Hello, Cleveland Part 4

Sterle's Slovenian Country House, on the corner of East 55th and Bonna, is one of our family's favorite dining destinations.  I don't know how or if my family is related to Frank Sterle, the original owner, but I suspect there is some relation since I don't know of too many Slovenians out there with French last names.  Family legend has it that my great-, great-, great-, great-, great-grandfather on my father's side was Jacques Sterle, a soldier in Napoleon's army.  Napoleon occupied the area of the Austrian Empire now known as Slovenia and named Ljubljana as the capital of his Illyrian Provinces, an area that Austria ceded to the French.  Jacques Sterle met a village girl during the French occupation and stayed behind and married her after Napoleon and his army moved on; hence, the beginning of our family's Slovenian heritage on my dad's side.


The restaurant is styled in the tradition of an Alpine chalet and hasn't changed one bit (at least that I've noticed) since I was a kid.  You walk in a side door off the parking lot and find yourself at the end of a long, dark hallway.

The walls to the right are decorated with pastoral murals of mountains, farms, and girls in traditional Slovenian dresses (I swear they're holding beer steins).  To the left is what I like to call the "Polka Wall of Fame" on which photos of Cleveland-style polka kings (and queens) are displayed.  There used to be a cigarette machine that was rumored to be Mob-owned as most of the cigarette machines in Cleveland's bars and restaurants, but I'm not sure if it's still there.  A party room is to the right followed by a short hallway where the restrooms are located.  I had to stop in the restroom to swoon for a moment, having been overcome by Slovenian sensory overload (yes, Julie and I were laughing hysterically as she took this photo).

Swooning aside, directly across the hallway from the restrooms is the restaurant, bar, and dance floor.  You enter the dining room and are immediately greeted by Margo, the owner/manager, who has some sort of Eastern European accent (my brothers know her and could tell you where she is from).  The bar is beyond Margo's little reception cubicle where you can usually find an assortment of older European-looking men, some of whom are just too darn cute (in a grandpa kind of way) for words.  The bar takes up most of the wall that contains the only windows in the restaurant.  I hate to admit it, but my kids have sat at the bar, albeit briefly.  Don't ask.  The dining room is pretty big and tables are set on the dance floor, except for weekends when there are live polka bands and you can spot many a senior cutting a rug.  There is nothing remotely cool or hip about Sterle's decor, but it exudes such an old world ambiance that you don't really care.


The first group of dishes featured on the menu are veal dishes such as wienerschnitzel, Sterle schnitzel (the latter topped with mushrooms and sour cream), and Naravni Sterle (veal au jus with fresh mushrooms).  It's followed by pork specialties (my personal favorite) such as roast pork and breaded pork chops.  I've never made it past the breaded pork chops, so I can't tell you if any of the remaining menu items such as liver and onions, kidney stew, and klobase and zelje (sauerkraut) are any good.

Julie and I ordered the breaded pork chops with home fries and a Lasko to wash it down.  She ordered the salad, which is just plain iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots and red cabbage with a simple Slovenian vinegar and oil dressing.  If you're lucky, you might get a stray cherry tomato or two.  As you can tell, I'm not overly impressed with their salad.  I, on the other hand, ordered my son's favorite - homemade chicken broth and noodles.

My mom had a hard time finding something on the menu that she could eat and I hate to admit that I can't remember what she ended up ordering.  My dad ordered the kidney stew, but I doubt it was as good his version that he cooked for us countless times while we were growing up.  Our server was brisk and terribly efficient, reminiscent of a German prison guard.  Julie and I, in a Slovenia-phile moment, plotted how we could sneak our empty Lasko beer bottles out of the restaurant.  Julie kept a lookout for our eagle-eyed server while I nonchalantly slid both bottles into my purse.


Our food arrived not-so-surprisingly quickly after our soup and salad and did not disappoint.

We discussed our course of travel as I unabashedly gnawed on my pork chop bone.  I think they're so good because Sterle's fries them in real lard instead of vegetable oil.  We ordered apple strudel to go while I lamented the fact that we wouldn't be polka-dancing our meal off.  My parents used to be world-class polka dancers before my dad's hip surgery and I used to be so proud watching them glide across the floor.  My sisters and I always fought over dancing with him.  Always the teacher, he was patient with us while we stomped on his feet (me especially).  I don't know if there are any more father-daughter polkas in our future, but one can always hope.


