All Mallet, No Knife

The problem with eating crabs with lesser pickers is timing.

Oh, sure, we can all pick up our first crab at the same moment, but chances are awfully good I'm going to finish first. And not because I'm particularly trying or even because I'm the hungriest. It's just that I pick crabs with a speed that would get me a job at a crab picking plant if I wanted one.

Which I don't.

The whole reason I'm eating crabs in the first place is because I took the train to visit a friend and her main squeeze in Eastport, arriving to find things white because of an early morning snow shower. Driving to her house from the train station, she mentioned that it was restaurant week in Annapolis so she'd made reservations for the next two nights but left tonight open.

That sounded like an opening to me, so I said what I usually say when I visit here: I can always go to Cantler's and eat crabs. Especially in March when it's been months since I last had crabs. But because she'd been there a couple of weeks ago and they hadn't had any crabs, she called to confirm that crustaceans were in the house. The only size they had was large which was plenty good enough for me.

For her, spoiled by the near-constant availability of even larger crabs, it was a matter of making do with what they had. 

The three of us drove to the riverside restaurant in a steady rain, past parked buses that had ferried athletes to the Naval Academy, arriving after the dinner rush had ended. There were exactly four bar stools open and we took over three of them.

"Slow Ride" was blasting from the speakers, causing Boyfriend to look at me and ask, "Is this Foghat?" Sure was. For the rest of the night, it was all '70s all the time. Kind of like Cantler's itself.

But the big news was that they'd run out of large crabs and now had super size crabs. Super, so even more monstrous than the extra larges I'd had on previous visits. Apparently they grow 'em big in Louisiana this time of year.

That's when the disparity in eating began. My friend has been cracking crabs for some 30+ years, yet she was barely halfway through her first crab when she looked over and saw me closing in on finishing my second. "You must be hungry!" she said, but the truth was I'm just a faster picker than she is.

She didn't take kindly to me saying that, but as I pointed out, she didn't grow up having her Dad examine her crab shells and critiquing her picking skills like I had.

The true slow poke was her man who had wisely begun with a dozen Orchard Point oysters to lay a foundation so he wouldn't starve to death. I'd slurped one, mainly out of curiosity after learning that they were raised on the Eastern Shore.

And they had a nice brininess to them, but they were no Old Saltes, I can tell you that much.

My friend did her best to help her man open, dissect and access his crabs, but between inexperience, large fingers and a snail's pace, the man was many crabs behind us and dropping further back all the time. He augmented somewhat with hushpuppies, but the going was slow.

Once I finished eating, I had little to do but watch them eat. Eventually, I killed some time by going to the bathroom to wash my hands twice but when I returned, they were still at it. When I spotted a pile of claws in front of her, I inquired if any of them were mine.

Wrapping her arm protectively around the claws, she informed me, "These are all mine, not yours" and set about cracking them. I glanced over to see how he was doing, only to spot another pile of claws and a full crab.

It seemed only kind to help, so I asked for his claws, assuring him I wouldn't eat a bite. Claw by claw, I opened them and handed them over to him for consumption, for which he was mighty grateful. He seemed to think my kindness was some kind of big deal.

Not so, I told him, that's just how I learned to eat crabs. Growing up, my Mom refused to pick crabs, so when we had a crab feast, everyone - Dad and my five sisters - would each pick a crab  to donate to her. She'd then make herself crabcakes from our efforts.

So picking a little extra for a non-picker or slow picker is just part of my crustacean DNA. No big deal, in other words.

Where I come from, it's the least a girl can do when she gets taken out for supers on a snowy March night.

Even if I did have to wash my hands a third time.

Just One Look

Conclusion: Uber drivers are the new Everyman.

Its easy to say this after a weekend in Eastport and multiple Uber ride conversations with voluble drivers. And why not? Each ride brings new conversational partners.

Driving us to Cantlers' Riverside Inn to eat extra-large crabs at 10 p.m., 80-year old Norman regaled us with his life story.

Interesting as it was that he began working at NASA in the '60s before becoming an engineer for the Department of Transportation, I was most fascinated to hear that he married for the first time at 44. That would be after he retired.

When I asked how his bride was doing, he gushed, "She's 18 years younger than me and she's doin' just great!"

By 1974, Norman had taken a job at the Department of Energy as part of the new solar energy program. When I asked if Jimmy Carter hadn't put solar panels on the White House, he was tickled to death. "Our program did that!" he told us proudly. I didn't bother mentioning how Reagan had ripped them out, though I'm sure he had an opinion on that, too.

Norman's funniest story was about his fellow engineer who'd driven his Jaguar XKE through Huntsville, Alabama in the '70s and gotten a ticket for changing lanes 57 times. Ah, the '70s.

Personally, I'm in awe of the cop who had patience enough to wait through that many lane changes before pulling the guy over.

Saib, the Pakistani who drove us from Cantlers to the Middleton Tavern was a poster child for immigration. A US citizen for 10 years now, he enthused about his wife and 3 kids, the wonderful life they've carved out in this country and his hopes for his children's futures.

When he heard I was from Richmond, he wanted to tell me about his very favorite kebab restaurant, which just happens to be in Richmond and how he'll finish his shift and hit 95 to get there because their kebabs are that good. When 2 1/2 hours is just too much, he'll grab his second favorite kebabs. They're conveniently located in Crystal City, which still seems like a fer piece to drive from Annapolis for a kebab.

Then again, who am I to tell a Pakistani where the best Virginia kebabs are? And why is Maryland so lacking?

When I left my friends at Middleton's listening to a blues band, it was for an Uber ride with a young man who, it turns out, not only grew up in nearby Midlothian but is doing his pre-med at VCU. Currently, he's working at G.W. University (coincidentally where I was born) on a research project. We talked about Richmond the entire four minute drive home and as I exited his car, he thanked me for the dose of home.

Now I ask you, what are the chances I'd climb in the car of a local guy while at the Annapolis waterfront? Apparently pretty good.

Besides absorbing the sagacity of assorted Uber drivers, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting my friend's new main squeeze, a decidedly funny man ("I'm just a pork-eating Jew boy," he cracked after admitting his new-found fondness for pancetta thanks to her) with a passion for music (our pancake breakfast began with Linda Ronstadt, moved through kd lang and settled on Gary Clark) and with the added benefit of being a wine rep.

