tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57926622520691336482024-02-08T14:13:45.093-05:00i could go on and onA 20th century woman living a 21st century life in ....Richmond,Virginia
Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.comBlogger4194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-48232608627406587392019-07-29T03:59:00.000-04:002020-03-25T09:12:19.060-04:00The Bean QueenAny day that begins with walking to cliffs overlooking the water is bound to be a good one.<br />
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We went for the views at the insistence of our landlady, but there wound up being so much more to absorb than just beauty. The location has historical significance, as well as a natural one - lots of obscure sea bird life, an important migratory stopover - as was explained on a Spanish/English sign clarifying that it's a national protected site.<br />
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And although it's technically the bay, there was sufficient waves-crashing-against-rocks churning up the blue water into halos of turquoise green that I could think of it as the sea.<br />
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When we hit the road, it was to Luarca, which warned incoming traffic that we were entering an "Urban Zone." Cute, but when it came right down to it, Luarca was a picture postcard of a colorful, quaint fishing port (right down to boats in primary colors) that drew vacationers in droves.<br />
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There was an open air market spanning several streets and offering such varied goods as local hams and running shoes, with almost everything - children's books, CDs from around the world, clothing, herbs, fruits and vegetables - you can imagine needing laid out on tables or hung from canopies. Bras of many colors, but also farm-raised beef and homemade sausage.<br />
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I'd chosen Luarca for el Barometro, with a view of the marina and houses built into the side of a cliff, because I'd read it was a long-time, family-owned seafood restaurant that never disappointed. Embedded into the exterior was a large old wooden barometer my Dad would have loved and three harpoons hung on the wall. Inside the front door was a poster showing photographs from a February 2014 storm that clearly delivered a fierce pummeling to Luarca's shores.<br />
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Tables were close together, probably to accommodate the frequent full houses, and if you said yes to your server's inquiry of "Pan?" (and who would say no to crusty bread?) it was laid directly on the tablecloth.<br />
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Because in the Principality of Asturias, they don't need no stinkin' bread plate.<br />
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Tempted as I was by the menu's abundant seafood offerings in this port town, as soon as I saw Asturian White Bean Stew my fate was sealed - as was the fate of that enormous piece of bread next to my hand - without knowing anything more than that beans were involved.<br />
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Never mind that it sounded like something you'd want on a cold January night, I was in Asturia in July. Carpe diem and all.<br />
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Not only was it a dish meant for colder months, it arrived in an enormous bowl full of huge white beans in a rich, garlicky broth and four kinds of pig: pork shoulder, pork belly, Chorizo and blood sausage.<br />
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Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but <i>there's</i> a menu gamble that paid off.<br />
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Afterwards, we strolled the market before heading to the beaches which were dotted with plenty of people but very few umbrellas. What they <i>did</i> have was lines of tiny, brightly painted changing cabanas that people seemed to be using for myriad purposes besides changing. The civilized people had brought folding tables and chairs, allowing groups to be sitting at a table, bottles of wine lining the center and food everywhere, laughing and talking while the young 'uns played in the shallow water below.<br />
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After walking to the point, we descended the stairs to the water so I could add the Bay of Biscay to the bodies of water I have waded through. I was surprised, though, because the fine sand of the shoreline was mixed with small rocks and pebbles I didn't expect. With its brilliant greenish blue clarity, the bay looked more like a swimming pool, as children splashed in the shallow water and adults ventured out deeper to escape their shrieks and splashing.<br />
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It was wonderful in every possible way, and not just because of how refreshing it is to see women obviously older than me wearing two piece bathing suits without looking the least bit self-conscious about it. That said, it's been obvious everywhere we've been that Spanish women, like their French counterparts, continue to make an effort to be stylish until they're dead. Never have I seen so many trim, well-dressed septuagenarians and octogenarians in heels and cute outfits.<br />
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Or bikins.<br />
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Eventually, we left the beach for the drive to Gijon, which is what passes for a major city in Asturia. Driving to our hotel, it definitely felt like we were in a thriving city, but then boom! you hit the beaches (a string of them, really, like a necklace of adjoining crescents) and it felt like a full-on beach town.<br />
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Which means you can be walking through the stylish urban neighborhood en route to a wine gastropub and pass girls in their bathing suits and boys draped in towels sauntering by you. Young people everywhere you look, but probably just as many older couples, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. And noisy motorbikes ripping up and down the street that fronts the beach, the backfiring and racing sounds an open invitation to gawk at them (which only became tedious after 2 a.m.).<br />
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Everything, it seems, is fair game in Gijon.<br />
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Because we were in a bigger city, there were far more restaurants catering to a non-European palate, so after the wine bar, we nosed around until we found a place that looked like it hadn't changed since the '70s or '80s. There were multiple signs and menus in the front window and not one of them condescended to using English.<br />
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<i>Score.</i><br />
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We found a table near the front window with a prime view down a narrow street to the water and settled in for another Asturian experience accompanied by the ever-present Albarino. I'm going to look foolish here, but I went right ahead and ordered Asturian white beans<i> with clams</i>, this time knowing exactly what to expect.<br />
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Repeat deliciousness minus the pig.<br />
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Several families with young children came in between 9 and 9:30 for dinner, adding to the liveliness of the place since all the servers seemed to know them and exuberant conversations followed as plates of food were ferried to and from the kitchen and around the boisterous groups. Clearly this was a neighborhood joint.<br />
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After breakfast the next morning, we took a walk along the beaches and in one area, through meandering tidal pools with water nearly two feet deep. This is what some of us call giving good beach.<br />
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Although it wasn't yet 11, there was a steady stream of morning people out on the sand. Several older men were already in the water swimming laps to the markers while walkers were getting in their steps. A few people were stretched out as if sun bathing, although it seemed a tad early for that. A line of colorful, patterned umbrellas stood in a row, leaning against a wall waiting for the call to serve.<br />
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And one mesmerizing older guy in orange swim trunks with a thick gold chain around his neck and ear buds in couldn't stop swiveling his hips Elvis-style as he listened to whatever music was causing his groove thing to endlessly shake.<br />
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It was an invitation, no doubt about it, and all he needed was the right taker. I'm thinking a senior from New Jersey would have eaten him up with a spoon.<br />
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Once I'd had my beach walk, we motored to Llanes, with its medieval tower and crumbling town wall from 1206, but it will stay in my memory for the scorpionfish cakes I had for lunch at Chigre el Antoju Sidreria.<br />
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Anticipating being served something related to crabcakes, I was thrilled to instead take possession of two orange rectangles that had far more in common with a seafood terrine than anything cake-like. Meanwhile, on the other side of the platter, a towering mound of small toasted and oiled bread squares awaited their opportunity to be the vehicle on which I could spread the <strike>terrine</strike> scorpionfish cakes.<br />
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So, what have I learned so far in Asturia? Verdant cliffs edge beaches of fine brown sand around here. You don't have to know what you're ordering to wind up eating well in these parts. And with six glasses of Albarino costing about 13 euros, they <i>want</i> you to drink wine like water.<br />
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Most importantly, say <i>si</i> to pan every time. You can ask questions later.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-26505038984347752852019-07-26T14:47:00.000-04:002019-07-26T14:47:01.257-04:00Lost in TranslationEspana is full of surprises.<br />
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About the last thing we expected to hear when the Hertz agent looked at our passports was, "Oh, Virginia is for lovers, eh?"<br />
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Seems this young Spaniard had a Virginia girlfriend for a while and could rattle off Virginia places like Roanoke and Richmond, only with a far better accent. As we were leaving with the keys to a Volvo, I inquired if he still had his Virginia sweetie.<br />
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"No, she moved to Phoenix," he said as if that were that.<br />
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With wheels, we could bid farewell to Santiago and head for the North Coast beaches for a while. And while life may not be a beach, I could make a case for beach life being best.<br />
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En route, we stopped in Rinlo - a one cathedral town, if you know what I 'm saying - a tiny village with narrow streets and a highly recommended restaurant for lunch. Scallops in garlic brown butter were served in scalloped shells, the ideal place for the brown butter to pool and from which to sop it with the crusty bread that has become de rigueur at every meal (at breakfast I slather it with jam).<br />
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After a walk through the tiny town and along the sea wall to a view of the sea, we hit the road to Ortiguiero, near Porcia where we were overnighting. Everything worked according to plan until it didn't. The GPS deposited us near a dirt road (part of the Camino trail) but the tiny hotel with a view of the sea was nowhere to be found.<br />
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With a can-do attitude and an extremely limited Spanish vocabulary, I hoofed it down a dirt driveway to a patio where three women were enjoying the beautiful day. After trying to explain our destination, I pulled out the email confirmation from Tesera, our home for the night. Her response was to lead me to a side porch, indicate that I should lean waaay over and point across a valley to a verdant hill.<br />
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Apparently our hotel was there.<br />
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But rather than trust us to find it alone, this sweet Spanish woman who spoke not a word of English marched to her car and indicated that we should follow her to our final resting place. Along the way, she stopped not one but three times to ask of strangers where the hell Tesera Apartmentos were until finally a neighbor pointed beyond her hedge.<br />
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Hallelujah and pass the Albarino, we are in Porcia, home at last.<br />
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Running the Tesera was a woman with nine broken bones in her back (or so she told us) and a fondness for conversation with strangers. Once she'd led us to our apartment (complete with kitchen and magnificent view of the water), she spent 20 minutes regaling us with the nearby eating options.<br />
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As soon as she mentioned a place just down the hill and on the water - "a cabana, no?" uh, no - we were sold. Bar Menos Mal was part hilly picnic area, part ramshackle restaurant and part exquisite water views complete with paddle boarders, setting sun and tree-covered cliffs. We scored a bench and low table next to a young Spaniard drinking a beer while he awaited a friend's arrival to enjoy it all until dinner service began a couple hours later.<br />
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All the servers clearly loved where they worked and both a neon sign and their t-shirts - "Life is better in Porcia" - said it all. Had the shirts been for sale, we'd have bought them on the spot. "Maybe in the future," the young bartender promised.<br />
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Not likely we'll be back this way, but good to know.<br />
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Jamon tostada - ham over pureed tomato on toasted, oiled bread - kicked things off until an enormous pan of paella arrived studded with the bounty of the sea. With every langoustino I crack open, I seem to break a nail or two, but it's a price I'm more than willing to pay. Happily, mussels, clams, cockles, fish and the like don't make me work for my food.<br />
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Not that I'm complaining.<br />
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The place was understandably wildly popular and people kept coming but only certain locations rated service. For us, it had been nothing more that dumb luck to have happened onto a table that did since every possible reservation for the 8:30 and 10 p.m. seatings had long since been spoken for when we'd arrived.<br />
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Many glasses of Albarino later, we stumbled back up the hill to Tesera's Apartmentos, far easier to find in the dark than in broad daylight apparently.<br />
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I guess it takes a lot of wine to see clearly in Porcia. Maybe that's why life is better here.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-22259444429622817232019-07-22T12:13:00.000-04:002019-07-22T12:13:00.704-04:00Pilrims' ProgressSantiago is my kind of town and I'm finding out all the reasons why with each day that passes.<br />
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And that's despite it being the end point for religious pilgrims for thousands of years, which a heathen like me couldn't care less about. I would guess that most of the hundreds of pilgrims we've seen showing up in the square in bright, matching t-shirts, walking sticks in hand, did not walk all those kilometers to be cured by the remains of St. James buried here as pilgrims once did.<br />
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All I know is, they make it to the square after walking or cycling, collapse in the square and then find a place to sing group songs while quaffing beer and eating everything in sight. Most of them remove their shoes and not a few begin picking at scabs and blisters on their feet, looking grateful to be off their barking dogs.<br />
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Speaking of, part of the appeal to this beautiful place is hoofing around it.<br />
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Lots of walking this hilly, holy city means that I don't need to start my day with a walk because it's built into everything we do. Like visiting Santiago Cathedral - currently under renovation, which is actually pretty cool to see - the Galician Contemporary Art Museum (very ICA-like with no permanent collection but some fascinating art tied to asylum/refugees/immigration), untold convents, monasteries and plazas (Plaza de Cervantes being a particular favorite).<br />
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But woman can not live by pilgrimages and art alone.<br />
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Santiago is known for its octopus and you can't swing a dead cat (side note: we saw a man riding a bike with a cat in the basket, its paws on the front of the basket as if it were following the master's route as he pedaled) without hitting a restaurant/bar with a window full of octopus (and often, other assorted live sea creatures).<br />
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The preferred Galician preparation is octopus a la gallega - after beating and cooking, coins of local octopus tentacles get a bath of olive oil, coarse sea salt and sweet <i>and</i> spicy paprika, only to be served on a wooden plate - that is so tender and delicious we can't be the only people who could eat it daily.<br />
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Needless to say, sopping up the flavored oil with the fabulous Spanish crusty bread only adds to the appeal.<br />
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Without even meaning to, we returned to Abastos 2.0, site of our fabulous first night dinner, the very next day for lunch. It's not that we were moonshine-addled idiots who couldn't recall where they'd been 12 hours earlier, but that we'd been unaware then that the restaurant also had an outdoor outpost just across the street.<br />
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It wasn't until we found stools at a counter built for two (not an easy accomplishment at 2:00 when hordes of hungry locals and tourists are looking for a lunch spot) that our French waiter (who also spoke Spanish, Galician, Italian and some English) solved the mystery of where we'd landed.<br />
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Knowing that meant we didn't need to look at any stinkin' menu.<br />
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So from there, we put ourselves in his more than capable hands, requesting no more than a bottle of Albarino and whatever he thought we needed to taste. With a shaded perch and the hustle and bustle of the Saturday market just around the corner, we sat back and ignored the madding crowds while he kept us fed.<br />
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First up were oysters from the north Atlantic, significant not just because they were briny enough for my taste, but because the man who'd sworn off eating oysters 20 years ago after a bad experience joined me in slurping bivalves.<br />