I sighed, rose from my chair, nabbed my precious apple strudel, paid the bill, and took one last look around.  I hoped that the next time I came to Sterle's it would be with Lance (who could in turn step on MY toes while I taught him to polka) and the kids.  Sterle's has been around almost as long as I have.  I hope that it will outlive me.


http://www.sterlescountryhouse.com/index.htm


Next stop, Dad's old stomping grounds.

Hello, Cleveland Part 3

It was past noon and we had decided to have lunch at Sterle’s, a Slovenian/Eastern European restaurant where we have attended many family polka parties and enjoyed sinfully rich and fattening meals of fried pork chops, Slovenian sausage and home fries, and sauerkraut washed down with Lasko beer.  Depending on how strong our death wish was that day, we would top off the meal with coffee and a generous slice of apple strudel.  Sterle’s was a given for lunch, but we hadn’t quite worked up an appetite for their “diet….what diet?” fare.

 We talked about how Raddell’s was close by, just a few exits down the highway in Collinwood.  Raddell’s is a butcher shop that sells our beloved traditional Slovenian sausages that we serve at Easter and Christmas.  Lucky for me, they ship to Texas and I have turned many a friend on to this tasty, tubular treat.  I usually place my orders with Eddie or Tom, the owner.  Julie suggested that we swing by Raddell’s since she had never been there, either.  What the heck?  Why not go to Raddell’s and meet my sausage princes in person?  I was beside myself with joy.  Not only was I going to partake of my first Sterle’s meal in four years, but I was going to purchase FRESH sausages and possibly even zelodec, a Slovenian-style lunch meat, similar to Italian Genoa salami. 

We pulled off the highway and Julie shouted, “There it is!”

“Where?”

“Right there!”

Raddell’s website boasts that it sits on Frankie Yankovic Square in the historic Waterloo Road area of Collinwood.  I had pictured a quaint town square, with Raddell’s at one end in an old, framed structure, and possibly an old record store (stocked with polka music, of course), and maybe a café.  Instead, all I saw was a fairly new brick building sitting on what was Cleveland’s equivalent to an access road, which I guessed was the famed Waterloo Road. Across the street was an auto parts store and there may have even been a Chinese restaurant next door.  I didn’t see any signs (other than the sign below) designating this area as the polka king’s old stomping grounds.

 Not to be discouraged, I eagerly hopped out of the car and Julie shouted, “Let me get a picture of you!”  I grabbed my parents and posed in front of the shop.  I know, how many people can say that they've posed for a photo in front of a sausage shop?  We were the subject of curious stares, but we didn’t care.  This was a red-letter day and we were not about to let anything ruin our exuberant mood.

We walked into the shop, which seemed a lot smaller inside than it did from the outside, probably due to the fact that Raddell’s makes its own sausages on site, which I’m sure requires a lot of space.  To my right were shelves of Eastern European dry goods such as spices, noodles, coffees, teas, cookies, and chocolates.  Immediately in front of me was the cold cuts counter, where they also serve fresh sausage sandwiches.  Standing in line for their sandwiches were two men that appeared to most certainly be of Eastern European descent and reminded me of how my uncles looked when I was a kid.  Julie was equally happy to be there:

To my immediate left was a display of towels embroidered with “Slovenian Kitchen” (yes, Julie and I each have one), “Hungarian Kitchen,” “Polish Kitchen,” etc.  

Beyond that….

My, I mean OUR, sausages!  I browsed through the rack of dry goods while Mom, Dad, and Julie made their purchases. 

I wanted to savor the moment, but the tiny shop was beginning to fill up fast, so felt somewhat pressured to make my selections.  I chose one pound of sliced zelodec, which I hadn’t smelled, let alone tasted, since I was in high school.  The smell brought back memories of taking our food to church to be blessed at Easter.  My dad would buy a big chunk of it at Malencek’s and we’d have fat slices of it on white bread for lunch.  Talk about a slice of heaven.  Raddell’s makes its zelodec with its sausage meat, so how could it NOT be fabulous?