Translation: he brought scores of Roses (heavy on the Loire Valley and Spain) for us to sip through.

But when it came time to get out the needle to taste Callejon de Crimen Gran Reserva, a pricey and stellar Mendoza Petit Verdot, it was just the two of us since my girlfriend insists on sticking solely to whites and Roses. Her loss, at least when it comes to wine. When it comes to him, I think she's got a keeper.

The funny part is, the last time I was up there was April  when she was still smarting from the breakup of a long-time relationship, convinced she'd never find the right partner for the rest of her life.

Ah, my little petunia, you just never know what the Adjustment Bureau will lay lay at your doorstep.

It's like what Norman the Uber driver told us in parting: "Every new journey happens for a reason."

Allow me to be the first to say amen to that.

Cue Theme from "The Love Boat"

Like Julie on "The Love Boat" but not so wholesome.

I was in my 20s when I was first dubbed "cruise director" by family and friends, who even presented me with a t-shirt spelling out that moniker in sparkly letters. And, no, I was no more the sparkly letter type then than I am now.

It wasn't because of anything to do with travel over water, mind you, but because I enjoy researching travel plans. I'm that person who will happily devour a couple of travel guides in pursuit of knowledge.

When I went to Memphis and Oxford with a friend earlier this year, she left cruise directing in my hands and later marveled at how much I'd uncovered for us to do.

So it was a no-brainer to use my train ride to Richmond today to gather intel for my upcoming trip. So far, I've found far more I want to see and do than there could possibly be time for, a first world problem if ever there was one. The way I look at it, better to have too long a list than too short.

Amazing what a person can accomplish on Amtrack's Quiet Car (yes, the same Quiet Car Chris Christie was thrown off of for talking on his cell phone). Where to start? Where to stop?

A literary walking tour that includes poetic focaccia (and I have to know)

An oyster company with half price oysters twice a week for happy hour (because I can eat some bivalves)

A garden featuring 150 plants and flowers mentioned in Shakespeare's writings

A western saloon located in an alley and serving lamb pot pie and bone marrow fritters (howdy, pardner)

A Victorian camera obscura projecting outdoor seascapes on a parabolic screen

A restaurant design that won a James Beard award

A sea cave archway that offers end of the world views at low tide (not to self: check tide charts)

A bowling alley that does Soul and Bowl nights (so stoked for this)

A vintage tiki lounge with rattan booths serving Hurricanes with two straws

Communal baths where bathing suits are only required on co-ed Tuesdays (better not to take my suit?)

A dive bar with cheap drinks, pogo-worthy music in the back room and peanuts for eating and throwing

A live music bar in a Victorian hotel, a stalwart of the '70s underground scene and now host to indie label debuts

A park dedicated to a poet laureate with awe-inspiring vistas

A beach shack bistro near a nine-mile ocean beach (this could be an entire day lost)

An art bar with rotating installations and regular Prince/Michael Jackson nights (Purple Thriller, yes!)

And don't get me started on museums, architecture, rooftops gardens and viewing platforms.

Besides, all that just might show up in upcoming  posts, complete with details, conversations and conclusions. Consider this the movie trailer version set to the rhythms of a rocking train.

Just don't call me Julie.

So Bohemian Like You

Thanks to Charlie, I now know what the back of my train looks like.

First of all, in all my years of taking trains, I can't recall a time when a single one was running on time. They're always behind, sometimes 10 minutes, sometimes an hour. All Charlie had to do was get me to the station, a simple 25 minute drive, and, just to be sure, we left 45 minutes before my train was due in.

You learn a lot about a man when you unexpectedly spend a couple of hours with him.

Besides taking the wrong exit twice - once in Maryland and again in Virginia - Charlie was great company. He waited for me at two different Amtrack stations. He suggested I learn some martial arts so I could protect myself if a man ever tried to do me wrong. He explained grappling to me. He was amazed that I wasn't married. He described having a barium enema instead of a colonoscopy.

You can see why I had to take the conversation in hand myself.

I knew that Charlie - exceedingly fit and with a head of the thickest gray hair - was the result of a Chinese mother and Irish father. He drew a direct line from the combination of his Irish nature ("Those Irish prize fighters never retreat, they're always combative") and Chinese DNA ("We're masters of all those Oriental styles of fighting") to who he was today.

When I asked how his parents had met, he had no idea. What he did remember was that they'd met in Washington, but couldn't get married there because of the laws against inter-racial marriage. This was the '40s, mind you.

Charlie was so busy telling me a story about his career path that we sailed past the exit and had to backtrack, meaning that I arrived at the station platform to catch the 1:45 train, just in time to see the back of my intended carrier chugging off into the mist. It was 1:46.

Damn you, Amtrack! You're never that reliable.

But Charlie, ever the gentleman, had waited to ensure I caught my ride and when I didn't, offered to drive me to Richmond. The thought of getting on I-95 at mid-afternoon on a pouring down rainy day was too much to bear. so I countered by asking him to drive me to the Alexandria station.

Only once he saw me safely on the train did he return to Annapolis. I owe Charlie for a wild ride.

Once home, I had only the briefest of windows before meeting the photographer for a Civil War happy hour and dinner.

He'd taken his time agreeing to the plan  - something about Capital Alehouse being the venue that he found off-putting - but, like me, had been intrigued by the topic. And while neither of us is a beer drinker, I could make do with a root beer, having serendipitously read a piece on the history of root beer while waiting for him to arrive.

When he asked for a coffee, he inquired if he could have a half-caff. Our young server giggled like he'd made a joke. Seems she'd never heard of such a thing, but obligingly delivered a half-caff French press. "What do you want? She's 19!" my friend said.

Not so the crowd, which was an eclectic bunch. Sure, there were plenty of older Civil War history buff types, but also plenty of younger professional types out for a pint, a burger and an interesting talk. Things got plenty lively during the Q & A afterwards given the diversity of the crowd.

"The Bohemian Brigade: Combat Artists of the Civil War" dovetailed with an exhibit I'd seen that the Virginia Historical Society had done on the same subject three years ago. Apparently tonight's speaker, Sean Kane, had been just as interested, assembling a terrific collection of images and factoids to share.