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Relationship milestone right there.<br />
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Next came Sea Bream ceviche tasting like it was not long out of the water and dressed so lightly as not to change that. Scored sections of pickled mackerel met crusty bread for what is undoubtedly a frequent meal in seaport towns, hearty and flavorful.<br />
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As much a fan of seafood as I am, I had never had langoustinos in the shell, so picking the lobster-like meat (albeit in much smaller amounts) from the tiny, spiny shells added to the pleasure of eating the sweet meat. A couple at a nearby table watched us for tips on how to do it before being brave enough to attack their own.<br />
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And just like the night before, when we wanted a sweet ending to a stellar lmeal, our affable server came back with cannolis, the only echo of the night before beyond the incredibly high quality of every bite we put in our eager mouths.<br />
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But we're not just mouths, constantly feeding, either.<br />
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Like in Madrid, street music is everywhere, but the unlikeliest of all is bagpipes. Except for after dinner, which means after 11 or midnight, we've yet to walk through a long arch near the Cathedral without passing by a bagpiper or two taking advantage of the acoustics in the tunnel-like space and blowing their hearts out. A big music stage in one of the plazas has a band almost every night and crowds of all ages gather to listen under the stars.<br />
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The walk to the Contemporary Art Museum also took us to a former convent's grounds and gardens where flowers I didn't recognize bloomed, a stone aqueduct and fountain attested to the centuries they'd carried water and we had a sublime view of Santiago from above.<br />
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I could finish by saying "wish you were here" except I've got everything I need already here.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-23301203947732464392019-07-21T11:38:00.003-04:002019-07-21T13:39:14.842-04:00Fake Cake and Mad MoonshineIt's not like I wasn't warned.<br />
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Standing at the baggage kiosk at Madrid airport, an Iberia rep approached me, asking where I was headed. When I told her Santiago de Compostela, her face lit up.<br />
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"You are going to have so much fun there!" she said with great enthusiasm. "And it'll be so much cooler there than here because of the mountains. And the food! Wait till you eat some of their octopus...or any of the seafood. Believe me, you will love Santiago."<br />
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With an endorsement like that and a flight of just an hour, how could I lose?<br />
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Arriving at the Hotel San Francisco - incidentally a former convent - to meet my partner-in-travel, I was immediately struck by the coolness after three days of hot, hot, hot in Madrid. One of the many benefits of making my home in a convent for the next few days are our bedroom's beautiful long windows that look out over a grass courtyard flanked by the three sides of the convent/hotel and a pool house.<br />
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Let's put it this way, a girl could get used to this in July and that's not even counting the way it stays light until an hour before midnight. Seeing the magnificent architecture of the Cathedral de Santiago against a clear blue sky at 10:00 p.m. is breathtakingly unexpected.<br />
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Where I began to see what Miss Iberia was talking about happened after the cocktail reception on the hotel's grassy terrace. A short walk took us to Abastos 2.0, a seemingly simple little restaurant with a Michelin logo out front, conveniently located across from the market - an extensive series of meat, seafood, cheese, flower and fruit/vegetable stalls in several long halls - which is also the source of everything they serve.<br />
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The 20 of us sat down around a large table with a carved wooden head of lettuce and (inexplicably) a carved wooden shoe on either side of a colorful flower arrangement. The only drink options were red or white and this being the Galicia region, choosing white means Albarino every time.<br />
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No complaints here.<br />
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Next to each place setting was a pop-top can lid which was meant to serve as a bread plate for the crusty slices that our servers kept us supplied with all evening.<br />
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From then on, this tiny restaurant proceeded to dazzle us with course after course displaying the bounty of the Iberian peninsula. First up was creamy gazpacho with sweet-tasting cockles floating on top. I licked the bowl clean. That was followed by marinated mushrooms, although the Australians claimed that they were pickled (they weren't) in a tomato-based sauce. Like the cockles, the mussels tasted like they were right out of the water.<br />
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Given the size of the table, it was tough to chat with everyone. One of the funniest members of the group was also one of the most multi-talented. Besides having been a Buddhist monk for years before rejoining the secular world, he's currently a bike tour guide and big wave surfer. But he's also a good gay boy, having seen Leonard Cohen (RIP) <i>three</i> times, albeit always with his Mom.<br />
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When he starts singing "Hallelujah," he expects the group to chime in and pouts when they won't. Hilarious.<br />
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His ability to break into song, dance or impersonation at the drop of a hat made him invaluable to the party vibe, even if some of the more macho types (the Costa Rican, the Australian) didn't like how touchy he was.<br />
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Get over it, guys, no chance you're his type.<br />
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Up next was tuna tartare with an avocado cream that wowed even those who'd never had tartare before, although I have to wonder where these people have been eating. Luckily, after three courses, everyone was sufficiently lubricated to banter about such things. The French Canadian couple, curious about my food reviewing, were especially eager to know about whether or not there was anything I <i>don't</i> eat.<br />
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Um, crappy food by choice?<br />
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Our fish course was another cousin of cod over braised greens, the meat white and delicately flavorful, the skin crisped and tasting of herbs. Just when the Tazmanian lamb rancher was convinced that there would never be a meat course, plates resplendent with slices of rosy veal and bronze-skinned fingerlings arrived to soothe the savage beast.<br />
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You'd have thought this group was bloodthirsty from their reaction to red meat, but more likely the seafood focus in Santiago was just wearing on some of them. Not so this bounty-of-the-sea fan who could eat seafood and fish for weeks without complaint.<br />
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While everyone was admiring a photograph of a drunk Brazilian woman jumping off a bridge naked (something they had all witnessed before my arrival), a palate cleanser of Asian pear wedges arrived to prepare us for dessert. Everyone was surprised when one of the chefs arrived with a birthday cake ablaze in candles, intended for the rancher's wife whose birthday today was.<br />
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After she made a wish and blew out the candles, the cake was whisked away and cannolis arrived. Some of us assumed birthday cake slices were to follow but, alas, the cake had been plastic (one of the guys had poked it, unbeknownst to those of us at the other end of the table), a mere symbol to acknowledge her big day.<br />
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Once we'd eaten <i>all</i> the things, we were invited out onto the terrace for after-dinner drinks, all of them variations on Galician moonshine with herbs. There was a variety made with coffee for those who wanted to speedball, another made with cream that was very popular with this crowd and the straight ahead version, which was a deep yellow, smelled like a first cousin to moonshine and singed the nose hairs of anyone brave enough to try it.<br />
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That would be me, although, I added plenty of ice and drank small sips slowly. And although I didn't finish mine, the rancher had not one but two glasses, which surely factored into him getting lost walking home. His wife, the birthday girl, found him near the town square later, sitting on a stone bench and looking dazed.<br />
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We got back to the convent just in time for fireworks over the plaza. Not a bad way to begin my stay in Santiago, not that I had a single thing to do with the planning of any of it.<br />
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All I'm saying is, Miss Iberia sure knew what she was talking about. I can take all of this Santiago can dish out.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-54550964803509757352019-07-18T23:58:00.000-04:002019-07-18T23:58:09.469-04:00Moon River in MadridThe spirit was willing but the dogs were barking.<br />
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After sleeping eleven hours and only eating twice yesterday, I awoke ravenous. The hotel restaurant breakfast buffet took a beating as I moved through filling two plates and a bowl before finding a table where I could chow down while plotting my route for the day.<br />
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Warm from the fryer churros tasted like the best thing I'd ever put in my mouth and that was <i>after</i> two bowls of cereal, a heaping plate of dates, pineapple and watermelon, three pieces of crusty bread toasted and slathered with strawberry jam and ham.<br />
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Because this is a place where ham shows up at every meal.<br />
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En route to the Prado Museum, I passed a store called Joyeria (which kind of described how I felt), a man in a Washington Capitals t-shirt and, like last evening, another man in a paper mache head, which is apparently a thing here.<br />
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I knew from a recent New York Times article that I wasn't going to get to see the actual Prado building because it's being renovated, but the upside to that is that during the renovations, the entire building is wrapped in fabric which is printed with details of some of the 3,000 canvases inside, so it's sort of a temporary, gift-wrapped building that will be unveiled in November as part of the 1619-2019 museum celebration.<br />
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You know, I'm okay with only getting to see this one-time look on the Prado.<br />
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Because the paintings aren't arranged chronologically - or even all of one artist's work in adjacent galleries - it was interesting to navigate the museum. I used the directionally-challenged method, wandering from gallery to gallery with only a few attempts to find certain ones because of the artists in it.<br />
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While wandering, I came across Eduardo Rosales' "After the Bath" - considered the finest nude in 19th century Spanish painting - which could have passed for an Impressionistic work with its sketch-like qualities and masterful use of light. That it was executed in a single day was nothing short of amazing.<br />
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Another aimless find was an entire gallery of still life paintings, hung salon style like I like so much. Many were of intricate flower arrangements, but my favorite was Cerezo's "Kitchen Still Life," a scene filled with meal fixins: a freshly killed lamb, a calf's head, strung up game birds, round loaves of crusty bread, peppers, copper pots and a carafe of wine.<br />
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Turns out, of all the unlikely things, that the Prado has the most extensive collection of Peter Paul Rubens in the world because he was such a favorite of King Philip IV. So much flesh. Truly, there's nothing like seeing all those Rubenesque women to make a person feel good about having eaten like a field hand at breakfast.<br />
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Who am I kidding? Any meal for that matter.<br />
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Seriously, though, seeing a major work like Rubens' "The Three Graces," a staple from my college art history classes, was mind-blowing. Ditto the two oil on slate works by Titian (slate?), hung inside a glass box so viewers could see both sides.<br />
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Still, the Prado's collection is enough to overwhelm even the biggest art lover, not to mention tourists who are mainly there simply because a guidebook told them to. I overheard one glazed-over sounding woman tell her husband, "There's some huge ones in here," as a justification for entering yet another gallery despite sounding tired and bored.<br />
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Lady G and Mac will appreciate this: I got to see even more Tintorettos today to add to what we saw at the National Gallery last month. Significantly, there was "The Washing of the Feet," a huge work that was painted for the choir of the Venetian church San Marcuola with a dog at its center and Jesus way over in the right corner.<br />
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Looking at in the enormous Prado hall, the perspective was weird, but viewed from the far right side, I could see Tintoretto's foreshortening brilliance given the intended placement of the canvas. There were also various portraits he'd done, one of a senator and another of a general, the latter holding a baton which extended out of the picture plane into the viewer's space.<br />
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That's Tintoretto demonstrating his mastery of depicting three dimensions. Like he does.<br />
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Most surprising about Velazquez' "Las Meninas" - considered the jewel in the Prado's crown and justifiably since it's often referred to as the finest painting in the world - was how few people were in front of it when I got to that gallery. It was a pleasure to ogle it for as long - as I wanted.<br />
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And may I just say how satisfying it was that picture-taking wasn't allowed. If you ask me, some museums should take a page from the Prado's book .<br />
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This blog post isn't going to be long enough to mention even a fraction of what I saw today so what matters is that I got to see Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights," Albrecht Durer's "Self Portrait" and Goya's "Nude Maja," among so many others.<br />
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After nearly four hours, I abandoned art for food, making it only as far as the Prado Cafe for a jamon (I told you, every meal) panini with cheese, spinach and egg, patatas bravas and a chocolate cookie for dessert. Just while eating my simple lunch, I overheard people chatting in at least five languages, including a British woman noting that, "Getting married again at this age is a lot more work than I thought."<br />
<br />
When I left the Prado, I made my way around the building to admire the draping on all sides before strolling past the Royal Botanical Garden which I wanted to visit but not in the heat of the afternoon.<br />
<br />
My next stop was just a look-see at the Atocha train station- designed in 1892 by an architect named Ellisagne in collaboration with Gustave Eiffel (you know the one) - inside and out. The elaborate 19th century brick facade is topped by a half moon of steel and glass that gives it a lacy look from the exterior and an open, light-filled (and plant-filled) look inside.<br />
<br />
Let's just say it's light years beyond our American train stations, even the better ones.<br />
<br />
Ready for some contemporary art after so much classical work, I walked toward the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, passing musicians on nearly every block and corner: a man playing classical guitar, a violinist and guitarist playing "Moon River" and several accordionists.<br />
<br />
Fascinating to me was that the bike lane was the center lane of a road with two car lanes on either side. I marveled at the brave cyclists willing to pedal between all those speeding cars.<br />
<br />
The Sofia's building was originally a hospital and reminded me immediately of D.C.'s Portrait Gallery/American Art Museum because it was a four-sided building with an interior, albeit outdoor, courtyard. Its most striking feature was two glass elevator towers flanking the entrance and giving me a reason not to take the stairs.<br />
<br />
Of course I was there for the ultimate art history nerd viewing: Picasso's "Guernica," definitely the holy grail of Picasso's enormous output. Situated in a large gallery, there was appropriately sad music playing, though it was frequently punctuated by one of the guards yelling at people trying to take a picture of it.<br />
<br />
No book or slide can prepare you to see "Guernica" in real life, its stark black and white palette adding to the horrific images of a town being bombed. Given the work's importance, both artistically and historically, I was surprised at how quickly people left after laying eyes on it. There was so much to take in.<br />
<br />
Adjacent galleries housed related work, such as Dora Marr's photographs of the evolution of the enormous painting and smaller studies done for it. As disturbing as the pieta in "Guernica" is, the study for "Mother with Dead Child" may be even more so for its up-close focus on the scene.<br />
<br />
When I finally finished absorbing what I doubt I'll ever see again, I moved on to some of the other galleries. I found Picasso's "Femme au Jardin," a slightly larger than life-size bronze from 1930-32, absolutely captivating with its suggestion of a woman and flowers taller than me. Works by Miro and Calder were inside as well as outside in the courtyard.<br />
<br />
This trip will be remembered as the one where I saw another side of Dali that I fell hard for. His "Portrait" from 1925 shows the back of a woman sitting in a heavy wooden chair on a rooftop, her braided hair contrasting with her back. That;s it, no skulls or clocks melting, just a portrait..<br />
<br />
It was like no Dali I'd ever seen.<br />
<br />
But where I became an uber-fan was with his 1925 "Girl at the Window," an evocative scene of another back, but this time the entire woman. A woman in a blue-striped gray dress is looking out a green-blue framed window with striped blue curtains to a view of water, with a small boat in the distance.<br />