I noticed that there were two “Pots and Pans” cookbooks sitting on top of the deli display, on sale for only $18.99.  This particular edition was published on December 19 (which is also Lance’s birthday), 1998, on the 72^nd anniversary of the Slovenian Women’s Union of America.  I had searched for this cookbook online, but couldn’t find one priced below $24.99 plus shipping and handling.  It includes recipes from the Union’s first cookbook, “Woman’s Glory – The Kitchen.”  (I know….feminists would have a hard time with this title, but it was first published in 1951, for Pete’s sake).  My dad, who did most of our family’s cooking while we were growing up, often used this cookbook.  I thought that it would be a perfect souvenir of my first trip to Raddell’s. 

I got back in line and eventually made it up to the sausage counter.  What to do?  Should I get the necklace of sausages or the vacuum-sealed packages?  I hadn’t snipped the string to separate sausages in years and I always loved how the butcher wrapped them in white butcher paper and put them in a paper sack.  Practicality got the best of me and I decided on the vacuum packs since I had to fly home.  I didn’t realize at the time that these little packages of perfection would cause quite a stir at the airport and prompt a thorough TSA hand search of not only my carry-on but my kids’ as well.  I also packed half a potica that Julie, Dad, and I made, which nearly created a national security scare, prompting the TSA agent to run an explosives test on it.  Maybe I should have flown into Cleveland instead of Columbus, where there was a reasonable probability that at least one agent would have an Eastern European heritage and would know a fine sausage when he saw it.

I placed my cookbook, zelodec, and sausages on top of the counter and the butcher started to ring up my purchases when my dad slyly slipped two large loaves of Orlando Italian bread in the middle of my loot (he had already checked out).  Nice one, Dad.  Very smooth.  I was so excited to actually meet my sausage sweethearts in person that I found myself babbling about how I’ve talked to them on the phone before and about how many Texans I’ve turned on to Slovenian sausages.  The guy stared at me blankly and politely thanked me for my purchases as he would any customer.  I didn’t take offense to his blasé reaction to my nervous chatter, recalling that the Raddell’s guys hadn't been all that chatty when I placed my phone orders.  Still, it didn’t dampen my spirits and I savored each of the six or seven minutes that I was in the shop.

I paid the butcher and grabbed my treasures, glancing around the shop one last time.  I pondered purchasing some coffee or tea from Slovenia, but the line was getting longer, so I decided against it.  My parents were already out the door (my dad isn’t one to linger), so I bid adieu to the sausages, pledging to visit them again next year.  We boarded the Sterle-mobile once again and headed to our lunch destination.

  

Hello, Cleveland Part 2

Once we convinced Mom to go, we tried to convince Dad to let us drive.  He may not admit it, but he has had a few close calls and one minor accident within the past few years.  He enjoys picking us up at the airport every summer, but each year the trip becomes more precarious as he veers into the next lane, changes lanes suddenly or cuts someone off.  Julie and I had already worked it out:  she would take the highway driving and I would do the city driving.  Dad insisted on driving, boasting that Cleveland was his city.  I reluctantly slid into the front seat of his Honda CRV with my Mapquest printouts while Julie hopped in the back seat with Mom, who was snuggled in with her water bottle, sweater, and pillows.  We were off!  I tried to enjoy the scenic drive up I-71 in an attempt to calm my nerves before we reached the city.  We mapped out our route and discussed which neighborhood we would hit first.

                  We were excitedly chatting when I noticed my Dad fiddling with the steering wheel.  I forgot that he is completely addicted to his cruise control and instead of hitting his brakes to slow down, he hits the decelerate button on the steering column.  I am a self-professed control freak and have NEVER used my cruise control.  Let’s just say that my control issues multiply when a 78-year-old man is behind the wheel, ankles crossed and tucked underneath the brake pedal because heck, why does he need his FEET when he has the decelerate and accelerate buttons on his cruise control?

                His feet were in this position as we passed Cleveland Hopkins International Airport and whizzed by Cleveland’s southwestern suburbs. 

“Dad, did you know that it’s best to only use cruise control when you’re driving on long stretches of highway with little or no traffic?”

                “Hmmm.  Well, I don’t use it in the city.”

                  I saw the Terminal Tower and Key Bank looming up ahead of us and felt the energy of the traffic speeding by us.  My dad and his trusty cruise-controlled vehicle remained in the left-hand lane right up against the concrete barrier, occasionally passing over the solid white line as the highway twisted and turned.  I leaned up against the passenger-side door with such force that my cheek had become glued to the window.  Yes, we were in the city and the cruise control was still on.  I comforted myself with the knowledge that his right foot was only inches away from the brake pedal, albeit under his left foot.