First off, it was the 30 or so "special artists," as they were called, who'd dubbed themselves the "bohemian brigade." Leave it to a bunch of artsy types to choose a dashing name for themselves.

And for those unsure of the meaning of the word, Sean explained that they meant eccentric and artistic. Like the artist Alfred Waud, who substituted the feather in his hat with a plume of newspaper to announce his calling and membership in the Bohemian Brigade

These men - because of course they were all men - were adrenaline junkies who were willing to slog along with the troops, suffering hardships, eating little or poorly, willing to sit up all night and with a total disregard for personal safety for the opportunity to sketch a pivotal moment of the action.

For this they were paid the princely sum of $5-$25 for risking their lives. For proof, look no further than artist Theodore Davis, who had his sketchbook shot right out of his hands and go flying. I fail to see the thrill there.

Because these sketches weren't seen as art with a capital "A," they were signed, folded and mailed back to New York to the publishers and editors who then had engravings made of them for replication in their newspapers a week or two later.

Sometimes the bohemians didn't even take the time to fully finish the drawing, instead sending along instructions to the artists at the paper to flesh them out. There, artists who were particularly good at drawing trees were nicknamed "pruners," while those adept at drawing uniforms were called "tailors" and artists proficient at the human figure rated the "butcher" tag.

Sean walked us through the work of three especially fascinating "special artists," one of whom was Winslow Homer. Showing us a sketch (and later painting) of a sharpshooter, Sean cracked wise saying, "Now, I don't want to offend any sharpshooters in the audience, but Winslow Homer said that sharpshooters were the closest thing to murderers in the military."

I'm pretty sure I saw a couple of buffs bristle at that comment. Simmer down, guys, it's just one artist's opinion.

Waud, the Brit with the dapper hat, was the only artist who was at every important moment of the Army of the Potomac, including going to Ford's Theater after Lincoln was shot and being in Jefferson Davis' cell once he was imprisoned.

I'm not sure if he was brilliant or just glib, but after being captured by the Confederates, he offered to sketch a group portrait and as a reward, they let him go. Brilliant, Waud, absolutely brilliant.

But the ultimate adrenaline junkie had to be another Brit, Henry Vizetelly, who had been an artist for the Italian Civil War before coming to document ours. I bet they called him a war-chaser.

Mainly, he chronicled the Confederate army, convenient since the Confederate government didn't have the funds to underwrite their own newspaper artists.

We saw a fabulous sketch of his of Jeb Stuart's camp at night, notable for ole Jeb's personal banjo player as the focal point of the drawing. Why? Because apparently Jeb always made sure his camp enjoyed a good time after a hard day's war when they weren't slaughtering/being slaughtered.

His story had a crazy ending when he went off to cover some unrest in Egypt and was either killed or enslaved, nobody's sure which. But you know what, I bet that's how Vizetelly would have wanted his illustrious career to end.

Foto Boy and I stayed for most of the Q & A, listening to history buffs spouting battle details like baseball stats, before heading out to dinner. Some of us were as famished as Winslow Homer fresh out of hardtack.

It was a long day chasing trains and riding the Beltway with Charlie. Bohemian types gotta eat, too.

All Aboard the Quiet Car

I think it's safe to say that for the first time in my life, I woke up at 4:20 a.m. Now going to bed at ungodly hours like 4:20 a.m., that I've got some experience with.

Unlike so many people I know, I don't have sleep issues. No problems going to sleep, no waking up in the middle of the night unable to fall back to sleep, no settling for too little sleep. A typical night's sleep for me is around nine hours, give or take.

I'm lucky, I know.

So why I awoke at 4:20 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep baffles me. My guess is there's something churning in my head that caused me to create some early morning time for reflection. So I had a few conversations in my head. I took inventory of what might possibly be on my mind of such importance that it would awaken me before sunrise.

And then at 7, I finally got up, not even sure how much daylight to expect when I looked outside. Between the rain and the dawn's early light, it wasn't a particularly appealing time to be up and out.

The trade-off was eventually boarding the train to Washington because of how much I enjoy having hours with nothing more to do than read and look at scenery, while people motor by on I-95, their sad little souls being sucked with every mile driven.

Unexpectedly, today's surprise was that since it had been summer when I last rode the rails, I got a completely different perspective today.

Leafless trees gave me views I hadn't yet had from the train. Houses, bodies of water and even back roads revealed themselves for the first time. My favorite Potomac-side crab shack looked positively forlorn off-season.

And, yes of course I napped on the train, mainly during an hour delay because all the northbound trains had to switch tracks manually rather than automatically, just like in the old days.

Which was precisely when the movie "Laura" was set, which was about all I knew about the film besides that it was a well-regarded film noir before I saw it for the first time tonight.

I'll tell you what, 1944 looked like the dark ages in some respects.

Murder suspects are allowed to tag along with the detective investigating the case. Sometimes detectives remove bullets from the presumed murder weapon and then return the gun to its secret hiding place. Detectives drink booze from the crime scene bar.

Flawed police policy aside, I was amazed to see a scene where a writer is up to his bellybutton in the bathtub, typing away on a board stretched across the tub. Amazed because I'd just seen the exact same scenario in the brand-new film "Trumbo" last week.

Apparently, there was a time when it was perfectly normal for men to type in the tub. Who knew?

One thing that hasn't changed much? Dames still don't always do what you tell them to.

And even a catch like a man who types love letters in the bathtub can't do a thing about it. But he can try.

Meet Troy and Bernard

If I hadn't gone to Annapolis. I wouldn't have seen my first Troy Donahue film.

One of the pleasures of going to visit my Annapolis friend is the train ride up. It's three hours of reading in the quiet car (where cellphone usage and talking above a whisper are forbidden), a most civilized way to go.

And what you don't want on the train are delays. My train was 35 minutes late arriving and it only got worse from there.

At one point, the train stopped entirely and we were told that we were waiting for a couple of trains to pass on either side so we could back up and get on a another track.

I don't know about you, but the idea of waiting like a sitting duck for other trains to whiz by and then hitting reverse seems a bit worrisome to me.

