Midnight Love and Cheap Cigarettes

And other tales from 36 hours with a Kiwi.

One minute I'm at a wine dinner with "my" people and next thing I know, I'm having breakfast for the second day in a row with someone I didn't know a day and a half ago.

Camden's wine dinner Thursday night featured the bounty of Hawke's Bay, New Zealand courtesy of Supernatural Wines and the invitation carried a clear warning, "These are pricey, high acid wines with as much character as the man who runs the company (the ladies will love him! the men will envy him!)."

It didn't take much to round up four wine-loving sots friends to join me for the wine and wisdom of a stylish and soft spoken Kiwi.

His small production wines made for wonderful pairings from a chef who excels at playing food and wine matchmaker.

The "Supernatural" organic and bio-dynamic Sauvignion Blanc sang with oysters and pear slaw, "Spook Light, a skin-fermented Pinot Gris, made for a killer pairing with housemade Merguez, Kielbasa, Point Reye's Bleu and Manchego and finally, "Green Glow" skin-fermented Sauvignon Blanc was swoon-worthy with grilled swordfish over red wheatberry salad with dill butter sauce.

By the time the dinner was finished, I'd learned that our visitor had spent the day being ferried around by wine reps and was hoping to experience Richmond  a tad more fully. Enter yours truly, with offers to show him some of the good stuff in his free time.

Turns out the appeal of a sunny tour guide negates any loose plans he might have been entertaining about getting right to work in the morning. For me, here's my chance to make a visitor love Richmond in record time.

My main challenge is that New Zealanders are unaccustomed to humidity and soon every square inch of his face and arms are covered in beads of sweat. I assure him he'll adjust but the crescent shaped sweat stains on the front of his shirt reappear periodically.

Two topics dominate our walk: architecture and trees. He's agog at the former because so much of New Zealand's is modern and not architect-designed and charmed by the second's lush feel.

We start at Perly's - but not too early because of how late the post-wine dinner salon had gone - because I sense he'll need a sturdy breakfast to overcome last night and stand up to what I have planned.

He immediately orders the Schnorrer, a platter laden with poached eggs, roast beef, his first potato latkes and rye toast, which I suggested he order since we were in a Jewish deli. I don't think I'm exaggerating to say he found the meal life-giving.

From there we walked to a nearby market so he could score cigarettes at which point, sated and with nicotine coursing through his veins, he decided to blow off work entirely. I led him directly to Steady Sounds where we both found some gems in a batch of used records recently arrived while he also picked up the new "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.

It was when I took my records to the counter to pay that I saw the familiar face of the owner as he was busy pricing even more fresh used arrivals. Glancing at my purchases - Janet Jackson, The Persuasions, Marvin Gaye - he inquires, "Karen, need any "Midnight Love?"

If my mind didn't live in the gutter, I might have responded with anything other than "always," but what he meant was Marvin's final studio album from 1982 and, yes, I needed it for $4.

By this point, the visitor had proven his mettle and quite happily accompanied me all over town.

After dropping off our purchases, I led him to the river through the gauntlet of RiverRock preparations, so he could experience the pipeline walkway, to the point that he was even game when I suggested we remove our shoes and wade through the last stretch still underwater.

Don't try this yourselves, kids, I am a pro.

Because other, lesser guides (aka wine reps) had raved about the T Pot Bridge to him, we lapped that, too, but I didn't sense he liked it better than the pipeline. Who would?

By the time I'd walked his Kiwi butt off, he was crying uncle for a seat inside and a glass of wine. I ensured both by landing at Saison Market where we indulged in New Zealand wine, (albeit not his,   which was being stocked on the shelf as we watched), sipping glasses of Cambridge Road Vineyard's orange wine, the appealingly funky Cloud Walker.

And speaking of, the sky suddenly darkened and rain poured down on the hot streets out front for exactly two minutes while we drank, and then it was back to being a sunny day.

We slurped Wicomico oysters and a cheese plate at Camden's while discoursing on literature and indie book stores with the she-woman happy hour chef fan club. Then it was on to music and cocktails at Savory Grain, where Mikrowaves' horn section kept the vibe soulful and lead singer Eddie welcomed all the visitors from other countries in the  audience (I may have mentioned my companion's provenance to him) with a smirk.

Of course there had to be another late night cigarette run, then GWARbar, which was his idea because he'd been taken there Wednesday night at 1:57 a.m. and wanted a fuller experience.

Leave it to me to make sure he had it with Espolon and warm pork rinds.

To the delight of both of us, one of the kitchen guys decided there had been quite enough metal playing at GWARbar for one Saturday evening and proceeded to go pop on us and I mean pop: Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Starship, Toto.

Kiwi even requested a classic -  America's "Horse With No Name" - and was obliged within three songs. Claims he likes the beat, surely a rare compliment for such a mellow '70s band.

Naturally a former denizen of London is a fan of electronica and dance music.

Eating breakfast at the counter of 821 Cafe this morning to thrash music ("Not exactly your normal cafe music, hmm?" he observes drolly), I pointed out that we'd eaten an awful lot of meals together lately for people who'd been complete strangers as recently as Thursday afternoon.

"When are you coming to visit New Zealand?" he asks in between sips of a Bloody Mary made with Texas Beach Bloody mix, a reference I have to explain since I hadn't included Texas Beach on our stroll. Instagram photos naturally ensued.

Like the rye toast yesterday, the biscuit on his plate was completely my idea since he was unfamiliar with them and needed a lesson on southern eating. "It's kind of big, isn't it?" he wonders before I suggest adding butter.

A tour guide's work is never finished.

At least it doesn't end officially until you've walked your guest to get cigarettes yet again ("They're so cheap!" he marvels, always followed by an earnest, "I'm going to quit very soon")) and waited with him for his train to arrive - mind you, over an hour late - enjoying possibly the last conversation you may have with this person.