               “Oh, look!  There’s the Q; there’s the Terminal Tower, Amy!”

I muttered through clenched teeth, “That’s nice, Dad. Now please watch the road!”

I felt Julie’s hand on my shoulder and looked back and saw her eyeing his crossed feet on the floorboard , his fingers deftly thumbing the cruise control buttons.  I shot her a knowing glance.  We approached Dead Man’s Curve (a sign of things to come?), where I-71 merges into I-90 and runs along Lake Erie’s shore.  Thankfully, Dad applied his brakes and slowed down as we approached the 90-degree turn.  Who the heck would design a highway with a 90-degree turn right by the Lake, on a road that is most certainly frozen six months out of the year?

We made it through Dead Man’s Curve uneventfully and I started to uncross my legs, which was not an easy feat considering how tightly I had been clenching them, until I realized that Dad was still in the left-hand lane. 

“Dad, did you know that in Texas, the left-hand lane is used mostly for passing?”

 “Hmmm.  That’s interesting.”

I could see that being subtle wasn’t going to work and I hated to hurt his feelings seeing that he was in “his” city, so I kept my mouth shut and silently prayed that God would allow me to tuck my kids in bed that night. 

Hello, Cleveland, Part 1

"I'm not going."
"What?!  Mom, you have to!  We planned this trip just for you!"
"No, I'm not feeling well today."
My sister and I give each other a "what the heck are we going to do now" look.  Our mom suffers from chronic diverticulitis and had several attacks in the weeks preceding our trip to Ohio.  She doesn't feel comfortable traveling because she doesn't know when she'll have another attack.
"Mom, we can take our time and make as many pit stops as you need."
"Well.......okay."


My sister Julie and I had been planning to take my parents back to their old neighborhoods in Cleveland for months.  My mom's memory is failing and we hoped to trigger some memories so we could start chronicling her and my dad's family histories.


Our parents are first generation Americans and were raised in the culturally-rich neighborhoods of Cleveland in its heyday.  Their parents came to the United States from Slovenia, which was part of Austria at the time, during World War I.  They fled their Communist country for various reasons:  my dad's father came here to escape being drafted to fight for the Austrian army during WWI and my mom's mother came to the U.S. to escape an abusive father.  They traveled to this country on a ship that left from Trieste, Italy and docked at Ellis Island.  They settled in Cleveland, where family awaited them.  They were required to show proof of support before they were allowed to come over.  My dad's family lived in the St. Clair-Superior neighborhood of Cleveland, near the Lake Erie shore.  My mother's family lived further south in Newburgh (it was a village just outside Cleveland proper at the time).


Neighborhood life centered around the Catholic church: my dad's grandfather helped build St. Vitus, which is still the largest Catholic church in Cleveland, although there are very few, if any, Slovenians left in the neighborhood.  My mom attended and my parents were married in St. Lawrence Catholic Church.  The Diocese recently closed St. Lawrence along with scores of other Catholic churches in the city, in an effort to consolidate parishes due to declining membership in many previously vibrant parishes.  In fact, St. Lawrence had just celebrated its last Mass 11 days before our visit.





Immigrants in Cleveland found comfort and camaraderie in the churches as well as in the National Homes, which provided cultural offerings such as singing groups and, of course, opportunities to partake of food and wine.  My grandfather led a singing group at the Slovenian National Home on St. Clair Avenue, which still hosts Slovenian dignitaries and cultural programs.


Cleveland a vibrant city, you say?  The same Cleveland that is currently the 33rd largest city yet ranks as the 7th most dangerous in the country?  The city whose river burned and was dubbed "Mistake on the Lake?"  The city whose sports team can't seem to win a championship and whose stars flee to winning teams?  Believe it or not, Cleveland was the 5th largest city in the United States in 1920 and boasted the largest Slovenian population in the country.  It was a busy shipping hub due to its location on Lake Erie as a midpoint between Chicago and New York.  The steel industry thrived and provided jobs to many immigrants like my grandfathers.