Later, crossing the Potomac, I got a lovely view of the cherry blossoms in bloom, no doubt enjoying a longer display than usual given all the rain lately.

I was surprised at how much colder it was in Maryland than Richmond, so much so that when it got to be time to head out for fun, I declined walking, a rarity. My hostess had decided on Davis's Pub for dinner, wanting someplace livelier than the wine bar on the next block.

And even though it was only my second visit to Davis's, even I know it's always packed and noisy. Arriving in a mist made worse by the place being just across the street from the river, a guy walking up the sidewalk greeted me, led us to the front door, walked us in and seated us.

What he was doing outside in the first place, I have no idea.

We started with a special of black bean, cabbage and pulled chicken tostadas while I eavesdropped on the four guys at the table right behind us. Late 30s, early 40s, they were discussing the hardships of dating in a most unappealing way ("Was she fat?" "Did she end up staying over?") and commiserating with each other about the vagaries of the middle-aged dating world.

Meanwhile my friend was bringing me up to date on her love life, thinking out loud and looking for input about finding the right relationship balance after five years together. Blowing off steam like girlfriends do sometimes.

I read somewhere that as our lives have accelerated, so has the seven year itch, which apparently now arrives somewhere around the fifth year. I thought it best not to share that finding with her.

Usually when I visit her, we go to Cantler's Riverside Inn to crack crabs, so in a nod to that tradition, I ordered a crab cake sandwich, appealingly served on Saltines (that's old school Maryland style to those of you who didn't grow up in the free state) with slaw and shoestring fries. Cazadores washed it all down.

After a while, our server would just walk by and cock an eyebrow to ascertain if more beverages, water or ice were required and we'd send out the signal in answer.

When we got home, we saw that her Newfoundland - whom she claims is fond of watching the boob tube -was watching "Rome Adventure," part of a Troy Donahue festival on TCM.

You know me, I've got no use for television even with her gigantic screen TV. Had the tequila softened me toward Troy on TV? No, what sucked me in was I thought we'd walked in on a travelogue on Italy.

Exquisitely shot scene after scene of churches, sculpture, piazzas sucked me in and planted my butt on her cushy couch and I didn't move until the whole corny thing ended. Best of all, before it did, there were scenes in Florence, Verona, Pisa and Orvieto, albeit with far fewer people than my memories of being in Italy.

And then there was Troy: tall, lean hipped, blond and pretty attractive if that's your type (it's not). I vacillated between adoring his campy woodenness and thinking he wasn't half bad in some scenes. Mostly I marveled that I'd never seen one of his movies and he'd apparently been in more than 50!

Set in 1962, the film dealt was set squarely in the pre-sexual revolution '60s. My friend, who'd been born that year, was aghast to learn that a young unmarried American librarian was considered behaving brazenly by taking a holiday with an architect she met in Rome (separate beds, natch).

All I can say is, I thank my lucky stars I wasn't born into that world. Women's roles were just too tightly prescribed for me.

Today dawned just as wet and gray as yesterday, although it made for a beautifully silvery landscape on the Severn River as we drove downtown to the docks. That's an area where I spent a lot of time in college with friends hanging out, but it's a pale shadow of its old quirky self.

Real estate's just too valuable so the ratty old stores have been replaced with visitor magnets and national chains and the requisite ye olde tourist shoppes (get your fudge and postcards right here!). But if I close my eyes, it still smells mostly the same.

Before I caught the train back, we stopped at one of her favorite bars, a place she warned me didn't open until 4:00. except that when we arrived at 3:50, we walked in to find a half dozen tables already occupied.

I guess 4:00 is just a suggestion.

We took seats at the bar, the first of the night, and within 10 minutes, a stool was being added to the bar and one guy was standing next to his date seatless.

Popular place. Luckily, the food was good, too, at least my tacos de cordero stuffed with roasted lamb, red onions, fresh grilled jalapenos and lime juice were. Everyone from the affable owner who greeted us to the lowliest dishwasher was Hispanic, always a good sign at a Spanish/Mexican place.

It was our last chance for a good blather, so we covered a lot of territory (and chili con queso and housemade chips) while the bartender ladled up glass after glass of Sangria with a smile.

By the time we left there, we just barely made it to the station in time for me to catch my train.

Standing on the platform as the train whooshed up, I high-tailed it toward the quiet car. A handsome conductor stepped off the train just as I reached my car and smiled at me.

He looked knowledgeable, so I asked if this was the quiet car.

"Are you Karen?" he asked. Er, yes. "Come on, we were looking for you!' he said enthusiastically.

Whoa, who, whoa, mister. I put my hand on his arm and explained that no one get to know my name unless I get to know theirs.

"Bernard. Don't freak out. I checked the passenger list and you were the only one getting on, so I wanted to greet you personally. " With that, he grabbed one of my bags and led me to a seat.

I could get used to this kind of train ride.

During our half an hour stopover in Washington to change from an electric to a diesel engine, I met some of the passengers who, like me, were traveling south. There was a tiny old woman who said she was going to Petersburg to visit her "church family." Didn't know a soul in Virginia.

Another was an Indian woman who said she prefers to travel earlier in the week and was going to visit her daughter in Alexandria.

Sweetest of all was a young Mexican woman who was taking her first trip on a train. She asked me a lot of questions about getting off the train, afraid she would miss her stop. She also noisily wrapped gifts in tissue paper and arranged them in a gift bag to present to the children she was visiting.

Nice women, all of them. We bonded over the peace of the quiet car.

But, you know, I'm not sure they had any more of an idea who Troy Donahue was than I did 24 hours ago.

Their time will come. Troy comes to those who wait.

Roger That

It's undoubtedly some kind of Murphy's law.

If I make plans to get away, even for 30 hours, life will start lobbing things at me.

Arriving at the Amtrack station yesterday, I hear my name being paged, never a good sign. It happened years ago as I walked into National Airport and I still recall the sense of dread.

Fortunately, it was nothing major and the Amtrack attendant who spoke to me got a kick out of hearing that I don't have a cell phone.

And by a kick, I mean he looked at me like I had two heads.

The train ride there and back was an excuse to get lost in Nigel Nicolson's "Portrait of a Marriage," the story of Bloomsbury Group member Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson, but mainly about the torrid affair she carried on with a woman during that marriage.