<br />
The whole scene was so inviting and believable you could almost smell the water and feel the breeze stirring. I had to know more, so I found signage to help me. Seems Dali is considered the Spanish artist who combined new classicism, modern realism and surrealism (the only part of him I'd known previously) to create what was labeled Arte Nuevo.<br />
<br />
By the time I took the glass elevator down, my feet were screaming but I wasn't ready to give up on art entirely.<br />
<br />
Instead, I found a shaded bench in the Sofia's courtyard to sit back and admire a huge Calder mobile turning in the late afternoon breeze and a familiar Miro sculpture in black marble. A nearby fountain provided soothing sounds, although there were only a couple of other people outside, making it wonderfully private and peaceful.<br />
<br />
And speaking of fountains, walking home I passed one near the Botanical Garden, only to spot three small squirt guns laying on the fountain's lip. I imagine some kid is going to feel like he hit the jackpot when she or he happens to find them.<br />
<br />
Kind of like how I hit the art jackpot today. It'll take a while - and multiple conversations with fellow art nerds once I'm home - to fully absorb all the major artwork I got to see today. As G would say, I'm a lucky girl.<br />
<br />
I'll just say that it was a joyeria kind of a day and leave it at that.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-59951823072906957142019-07-17T23:56:00.000-04:002019-07-17T23:56:08.519-04:00Buenos Dias, MadridIt takes a lot to get me up for a sunrise, but flying to Madrid will do it.<br />
<br />
Watching the brilliant red ball inch its way up over the curve of the earth while my body thought it was more like midnight was just the start of trying to put myself on Spanish time. My cab ride from the airport to the hotel was notable for two things: I believe it's the first manual transmission taxi I've ever ridden in and the driver and I exchanged not a word beyond confirming the price of the ride.<br />
<br />
Partly, it was a language thing and partly, my mind was mostly shut down since it was under the mistaken impression that it was nearly 2 a.m. (which it was in Richmond). In any case, a quiet ride gave me the time to do my initial gawking at Spain on the drive into city center, marveling that we came in on Calle de O'Donnell - incidentally my mother's maiden name - which I found awfully Irish sounding for these parts.<br />
<br />
I felt like my official introduction to the city was seeing the big Plaza de la Independencia, with its central neo-classical triumphal arch - actually five arches leading into the city - with an assortment of soldierly sculptures lounging atop it. A statement piece about arriving in Madrid, for sure.<br />
<br />
My driver deposited me and my luggage at Hotel Liabeny with a minimal farewell and someone immediately slid into the back seat I'd just vacated, which had to still be warm.<br />
<br />
Determined to re-orient myself to Spanish time, I took a quick nap (after only two hours sleep on the plane, I think a 3 hour nap qualifies as quick, don't you?) before heading out into blinding sunlight bouncing off white and light-colored buildings. My goal was to soak up some neighborhood color and eat, well, lunch technically (it was after 2), but as far as my belly was concerned, breakfast.<br />
<br />
It had been <i>waaay</i> too long since my last meal.<br />
<br />
Without the energy to do my usual 4 mile walk today, I instead decided to use the hotel staircase, not only because of the six flights of stairs but to check them out architecturally given the hotel's age and pedigree. Made of white marble, carpeted in the center and with shiny brass handrails and leaded, stained glass windows in a "modern" early 20th century style (not to mention a "Vertigo"-worthy view when you look up or down at how they corkscrew), they were worth a look.<br />
<br />
Taking Rick Steves' recommendation for a good lunch, I headed to the bar at Restaurante Europa, one of only four people balancing on the backless stools to eat at that hour when any decent Spaniard would be siesta-ing.<br />
<br />
Twice, I was asked if I wouldn't rather sit in the dining room, but Rick's assurance that the "fun, high-energy scene with a mile long bar, old school waiters, local cuisine and a fine prix fixe lunch menu" - yes, one of the courses is a choice of wine or cerveza - had sold me on a stool meal.<br />
<br />
Besides, it was only from a bar stool that I could see the enormous ham behind the bar, draped with a cotton towel, which was removed every few minutes when a server needed to cut paper thin slices from it and arrange them on a plate, in a pattern like petals on a flower.<br />
<br />
My first choice was gazpacho which arrived as a creamy, orange chilled soup. The bowl had barely hit the bar when a server eager to show off his English was at my elbow offering me guarniciones. His tray held bowls of chopped cilantro, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers and bread and he wanted to know which I'd like scooped into my gazpacho.<br />
<br />
Constitutionally unable to eat something as unripe and nasty tasting as a green pepper, I opted for onion, tomatoes and cucumbers with a soupcon of cilantro, eschewing the bread bits only because of the stellar crusty roll I was already dipping in nutty olive oil.<br />
<br />
My main course, enjoyed with a glass of local white wine, was Bacalao (that's cod to you) in salsa verde with potatoes. It's not that the generous piece of fish wasn't perfectly cooked, but my idea of salsa verde doesn't involve a white sauce with green peas in it, though it was tasty enough, just new to me.<br />
<br />
What was challenging was convincing my stomach that it wanted all that food at what it still thought was breakfast time. Trust me, we'll get the hang of this soon.<br />
<br />
Not long after I finished eating, I was being offered dessert and tea or coffee, but feeling my energy waning after a hearty meal, I thought it best to do some walking to further assure my body we weren't in Kansas anymore. Every calle I walked down meant another piece of monumental sculpture or an elaborately decorated building facade, always with church spires pointing skyward in the near distance.<br />
<br />
The sun had shifted behind the buildings when I went out later, making it far more pleasant to stroll the wide pedestrian streets (with an occasional cop car) without sweltering. People watching in Madrid had already proven to be an eyeful, none more unexpected than a guy in a Municipal Waste t-shirt.<br />
<br />
I gotta say, it did my heart good to see a Richmond band on a stranger's chest.<br />
<br />
And speaking of strangers, I always get a kick out of being some place where there's almost no chance of running into someone I know, or even recognize.<br />
<br />
Turning off one wide calle onto another, I stopped in my tracks when I heard music. It turned out to be a quintet - two violinists, two singers and a conductor in an enormous paper mache head (probably a politician but not one I recognized) - performing Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." Using a small speaker to project the other instruments, the enormous sound of live and recorded music bolstered by live hallelujah vocals bounced off the surrounding buildings and up into the sky.<br />
<br />
It was a remarkable thing to witness, even if most tourists were watching it through their phone ratehr than simply taking it in fully.<br />
<br />
El Corte Ingles, a multi-floor store that was part department store, part ABC store, part Starbuck's and part grocery store, I couldn't help but smile walking in when I heard Fleetwood Mac's "Gypsy" belting out of the sound system as people shopped.<br />
<br />
Over near the fruit and seafood sections, I spotted another Richmond connection: a big display of Duke's mayonnaise with a sign reading, "Probablemente la mejor mayonesa del mundo."<br />
<br />
Now, I may still be brushing up on my Spanish (I did manage to ask for the check in Spanish at lunch, a proud moment considering my brain was flat-lining), but I'm pretty sure that display was telling the Spaniards that Duke's is the best mayo in the world.<br />
<br />
Although surely the guy in the Municipal Waste t-shirt already knew that.<br />
<br />
Walking home, I scored an empanada de pollo and side of fruit, took them to a bench near some trees and ate it all, trying to convince my stomach that it counted as dinner because, with every step I took, I knew I was that much closer to an epic night of sleep. All I needed to do was see the sun set to bookend my first day in Espana and I was good to go.<br />
<br />
Good and ready to spend my first night in Madrid anyway. Te veo manana.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-36907182391538183402019-07-16T23:58:00.000-04:002019-07-16T23:58:00.972-04:00Flying the Friendly SkiesI did not come from a traveling family.<br />
<br />
Granted, part of it was undoubtedly the sheer numbers - six daughters plus Mom and Dad - so cost and difficulty must have factored in. That and Mom had absolutely no curiosity about unknown places beyond wanting her ashes scattered over County Cork from whence her grandparents came.<br />
<br />
For my family, travel meant two weeks in the Outer Banks each summer and honestly, I was grateful for that. One summer stands out because we broke rank and instead of heading south, drove to Portland, Maine and took a ferry across Casco Bay to Peak's Island, where we spent a month eating lobster, wandering the island and dipping our toes in the frigid water, despite it being July.<br />
<br />
When I turned 21, I did what any travel-deprived young woman did in those days: marched myself into an American Express Travel office, sat down and asked for help planning my first trip. I'd talked a slightly younger girlfriend into joining me but she left all the decisions to me.<br />
<br />
My burgeoning wanderlust was limited somewhat by my budget but I gave the agent a starting point: I wanted to go somewhere not touristy, preferably where the primary language was not English. Her suggestion was Guadeloupe - with a caveat that we should learn some French and that their tourism industry was in its infancy - a place I knew nothing about, which made it a perfect destination.<br />
<br />
That my friend's mother was a native born Frenchwoman seemed like a good omen, although as it turned out, I spoke and read far better French than my friend did, even if it was schoolbook French.<br />
<br />
Despite never having flown or so much as traveled without my parents, I don't recall any hiccups getting to the Caribbean island or navigating once there. My girlfriend, however, had several complaints starting with the food, much of it new to us. While I happily ate my first conch fritters and some whole fish we'd never heard of, she declined, planning to order a ham and cheese baguette once we got back to the hotel.<br />
<br />
For the record, she ate one of those nearly every day we were there. Le sigh. She also experienced major homesickness which made me sorry I'd asked her in the first place. Lesson number one: choose your travel companions carefully.<br />
<br />
During the time we were there, we went on day trips in rickety buses to see the island, learned to snorkel, took a sunset cruise in a questionable boat and went to a market where I bought locally-made bowls and a large handled basket, all of which I continue to use today. And while I still have the brown t-shirt I bought to remember the Hotel Meridien (though it's now faded to ghost lettering), an online search reveals that it's long-since been knocked down and turned into a resort.<br />
<br />
So I guess tourism did finally arrive full-blown in Guadeloupe.<br />
<br />
Tellingly, that vacation to a strange place with new foods and never-before seen sights lit something in me that's only grown with time. First it was other tropical places - Aruba, the Bahamas - and eventually other continents. Though I've only traveled alone a few times - Dallas, New Orleans, California, one of my two weeks in Italy - my solo flight to Dubrovnik last fall to meet up with my main squeeze reminded me of the pleasures of the unknown, even when it's just for the length of a flight.<br />
<br />
So here I go again after multiple trips to the nearby AAA Travel for adapters and a phrase book, packing and repacking my dresses and dealing with usual Dulles madness. Only this time, I'm flying past a full moon to my next adventure as a stranger in a strange land, at least for a few days.<br />
<br />
After that, you can be sure that lesson number one goes into effect. In travel, as in love and life, choosing the best possible companion is everything.<br />
<br />
My 21-year old self had no idea how much she had to look forward to.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-38505625921622453382019-07-16T11:09:00.000-04:002019-07-16T11:09:37.355-04:00There She GoesSometimes all a girl needs is a valise stocked with vino and a willing partner-in-crime.<br />
<br />
Pru had packed hers with a bottle of Moet et Chandon Brut Reserve and a bottle of Sancerre, ensuring that the evening would be a delightful one despite the face-melting heat. After her usual complaints about the heat in my apartment and insufficient tables lamps in my bedroom (I never measure up in lamp wattage), we popped the cork on the Moet and retreated to the bedroom because it's the coolest room (north-facing) and boasts three fans, all angled in her direction.<br />
<br />
As I transferred the contents of my 20' into her 24' and the Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" played, we bantered about over-sized bras (into the trash it went), cute sandals (she's a fan of the ankle-tie green ones) and my new bathing suit (already a proven compliment-getter), until everything had a new, more spacious home and the bottle had achieved dead soldier status.<br />
<br />
Business part of the evening complete.<br />
<br />
That was our signal to head out into the humidity for food, which is how we landed at Max's, smack in the middle of the bar. As soon as she felt the air conditioning, she spread her arms and announced, "I may never leave here" while my focus was on the menu.<br />
<br />
Since Max's went more casual, I'm a fan of the more bistro-like menu and felt sure she'd like it, too. After scoring a couple of splits of Cremant de Bourgogne (Pru: "I could drink this all night long"), I decided on the roasted cauliflower with a side vegetable medley, while she wanted the soup du jour, a lobster bisque, and the Little Gem lettuce salad.<br />
<br />
We were savoring our Cremant and looking at pictures of the beach house she's rented when the bartender returned, looking apologetic. "We ran out of cauliflower. I'm sorry, but did you want to choose something else?" So we paused ogling the myriad ocean views of her rental house and I returned to the menu. "It's half price oyster night," he suggested helpfully.<br />
<br />
Never one to turn down a briny bivalve, I asked about the oysters' salinity, which he didn't know, so another trip to the kitchen was in order. Verdict? Mid-level, somewhere between buttery and the salt bombs I love. Okay, give me a dozen.<br />
<br />
Moments later he returned to inform me that cauliflower was back in the house and did I still want the oysters. I did not, since they were a compromise anyway. That finished, we returned to our bubbles and beach planning until the food appeared.<br />
<br />
Having had the cauliflower before, I'm a big fan of its nutty roasted taste smothered in French onion ricotta with pickled red onion for kick. My medley was a rich mixture of carrots, peas and mushrooms in an herbed oil. Pru's bisque was nothing short of pale coral obscenity, while her salad was essentially a gussied-up wedge with much better ingredients: tons of creamy bleu cheese, loads of bacon, tomatoes, cucumber, pickled onion and a generous dressing of ranch "du Provence."<br />
<br />
<i>That's </i>what I'm talking about when I say it's nice to have a French bistro a few blocks from home. Well, that and Pru's unexpected comments like, "Sometimes you just gotta speedball."<br />
<br />
When I asked about using the loo, the bartender offered to escort us there due to its proximity to the kitchen. "Coming through!" he bellowed as we were lead past the kitchen staff. "Put your knives away!" One of the kitchen guys overheard my name and called out a cheery hello as we passed by. We got the same treatment on the way back. Hilarious.<br />
<br />
We capped off the meal with my Coca Cola cake - the bartender assured us, "It's really chocolate cake with Coke glaze" - and her cappuccino before heading back out into the heat.<br />
<br />
Once back at my place, we poured glasses of Sancerre, took them to my balcony and listened to Bryan Ferry, all the while trying to catch whatever night breeze was stirring as we chatted.<br />
<br />
When we called it a night, Pru left with only a little Sancerre to prove that we'd sweated together. And for the record, there was no speed balling that I know of.<br />
<br />
Of course, it might help if I knew what speed balling was.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-65800553597280598642019-07-14T23:24:00.000-04:002019-07-15T16:53:56.809-04:00A Nod to the Posse QueenIt's like Matt said at Ghost Light afterparty last night, "With musical theater, you can do all the things."<br />
<br />
The proof was in what I just witnessed: possibly the sweetest birthday tribute to a woman I've ever seen and <i>lousy </i>with musical theater. As one of the guests, I was sworn to complete secrecy - though because it's the theater panel that connects us, I only see her at plays and panel meetings, so I wasn't likely to be the one who blew it - and instructed when to arrive to stage the surprise.<br />
<br />
The birthday girl had been fooled into thinking she was going to a cabaret for donors at Richmond Triangle Players, right down to the director reading a speech about the theater's accomplishments when she and her thoughtful husband arrived (intentionally) late. His speech ended with a nod to the real reason we were all there and that was our cue to roar, "Surprise!" and watch her face shift from attentive to shocked.<br />
<br />
From there, it was part cabaret/part "This is Your Life," as Richmond luminary after Richmond talent after close friends regaled the celebrant with songs rewritten about her, along with poems, limericks and dramatic presentations written for her.<br />
<br />
Scott Wichmann kicked things off doing "The Lady is Our Pat" to the tune of "The Lady is a Tramp," referencing her hatred for the Orange Dictator and her devotion to "the posse," her theater-going coterie, and setting the bar high for those who followed him.<br />
<br />
Who else could sing about Pat as an Italian girl with serious cooking chops who found the love of her life in a "pasta-loving Jew" who didn't initially full respect her knives?<br />
<br />
One of the men in the posse got up and praised her as thoughtful, considerate friend and fun to be with, before alluding to her dark side, deadpanning that, "Pat can get lost," and providing details of her lack of directional skills navigating the city, and the UR campus particularly.<br />
<br />
It was awfully funny, but as someone who took years to come up to speed on that labyrinth of a campus, I empathized with the birthday girl.<br />
<br />