Unfortunately, "white flight" occurred after the Hough Riots, which took place when I was less than three weeks old and living in East Cleveland with my parents.  The ethnic neighborhood inhabitants fled to suburbs such as Euclid and Shaker Heights following the riots.  Cleveland made its last appearance in the top 10 largest U.S. cities in 1970.  Residents left behind homes, neighborhoods, and churches that their fathers and grandfathers built in an attempt to raise their children in the shelter of the suburbs.  Bars, grocers, and butcher shops were boarded up, never to re-open, such as Malencek's butcher shop, below, where my family bought our Easter Slovenian smoked sausages and zelodec.





Houses would be neglected and condemned and the east side of Cleveland would fall victim to violent crime. These were the neighborhoods my sister and I were about to enter with my parents....and their memories of a Cleveland long past.

Warning: Daughter in the Dressing Room

You'd think I would have learned my lesson last year after taking my daughter swimsuit shopping with me and enduring her very.....ah....let's say....honest comments.  (See my 2009 blog entitled "Self-Esteem in the Hands of a 9-Year-Old.)


This year I decided to go swimsuit shopping during the week while she was in school.....it just happened that way....but I decided to take her along with me while I went summer blouse shopping.  One would think that's a pretty benign and safe article of clothing that would lend itself to minimal criticism, right?  I mean, you wear blouses on the upper part of your body, so no brutally and insultingly honest comments are warranted, correct?


Maybe in an ideal world with a more diplomatic daughter, that is.


Please don't get the wrong idea.  Natalie is a very sweet, demure, and polite kid under most circumstances.  She is not rude or hateful in any way whatsoever and we have a great relationship.  She just happens to be cursed with our family's creativity, perfectionism, and critical thinking skills.  This is especially true when it comes to her mom embarrassing her by wearing clothes that are not up to her standards.


Below is a selection of direct quotes.  I wrote them down while I was in the dressing room so I wouldn't forget them or misquote her.  I know, how many people DO that?


"One comment.....Grandma" while I was pondering a floral blouse.
"Maybe when you were younger." That hurt.
"Some things just aren't meant to be."  Stated with a sentimental sense of compassion.
"Can you even fit into that?!" while I was about to try on a sun dress that caught my eye.


I wish I could have photographed her facial expressions when I selected clothes from the racks and held them up to me.  I didn't even have to look at her directly to know that she was pursing her lips and shaking her head ever so subtly.  Maybe she IS more diplomatic than I realized.  To her credit, she did do a wonderful job helping me choose flattering colors and prints, telling me, "Mom, I know your color sensibility." Where does she come up with this stuff??


At the end of the day, she didn't let me walk out of the stores with anything that would embarrass me (or her, for that matter), so maybe, just maybe I'll let her tag along with me again.

Open Mouth, Insert Both Feet

I am officially a dumb ass. Okay, maybe I'm being a little too hard on myself. You be the judge...

My what-I-like-to-think-of-as-ADD-related-impulsivity-but-may-just-be-plain-boneheadedness tendency to blurt things out finally got the best of me. Long story, but my husband Lance's grandfather turned 95 last month and he flew to Savannah, GA for his birthday party/family reunion. He flew out for the weekend, but his brother and wife (who I'll call "Lynn" and "Rob") opted to drive there with my mother-in-law (insert scary, Psycho-shower-scene music here). For anyone not familiar with the rocky relationship we have had, you can read my blog entitled "A Partner in Patriotism" (aka, "Making Lemonade Out of Lemons").

Lynn and Rob should be sainted, let me tell you. There is no way I could be sober and handle being cooped up in a car with my mother-in-law for a 2-day drive. Apparently realizing the gravity of her situation, Lynn posted a tongue-in-cheek Facebook status report asking for her FB buddies' prayers right before they left. After she returned, Lynn sent me a message on Facebook telling me (at least I thought it was only me) that she had posted photos of the reunion. Being the smart ass that I am (when I'm not being a dumb ass, mind you) , I replied, "I guess you survived the drive with Mona (not her real name). I would have loved to have been a fly on THAT wall." Hit "reply all."

WHAT??!! Reply ALL? Who sends personal messages to multiple people? Yep, Lynn had ALSO sent the message to my father-in-law's family, her kids, sister-in-law, etc., none of whom I know all that well. Of course, I had to send the obligatory, "Oops! Didn't mean to reply to ALL of you"/egg on my face message. What else can you do at that point? Lynn thought it was funny.....hopefully my husband will. Not that I'M gonna be the one to tell him. I just hope there's not another reunion any time soon.