Juicy as it was, it didn't even begin to go into her later affair with writer Virginia Woolf.

Dinner was at Vin 909 in Easport, a bungalow turned wine cafe with a serious bent for local sourcing and the owner sitting at a bar stool overseeing the kitchen in full view.

Hanging on to summer with both hands, I enjoyed Bieler Pere et Fils Rose with a Maryland blue crab roll on brioche for two reasons really.

First, when in Rome and all (Maryland, crabs, hello?) and because under the menu entry was a notation, "If you don't know what something is, ask your server, not your Smartphone."

It's almost a philosophy, like stop and smell the roses or you only live once.

That was followed with Groundworks Farm chicken enchiladas with housemade mole sauce and Fontina on a local tortilla. It was a whole lot of local.

I don't know that the chocolate pot de creme could claim the same, although for all I know the fresh whipped cream came from a nearby cow.

Driving home from the train station, I saw a guy cross I-95 on foot, easily the stupidest thing I'd ever seen on that soul-sucking stretch of highway.

Once back in the Commonwealth, I needed to hit the ground running since e-mail informed me I had five new assignments come in since I'd left the day before.

My hired mouth took precedence, meaning I had eating to do.

Parking next to a late '60s red VW bug exactly like the one I learned to drive on (it had been my boyfriend Roger's and I learned to pop the clutch by coasting downhill to avoid the trauma of getting it into first gear), I soon found myself surrounded by eaters and drinkers.

I joined the latter group via the beautifully delicate Austrian Mittelbach Rose, not even listed on the menu yet, but a fine replacement for the Renegade Rose I know so well that was.

Talking to the couple on my right, I made an assumption about him liking corned beef and she turned to me and said, "I've known him 30 years and I had no idea he liked it."

Honey, all men like corned beef, at least in my experience.

On my right, I had a couple who claimed they were cheating on their spouses together.

Hers was out of town on business and his was "singing for Jesus" so they'd decided to wile away the time with some beverages and chatter.

When she asked the bartender for a bold red wine, an Italian blend was offered. "I don't do Italian reds, so I'm not going to like it," she said, taking a sip. "Oooh, this is wonderful. Now you're going to make me admit I do like Italian reds."

She insisted I take a sip to validate that it was a lovely blend of Merlot and Corvina (it was) and once my lipstick marks were on her glass we were fast friends.

And in the "isn't it a small world?" category, it turns out I had met someone they both knew and when I shared what this man had said to me the first time he met me, they both apologized for him.

"That's just the way he is!" they explained. "Don't pay him any attention next time."

Don't worry. I didn't last time.

I met a woman close to my age and with our young bartender, Chelsea, discussed how names go in and out of vogue and how neither of us had known a single Jordan or Jessica when we were in elementary school.

Likewise, no one names their babies Denise or Debbie anymore.

She was drinking an iridescent green cocktail called "Consensual Sex on the Beach" and tried to convince me to do the same, but I just couldn't go there.

At least in drink form.

I'd had consensual sex on the beach with Roger way back when and I'd learned one very important lesson: use a beach towel.

But that's a story for another day when I don't have all this work Murphy's Law delivered staring me in the face.

That sand gets everywhere.

My Secret History

According to my friend, I look like I spent three days at S & M camp. Truth be told, I do feel a little beat up.

Six bruises, five on my legs and one on my instep where a couch corner unexpectedly landed.

Broken off parts or all of eight fingernails (admittedly, two to crab eating) and sacrificed half of a toenail to a box that dropped on it at just the right wrong angle.

And feet so sore from endless trips up and down steps (yesterday, I stopped counting after the 42nd time up and down that narrow staircase), that even my intrepid feet, the ones used to six and seven-mile daily walks, were aching.

To put it bluntly, my dogs were barking.

But after long days of helping her get moved in and worn out nights inhaling food and drink (not my best efforts), I was ready to head south.

Reveling in sitting down when the cab driver came to pick me up, I wasted no time in stretching out my legs and getting to know my chariot driver who, for a middle-aged man, either had the most unattractive bowl haircut and awful dye job or the worst wig I've ever seen.

Choosing to sit directly behind him, I asked if he was an Annapolis native. Born and raised, he said, still loves it but hates the influx of Yuppies.

Don't we all?

When I asked him what his first concert was (Huey Lewis and the News, 1986, the year he graduated high school), he was quick to tell me unsolicited his most recent concert (Cher and highly jealous that I had seen her in 1978).

We were practically buddies by the time he dropped me off.

Only when I got to the train station did I discover that my train was running half an hour late, but it didn't matter because I'd finally found my live music for the week.

Crush Funk Brass - tuba, trombone, trumpet and drums - was playing just outside the station, barely in the shadows on what was a stupidly sticky, hot late afternoon.

Finding a shady spot to watch them and wile away the half hour delay, it made me happy to see so many people pause to listen and then drop money in their case.

They weren't re-inventing the wheel with songs such as "Blueberry Hill," "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and "What a Wonderful World," but they were giving it their all and I was happy to listen.

I only had a dollar with me, but it went straight into their coffers when I finally went inside to catch my train.

Once on, I took a seat next to an older woman who had to move her purse so I could sit down, promising I'd  move once we got to Washington and most of the passengers got off (I did).

But in the meantime, I introduced myself and asked her where she was going.

Well, well, imagine that: Richmond. Said she lived in northern Henrico and asked where I live.

When I said Jackson Ward, her eyes grew big. "Where?" she asked eagerly.

Turns out she grew up at Third and Baker Street in J-Ward, an area I know well from my regular walks to Shockoe Hill Cemetery north of I-95, although blighted now and undoubtedly nothing like the neighborhood where she spent 18 years.

When she mentioned being raised Catholic, I told her I'd been as well without sharing that I'm more of a card-carrying heathen these days.

Telling me her church has always been St. Peter's on Grace Street, she suggested I look for her next time I'm at the 8:30 mass.

I smiled sweetly and told her next time I was at that mass, I would make sure to find her.

Don't laugh, if I actually went, I would most certainly seek her out.