Interspersed throughout the show were staged readings depicting everyday conversations between Pat and her husband, all of which demonstrated Pat's iron will, New York moxie and intolerance for fools. One involved Pat making an argument, starting the conversation with "A" and expounding from there. When her beloved asked what B was, she had nothing to say, to which he responded you couldn't have an "A" without a subsequent "B."<br />
<br />
"Watch me," the actor playing Pat said, sounding <i>exactly</i> like the woman of the hour.<br />
<br />
That beacon of sunshine, Georgia Rogers Farmer, sang both parts on Pat's favorite song from "Phantom of the Opera," whipping the white half-mask on and off depending on which part she was singing. Her vocal range was stunning and the song provided the opportunity for her to show off her operatic talent as well as do a headstand that caused her dress to fall, revealing shorts that said, "PAT" in pink block letters.<br />
<br />
Leaving aside for a moment the sheer range of talent demonstrated during said number, afterward Georgia also noted, "Pat, I did that because I know you love that song from 'Phantom of the Opera' and that you wanted to see your name on my butt."<br />
<br />
I mean, who wouldn't?<br />
<br />
That's a birthday gift not soon forgotten. And that's not even counting the box of bacon she gift-wrapped and presented to Pat. Georgia is, after all, a domestic goddess in addition to her theater talents.<br />
<br />
Party Organizer Jacquie O'Connor took a seat at a table onstage, pulled out a datebook and proceeded to sing a song about Pat's major preoccupation, "I Work on the List," a reference to the prodigious scheduling involved with all the posse's theater-going. Between her voice and the hilarious lyrics, the effect was like having a humorous window into Pat's daily life.<br />
<br />
The emotional height of the evening took place when her adoring husband got onstage to read to us all the words he'd written and read to her when they married, a moving tribute to how lucky he felt to have found her.<br />
<br />
Songbird Desiree Roots - wiping tears away from hearing his devoted words - called the happy couple up onstage and serenaded them, instructing after a moment, "You're supposed to dance!" which they proceeded to do.<br />
<br />
After some quiet conversation between the birthday girl and the love of her life as they slow danced - the comment was, "They're discussing who's gonna lead!" - the lyrics became so powerful that Pat looked genuinely moved as they danced.<br />
<br />
Singer Susan Greenbaum did a rousing take on "Oklahoma" that transmuted the "Ok" of "Ok-lahoma" to Pat's name and got the guests singing along to the chorus as she belted it out and did an arm jig between verses. The entertainment wound down with a group singalong about the birthday girl, set to the tune of "Mame," which anyone who knows Pat is required to know.<br />
<br />
Once we broke for eats, I positioned myself in front of a screen showing photographs of Pat since she was a wee babe in her christening gown. I'm always fascinated to see snaps of people I know from before I knew them and sure enough, I loved seeing old pictures of her in the 70s and 80s when her curly hair was gorgeously wild (her words) and not straightened.<br />
<br />
The kind of tresses we straight-haired girls covet. Lust after, even.<br />
<br />
And since no birthday celebration, much less an important birthday like this one, would be complete without birthday cake, there were two: one fruit and one chocolate, both from Shyndigz. I can only speak to the latter, but let's just say the butter to salt ratio was swoon-worthy.<br />
<br />
Birthdays come and go, so to see a heartfelt tribute by friends on such a festive occasion was like having a sugar buzz as the result of a top-notch show. Oh, wait...<br />
<br />
There's a reason Pat always looks so happy. Proof positive that you're never too old to find the person who will dance with you onstage while everyone else toasts your happiness.<br />
<br />
And from where I sat, A., it didn't look like either of them was looking to lead. Don't look for a B.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-92027489574373994422019-07-14T13:45:00.002-04:002019-07-15T08:14:59.364-04:00I'm Just a GirlMaking "The Taming of the Shrew" relevant for 21st century audiences is challenging and therein lies the rub.<br />
<br />
I have seen the play produced every which way: set in the wild, wild west at an outdoor stage framing Roanoke Sound; set on a 1930s Hollywood movie set at a toney West End school; and as a staged reading where Petruchio lost his place in his script, causing Katarina to shrewishly shout, "Page 42!"<br />
<br />
And while I have been a devoted audience member for gender-reversed stagings of many of the Bard's best - Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Dream and even Coriolanus - I had never seen a Shakespeare play done by an all-female cast. Until tonight.<br />
<br />
Hallelujah and pass the estrogen.<br />
<br />
With so much talent and so many girl parts on stage, it felt like a fitting production to follow the women's soccer team's world triumph. 2019, the year of girl power continues. Knowing that men had originally played all the women's parts in Shakespeare's time made it all the sweeter.<br />
<br />
Foto Boy and I began the evening in the front tiki booth at My Noodle & Bar for dinner, scarfing my broccoli and chicken entree and his green curry tofu while he tried to cool down after a hot day spent holding a yard sale. Our server couldn't refill the blue water bottle on our table often enough.<br />
<br />
Anticipating a sweaty evening at an outdoor stage - and because this wasn't my first Agecroft rodeo - I'd brought along fans for us both. For myself, I'd chosen a fan that doubled as a program from a 2013 Sycamore Rouge production of "Twelfth Night" in Petersburg. When I saw that the director of that production is now the artistic director of Quill and tonight's production manager and that the actress who'd played Viola would play tonight's Petruchio, it seemed like an inspired choice.<br />
<br />
You can be sure I showed it to both of them before the night was over.<br />
<br />
We found seats in the second row, only to wind up behind the three tallest people in attendance. When I told the guy in front of me that he won for best shirt - brown with leopard markings and bees embroidered on the front - he said I got the best lipstick award. Sharing that it's called Violetini, his response was, "Hello, Violetini."<br />
<br />
Best summation of what we were about to see: "I know it's a problem play, but it can't be misogynistic with an all women cast, right?" Um, we'll see?<br />
<br />
The show began, appropriately enough, with songs of female empowerment - "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar," "You Don't Own Me" and "I'm Just a Girl" - sung by the cast and accompanied by guitar, ukulele, kazoo and random compliments like, "You're so beautiful you could be an air hostess in the '60s."<br />
<br />
<i>Use thoughts and wits to win her</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We were just getting into the set-up of the story, so it was well after Baptista tells his daughter Bianca's multiple suitors that she will not be married off until her shrewish sister Katarina gets hitched, yet not long past when Petruchio arrives looking "happily to wive and thrive as best I may" that there was a shout behind us because a woman in the audience had fainted.<br />
<br />
All eyes turned to see.<br />
<br />
After she came to in her seat, a cluster of doctors who just happened to be out for a night of Shakespeare, began gathering around her, suggesting she lay down on the ground for a bit. Eventually she stood and her date led her across the now-empty stage toward the building.<br />
<br />
House manager Noah took to the stage, saying, "So, everybody hydrate! We'll resume in just a minute. Just ignore that ambulance out there. It's definitely not the first time this has happened."<br />
<br />
Ah, the hazards of Shakespeare outdoors in July.<br />
<br />
Waiting for the play to resume, the tall trio in front of us shared that the fainting was all their fault. Seems whenever they go out together, bad things happen to others. Sometimes it's minor, like somebody vomiting nearby and other times, like when they were at a restaurant for Cinqo de Mayo, somebody committed suicide by jumping off the balcony.<br />
<br />
Foto Boy and I inched our chairs back away from these Typhoid Marys and hoped for the best.<br />
<br />
When the play started up again, the brilliantly comedic Maggie Bavolack playing the aged Gremio observed, "I had forgotten my line anyway!" before taking up the script exactly where she'd left off. Not long after, as a small plane flew overhead, she improvised, "Hark! There's a plane!" and cracked up the entire audience. Like the talented comedienne she is, she waited for the laughs to die down before saying, "Hark! This gentleman is happily arrived" and then posing, hands under chin with a big smile.<br />
<br />
<i>I know she is an irksome, brawling scold </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Bianca Bryan was masterful as Petruchio, denying his bride Kate her creature comforts (food, sleep, clean clothing), but also hilarious, as when she showed up for their wedding wearing dirty pants with "Kiss me, Kate" embroidered on the back pockets.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>For I am rough and woo not like a babe</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
During intermission, bottles of water were handed out for free and after claiming ours and pouring their contents into the large water bottles we'd brought, we strolled over to the stone patio to admire the waxing moon ahead of Tuesday's full moon.<br />
<br />
Overheard on the way back to our seats: "You didn't tell me I needed to see movie before I came tonight!" to which her friend explained that "Kiss Me, Kate" was based on "Taming," not the other way around. I suppose reading it - even a synopsis - never occurred to the angry first-timer.<br />
<br />
Act II began with the cast singing Adele's "Hello" followed by "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" and "Tell Me Do You Love Me, Too?" and an extended kazoo solo by the actress playing Bianca. Petruchio and Kate then took the stage so he could serenade her with the greatest stalker song of all time, the Police's "Every Breath You Take" while she grimaced at the lyrics.<br />
<br />
I'm with you, girl, that is <i>so </i>not a love song. Creepy, that's what it is.<br />
<br />
<i>For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Throughout the hot, sticky evening, Foto Boy and I marveled at the actors running, jumping and stage fighting in layers of heavy men's clothing while we sweated in our minimal summer garb.<br />
<br />
Director Chelsea Burke kept the thirteen talented women busy moving the story along with only a few of the actors being difficult to hear. Allison Paige Gilman shone as the small but mighty Tranio, her sense of comedic timing impressive, her face wildly expressive and her physicality fun to watch. Desiree Dabney turned the Hortensio role into something special with her asides and noises of upset and displeasure. Easily one of the best at nailing the Bard's cadences and projecting her voice to the fainting seats was Meg Carnahan as Biondello.<br />
<br />
But truly, everyone shone (and not just from perspiration) and you could tell how much fun they were having with this all-female cast doing such a dated, chauvinistic play. Besides, I always tell myself that while Katarina appears to have been subdued, when they're alone she calls all the shots and Petruchio does her bidding willingly.<br />
<br />
But that's just my take so I can enjoy it without feminist guilt.<br />
<br />
Because of the delay - where's a fainting couch when you need one? - by the time we left Agecroft, it was time to head directly to the Basement for the piano bar known as the Ghost Light afterparty, which was in full swing when we walked in.<br />
<br />
There were cast members from "Dance Nation" already with beverages in hand and soon some of the "Taming" cast showed up, along with theater types and lovers from all over town.<br />
<br />
As host Matt (also part of that 2013 cast on my fan from Sycamore Rouge) proclaimed in between songs, "Through musical theater, we can do all things!" Evenings like this are proof of that, no?<br />
<br />
We found room to stand at a table near the back with a great view and fine acoustics for songs sung by anyone who cared to get up there. Song choices always vary widely and yet still hue to millennial favorites with a surprise or two thrown in, a fact I know from all my years attending these after parties.<br />
<br />
There's "Seasons of Love" from "Rent, a perennial singalong favorite with this crowd, but also "A Whole New World" because of the crowd's childhood nostalgia. A song from "The Fantasticks" because it's currently in production at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen. Tonight we got a couple of unlikely choices: Radiohead's "Creep" and Elvis' "Blue Christmas."<br />
<br />
When Foto Boy wondered aloud about the odder selections, I explained that there's no rhyme or reason to what you hear at Ghost Light. You come for the buzzy vibe, fabulous voices and to see what craziness might happen over the course of the evening.<br />
<br />
Why, indeed. As the Bard so wisely put it, "Sit by my side and let the world slip; we shall never be younger." It's really that simple.<br />
<br />
Truth be told, after a night at Agecroft, the air conditioning doesn't hurt either.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-25656857722010703312019-07-13T15:15:00.000-04:002019-07-14T09:37:18.107-04:00The Dizzy, Dancing Way You FeelLet me tell you about my 13-year old self.<br />
<br />
This young nerd was in eighth grade at Charles Carroll Junior High (this having been before middle school became the norm) where I was an avid reader and good student who sewed my own mini-dresses. I collected 45s, babysat for spending money and had never gotten the slightest bit of attention from a boy.<br />
<br />
I was involved in zero after school activities, which was fine by me since I could quickly knock off my homework and either hop on my bike and ride the neighborhood or find somewhere quiet to read.<br />
<br />
All in all, I was a very happy camper with few complaints about my life beyond my 12-year old sister borrowing my clothes and returning them unwashed with her B.O. on them, which, incidentally, was far worse than my own.<br />
<br />
I had just started wearing braces but apparently wasn't very good about oral hygiene with them, since on my way into school one morning, Anthony Basil - an uber-nerd I could never aspire to top - pointed out that I had toast in my braces after I smiled a good-morning to him.<br />
<br />
Naturally, I was mildly embarrassed at the comment, although the fact that it came from Anthony and not a cute, funny boy helped, but mostly I was grateful for the reminder to be more vigilant about braces-brushing. That and not to eat any more toast as I'm walking to school.<br />
<br />
Thirteen was when I finally acknowledged how much satisfaction I got from writing. Although I'd started my first novel at the beach when I was 11, it was eighth grade when my aptitude for writing became apparent to my teachers.<br />
<br />
In English class, we were told to write a short story about anything at all, only to be surprised when six of the 37 (helluva class size) stories were chosen to be printed, bound and distributed. I was pretty proud of myself when "Has Anybody Seen My Jiffy John?" made the cut. Later in the school year, another assignment was to choose a popular song, treat the lyrics as poetry and analyze it. I chose Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" and with every fiber of my 13-year old being analyzed the hell out of Mitchell's tale of life experiences I'd yet to have.<br />
<br />
All of this is just a long way of saying that my experiences as a 13-year old bear almost no resemblance to what today's 13-year olds must go through.<br />
<br />
I got a crash course in modern eighth graders at the Basement, where TheatreLAB's production of "Dance Nation" was opening tonight. And although the play is ostensibly about a group of competitive dancers - all girls except one boy - from Ohio trying to make the finals, the dancing is secondary to the trials and tribulations of the young girls trying to navigate adolescence.<br />
<br />
I'm here to tell you that theirs is not the adolescence mine was. Or, as it turns out, much like the coming of age of any of us now comfortably in middle age.<br />
<br />
During a scene where one of the girls does a monologue, she howls her affirmation of her body - men and boys telling her how perfect her ass or boobs are is already normal for her - shouting about her body confidence with fierce pride. When she finished, a woman my age nearby commented, "I <i>never</i> felt that way when I was thirteen."<br />
<br />
I don't remember being unhappy with my 13-year old body at all, but nor do I recall thinking of it in sexual terms at that point. And losing my virginity was definitely not a hot topic with girlfriends.<br />
<br />
Ditto these young girls asking each other how to masturbate, which wasn't discussed in my adolescence because back in the olden days, each of us just figured it out ourselves. Honestly, it wasn't that difficult. By high school, you <i>might</i> discuss it with your best friend but only after you knew what you were doing.<br />
<br />
And mind you, we didn't have the Internet for reference.<br />
<br />
Maggie Roop's direction is flawless and knowing, and I'd guess that being a dancer herself helped immeasurably. The young cast (and stellar Chris Klinger as dance teacher Pat, played with the utmost seriousness because winning matters) nailed the insecurities, doubts and narcissism of these girls navigating a 21st century world where everyone feels fame is attainable and competing for superiority has been bred into them since toddlerhood.<br />
<br />
Let's put it this way: when I was 13, there was no way I or any girl I knew would have undressed in front of other girls. Hell, I had five sisters and we <i>never</i> got naked in front of each other once we no longer had to take shared baths.<br />
<br />
But also, I didn't participate in team activities, so my knowledge of that kind of group dynamic as a young teen is non-existent.<br />
<br />
As someone whose early teen years seem comparatively easy to what these young characters go through, the play registered as a sad commentary on what parents have wrought in terms of child-rearing. These are girls who have felt pressures and sexual attention from many sides since before they even get their first period, which couldn't help but make me feel sad for their lost youth.<br />
<br />
The audience skewed heavily young so it was fascinating hearing their cheering and laughing reactions to scenes that pulled at my heartstrings and those of some other nearby Baby Boomers, one of whom noted at the end, "Not for me."<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, it does my estrogen-filled heart good to sit back and, for a change, watch a mostly female cast interpret a woman-written play directed by a woman. I can't help it if my 13-year old life didn't carry the emotional weight that the 13-year olds of today must bear as a matter of course.<br />
<br />
The beauty of TheatreLAB's "Dance Nation" is the glimpse into the now it provides, allowing people like me to consider what a monumental shift has taken place for our girls.<br />
<br />
Now <i>that's </i>worthwhile theater.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-37679547425882657772019-07-12T10:42:00.000-04:002019-07-13T07:53:57.525-04:00Learning to CrawlSip, savor, crawl, repeat.<br />
