemia to the royal court in Vienna. Obsessed with her ankle-length hair and maintaining her 21-inch waist line, she bucked at court ritual. She refused to eat dinner with the family, avoided her overbearing mother-in-law and later fled to Corfu with her kids. Ultimately, she was murdered by an Italian madman. She has been compared to Princess Di and her image is on every tchotchke in the gift shop. It seems ironic that Austria, home of Freud, has transformed this neurotic and flighty Hungarian into a national folk heroine .... but I digress!

After Vienna it was onto Trieste where we met up with our group to begin the journey through the vineyards of the Friuli region of Italy. Before mounting the bikes, we were given the requisite safety talk and instructions on shifting gears, sharing the road with cars and trucks and avoiding aggressive dogs. I listened carefully thinking that this info could be lifesaving.

The first afternoon was a modest 23-mile ride to our hotel, which would have been doable if not for the fierce wind, called the “Bora” that made the biking doubly hard. The headwind was so strong that we had to pedal even on the downhills to move forward.

On Day 2 I was feeling more confident and though I had already fallen to the back of the pack I was determined to go at my own pace and enjoy the scenery. We passed quiet villages, well-tended gardens and fields of corn and wildflowers as we pedaled in the foothills of some stunning mountains that I learned were the “Julian Alps.” Trying hard to put thoughts of the mountain traverse out of my mind I made a valiant attempt to keep pace with the group.

The turquoise Soca River

The next day we rode 26 miles in the morning before coming to the base of the mountains. At that point the guides offered to take us up an1,100 foot ascent to a mountain village where we would be treated to pizza at a restaurant owned by a comical woman who had spent some time in the Bronx. The majority of us opted for the van, while a few of the more experienced riders braved the climb on their bikes. We were biting into our pizza’s with “rucola and ricotta” when one of the most adept riders showed up at the restaurant and was surprised that his wife was nowhere to be found. Panicked, he asked to use the phone to contact the group leaders to search for her. As he called we heard sirens from an ambulance and our hearts stopped. But luckily, soon after we got a call to say that “Primosch” our fearless Slovenian leader had found our friend sitting in a church yard waiting for directions. Her husband had gotten ahead of her and she had taken a wrong turn on a country road. When the same woman threatened to bike down a narrow pass that descended 1,690 feet after lunch, I grabbed her arm and led her to the van.

The ride over the mountain into Triglav National Park was exhilarating, even in the van. We were told that the steep and winding road had been built by Russian prisoners of war and that many had lost their lives in the process. We were treated to a series of stunning vistas and cascading waterfalls and stopped to watch the rushing turquoise water of the Soca River underneath a wooden footbridge. The hotel accommodations in the park were no match for the scenery. Our room at the Hotel Kanin looked like a dorm room and smelled even worse –so we retreated to the hotel’s indoor pool, where we were given plastic i.d. bracelets and thoroughly sprayed down before we were allowed to jump in. We enjoyed a dinner of fresh sliced prosciuto, tangy parmesasn, wild mushroom rissoto, fresh trout and crisp, dry white wine at a mountain lodge. After the bike ride and the dinner we all slept soundly despite the hard bed and Eastern bloc-style "amenities."

Our trip leaders saved the best for last and the next few days were spent riding to and around Lake Bled, a sparkling alpine lake that’s a famous destination for

Lake Bled

We ended the trip with a day in Slovenia’s capital, Ljubljana. Lively and scenic, the city is reminiscent of Venice and Prague and has lovely architecture, good restaurants and seems to be virtually undiscovered by western tourists. Next time you plan a visit to Eastern Europe, learn to spell Ljubljana and add it to your itinerary.

As my friends promised, it was an unforgettable experience and I am happy we risked it and even happier we came back in one piece.

Ljublana, Capital of Slovenia

• You can bike farther than you think you can.
• There’s much to discover in Eastern Europe, so brave unfamiliar languages, mundane accommodations and travel off the beaten path.
• Last -- You can’t cover Scarsdale while in Slovenia – thus the break in the website last week!

Where have your travels taken you? Share your adventures with our readers by emailing us at [email protected]