She was just returning from a week up north - in the Poconos, Philly and finishing up in Delaware - and was exhausted from everything she'd been doing, so we compared sore feet and exhaustion states.

I let her win due to her being a septuagenarian.

At Union Station, I took advantage of the mass exodus and scored a row to myself, bidding her farewell and lost no time in stretching out my bruised legs on the seat next to me.

I was bound and determined to finally finish "The Secret History" and very nearly did until I started to get distracted by the varying degrees of sunsets over all the bodies of water we kept crossing.

First, it was the giant orange ball making for a brilliantly colorful river, then as it sunk lower, a golden sparkly streak and eventually just the last light of evening beaming up from behind the tree line.

When we got to the Occoquan River and marina, the water was still full of boats cutting through the water leaving white wakes behind them.

In other words, I didn't fully finish my book, although I made it through the climax.

It's now my intention to take this bruised and battered body and finish those last 43 pages soaking my barking dogs.

One nagging thought still lingers, though.

Do they really have S & M camps?

Bubble Wrapped

On the road again...

Hopped a train last night to Annapolis, a train delayed by the conductor making repeated announcements that no dogs were allowed on Amtrack.

This seemed a tad strange to me since there was a woman two rows in front of me with a small white dog who was reacting not at all to the warnings that any dog carrier would be put off the train.

When two Amtrack employees showed up, she gave them what for, informing them that she was a pain therapist and that her dog was her assistant, helping people relax as she treated them.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

Bottom line: they got to stay while I went back to reading the three days' worth of Washington Posts I was behind on after my Labor Day sojourn.

 Traveling on the train at night, especially on the Quiet Car, was decidedly different from all my recent day trips where passing scenery and weather competed with my read-a-thon to pass the hours north.

Arriving at 10:30, my friend took me directly to Gordon Biersch brewery, promising, "This'll be your least favorite part of your week."

Not so, I told her, surprising her with the fact that I'd just been to Lickinghole brewery Monday.

Besides, train riding works up an appetite so fish tacos and two kinds of sliders were just the thing along about midnight.

After a full day helping her get ready to move -packing and unpacking boxes- she suggested a couple of restaurants and I countered with river-side crabs.

She amiably agreed with the stipulation that we eat inside, which lasted until we arrived and I suggested we eat outside.

It had turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant evening, damp enough that I needed the wrap I'd borrowed from her almost immediately, so she agreed to eat al fresco.

With Herradura and hush puppies in front of me, it was just a matter of time until the large crabs arrived, making me a happy camper.

Not so my friend, who was facing a nearby table where a child was watching a movie with the sound loud enough to be heard at our table.

Soon after, the table behind us began smoking and I saw her begin to lose it.

Even the arrival of the crabs didn't help, but I knew what would.

With the skill of a pro, I suggested some Herradura STAT and by the second one, she began to relax.

It didn't hurt that the smokers and the TV family paid their bills and left, but a lot of credit goes to the tequila.

As anyone who picks crabs knows, bits go flying in the feeding frenzy and at one point, some landed in her drink.

"There's shell in my tequila!" she squealed.

 So? I asked, prompting her to wonder if anything ever really gets to me.

She said she had dozens of things that set her off.

Let me think about it for a while and I'll let you know, I told her.

Still thinking.

The Getaway

I was only gone for 35 hours, but I like to think I spent my time wisely.

The six hours on the train up and back were put to indulgently satisfying use starting one of my birthday books, "The Goldfinch," talking me through just under 300 pages.

Beautifully written, immediately engrossing from the first few pages, I already know I'll be sorry when this book ends.

It's taken me no time at all to realize that train trips are second only to being at the beach when it comes to hours on end doing nothing more than turning pages. Heaven.

Much as I enjoy getting lost in the scenery passing by outside the train, it could have been snowing for all I knew.

Arriving in Annapolis just after a shower, it was sticky and muggy when my friend picked me up from the train station where she'd been incorrectly informed that my train had already come and gone (it hadn't). She was in a mild panic when I spotted her in the parking lot.

The afternoon flew by and by the time we got ready to get back in the car to go out for dinner, it was almost 8:30 and we spent the drive chatting on speaker phone with a mutual Richmond friend who'd called earlier, unbeknownst to us.

He'd been out for happy hour and it was happy he sounded as he tried to stir the pot and make us laugh, taking us right up to the restaurant parking lot with his nonsense.

My friend had been hoping to take me to a new restaurant, a place I hadn't yet been, but when pressed, I admitted that what I really wanted was crabs. Again.

That's how we've ended up at Cantler's, a riverside crab place three of the last four times I've gone up there. Only this was the first time the weather made sitting outside a possibility.

The earlier mugginess had given way to a beautifully breezy evening and there was a prime corner table on the patio overlooking the river. My friend warned me that the service outside tended toward the terrible, but even she had to admit it was a prefect night to do so.

As a dedicated summer-lover (you'll never hear me complain that it's too hot or humid), these long days are part of the siren song of the season. As I looked out over the river, I was struck by not just how light it still was at 8:45 (duh, ten days until summer solstice), but how there was still plenty of light for the boats and houses along the shore to throw reflections on the water.

It didn't hurt that the river was smooth as glass, allowing the reflections a mirror-like surface to join with the reality above.

A fading white shack, sailboat masts, boat hulls all joined their likeness at the water line. It was not only beautiful, but striking for how dusky the sky was...and yet still enough.

Okay, so my friend had been right and the service was lackadaisical at best, although I did get a kick out of seeing servers clearing tables pour any remaining water from cups onto the window boxes along the patio's railing. So eco-friendly, if nothing else.

As usual, we powered through hushpuppies and extra-large crabs, scratching our head when a server told us they were low on crab seasoning, as if it's tough to get Old Bay or kosher salt.

Gradually the patio began clearing out except for us and two women at a nearby table deep in wine and conversation after an earlier broken wineglass (it happens).

For that matter, my friend and I got pretty deep into it, trying to elucidate the difference in a relationship when young versus middle aged and how what you want that partnership ultimately to become changes (or doesn't).

A (male) friend once told me that middle aged people don't "fall" in love, they find a compatible person and agree to compromise, but my girlfriend and I begged to differ. Why shouldn't we be able to feel passion and romance like we did when we were 25?