<br />
And, when needed, offer occasional pro tips en route. Having been a regular on Secco's annual Rose Crawl since the first one in 2011 - that was the one where a thunderstorm knocked out the power, forcing us to drink our final pink in darkness - I like to think I'm uniquely qualified to spread my wisdom with any crawl virgins seeking aid.<br />
<br />
My raspberry sherbet-colored sun dress was meant to identify me as a professional.<br />
<br />
After a quick stop at Secco to nab my Rose passport, Lady G and I started the festivities at Acacia with a handful of other pink-clad women. Claiming seats at the bar, bartender Kenny looked at me and jokingly demanded to know where I'd been on recent Tuesday evenings, since clearly I hadn't been drinking half priced wine with friends at his bar.<br />
<br />
After explaining I'd been at the beach for a week, he responded, "Okay, you're off the hook for one week. What about all the other Tuesdays you weren't here?"<br />
<br />
You never know who's going to note your absence.<br />
<br />
With plenty of appealing Rose options, G went with a perennial favorite of mine, Francoise Montand Brut Rose, while I opted to show her the pleasures of a Rose made of Pinot Noir, specifically Henri Bourgeois Petit Rose. I'm not sure if it was the tangy fruitiness or just the major shift in palate from her pink bubbles, but, after making a surprised face, she saw the light.<br />
<br />
Kenny and I meanwhile exhorted the pleasures of German and Austrian Roses of Pinot Noir, while the pink maxi skirt-clad owner pledged her allegiance to the hard-to-find Sinskey Rose, which I love.<br />
<br />
Acacia's bar menu for the occasion was spot on, so we indulged. First was fried squash blossoms stuffed with crab, ricotta and corn drizzled in tzatziki, with a piquant cucumber/red onion side salad riding shotgun, the delicate flavors a perfect complement to our wines. Next up were fried local softshell "bites" (actually, miscellaneous soft shell legs) enhanced by a spicy chili garlic sauce, making for a decided contrast to the squash blossom's muted flavors.<br />
<br />
After getting Kenny to stamp my passport, we bid him adieu and walked outside to a sky filled with angry-looking black clouds threatening action. Fortunately our next stop, Cask Cafe, was a mere block away.<br />
<br />
Taking up stools at the end of the bar near owner Dave (who let us know that Cask is now making their own sausages), we scanned their pink list, with G deciding on Domaine des Terrisses Rose solely because Dave described it as the heartiest and, at her core, G is a red wine lover. I chose Domaine de Mus Rose mainly because it was from Languedoc, not that I wasn't rewarded with a wildly refreshing wine with notes of citrus and red fruits.<br />
<br />
A customer replaced Dave at the end of the bar, so naturally I eventually turned to him and asked if he was there for the Rose crawl (he wasn't). So I asked if he lived in the neighborhood (he didn't). Naturally I asked if he was a regular, to which he responded, "Why do you ask so many questions?"<br />
<br />
Um, I'm a journalist, sir. And nosey.<br />
<br />
When I came back from the loo, there was a newly-arrived Irishman sitting next to G and she was already asking where in Ireland he was from. "The <i>only</i> place in Ireland: Dublin," he informed her with a grin. Looking to converse with us more, he leaned in and shared that actor/director Ethan Hawke is currently living in the house next to his while he scouts a project about the slave John Brown.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, our Irishman wasn't sharing where he lived beyond the Fan, but he didn't hesitate to mention that Mandy Patinkin had also lived in the house next door while in Richmond. Since G and I had long since finished our Rose, we got up to leave, causing the Irishman to entice us by suggesting, "Come back and I'll tell you how it goes."<br />
<br />
Not sure I'm enough of an Ethan fan to care.<br />
<br />
Walking toward the door to leave, we saw that the roiling skies had cracked open and torrents of rain were coming down, but luckily I'd insisted on us both bringing umbrellas for just such an eventuality. Just as we made it back to G's car, I realized that my pink-addled brain had forgotten to get my passport stamped at Cask.<br />
<br />
G inched the car through driving rain, pulling up right out front so I could run in and get stamped by bartender Dash (best bartender name ever, no?). As he perfunctorily stamped me legit, a couple at the bar began teasing me that I had to drink pink before I got a stamp. Explaining the situation to them, they then gave me an A for effort. "That was dedication!" the woman said, noting my dress' wet parts and my dripping umbrella. "You didn't have to come back!"<br />
<br />
Ah, but a Rose Crawl pro doesn't cut corners, young 'un.<br />
<br />
It was still pouring rain as we drove to our next stop, so I reminded G that I'd warned her there was a 92% chance of precipitation tonight and wasn't she glad she had her umbrella. "I'd say this is 100% precipitation," she corrected me, only slightly loopily. Hilarious.<br />
<br />
When we arrived at Secco, there were exactly two available seats at the community table in the back by the kitchen and no more. We gratefully took them, only to find ourselves sandwiched between two young mothers who were crawl newbies and an Indian couple drinking Rose but who had no knowledge of the crawl.<br />
<br />
After ordering glasses of Raventos i Blanc Brut Nature Rose "de Nit" - a reliable Spanish favorite of mine - we turned our attention to the first-timers, both Moms with young children, to see how they were faring.<br />
<br />
Secco was their first stop and now they were debating where to go since neither had brought an umbrella (rookie mistake). Their dilemma was where to Uber next in order to stay dry. G immediately piped up, telling them how cute and funny Kenny had been at Acacia, hoping to steer them to a good time.<br />
<br />
But they wanted to know where we were headed next and that was Amuse. "Maybe we'll see you later!" they said as they took their fresh faces out into the storm.<br />
<br />
Thoroughly digging our pink bubbles, we accompanied them with to-die-for gnocchi smothered in Twenty Paces Ricotta, peas, basil, green garlic and fennel, into which we added crispy fried chickpeas just because they were a worthy addition.<br />
<br />
The Indian couple's cheese and charcuterie plate arrived (when debating what meat to get the server mentioned Sopressata, which they'd never heard of, necessitating me insisting that Sopressata was the way to go, so they ordered it) and they began chowing down, although the hunk of Madame di Bufala, a creamy, tangy water buffalo cheese from Italy, defeated them.<br />
<br />
"It's the stinkiest cheese I've ever had and I thought I liked stinky cheeses," she said. "But this actually tastes like a buffalo after being on a treadmill in this hot, humid Virginia heat. Help yourselves, we won't eat it all." You don't have to offer G and me stinky cheese twice, so we cut off pieces, finding it a mouth and noseful, but delicious, too.<br />
<br />
I reassured the couple that their palates would undoubtedly develop with age and that one day, Madame di Bufala would be right up their alley. When I was their age, I eschewed blue cheese because I thought it smelled like stinky feet and look at me now. They were wide-eyed acolytes by the time I finished with them and said goodnight.<br />
<br />
Amuse was our final stop and while we'd originally had plans to see the new American art show while we were there, we had only enough time for two final glasses of Rose and dessert. Taking seats at the end of the bar, I didn't even bother asking for my passport to be stamped, I just reached over next to the absinthe fountain, picked up the stamp and stamped my own passport.<br />
<br />
A pink-clad girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.<br />
<br />
Our bartender had no recommendations beyond steering clear of the Indian Rose, even giving us a taste to show how oddly the Shiraz-based Rose finished. Instead, G went predictably straight for the heartiest , Clos la Coutale, a Malbec Rose, while I went directly (do not pass Go, do not collect $200) to Daniel Reverdy et Fils Rose, a Sancerre from the Loire Valley.<br />
<br />
Some choices are unavoidable yet heavenly at the same time.<br />
<br />
A chocolate pate with one perfect raspberry, one perfect blackberry and a mound of vanilla whipped cream accompanied our wines as we watched the storm dissipate over the VMFA's sculpture garden. Regrettably, we hadn't made it downstairs to see "Transatlantic Currents," though we did have a cursory look at Carl Chiarenza's abstract photographs from the 1930s en route to the loo, for what that's worth.<br />
<br />
By the time we'd wound down our 2019 Rose Crawl, the VMFA was closed, staff were vacuuming the floors and the Boulevard door we'd come in had long since been locked. Walking out the other entrance, we ran smack into the two Moms we'd met at Secco, who had made it only to Amuse and no further. Awed that we'd had our passport stamped at all four locations, they bowed to our superior crawling skills.<br />
<br />
Someday, ladies, you'll have the life experience to do the same, maybe even with some Madame di Bufala along the way.<br />
<br />
With a nod to the probability of precipitation and apologies to Matthew Sweet, tonight was what we pros call 100% fun.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-51217587894287235632019-07-10T23:46:00.000-04:002019-07-10T23:46:00.932-04:00This Woman's WorkThe solemnity of today required a little humor.<br />
<br />
And by solemnity, I'm not just talking about a major car repair that took two days to complete and more money than I want to think about, I'm talking about the tragic news that the final Beetle that Volkswagen will <i>ever</i> make rolled off the assembly line today.<br />
<br />
Can we just have a moment for my first car - a '66 blue Beetle - and its place in shaping who I am today? I mean, what kind of world are we leaving future generations if no more Beetles are being made?<br />
<br />
RIP, Bug.<br />
<br />
Add in that Mac's still a bit jet-lagged since her return from Scotland, and neither of us was feeling up to anything heavy tonight. So when trying to decide what movie to see, "Late Night" beat out other films such as "Shaft" and "Last Black Man in San Francisco," which would have required more brain reserves than we had.<br />
<br />
Truthfully, I wanted it for Emma Thompson and she wanted it for Mindy Kaling, so we were a match made in heaven.<br />
<br />
We started at Goatocado since she'd never been (eating at their food truck didn't count) and I'm such a fan. I'm embarrassed to admit that we ate indoors, a fact attributable on my part to all the walking I'd had to do in the hot afternoon sun and on her part to having been at work since 7 a.m.<br />
<br />
She surprised me by ordering the ramen - which I'd never even noticed they had on the menu - while I did my usual Californian: flatbread stuffed with black beans, apples, corn, greens and avocado with a chipotle/pineapple dressing, which I proceeded to wolf down as if I'd been on the run all day. Oh, wait...<br />
<br />
Then it was on to Criterion to see a film about sexism in the workplace, ageism, double standards, affirmative action and, central to the story, the dumbing down of entertainment in the YouTube/Twitter age of short attention spans and disdain for depth. Why have Doris Kearns Goodwin as a guest when you can have the latest YouTube sensation?<br />
<br />
And while any one of those issues is enough to cause apoplexy, at least they were dealt with in a clever, comedic manner.<br />
<br />
Better still, it was a comedy written by Mindy Kaling (whom, it turns out, Mac follows on Instagram) who had firsthand knowledge of being a woman in a male-dominated writing staff from her time writing for "The Office."<br />
<br />
Only a woman writes a line like, "My Spanx have cut off the blood supply to my head" or "I am a 56 year old woman who's not had a baby and never seen a superhero movie." Need more proof? Only a woman would have her character bring cupcakes to her first staff meeting on her first day of work.<br />
<br />
Not to go too far with this estrogen tangent, but both Emma and Mindy's wardrobes (and shoes) were also fabulously unique, albeit in completely different ways that any one of the seven - count 'em -women in the theater could appreciate.<br />
<br />
Because of course it was a female audience, although I'm betting I'm the only one of them who's never seen a superhero movie.<br />
<br />
Or, more importantly, had a window box full of plants in the back of her blue VW bug.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-58756543803564451302019-07-10T10:45:00.002-04:002019-07-13T07:55:32.520-04:00A Rich, Little Plum AgainWhat good is sitting alone in your room when you can come hear the music play?<br />
<br />
Life is a cabaret, old chum, and tonight's, called "You're Gonna Hear from Me," featured the considerable talents of Billy Christopher Maupin. Having seen BC in cabaret mode before, I knew to get my butt in gear, walk the mile to Firehouse Theatre and get my name on the waiting list for the sold-out show.<br />
<br />
Arriving early, the woman at the ticket desk informed me that tickets wouldn't be available until 7:00. Just then Firehouse's producing artistic director showed up, so she inquired if she could start selling tickets then. "<i>Can</i> you?" he asked. "This is Karen! Of course you can sell her a ticket. She's a VIP."<br />
<br />
And there's the proof that the requirements for being a VIP have never been lower, although I was very happy to have gained entry. I wiled away the time before the house officially opened talking to a woman waiting for four friends to show up and complaining because, despite the fact that they're all ushers at multiple theaters around town, her friends have a tendency to show up five minutes before curtain time.<br />
<br />
They should know better, she asserted. Someone needs parental guidance.<br />
<br />
Once seated, I saw plenty of familiar faces: Byrd manager Todd came over to discuss last night's screening of "Vertigo," a fellow theater alliance panel member and her husband, a longtime member of the theater community I hadn't seen in eons and loads of local actors and dancers.<br />
<br />
Best line overheard: "Distinguished character actors never go out of style!" said to, who else, a distinguished character actor.<br />
<br />
The woman in front of me returned from the loo to praise the brand new bathroom to her daughter, who decided to go solely because her mother insisted she needed to see it. Daughter came back just as wowed, effectively leaving me no choice but to go see what all the fuss was about. I'll admit, I was impressed with the clean lines, spacious design and proximity.<br />
<br />
When Joel came out to welcome the crowd and exhort us to visit the bar often, he, too, jumped on the bathroom bandwagon, suggesting we check out the new loos and perhaps, for nostalgia's sake, make the trek upstairs to look at the old bathrooms.<br />
<br />
I made do with two trips to the new and called it a night.<br />
<br />
BC arrived onstage to start the show in front of a red curtain in tight black pants, a black shirt and a white tie and barefoot, as he always is for these performances. Nearby was his fellow Campbellsville alumni Joshua Wortham on keyboard (and sly commentary) as they launched into "It's a Lovely Day."<br />
<br />
"I feel like Norma Desmond!" he said dramatically when the song ended. Tonight or always, BC?<br />
<br />
Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I knew that BC would make brilliant song choices, never more apparent than in the choice of "Nobody's Chasing Me" (which could have been my theme song from 2009 through 2018, but I digress) and his spirited delivery of it.<br />
<br />
<i>The breeze is chasing the zephyr</i><br />
<i>The moon is chasing the sea</i><br />
<i>The bull is chasing the heifer</i><br />
<i>But nobody's chasing me</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The cook is chasing the chicken</i><br />
<i>The pea wakes up pee-wee-wee</i><br />
<i>The cat is taking a lickin'</i><br />
<i>But nobody's lickin' me</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I mean, why go see a BC Maupin cabaret if you don't want to hear how he changes lyrics and chooses just the right songs to describe his life? We should all be so talented.<br />
<br />
Between songs, he talked about moving back to Kentucky where he grew up and went to college ("I live in <i>front</i> of a farm now") and currently works a corporate job ("I don't fit in so well. Surprise!"). Then the guy whose favorite tag is #imakethingssometimes admitted, "I haven't made anything for a year and then this opportunity came up."<br />
<br />
How's a boy supposed to resist that?<br />
<br />
Alternating between standing in front of a mic stand and sitting on a stool, the evening unfolded as a series of songs interspersed with reminiscing about how he got to Richmond, his time in New York City (illustrated by singing Sondheim's "Another Hundred People"), his love life and his return to Richmond, always told with a healthy dose of self-deprecation and only occasionally, shaking hands.<br />
<br />
Naturally, he managed to toss in a reference to having won an ARTSIE last year for having directed "Preludes" on the very stage on which he stood, hilariously following that with a casual mention of having previously won an ARTSIE for directing "Carrie."<br />
<br />
"I may as well milk it while I'm in Richmond and people know what it means." Shout it to the rooftops, BC.<br />
<br />
Calling dancer/choreographer Emily Berg-Poff Dandridge to the stage, the two of them became contestants on a game show with pianist Josh as the host. Using white boards to write their answers, they didn't manage to match even once, but their attempts were reliably funny. Asked if BC won the lottery what he would buy first, BC wrote "a theater." Emily wrote "booze, boys and Patti Lupone."<br />
<br />
With enough lottery winnings, both seem achievable, they agreed.<br />
<br />
After the game show portion ended, the two dueted on "Sisters" from "White Christmas," as unexpected a choice as it was charming. Their synchronized stool dancing was limited to leg crossing but the energy was high and the smiles were major wattage.<br />
<br />
Explaining that everyone had told him that he couldn't put a cabaret together in two days, BC belted out Sondheim's "Everybody Says Don't" to refute that and then the emotional "I Was Here" before instructing us to use intermission to get a drink because it would make everything better.<br />
<br />
Judging by the line at the bar, it was an obedient audience. Well, that and theater people love to drink.<br />
<br />
For the second act, BC returned in the same ensemble except with his top button unbuttoned and a black tie, this time to sit at the keyboards and plink out a song before Josh seamlessly sat down to really play.<br />
<br />
"It's nice to be back in Richmond," BC said, beaming at all the old friends in the audience. "I know that Virginia Rep is doing 'Chicago' next year, so here's my audition!" and launched into "When You're Good to Mama" with all the passion of a man who wants a role.<br />
<br />
Finishing, he smiled devilishly at us and suggested, "Somebody call Nathaniel Shaw right now!" Too bad there wasn't a hot line to Virginia Rep.<br />
<br />