Time heals all wounds or at least obliterates them, right?

Up, Up, and Away

Most people who know me are aware of the fact that I hate flying. You can spew countless statistics at me about how the chances of getting in a car accident are far fewer than being in a plane crash, etc., etc. Ad nauseum. I'm not buying it. The butterflies don't usually start until the night before when I begin to talk myself out of traveling. I don't REALLY need a vacation. I don't REALLY need to see my family. Maybe they can just get their happy *#&$ (censored) on a plane and visit me. I try to watch mindless television to calm my nerves. In a sadistically warped twist of fate, an ad for the upcoming special "Why Planes Crash" comes on. The heck with this. My heart rate continues to rise steadily until it's time to go to sleep. Only I can't sleep.

I pop a couple Tylenol PM (and chase it down with a Benadryl for good measure) and I'm good to go....until I lie down. My heart starts pounding and visions of mid-air horrors flash in front of my fluttering eyelids. I eventually fall asleep but wake up to the sound of my heart pounding out of my chest. It's beating so hard I think it's going to wake my entire family. Oh well, sleep is over-rated anyway.


I can't eat breakfast because I'm too stressed out about getting into a car accident on the way to the airport. After all, I've heard that the chances of getting into a car accident are far greater than being in a plane crash. Not that I'm in a hurry to get to the airport. My kids are bubbling over with excitement, chattering away about how much fun it is to fly in an airplane. Not to be a mood killer or anything, but their chatter is making me a nervous wreck. It's way too much system overload for my neurotic, ADHD, OCD mind. But I try to hold it together....for their sake, of course.


We reach the airport in record time, unscathed. We check our bags and make our way to the gate. I toy with the idea of slipping unnoticed into the airport bar for a quick sedative, but I don't want my kids to think that I'm a TOTAL loser.


Now I'm on the plane. I've turned off my cell phone and iPod and have gone to the bathroom for the third time since I checked my bags. The plane starts moving toward the runway, which takes forever (DFW is a huge airport). I look around. Everyone looks calm. That's a good sign. I've said several prayers already and I pull my notebook out of my purse to chronicle this panic-inducing nightmare (which will soon become my latest blog) in an effort to distract myself from the horror yet to come (taking off).


The plane stops. And sits on the runway. My breathing becomes labored and I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. I get a hold of myself and realize it's only a panic attack. Why are we just sitting here, dammit? Let's get this over with! Man, it's like sitting on Death Row, waiting to walk the Green Mile. I glance to my right and see the woman next to me calmly reading her magazine. I glance to my left and see my daughter paging through a Sky Mall Magazine. I'm writing this blog fast and furiously - my hand is shaking so badly that I can barely read my own handwriting. My husband and son are across the aisle laughing and joking, looking out the window. What the hell is wrong with them?!


Oh God help me, the engine starts whirring again and we slowly begin to move forward, then to the right. I feel the floor shaking. Then we stop again. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The engine is groaning and vibrating (or is that my head?) I feel my daughter grab my arm, looking a little nervous. Don't look to me for comfort right now, little girl. I love you more than life itself, but I'm having a moment. And not a good one at that. (Insert guilt for being such a terrible mother).


My ears are going to pop. We start shimmying and shaking down the runway....faster, faster. Holy crap, we're in the air now. The wheels have just pulled up and I have left my sanity on the ground beneath us. Why are we shaking to and fro like this? Now the engine is making a new sound. I've never heard THAT sound before. I look around....my fellow inmates, I mean passengers, are calmly looking out the windows or taking a nap. What the hell are they thinking? Why is my daughter trying to get me to look out the window?


My head is light, I feel dizzy now that we're tilting to the right. I can't see any flight attendants, but I hear the clicking of overhead compartments (or is it the beverage cart already?) Now I hear the dinging sound that always precedes an announcement. But about what? That someone attached a bomb to the bottom of our plane? That the air marshal got stuck in traffic and missed his flight? That there's an engine malfunction? That we just encountered a flock of Canadian geese? What? For the love of God and all that is holy, what is it? Oh? It's now safe to turn on all electronic devices except our cell phones? We're okay? Granted, we haven't safely reached our cruising altitude yet, but that's okay. I have Stevie Wonder and Wilco to calm my fears.....not to mention that beverage cart.