Over multiple splits of bubbly (her) and Herradura (me), we ruminated on the things that matter to us in a partner before being distracted by a boat towing another, smaller one into the dock below, both with lights twinkling on the inky river.

When we'd stuffed ourselves silly and the place was close to closing, we got back in the car and she asked if I wanted to go to a neighborhood, down and dirty-style bar. Sure I did.

While meandering through Eastport trying to find said dive bar, she noticed our friend had left another message, pulled over in front of one of the charming (and no doubt costly) vintage houses and called him back again.

That's how we ended up parked on a residential side street for who knows how long, our tipsy friend providing hilarious phone entertainment that kept us both in stitches.

So much for the bar. She did drive home via downtown Annapolis, around the city dock area, a place I hadn't been since the '80s.

Back in college, my boyfriend Curt and I, along with my best friend and her beloved, spent many a Sunday right there, eating (I had my first Monte Cristo there and thought it was the best sandwich I'd ever had), drinking (it was legal then) and wiling away the afternoon (I began practicing that early).

And while it was mostly recognizable, all the dilapidated little storefronts (I particularly recalled a hardware store that even back then felt like it had been frozen in time) have long since been replaced with chains and boutiques.

Still, a trip down Memory Lane was a fine ending to our evening.

Today's greatest pleasure was finding a treasure trove of my girlfriend's family photos and memorabilia.

As a lover of photography, I am always entranced by old photos, but there were some truly amazing pieces she had, like a couple of tintypes - precursors to photographs- and pictures from when her grandfather had been in school, an announcement for her grandmother's wedding in 1901 and even family report cards from 1879 and 1890 (back when kids got grades for hygiene and penmanship).

There was a wide, panoramic photograph of a rocky beach in Massachusetts, not looking all that different than how it did when I first went to Cape Cod in college.

Over and over, my friend marveled at how tickled her Dad was going to be when he saw all these old pictures of his father. Honestly, it was pretty fascinating to see them and I'm no relation to anyone in them.

We got so caught up going through stuff that all of a sudden we looked up and realized I had 75 minutes before my train left.

Ever the resourceful one, Friend instructed me to grab my things and we'd head to the nearby steakhouse for a quick happy hour.

Admittedly, I'm not the steakhouse person she is, but I can happy hour with the best of them and with less than 60 minutes to departure, we were walking up a staircase with large-format black and white photographs of local scenes such as the distinctive Thomas Point Lighthouse, Maryland state capital, and watermen pulling in crabs.

At the bar, we set out to have quick glasses of Lamarca Prosecco (although it took three flat pours before we got glasses with sufficient bubbles) and a pre-train nibble.

My friend wanted the buffalo meatballs while I chose bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed dates and I'm proud to say she ended up liking my choice better than hers, an accomplishment in my eyes.

We were in and out in 20 minutes and at the train station in another 20. Mission accomplished.

My train ride home was cozier than its predecessors because of the rain beading up on the windows, but also more punctual for a change. Plus the fairly empty Quiet Car I was riding in afforded the opportunity to get further lost in this magnificent book I'm reading.

I'd call these two well-spent summer days.

When the World is Good

I've officially been away more this week than I've been here.

All the windows stay open while I'm gone and I water the inside plants while I'm here, but I'm feeling a bit like a house-sitter lately.

Yesterday's train ride to Annapolis wound up being 4 1/2 hours instead of 3, partially because the train was sold out at every stop (the conductor attributed that to it being Mother's Day weekend), meaning longer than usual times to load and unload at every stop.

But we also got stopped on a bridge over a choppy, brown river (being navigationally challenged as I am, I have no idea what body of water it was) because of a fallen tree on the tracks.

So we sat there for 45 minutes, waiting for a southbound train to pass us so that we could use that track since ours was, shall we say, incapacitated. And while I have no bridge issues, per se, it did occur to me that if that that other train ended up on our track by mistake, I was going to die a watery death.

But it didn't so I enjoyed the silence of the "quiet car" (seriously, I wouldn't sit anywhere else, including the business car with its higher price tag) to finish up my book, Oscar Hijuelos' 2002 "A Simple Habana Melody (from when the world was good)."

Granted, I hadn't read his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" since it came out in 1989, but this one struck me as undeniably more tragic with its detour into the tragedy of a man incorrectly sent to a concentration camp.

With still more time on my hands, I started another book, but soon realized that I'd better not go too far into it since I'd need it for the trip back.

Talk about a shame; no one should have to ration their reading.

But eventually I made it to my friend's house for a 24-hour visit that included a visit to the riverside crab shack Cantlers and a dozen extra large crabs enjoyed next to a couple on a date, a medic and a soldier, both of whom had recently served in Afghanistan and Iraq.

When they ordered the steamed sampler of clams, mussels and shrimp to start, they had no idea how to peel and eat shrimp, so the affable bartender gave them a shelling and de-veining lesson.

Needless to say, they didn't go anywhere near picking crabs like we were, a wise move given how arduous a task it can be if you don't know what you're doing.

My return train was far more timely with no unexpected arbor issues, and still leaving me a solid 3 hours to be absorbed in Jonathan Harr's "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece," an improbable NYT bestseller I'd picked up at the library giveaway last year.

While it didn't have the earthy, poetic fluidity of Hijuelos, who was influenced by another favorite of mine, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the art detective story was enthralling for how fate and tenacity both had a hand in leading several art historians to an important and presumably lost work.

By the time the train pulled in to the station, I had only 60 pages left and I was dying to know how it ended but finding out wasn't an option at that point.

A favorite girlfriend and her cute husband were having a party tonight to celebrate her getting her master's, so I needed to hurry home, shower and get to the soiree.

Only problem was that I'd never been to their house, it's in a neighborhood I don't know and one that turned out to be black as pitch with no streetlights.

I was pretty sure I'd found the right house when I eased open the front door and heard someone ask, "Did you just say you were going to be picking at your skin?"

The party was in full swing and the graduate grabbed me and said she'd feared I was dead when I'd missed Live at Ipanema last Sunday, but I'd assured her that I'd just been otherwise occupied.