Calling up Katrinah Carol Lewis, the two took stools as BC told the story of them seeing Audra McDonald together at the Carpenter Stage, a major event for the uber-Audra fan Katrinah. They both marveled that Audra's glass of water stood untouched all evening as she sang her heart out. "She did not touch it," BC said, clearly amazed. "Just to mock us," Katrinah added.<br />
<br />
During an audience singalong, Audra stopped to ask who the beautiful soprano voice belonged to, leading to a one on one conversation with Katrinah about what she sang. When she answered "Your songs," Audra told her that the world already had one of her and needed one of Katrinah, too.<br />
<br />
"When I got home that night, I put that in my pipe and smoked it," Katrinah laughed.<br />
<br />
The two went on to do a soul-stirring version of "C'mon Get Happy/Happy Days are Here Again" that could have gone on for another half hour without anyone in the room complaining. When Katrinah took a bow before leaving the stage, audience members begged for one more from the two strong voices.<br />
<br />
Instead, BC did his third and final tribute as uber-fan to<i> his</i> idol, Patti Lupone.<br />
<br />
Saying that he and Josh hadn't wanted to use too much from their last cabaret, BC admitted that they had "Frankensteined this song back together" and I could barely stay in my seat for what I was hoping was to come. That's right, he did "Wonderful Guy" from "South Pacific," which went seamlessly into "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered," which slid right into "I Wish I Were in Love Again" - modified to "The classic battle of him and <i>him</i>" - with a brief tangent for "My Funny Valentine" before ending up back with "Wonderful Guy."<br />
<br />
Sigh. It was fabulous and brilliant, or, as BC himself would say, Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!<br />
<br />
While he said that he'd wanted to end the show with a Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney put-on-a-show-in-a-barn kind of vibe, he also admitted that it didn't feel right. "So I'm going to do a song by a tree," he announced, signaling the end was near.<br />
<br />
Listening to BC sing us out into the night, I couldn't have been the only one struck by how fortunate we were that he'd made his way back to Richmond to make a thing for us again, like he does. Wouldn't it be wonderful to think that he's considering bringing his award-winning talent back to the city that's already acknowledged twice that we like him, we really like him?<br />
<br />
If I had any recommendation for such a talented man, it would be to buy a lottery ticket. But only if he promises to schedule regular cabarets with boys, booze and Patti Lupone at his theater. A healthy does of Richard Rodgers would be nice, too.<br />
<br />
<i>It's only a cabaret, old chum</i><br />
<i>And I love a cabaret</i><br />
<br />
Hey, if he can put a cabaret this wonderfully entertaining together in two days, the boy can do anything.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-17094546683688141682019-07-09T11:44:00.000-04:002019-07-09T12:53:44.527-04:00Sprinkler Season in Full BloomI can already feel July melting away like a cherry popsicle on a summer day.<br />
<br />
Holmes and Beloved were kind enough to invite me over for dinner Sunday evening to close out the long Fourth of July holiday weekend. Even better, rather than going mainstream with the traditional hamburgers and hot dogs, they were serving up Champagne, lobster tails and North Carolina steamed shrimp.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I was there ten minutes early and stayed for a solid five and a half hours.<br />
<br />
After gorging on dinner, we moved the bottle and the party downstairs to the Man Cave where I requested that Holmes play nothing but bands from the Laurel Canyon era as I regaled them with tidbits from the film I'd recently seen.<br />
<br />
That meant starting with 1967's "Buffalo Springfield Again" which opened with the Neil Young-penned and sung "Mr. Soul," a fitting way to kick off a listening party that went on to include (duh) the Byrds, Joni Mitchell (notably absent from the documentary despite her "Ladies of the Canyon" album a few years later) and Tom Petty.<br />
<br />
Oh, and chocolate mousse.<br />
<br />
The only reason I left before midnight was because it was a school night and even I had Monday responsibilities, beginning with a walk with Mac who had just returned from ten days in Scotland. I was particularly impressed with the news that her group's private guide had worn a kilt - it was his family's tartan, Mac made sure to ask, though she didn't ask what was underneath it - except the day they went hiking when he wore jeans.<br />
<br />
As we walked to the river, she described the magical sights they'd taken in: moors, castles and almost no precipitation. She liked both haggis (we agreed it's nothing but Scottish Scrapple) and blood sausage, but was less fond of the potatoes in fish and chips, a dish they naturally ate more than once.<br />
<br />
It was good to have my waking buddy with me on the Pipeline after weeks of us being in different places. That said, I couldn't convince her to join me in my now-daily (and thoroughly enjoyable) walk through the sprinklers on Brown's Island before getting on the walkway, a fact she attributed to the phone in her pocket.<br />
<br />
One more way that technology saps the fun out of life.<br />
<br />
After catching up, she was headed to work and I was headed to the Northern Neck, also for work - I had an interview in Kilmarnock and another in Warsaw - but at least with better scenery than Short Pump where Mac works.<br />
<br />
When I left the Front Porch Coffeehouse after the first interview, I was greeted by a roiling black sky in the exact direction I was headed.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, I got barely a few miles before a fierce rainstorm slowed traffic to a crawl and visibility to nonexistent. Since no one on the Northern Neck is in a hurry anyway, I just took it in stride, tried to avoid hydroplaning and just when I thought the sky had cleared, drove right into another squall.<br />
<br />
Nerve-wracking as the driving was, I kept reminding myself that my Mom had just told me that they've been so long without rain that the grass crunches underfoot, so at least I was suffering for the greater good.<br />
<br />
Back in Richmond, everything looked bone-dry, making it even more of a surprise when I saw photos from the morning storm in D.C., where cars were half submerged at 15th and Constitution Avenue, a crazy sight to behold. The Post said they got a month's worth of rain in one morning.<br />
<br />
After a full day of road tripping, all I wanted was a comfortable seat, some vintage Hitchcock and buttered popcorn. Walking into the Byrd to see "Vertigo," manager Todd said to me, "It wouldn't be a Hitchcock movie without you."<br />
<br />
I didn't mention it, but it will have to be since I have plans the nights he's showing the other Hitchcocks this month.<br />
<br />
The Byrd had a great crowd for a Monday night - far more people than I'd expected, although the parking lot had been full, so I should have been suspicious - and when Todd was introducing the film, he asked who was seeing it for the first time. I was gobsmacked when fully a third of the people raised their hands.<br />
<br />
Never seen "Vertigo?" The film that replaced "Citizen Kane" as the greatest film ever made according to the British Film Institute? Say it isn't so.<br />
<br />
It was clear that the audience was full of newbies because when Kim Novak's Madeline character throws herself to her death from the mission bell tower, there were gasps of "Whoa!" and "Omygod!"<br />
<br />
Guess they didn't see that coming.<br />
<br />
Because I've seen "Vertigo" plenty of times, I could sit back and enjoy the film as a 1958 travelogue of San Francisco. Obviously, the city was far more uncrowded in 1958 than when I went there, but that only made it easier to recognize places I'd seen in real life like Lombard Street, Coit Tower (shown repeatedly by Hitch as a phallic symbol), Mission Dolores and Grace Cathedral.<br />
<br />
Other signs of the times included a diagnosis of acute melancholia at a sanitarium and Kim Novak's character Judy asking him, "Is this some kind of Gallup Poll?"<br />
<br />
Because this was a 21st century audience watching it, many of them for the first time, there were frequent moments when the audience had issues with things James Stewart's character said. I mean, let's face it, when a stranger knocks on your hotel door and wants to not only start seeing you but change how you dress, the style of your hair and your make-up, it's not going to sit well with modern audiences.<br />
<br />
When Stewart told Novak he wanted her to change her hair color, he rationalized his request by saying, "It<i> can't</i> matter to you!" I don't know which was louder, the laughter or the sounds of female indignation. Seriously?<br />
<br />
In the immortal words of Megan Rapinoe, "I think to be a woman in the world, in general, is frustrating. And I feel we spend so much time fighting against things."<br />
<br />
Even in 1958, I'd be willing to bet that women wanted to be the ones who decided what color their hair was. Still do, but now we have bigger fish to fry.<br />
<br />
Equal pay would be a fine start. Stick that in your Gallup poll, Hitch.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-43248284003377753352019-07-07T23:56:00.000-04:002019-07-07T23:56:00.136-04:00Ease on Down the RoadLet's call it a celebration of friendship and sobriety.<br />
<br />
A decade ago when I first met Foto Boy while eating a sandwich at Lift, I knew very little about him beyond that he bartended at Tarrant's. I knew even less about his past, except, I might add, for one major fact: he told me right away that he was celebrating his first year sober and drug-free. He was understandably very proud of himself for the accomplishment while I was just happy to have a new friend who liked to go out and do things.<br />
<br />
Now, ten years later, he was looking to celebrate his <i>eleventh</i> year sober and drug-free and I had just the way to do it: fifth row seats to see the critically-acclaimed "The Wiz" at Virginia Repertory Theater.<br />
<br />
As it turned out, both of us were "Wiz" virgins, having seen neither the '70s play nor the 1978 film starring Diana Ross and Michael Jackson, so we sat down with a clean slate. The first thing that struck us both was how refreshing it was to see an all black/brown cast for a change.<br />
<br />
And that was just the start. Everything about the production was impressive, from the dazzling Afro-futuristic costumes - the brilliance of the Munchkins' crazy quilt-like patterned costumes as they bounced along on colorful stability balls - and elaborate sets to the quality of talent onstage.<br />
<br />
One thing he and I especially enjoyed was all the '70s references, from cracks about urban renewal in Oz to references to other characters as "this cat." And don't get me started on the Cowardly Lion's magnificent brown bell bottoms and two-tone platform shoes.<br />
<br />
Better yet, do let me get started because, hands down, Brandon LaReau's performance as the lion, played with strong drag queen undertones, was nothing short of show-stopping. Whether flipping his blond-highlighted curly wig, mincing his steps or playing every situation for maximum laughs in his sequined vest and ring bedecked-fingers - although he also conveyed sweet tenderness skillfully - it was impossible to take our eyes off of him.<br />
<br />
Surely never has a man conveyed leonine femininity trapped inside a male body so bodaciously.<br />
<br />
Richmond's own Desiree Roots was a triple threat, playing a concerned Auntie Em as well as the goofy but charming good witch Addaperie (when she sees Dorothy's house has fallen on the witch, leaving only the red and white striped tights and feet visible, she IDs the body by saying, "I'd know those tacky pantyhose anywhere") and nailing the inherent meanness and cruelty of bad witch Evillene. I've seen Desiree play many roles, but never have I seen her command the stage as she did in a bustier, skin-tight pants, thigh-high leather boots and a black over-skirt that screamed dominatrix.<br />
<br />
But we also had to give mad props to the ensemble, a coterie of uber-talented dancers who conveyed a tornado with balletic grace, the Munchkins' sweet exuberance, the Winkies' elation once Evillene was killed by Dorothy with buckets of water and the classic nightmare-inducing flying monkeys, whose masks contained kitchen utensils and industrial parts for added oddness and scariness.<br />
<br />
During intermission, we toasted Foto Boy's momentous anniversary with the two tangerines I'd brought along for the purpose. Earlier, he'd posted a shot of his Sobriety medallion, appropriately marked "XI," with a watchband strap to illustrate the ongoing nature of his efforts.<br />
<br />
Then we were back in Oz. If there was any regret, it was that we didn't get to see more of the Tin Man tap dancing because it's so rare that you see that onstage anymore.<br />
<br />
Impressing me more than he's ever done before, Jerold E. Solomon captivated the audience as the Wiz, his song "Believe in Yourself" making for a true showstopper before he climbed in his hot air balloon and sailed back to Nebraska.<br />
<br />
Oddly enough, the weakest link onstage was the actress who played Dorothy who, despite having a wonderful voice, brought no depth or soul to the character. Applauding at the end, it felt wrong for her to come out last for the final ovation when everyone else had touched the audience more strongly.<br />
<br />
Clocking in at just over two hours, we were out on the street in what felt like no time, bemoaning that the play hadn't gone on for another hour just so we could listen to more of those stellar voices, watch the ensemble's fabulous dancing and revel in a play about unexpected friendships.<br />
<br />
Walking home, Foto Boy shared that when the film had come out, he'd been young and hadn't been able to get his head around why anyone would want to see a classic like "The Wizard of Oz" done as an all-black production.<br />
<br />
"But I was a kid, I grew up with a Tidewater mentality and my Dad was racist, so I didn't know any better," he admitted. All that began to change a few years later, so by the time we met, he was one of the most ardent social justice warriors I'd ever met. Still is.<br />
<br />
I didn't see his FB post showing the play's program and the glittering "The Wiz" curtain behind it until I got home, but the words said it all: "At Virginia Repertory Theater celebrating 11 years with a friend who's known me since year one."<br />
<br />
If back in 2009 I was Dorothy looking for my new life after my former one imploded, Foto Boy was my Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion rolled into one.<br />
<br />
No doubt about it, I owe this cat a friendship medallion.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-31400305992598235412019-07-06T23:52:00.000-04:002019-07-06T23:52:00.505-04:00Knowing Me, Knowing You, I took the rainbow for a good sign.<br />
<br />
Granted, Pru is always chiding me for finding the "[expletive deleted] silver lining in everything," but this was an honest-to-goodness half rainbow situated between two construction cranes as I headed east on the Leigh Street bridge to meet her and Beau at Alewife. Since it had been breezy and nice when I'd left J-Ward, I was immediately suspicious about the cause of the rainbow.<br />
<br />
Virtual projection, perhaps?<br />
<br />
That question was answered the moment I got to Church Hill, where it felt positively jungle-like and the streets were wet. Clearly rain had recently visited the 'hood on the hill, leaving behind sticky, humid air you practically had to swim through.<br />
<br />
I walked into Alewife to find every seat taken except for two at the bar and my friends not yet arrived, so I installed myself in one of the free bar stools and scored a glass of Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Brut to justify my presence. Pru and Beau soon showed up, a tad dewy from having strolled over from the manse, but otherwise ready for an evening of fish and conversation.<br />
<br />
Once the former occupants of our table had cleared out, we took it over, its only disadvantage being it was right in the front window and the 7:00 sun was beating down on it mercilessly. After putting up with it long enough to get a bottle of wine from the Loire, we politely asked our server if he could lower the shade below the skyline, a minor adjustment that immediately lowered the temperature at our table.<br />
<br />
As much as the three of us enjoy Alewife's mid-Atlantic fish focus and the seafood shack vibe with its white beadboard walls, between the three of us, we couldn't think of a single reason why the place doesn't have ceiling fans. No self-respecting seafood joint would open its doors without fans to move the hot air, fish smells and cooking heat from the open kitchen around, especially when no amount of air conditioning can offset it.<br />
<br />
Because while I'm the last person to complain about heat - plus I'd worn the thinnest, lightest dress I own - Pru and Beau are the first and they were definitely wilting. She resorted to fanning herself with a menu to deal with it.<br />
<br />
Heat aside, the second most challenging part of the evening was deciding what to order from a dream menu listing five starter and five entree offerings from the sea. Those are my kind of odds.<br />
<br />
Naturally, I went directly to what I didn't know, beginning with an Okonomiyaki-style waffle (main ingredient: cabbage) spread with creamy smoked fish, paper-thin slices of black garlic and kimchi. Beau was quick to question the proportion of kimchi, insisting that more would have been better to offset the richness of the smoked fish and he wasn't wrong.<br />
<br />
In any case, this dish, which resembled pizza, was so appealing looking (and we were scarfing it down so enthusiastically) that the newly arrived eight-top next to us leaned over and asked what it was so they could order their own.<br />
<br />
Few things could be as summery as chilled peach soup with ginger, Caramont goat cheese and peanuts, although with my stone fruit allergy, I had to limit myself to only a few delicious bites. But the Cremant had made me weak and so I had a few more and in no time, my tongue was swelling and the inside of my mouth was itchy.<br />
<br />
During peach season, it sucks to be me.<br />
<br />
The best description of cured cobia with strawberry, buttermilk and pickled blueberries was Beau's: "It's like I'm drinking the beach!" a nod to the Cobia's saltiness which matched that of a mouthful of ocean. Serious yum.<br />
<br />
Pru and I both chose Snook, a highly desirable southern Florida fish that's extremely regulated, so infrequently found on menus. With its savory crisped skin, medium firm white flesh and farro salad with grilled squash and carrots underneath, it was everything you'd hope for in ordering an unknown fish at a beachside fish shack.<br />
<br />
Beau tried unsuccessfully to insist that his mackeral was better, but that's only because he was drooling over the Surry sausage, charred cabbage and mustard vin that completed it.<br />
<br />
Complaints about the heat subsided while so much stellar food was being enjoyed, but the pause in conversation (beyond moans of delight for what was in our mouths) only accentuated how noisy it was in there and that it was impossible to hear the music. Let's just say ambiance is not Alewife's forte.<br />
<br />
With nothing but soft serve custard on the dessert menu, we decide to cover as many bases as possible. My vanilla and chocolate swirl had hot fudge (though not nearly enough), cocoa nibs and graham cracker crumbs, while Beau's poundcake was smothered in peach, raspberry and soft serve. Pru kept it simple with affogato: coffee-drenched soft serve, though she acknowledged she still prefers Dinamo's version.<br />
<br />
I stay out of all coffee-related discussions given my lack of knowledge and interest on that front.<br />
<br />
Given the heat and absence of music, the Church Hillians were only too eager to clear out and head to the manse's screened porch which somehow, despite being essentially outdoors, managed to be cooler and drier feeling than Alewife.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, <i>some</i> people know the value of ceiling fans.<br />
<br />
With blades whirring, we began the evening on the porch with the soundtrack from "Heavy Metal," a 1981 film with which they were both familiar and which meant nothing to me. Am I going to judge if a soundtrack starts with Sammy Hagar? Yes, yes I am. And who knew that Blue Oyster Cult ever did anything beyond "Don't Fear the Reaper?"<br />
<br />
That said, both Pru and Beau were singing and chair dancing once Devo's "Working in a Coal Mine" cranked up. Such are the memories of those who came of age in the '80s.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the old days, Pru regaled us with stories of reporting to boarding school wearing a yellow Gant button-down shirt, jeans and loafers, a pack of Marlboro Reds in her shirt pocket and enough attitude to dare anyone to challenge her on any of it.<br />
<br />
When I brought up the end of an era - MAD magazine deciding to no longer publish new material, instead resorting to old editorial - a discussion ensued about how topical MAD's humor had been. Would Millennials even get, much less appreciate, some of those brilliant satires from before they were born? Doubtful, we agreed.<br />
<br />
"I have to find a safe space and cry," deadpanned Pru about the generation that holds the reins to our future.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, a debate on the merits of the word "classy" (which I abhor and, we agreed, no classy person would think of using) and "swanky," which at least has a retro, humorous connotation, ensued. Yes, we are those people who can debate word usage and consider it Friday night fun.<br />
<br />
Once we'd listened to as much of "Heavy Metal" as we could stand, we struggled to find something else to please our ears. When Beau told Alexa to play Huey Lewis and the News, Pru's response was swift and clear. "No, it's not that time yet!"<br />
<br />
For some of us, it's <i>never </i>the time for Huey Lewis and the News.<br />
<br />
Instead, with fireworks exploding in the background, we sipped and chatted through a lot of '70s AM radio music like America, Bread, Seals and Croft (Pru: "Sure, I know the song, but I had no idea it was called "Diamond Girl!"), eventually landing on ABBA for the long haul. With this crowd, Dancing Queens beat Veterans of Psychic Wars every time.<br />
<br />
Never more so than when you've seen a rainbow, drank the beach and talked into the next day. I call that my kind of silver lining.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-18052689925818466432019-07-05T23:47:00.000-04:002019-07-06T19:00:21.495-04:00One of the BohemiansI'd be lying if I said it was <i>only</i> about the opera.<br />
<br />
Despite the cultural smorgasbord I call my nightlife, the truth is I've only been to the opera a handful of times. But I also figured that my firmly-established role as a documentary dork would be more than enough to carry me through my lack of deep opera knowledge.<br />
<br />
Well, that and the movie started at the right time. That was the real clincher. My goal was to catch a film at Movieland, specifically a film that would end around the time that the fireworks were starting up at the Diamond, practically next door.<br />
<br />
Kind of brilliant, right? Or, at least efficient, which is one of my trademarks.<br />
<br />
So after perusing the movie offerings for Independence Day, I settled on "Pavarotti," director Ron Howard's ode to the man known as the "King of High Cs." And no, I didn't know that about him before seeing the flick.<br />
<br />
Those drenching thunderstorms that arrived as <strike>I was getting up from my heat nap</strike> afternoon was giving way to evening had me wondering if fireworks were even going to happen, especially after the Flying Squirrels announced a delay of the game start time. The way I figured it, at least I'd get a documentary out of my Fourth of July evening.<br />
<br />
It's not like I was going to stay home to celebrate independence. So I drove through massive puddles to Movieland and found a parking space facing the Diamond, just in case because I am nothing if not optimistic.<br />
<br />
I could have guessed that the audience would all be in my age bracket and they were, mostly couples. The upside of that was how quietly respectful everyone was during the film, with none of the usual talking and looking at cell phones that seems to be the new movie-going norm.<br />
<br />
Because my knowledge of the big man (and opera, in general) was scant, this was the ideal documentary for me because Howard seemed to be making it for non-opera types like me. Why else include a charming scene of Pavarotti soaping up, singing in the shower? Or provide a plot synopsis of the operas he was shown singing?<br />
<br />
Opera newbie or not, I loved getting to see all the vintage photographs and performance clips, not to mention the fascinating interviews with his first wife and three daughters and, eventually, the other ridiculously younger woman who became his second wife.<br />
<br />
All I can say is, no women age as well as Italian women (that skin! those bones! that style!) so maybe we need to take a lesson from them on lifestyle choices.<br />
<br />
Although I vaguely recall the Three Tenors phenomena in the '90s, somehow I had no clue about Pavarotti and Friends, his extensive charity shows with the rock world that lasted over a decade and made Princess Di a close friend and major fan. Seeing him sing with the likes of Bono, Sting and Dolores O'Riordan (RIP) in his hometown of Modena, Italy was pretty cool, even if opera snobs did disdain them.<br />
<br />
What shone through the entire film was how robustly the singer lived life, gathering friends wherever he went, schlepping suitcases full of Italian food when he toured and facing stage fright every single time he performed (his standard comment just before taking the stage was always, "I go to die."). And I gotta say, the young Pavarotti was quite good-looking, his smile oozing charisma even as he got old and obese.<br />
<br />
Before the film ended, I began hearing the pop-pop-pop of fireworks sounding close enough that they could only be coming from the Diamond. Since I hadn't been sure if they would happen at all, it was a nice surprise, albeit one that I hadn't expected to hear until <i>after</i> the movie ended.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the Flying Squirrels had decided to postpone the game, which allowed them to start the fireworks at a ridiculously early 8:30, thwarting my plans for a doubleheader.<br />
<br />
Which means when I walked out with a new appreciation for Pavarotti's voice and legacy, all was quiet at the Diamond. The only saving grace was the more traditionally-timed fireworks display just starting at the Carillon, so I took the scenic route home hoping to catch what I could of their explosions in the sky.<br />
<br />
For the record, I saw no evidence of the rockets red glare you-know-who was talking about, but that could have been because the army was busy celebrating when they took over the airports in, what, 1775 or 1814?<br />
<br />
Oh, say, can you see to read a history book, Mr. President? A real patriot would.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-7512455601603751332019-07-04T23:51:00.000-04:002019-07-06T11:16:50.686-04:00Portrait of a Sweaty Woman<i>Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me, those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
You tell 'em, Henry James because they won't listen to me.<br />
<br />
Since I got back from the beach Sunday, it's clear that Richmond has settled into full-on summer mode. In Jackson Ward, that means clearing out of the 'hood, whether permanently, as is the case with VCU students, or temporarily, as seems to be the case with a goodly percentage of my neighbors.<br />
<br />
The sense around here is that everyone was told to blow this pop stand but I didn't get the memo, which is fine because I don't mind living in a ghost town for a few months. With each day that passed this week, I noticed fewer cars on the road as well as parked, with barely a fraction of the number of people I usually encounter when walking to the river.<br />
<br />
A river which is decidedly low at the moment given the extended heat.<br />
<br />
Walking over to Bar Solita for a nosh with my date last night only proved my point. Other than a few people milling about in front of the November Theater awaiting the start of "The Wiz," the streets were all but deserted. Inside Bar Solita, other stuck-in-the-city stragglers like us were finishing up happy hour, but once they cleared out, there wasn't much left in the way of humanity beyond a dozen people.<br />
<br />
Not that we cared. A bottle of Can Petit Cava Brut provided light refreshment and a long finish, while orzo salad, eggplant caponata and quinoa tabbouleh delivered nourishment that wouldn't send us into sleep mode.<br />
<br />
We were so engrossed in conversation as I shared all my upcoming trips to the Northern Neck to do interviews for stories (not to mention, an excuse to drop by Merroir to scarf oysters) that I hadn't realized that the bartender had nothing better to do than listen to us blather.<br />
<br />
Finally, he came over, grinning, and asked, of all the unlikely questions, if we were from Lancaster. "I heard you mention Morratico and Whitestone," he explained of hearing those unlikely locations mentioned in Richmond.<br />
<br />
After I shared that I do a lot of writing about that area and that my parents have lived there for 30+ years, my date piped up to say he had a house in Irvington. The bartender's mind was being blown right in front of us. The question was, how did this charming young man in the Hawaiian shirt know what we were talking about?<br />
<br />
"I grew up in Belle Isle State Park," he explained, looking not a little proud of it. "My Dad was a ranger so we lived on park land." Whoa, what an awesome place to grow up.<br />
<br />
I've been to Belle Isle State park many times - it's minutes from where my folks live, basically a straight shot from their dock by water - for picnics, music, walks and to check out boat rentals, but I'd had no clue park personnel ever lived on the property. Suddenly, I wanted to hear more about his childhood. He told us about summers spent swimming in the river, riding his bike on the roads winding through the park system, exploring the woods and commandeering the picnic pavilion.<br />
<br />
Hell, the Hardy Boys only <i>wished</i> they'd grown up in a place with so much exploration potential.<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, once he'd come of age, rural Lancaster County lost its allure so after a detour to Key West, he'd landed in Richmond, specifically Jackson Ward, which he loved. The only place where he lost points was in admitting that he'd never been to Merroir. "I haven't been to Rappahannock, either," he said sheepishly, probably because it's barely five blocks away.<br />
<br />
I informed him that there was no need to pay twice as much at Rappahannock for the same oysters he could get by driving to Merroir and he looked relieved to hear it.<br />
<br />
Once we'd finished a slice of triple chocolate cake and the last of the bubbly, we bid our new friend farewell and headed out into the even-emptier streets, where we were wholly surprised to see puddles everywhere as we strolled home. Apparently it had rained, if not long at least hard, and we'd never even noticed, despite Bar Solita having two entirely glass walls.<br />
<br />
It wasn't much cooler, but the pavement had that lovely hot, wet smell that inevitably follows a summer rain shower or thunderstorm, so there was at least the illusion of cool. For people like Henry James and me, that's enough to get us to the next summer afternoon.<br />
<br />
Speaking of which, if it winds up being so steamy that a heat nap is in order, all the better. In the immortal words of Sam Keen, "deep summer is when laziness finds respectability."<br />
<br />
<i>Only </i>in summertime could those two be such fine bedfellows.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-87280155224429252122019-07-03T23:59:00.000-04:002019-07-04T18:28:03.312-04:00Countdowns and SunbathsIf I wanted to be cool, it only made sense to go outside.<br />
<br />
It's not like it wasn't a hot evening when I headed to Scuffletown Park for music, but it sure wasn't 90 degrees, which is what the thermostat read in my apartment when I left. Considering the afternoon high had been 95, the appeal of being outside where it was more like mid-80s and occasionally breezy was wildly appealing.<br />
<br />
Despite hoping that the unpleasant heat would make tonight's turnout smaller than usual so I could score a bench close to the band, no such good fortune. I mean, I did luck into a bench but not one of the close ones, which was nonetheless good news since I'm just not willing to sit on the brick walkway like so many late arrivals do.<br />
<br />
A band I didn't recognize was doing sound checks when I got there, but after a minute of testing vocals, the singer announced that they'd start playing in four minutes. Not five, <i>four </i>and if that sounds random, it's not. Part of the beauty of Sunsets at Scuffletown is that they begin exactly 30 minutes before sunset (so the start time changes every week) and end, more or less, as the sun sets.<br />
<br />
Poetic, isn't it?<br />
<br />
That said, the problem with being on a bench midway back in the park is that's hard to hear everything said or sung in the front. Oh, I heard the organizer announce, "Tonight we're counting down to sunset with (mumble, mumble)." So while I have no clue who the band was, I can tell you they had a lead singer, a horn section, a bassist, drummer and a couple of back-up singers.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the two young women on the bench next to me never even looked up because they were so busy doing a sheaf of shared crossword puzzles from the time they sat down to when the show ended.<br />
<br />
I'm going to assume they just wanted live background music for their word play.<br />
<br />
Then the lead singer took the mic and announced that, "We're gonna do one long piece of music for the whole time," before the band launched into a comfortable jazz-inflected groove enlivened by strong vocals, not to mention the sheer pleasure of hearing horns played outdoors. It didn't hurt that a decent breeze kept stirring, moving the stale air around as the musicians played on, looking hotter and hotter.<br />
<br />
Their salvation is that these shows only last half an hour, so relief is always in sight. Even so, the band members were passing around water bottles throughout the show attempting to cool down.<br />
<br />
When their set ended, I made a beeline for the front because I'd seen my friend Xtina come in and sit down on the brick walkway just as the show was starting. Next to her was the Minimalist, whom I've known almost as long. As people were packing up to leave, we three sat down on a bench for a good girlfriend gab session.<br />
<br />
Since both of them are introverts, they were congratulating each other on having forced themselves to leave the house and be among people. I told them Pru, also an introvert, refers to this as "peopling" and avoids it, causing them to nod in understanding.<br />
<br />
Like me, they both work at home, though this extrovert has no problem seeking out humans on a nightly basis. That discussion led us straight to Myers Briggs and how enlightening it is understand the people in your life that way.<br />
<br />
Talking about how we structure our work days at home, I mentioned that I always do my walk as soon as I finish breakfast because it's such a great prelude to whatever I have to do. The Minimalist was fascinated and both said they always feel obligated to jump right into work first thing in the morning.<br />
<br />
Take it from someone older and wiser, ladies, you'll get over that.<br />
<br />
But after hearing me describe the unique pleasures of beginning every day by the river with the sounds of the falls and rushing water, the Minimalist sweetly asked, "Do you mind if I steal your walk habit?" and asked for suggestions on how to get to the river from her (minimalist) house.<br />
<br />
That's when Xtina piped up, telling us she had a vitamin D deficiency, so her doctor had prescribed a daily sun bath of 20 minutes. Although it sounds like something a Victorian doctor would prescribe for a woman recovering from the vapors, I love what a simple Rx it is. She puts on short shorts, pulls up her shirt to expose her midriff and soaks it in.<br />
<br />
I recall my doctor complimenting me when she determined I didn't have a vitamin D deficiency - apparently it's pretty common in women - but it's tough to walk outside daily and not soak it up, whether you mean to or not.<br />
<br />
So we sat there as the light faded, as two guys got into a shouting match and decided to take it to the streets and as others continued to sit on their blankets to finish their beverages before heading home, talking about the men in our lives, how the scene has changed since we first met and how much more confident we've all gotten as we get older.<br />
<br />
By the time we parted company, we felt energized for having run into each other and talking for an hour, plus cooler than when we'd arrived at the park.<br />
<br />
I'd like to say that I got home to find my thermostat had dropped, but you don't earn a $28 electric bill that way. Fact is, summer's supposed to be hot, it's healthy to sweat and there's no better time to walk through sprinklers like I did this morning. This is my time of year, so I don't want to hear how miserable you are.<br />
<br />
I'm in good company on this one. No one says it better than the Bard: "Summer's lease hath all too short a date."<br />
<br />
Sigh. Don't remind me.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-30970292850471492902019-07-02T23:41:00.000-04:002019-07-02T23:41:05.268-04:00Go Where You Wanna GoThe thing about going to a documentary is that it always means I have homework afterwards.<br />
<br />
I'd been eager to see "Echo in the Canyon" since I first read about it in the <i>Post</i>. As a major fan of that Laurel Canyon sound - the first album I ever asked my parents to buy me was the Byrds' Greatest Hits - I was understandably looking forward to an in-depth look at one of my favorite periods in musical history when, as David Crosby put it, "We were putting poetry on pop radio."<br />
<br />
Then Jakob Dylan got in the way.<br />
<br />
I get it, he was executive producer plus he was the onscreen talent interviewing the luminaries - Roger McGuinn, Steven Stills, Brian Wilson, Graham Nash, Michelle Phillips, David Crosby et al - who created the folk-rock music that changed everything that came after it. But one thing I did <i>not</i> go to see was him and assorted contemporaries (Beck, Regina Spektor, Cat Power) performing songs by the bands being featured.<br />
<br />
Can you say vanity project?<br />
<br />