Since it was my first visit, she gave me a tour of the house which was full of her husband's photographs, one of hers at a doughnut shop in Pennsylvania with a sign saying, "We specialize in holes" and a bunch of found photos, acquired at thrift stores, online and at Etsy shops.

One particularly intriguing one was a sepia-toned view of the Richmond waterfront near Tredegar with holes drilled along the edges as if it had once hung on a museum wall.

Both she and her husband are avid record collectors and while I glanced through their vinyl, that's an afternoon's activity all by itself. And I'm not even talking about the seven inch discs and cassette tapes or CDs.

Even the framed posters were worth checking out - a Dali exhibit, a Hitchcock retrospective, the first 300 albums released on SubPop.

And don't get me started on the camera collection, the giant record player or the photograph of every kind of microphone imaginable.

Their house was a delight and as a party guest, I had full rein to wander around and check out its details, all under the guise of mingling.

So, sure, I engaged with a group discussing restaurants and chatted with some new-to-me people about what they did.

At least right up until the point where it was time for me to go home to my own charming abode, at least for a few hours before heading out again first thing in the morning.

On the road again.

Riding the Rails

It had been too long since I'd ridden the train.

True, I'd ridden plenty of trains in Italy last year - trains to Florence, Sorrento and Rome - but I hadn't ridden good, old Amtrack since 2000.

A shame for one who enjoys train trips as much as I do.

You see, I despise I-95 north, that soul-sucking stretch of road that gets me to my hometown and beyond. Since I'm one of those people who rarely exceeds the speed limit, I have no place on such a road.

But on the train, I excel. I can delve into the Washington Post and get deeper into my book. I can waste all kinds of time staring out the window and observing the landscape. And I can chat with strangers, always a forte of mine.

Minutes before the train was due to arrive at the station, an announcement was made that it was running behind.

For those of us waiting outside on the platform in the morning sunshine, the news was irrelevant. If you're headed out of town at 11:04 on a Friday morning, it's probably not for business so it's probably not a big deal to be delayed 25 minutes.

Sitting closest to me was a man with thick, dark hair and mustache and after the announcement, he turned and said in a beautifully accented voice, "More time for us to get some sun."

That's the way I was looking at it. He turned out to be South African and on his way home to NYC, so we spent the remaining 24 minutes chatting.

Once the train began pulling in, I looked across the platform and spotted John, one of my Jackson Ward neighbors, up ahead. What are the chances?

It was my first time riding business class although I soon discovered that all the leg room and New York Times in the world can't compare to the quiet car, which will henceforth be my car of choice. Having to listen to the inane phone conversations of a mindless woman behind me soon wore thin.

Beyond that, my interest was divided. One part of me relished the hours to get lost in reading while the other part couldn't resist the changing scenery outside my window.

The initial boredom of suburbia meant I soon got lost in the Post but then I looked up to see fields and farms and we weren't even to Ashland yet.

Going through the center of the universe, I got a bird's eye view of the Caboose wine shop and Ashland Coffee and Tea from a different perspective than any of my visits to them.

I pulled out my book and was back in the 1950s with Elvis before glancing up to see a golden field all but covered in wild turkeys.

Continuing to lumber north toward Fredericksburg, I marveled at how many bodies of water we passed - marshes, ponds, streams, rivers, rarely more than a minute or two without a water view.

Pulling into Fredericksburg, I had a bird's eye view up Caroline Street catching sight of four church spires punctuating the bright blue sky.

It was easier to return to my book once our route got past the Marine base at Quantico and Occoquan marina because the train wound within sight of the dreaded 95 and who really wants to look at that?

Before I knew it, I was at the quaint station being picked up by a friend who had invited me up to help her get organized in her new place.

For her, organization is a challenge she can't master despite a razor sharp mind and a wildly successful six figure career and for me, bringing order from chaos is as natural and effortless as breathing.

So after breathing all over her new apartment in Annapolis, we got cleaned up and on our way to dinner.

She was hoping to introduce me to one of her favorite new restaurants, but I stopped her cold by saying I wanted to go to the riverside dive that served crabs. Off we went to Cantlers.

I don't even want to think about what that place must be like during tourist season because on a cool, Friday night at 9:00, it was 95% full, albeit with locals and regulars.

Our bartender was delightful, a savvy server with a great smile and, like us, a tequila drinker. My friend is a recent convert to tequila and wanted a primer on blanco, reposado and anejo, an easy topic for me expound upon.

"Whoa, this girl knows her stuff," the bartender said. You drink only one spirit for 21 years, you learn a little.

When the guy next to me also ordered Herradura, I commented that our side of the bar was the tequila side.

"This is where the cool kids sit," she said, bringing us a tray of extra large crabs and a basket of hushpuppies.

I have to admit, before my friend first brought me to this place, I'd never eaten hard shell crabs out of season. Yet here we were, eating extra large Louisiana crabs in March and it felt right as rain.

The tequila kept flowing, our hands kept getting messier and all of a sudden, we were out of crabs.

My friend, a regular at this place, had an inspiration. "Do you have any supers?" she inquired about the largest of crustaceans, a size I'd never even heard of.

Sure enough, they weren't listed on the board, but there they came, hot out of the pot and so enormous, so completely beyond any crabs I had ever laid eyes on despite being a crab eater since age five, that I understood when my friend handed me her phone and asked that I take a picture of them.

The claws were just slightly smaller than a lobster's and almost as meaty. They were easily the best and biggest crabs I'd ever eaten, with or without tequila.

By this time, the dining room had cleared out and it was just us and the regulars at the bar, a comfy vibe of people enjoying happy hour that lasted as long as the March madness game did.

The gang to my left was considering organizing a game of Flintstones "Jeopardy."

"Ann Margrock!" the guy next to me called out as a possible answer. Perry Masonry, I said to him. He smiled widely and nodded silently in approval, not a word being necessary to show his pleasure in my memory.

That's nothing. Leonard Bernstone, I could have said.

We left them to their game planning and returned to the town center and her apartment building, going up to the rooftop terraces with an Anna Nalick soundtrack playing to admire the twinkling views of Annapolis' state capital and the Bay bridge beyond it.

Sing if you understand
and breathe, just breathe

It's wonderful how effortlessly the train gets me to some place so different than my place.

You don't even have to be a cool kid to ride it.