In what was his last interview before he died, Tom Petty is the one "contemporary" musician who made sense in this context. It was great hearing how he'd been introduced to the Laurel Canyon sound: by answering a trivia question on the radio and winning a prize of the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds," which blew him away. When Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys played his hometown of Gainesville in 1967, he went, only to realize that it didn't get any better than what he was hearing.<br />
<br />
So to have to watch Jakob and his posse singing the Byrds' take on the Goffin/Carole King-penned "Going Back" instead of the actual Byrds doing a much better job strikes me as, well, pandering to a younger audience. Given the decidedly older bent of tonight's audience at Criterion - what you might have thought was the <i>target </i>audience - I'm betting not a single person preferred to hear Fiona Apple doing "In My Room" over watching a vintage Beach Boys clip of the song.<br />
<br />
Translation: too much 21st century posturing and not enough 20th century magic.<br />
<br />
What did grab me was seeing old clips of these bands playing, mostly on the TV shows of the day. There was Buffalo Springfield playing "For What It's Worth," complete with Steven Stills in a ten gallon hat and Neil Young in one of his buckskin fringed jackets. Groovy, man. And the exquisite harmonies of the ridiculously young-looking Mamas and the Papas took my breath away.<br />
<br />
Stills talked about the song "Triad," a Crosby-penned tune that got overruled for inclusion on "The Notorious Byrd Brothers" album because it was about a menage-a-trois. "Crosby was like Brando. He had no borders," his bandmate says before Crosby insists there's nothing wrong with a threesome or the French wouldn't have a word for it.<br />
<br />
I'm here to tell you that looking at how cute the young Crosby was, I'm sure he had zero problem finding female companionship.<br />
<br />
It was fascinating hearing how musicians would show up at each other's houses to play a song they'd just written or were working on. As several musicians pointed out, there couldn't help but be influences absorbed given how frequently get-togethers developed into jam sessions and song try-outs.<br />
<br />
So while my reasons for going to see the documentary were twofold - to escape the ungodly heat and finally see a more in-depth look at how folk-rock developed - I came away knowing I need to know more.<br />
<br />
For one, the initial inspiration for even making this film came from the directors seeing a film called "Model Shop," which was shot in Laurel Canyon in 1968 by a French director who felt burnt out making movies in his homeland. So now I definitely need to see that.<br />
<br />
Plus I really must do deeper dives into some of the bands featured so I can better hear the cross-pollination that went on during this period. The Beatles said the Byrds were their favorite band, "Sgt. Pepper" was a direct reaction to "Pet Sounds" and everyone thought Brian Wilson was a once in lifetime musical genius, better than Mozart. I've got a lot to learn.<br />
<br />
For what it's worth, we music nerds <i>love</i> a good homework assignment.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-29633384014191237212019-07-01T23:57:00.000-04:002019-07-02T11:18:50.209-04:00Try Her On, She Fits Like a GloveWhen you return from the beach and spend the day missing the sound of the ocean, only music will do as an antidote.<br />
<br />
Not going to lie, it helped that a sweet, little musical set in the flannel-clad '90s about finding first love was on tap at Richmond Triangle Players. That it used nothing but the music of Matthew Sweet - and primarily off his killer 1991 power pop magnum opus "Girlfriend" - ensured that Foto Boy and I would enjoy it immensely.<br />
<br />
I only saw Matthew Sweet live once and that was in 1993 or '94 at the Flood Zone, a show memorable for watching a woman sit on the curb outside and barf. It's bad enough to pre-game to the point of retching, but to miss so much good jangly pop is just a crying shame.<br />
<br />
<i>My life has finally become the musical I always expected it to be.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Tonight's story was simple enough: two boys begin seeing each other the day that high school ends after one gives the other a mix tape. One is already aware of his attraction to boys (and bullied for it) while the other, a star athlete about to embark on pre-med in college, is just starting to acknowledge his.<br />
<br />
What made it so achingly poignant was how deliberately slowly they acted on those desires, even something as small as hand-holding. There's a lot to be said for delayed gratification.<br />
<br />
With a stellar four piece band - bass, guitar, drum pad and keys - onstage (and, it must be noted, two of the four were women for a change) to sing back-up, the show got off to a rousing start with "I've Been Waiting," as our descent into the '90s began.<br />
<br />
<i>I've been waiting my whole life for a boy to ask me to run errands with him.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
There were so many great Matthew Sweet songs incorporated into the play: "We're the Same," of course "Girlfriend" and even a personal favorite, "Sick of Myself." One of the play's running jokes was that the boys went to the drive-in movie every night to be alone, even though it meant seeing the same ultra-violent flick all summer about a nun turned super hero named Evangeline. As they continue to watch this movie, all I'm thinking is what song is coming up (duh, "Evangeline") while Foto Boy leans over and says, "I remember seeing this movie."<br />
<br />
Well, that makes one of us.<br />
<br />
Both actors nailed their characters and their love of music. Cooper Sved's was sweetly thrilled, a boy who feels like his life has finally begun now that someone cares for him. Ray Wrightstone had more of an arc because his character was just realizing it wasn't his girlfriend he was attracted to, so he spends time fighting his instincts (and his bullying father) but unable to deny what he's feeling. Both young actors shone, both with their acting chops and singing voices.<br />
<br />
And since I'm constitutionally unable to go to a play set during my lifetime without critiquing its anachronisms, here goes: Princess phones were attached to walls by a cord, meaning you couldn't just take the phone anywhere. Skinny jeans were not worn with flannel shirts, nor did Vans look like that in the '90s. And I don't know for sure, but I seriously doubt that drive-ins were much of a thing circa 1991.<br />
<br />
But one thing with which I had no quibble was the use of a mix tape to show interest and attraction. I can't speak for everyone, but I'll admit to having been wooed with multiple mix tapes back then, even when the mixes far exceeded the men proffering them.<br />
<br />
And if anything summed up the '90s, that was it. Far better to finally find a man who could turn my life into the musical it was always meant to be.<br />
<br />
Besides, I can make the mix tape myself.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-29121271620182009472019-06-30T23:55:00.000-04:002019-07-01T10:19:09.291-04:00RIP Beach ReadsNot for the first time, I was reminded that I bloom at the beach.<br />
<br />
Much as I appreciate the compliment, I'm not sure it's a trait worthy of praise. After all, who wouldn't thrive when they can see and hear the ocean day and night, gently unwinding the stresses accumulated since the last beach week in May? What's not to love about getting up and putting on a bathing suit as the official attire for the <i>entire</i> day?<br />
<br />
And truly, who wouldn't be all aglow when she gets to shower outdoors every afternoon?<br />
<br />
Although my favorite guest teased me daily about the focus on food - we were seldom more than an hour past the last meal when someone wanted to know when (and what) the next one would be - it's kind of nice to have nothing more to think about than what you feel like eating next. That all meals are taken on the screened-in porch with a side of ocean breezes doesn't hurt a girl's mood, either.<br />
<br />
So when a guest looks over at you while you chew a Tootsie Roll on the beach half an hour after lunch and casually refers to you as "an eating machine," well, I guess I'll just have to live with that.<br />
<br />
The weather all week was ideal for blooming: breezy, sunny (but never hotter than 89) and dropping down in the low '70s at night. Just as good was the ocean temperature which started the week at 70 degrees, took a brief nose-dive to 64, then rebounded with 75, 73, 71 and 72, ensuring that we spent time morning and afternoon bathing in the sea like some Victorian prescription for good health.<br />
<br />
Wednesday afternoon, our water fun was interrupted when we saw dozens of people congregating further down the beach. Just in case they'd spotted something we hadn't, we dutifully trooped out of the water and made our way toward the onlookers, noticing thousands of tiny fish lying near death on the shore, some of them still twitching futilely yards from the surf. Not far out in the ocean was a feeding frenzy of epic proportions with larger fish jumping in and out of the water as they repeatedly dove for dinner, putting on a show for the entire beach.<br />
<br />
I'm not smart enough to know why all the little fish wound up on shore dying, but surely there was a connection to the all-you-can-eat buffet we were witnessing.<br />
<br />
In other tragic news, one thing that's become quite clear about my last five beach sojourns going back to May 2018 is that the days of me finishing 3 or 4 books in a week have ended. In fact, let's have a moment of silence for my love of beach reading, which apparently died a quiet death last year despite my resolve to still tote at least four more books than I have any realistic hope of reading.<br />
<br />
The only thing that makes it bearable is that reading time has been replaced with conversation time, so I tell myself that's my consolation.<br />
<br />
Maybe part of the reason I'm so happy at the beach is the steady diet of bubbly and seafood. Whether it was a dolphin boat with hushpuppies from John's Drive-in, rare tuna sashimi at Ocean Boulevard, local shrimp from Carawan Seafood savored on the porch or a crabcake rolled in coconut flakes and panko enjoyed at Art's Place while live music played, we definitely did our part to support the local fishing economy.<br />
<br />
On my walk one morning after breakfast, I spotted a woman sitting on the beach with a bottle of bubbles and a large bubble wand. Without taking her eyes off the ocean, she'd periodically dip the wand in the jar and hold it up, allowing the breeze to push out scores of bubbles with zero effort on her part.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, kids in her vicinity were having a ball running around the sand with bubbles coming at them from one side and the surf pounding the shore on the other, both reasons to scream with delight.<br />
<br />
When it comes to showing my happiness level, I'm past the screaming stage. Unlike the kids in the bubble clouds, it's enough for me to just revel in it all: every open window framing the blues and greens of ocean and sky, the constant sound of the surf crashing down onshore, and, best of all, every wave that slapped me full on, leaving behind a mouthful of salt water.<br />
<br />
Why, it's enough to make even an eating machine bloom.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-80516007573357913362019-06-23T11:33:00.000-04:002019-06-23T11:33:00.602-04:00Island GirlI stick with my original answer.<br />
<br />
When friends started asking me if I was going to see "Rocketman," my answer was nope. I knew it was inevitable I wouldn't be able to buy into someone else's voice as Elton's. I felt the same way about the Queen biopic and instead watched a 15-minute clip of Queen at Live Aid that said more than any 21st century film could. I had a sense - having seen Elton in '77 or '78 and his music having been a thread through the soundtrack of my youth - I'd not be satisfied.<br />
<br />
I wasn't.<br />
<br />
I saw it at Cinebistro, although it wasn't even my first time there, to everyone's surprise. Lady G and I'd gone years ago. And sure, having a server take your order when you sit down and food delivered before the movie starts, it's a unique experience. Usually I'm just downing buttered popcorn. My arugula salad had enough interesting platemates, although my side of crispy Brussels sprouts was saltier than buttered popcorn. More like a salt lick. But the salad scored.<br />
<br />
Random thoughts: The story fleshed out a lot of what I already knew just living through those years. Taron Egerton pulls off the mental Elton better than he does the physical. A little too 21st-century musical for my taste. Costumes never look like clothes really looked then. The lack of chronology in the songs was distracting. And mostly, since EJ was the executive producer, the presumption that there's some truth to the way things are shown as happening.<br />
<br />
But I was right. Didn't need to see it and now I'll just have more rationale to decline when I'm asked to do the music biopic thing. Not being crotchety, just know well enough what I like.<br />
<br />
Besides, the trip down Memory Lane was just prelude to an evening of musical memory talk on Pru's screened porch.<br />
<br />
Looking at it that way, I saw "Rocketman" for the post-film discussion. Like I do.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5792662252069133648.post-87204514160080224812019-06-22T17:13:00.001-04:002019-06-22T17:13:16.133-04:00A Tempest in a Wine GlassSummer has arrived and the Roundhouse has redeemed itself.<br />
<br />
Or, more accurately, I now know the drill. So after dinner at Garnett's we knew enough to be at the Roundhouse before 7 p.m., arriving to find the band set up and having a relaxed chat about the set list. What makes me think others had not yet learned their lesson was how few people had their butts in seats when Quatro na Bossa started playing shortly thereafter.<br />
<br />
And, honestly, why on earth <i>wouldn't</i> you be on time for Brazilian Bossa Nova music from the '50s, '60s and '70s? I mean, really?<br />
<br />
The evening's performance was extra poignant because it was guitarist Bruno's last show with the band now that he's moving to South Carolina as a doctor of music theory. His exquisite guitar playing and lovely voice will be missed, at least until he realizes he wants to return to Richmond (like they all do).<br />
<br />
During the first song, an instrumental, singer Laura Ann stood off to the side listening, eventually making the executive decision (like women do) that we didn't need no stinkin' overhead light and turning it off. She was right, with sun pouring through three windows (unfortunately not open, though, like last week) behind the band and the door wide open to light, we had all the early summer sunlight we needed.<br />
<br />
Let's just that when she joined the band onstage, it the lighting was much more appropriate for Brazilian music.<br />
<br />
Because the syncopated sounds Quatro na Bossa play are so danceable and because we were all sitting in folding chairs, there was a lot of toe-tapping and seat dancing going on as Laura Ann and/or Bruno's voices rose and fell with each samba or Tropicalia song.<br />
<br />
Happily, people kept arriving to give the band the audience it deserved.<br />
<br />
Once the sun finally got near setting, a firefly found its way into the Roundhouse, flying around and reminding us of its presence periodically with a green glow before then showing up on the far side of the room to dazzle someone new.<br />
<br />
It says so much about the music that despite not being able to understand a word of the lyrics, everyone was rapt listening to the music. All except the big galoot sitting in front of us, taking up three chairs by extending his arms across the two on either side of him and repeatedly staring at the ceiling, rubbing his face and looking bored out of his mind. Luckily, his date got the hint and they cut out early.<br />
<br />
We stayed until the last note, reluctant to leave the magic of bossa nova and fireflies before retreating to J-Ward.<br />
<br />
When it comes to Summer Solstice, that was celebrated outdoors by seeing Quill Theatre's production of "The Tempest" at Agecroft on a night when the weather could only be described as glorious. Breezy, low humidity and just warm enough, it was a night meant for being outdoors with just the right person, savoring the longest day of the year (also a bittersweet one now that days begin getting shorter).<br />
<br />
We stopped at Goatocado to get dinner, bringing along birthday wine courtesy of my best friend in Texas (thanks, Buns!) and a slice of cake - my personal fave, chocolate with white icing - to celebrate multiple occasions. Spreading a quilt under a row of massive shade trees on Agecroft's back lawn, we had a view of the river, a breeze from multiple sides and live entertainment.<br />
<br />
Four of Quill's costumed Young Players showed up, offering a song or a monologue for our pleasure. The first we chose was that of the melancholy Jacques from "As You Like It" and afterwards, they offered us another. The young man offering to do Puck in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" seemed especially animated and eager when he offered up his monologue, so I capitulated, telling him that it was obvious he was dying to dazzle us.<br />
<br />
At several points, he was crouched on one knee or leaning forward looking about to spring onto us, so his antics were worth it.<br />
<br />
Once inside, we chose seats in the third row center for best possible view. In the 20 past years of seeing Shakespeare at Agecroft, I have never tired of being close enough to see the actors spit, not to mention scale the nearby stone wall and deliver monologues. Translation: I like to be in the thick of things.<br />
<br />
Sitting just behind us was a familiar acting face who now graces L.A. with his acting chops, but is back in town for a few. Last time I'd seen him at Agecroft, he'd been playing Sir Andrew Aguecheeck dressed in a brown suit. Hearing his guffaws throughout added a nice touch to tonight's show.<br />
<br />
My standards for "The Tempest" are unusually high, only because back in the '90s, I saw Richmond Shakespeare (Quill's predecessor) do it on Fulton Hill with an approaching thunderstorm as backdrop and that's tough to beat.<br />
<br />
This production got its points other ways, since the weather couldn't have been more un-tempest-like. The always-impressive Adam Turck made Ariel his own in gray-blue body paints, nervous tics and aim to please. Just watching him stand on the stone wall and react to what was happening onstage could have been a master class for a younger actor.<br />
<br />
Jeff Clevenger has made a career of milking the humor in any character, making him the ideal person to play the jester Trinculo, besotted with wine and fearful of spirits. My fandom for Adam Valentine was born when I saw him in "Heathers" and tonight's turn as Alonso's butler "Stephano" showed that his take on humor is equal parts visual (that sad sack face he calls forth!) and gangly physicality. The scene of Trinculo and Stephano "hiding" in plain sight had the audience in stitches.<br />
<br />
Sitting in the courtyard of a building that stood in Shakespeare's time, watching a time-honored play under a brilliant blue sky on the longest day of the year may take the cake in terms of exquisite ways to wile away the summer solstice a deux.<br />
<br />
But then, anyone as stupidly happy as I am <i>would </i>think that. Just ignore me...Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04610823643625979862noreply@blogger.com0