Neither love nor envy were on the table, but the 11th hour dynamic certainly made for compelling trackside diversion. How unlikely and ultimately enjoyable to spend such focused time with someone you're unlikely to see again.

It was a pleasure, in other words.

Let's just call it a fabulously accented kick-off to my impending birthday. Character reigned supreme.

Lunch is for Later

The thing about brunch is, some people just want breakfast.

When we'd made these plans, I thought it was for lunch. Turns out my companions had other ideas so we detoured to Perly's instead.

No one was surprised at how busy it was, but it didn't take too long to get seated at a booth and out of the way of the bustling servers.

It was my first look at the morning menu - dubbed "Sunrise" - which offered all kinds of temptations (but no pig products) and after some discussion, we placed our order with our smiling server.

Time to socialize.

The artist in the group shared pictures of some of his latest endeavors, everything from his handmade groovy guitar strap to a recent painting and textile wall hanging incorporating beads and figures.

Meanwhile, the False Cape expedition survivor (humongous horse flies, horrific heat and flying tents) told us about her upcoming trip next week to Yosemite, Tahoe and Sacramento.

The best I could do was talk about the stellar band I'd seen last night at Balliceaux.

We had plenty of time to chat because our food took a while to arrive, understandably given the jam-packed restaurant and the fact that they've barely been open two weeks.

When our server arrived, she had only two plates in hand and put them down in front of my companions; at that moment there was a loud crash from the back.

"Gee, I hope that wasn't yours," she said to me with a slight grimace and grin.

Fortunately, it wasn't and soon we were all tucking in to our breakfasts as a light rain fell outside.

Chocolate babka French toast with banana cream anglaise and blueberries was decadent without being too chocolaty (given that it was the first meal of the day) and got even better with the addition of the salt component in the form of strips of turkey bacon.

Two of us did the build your own breakfast, enjoying kishka - beef sausage with oatmeal- for the first time and debating what makes better toast, seeded rye or challah.

My vote is for the former, slathered with butter and strawberry jam delivered in a ramekin.

People kept arriving as we ate and they ran the gamut, some of them no doubt long-time Perly's regulars from its last incarnation and plenty of others looking more like they'd arrived via the Black Sheep connection since the chef is the same one who launched that brunch mecca.

Boldly ordering a cross between dessert and a drink, the artist got the shickered egg cream (delivered in a miniature glass milk bottle), a compelling combination of bourbon, cream, cream de cacao, Fex's U-Bet chocolate syrup and almond orgeat seltzer fizz.

Because sometimes when you want breakfast, you also want a bit of a buzz.

I think that's why they call it brunch.

Keeping True

Go away for a week and you've got a lot to make up for.

Stop one was the recently revamped Perly's, where I walked in to find a music-loving friend at the counter and sat down next to him.

Like me, he was fueling up before hitting Fall Line Fest shows tonight but we began by taking stock of the redone but still recognizable space.

Considering that it's mostly the same (the configuration), it's also very different in feel (a Jewish deli now).

I was particularly enamored of the paper place mats with the menu printed on them while he was impressed with the beer selection.

He was having a svelte corned beef sandwich (which was still pretty thick) but I swear my deli salad - chopped lettuce topped with chunks of pastrami, rolls of turkey and strips of salami, swiss, hard cooked eggs and a little too much Russian dressing- had more meat on it.

We'll call it a manly salad.

After dissecting the shows I'd missed and he'd seen at Fall Line Fest last night (Death, Matthew E. White), I left knowing I'd see him later at a show.

There was no way I was missing Potty Mouth, an all-girl punk pop band from Massachusetts, or the chance to see them with my cute friend at Gallery 5.

We stood right in front of the stage, waiting through bottled water being brought to the stage and drummer Victoria tying her shoes before the band could start.

After the first song, "Kids," singer Abby said, "I forgot to take out my ponytail. How can I have any fun like this?"

We all know punk requires flying hair, assuming you have it.

With that, she let down her long, blond hair, leaving it to hang in her face and move around as she sang and played guitar, not so different from Victoria's covering her face the whole time she drummed.

Some say you made a mistake
Well, you can taste my heartache
How does it taste?

Their set was high energy and I can only hope they were having as good a time as it looked like they were.

Inviting my friend to leave G5 for the National, her only request as that I drive.

When we stopped in front of Gallery 5 for the light, the girls of Potty Mouth were out front loading up their vehicle.

Never one to be shy, I called out to bassist Ally to tell her what a great show they'd put on, insisting they come back soon and play a longer set.

It never hurts to let one's admiration be known.

At the National, we were all kinds of surprised to find parking a snap, meaning not nearly enough people were inside.

After taking up residence in front of the sound booth, always my location at shows there, I saw a few friends, but not nearly as many as I'd expected.

Ditto the band, Sweden's Mary Onettes, which amounted to one guy instead of four.

"I was supposed to have my band withe me but they're busy wrestling ice bears in Sweden," singer/guitarist Philip explained.

I liked his sense of humor already.

But even if he hadn't had that, I'd still have been a sucker for the band's dream pop, which he performed using guitar and voice to recorded tracks by the rest of the band.

It may not have been ideal, but it still sounded great, echoing a lot of '80s bands' sounds I loved with songs such as "Everything, Everything," "God Knows I Had Plans" and the aching "Once I Was Pretty."

Everything I've ever done was a part of promising you and keeping true
Everything you've ever said is recorded in my heart.

Yep, I ate it all up with a spoon. I could have listened to them all night.

Instead, Philip introduced Amanda Mair, also from Sweden, who sang back-up for one Mary Onettes song and then did a set of her own of emotional piano ballads.

She reminded me a lot of '90s British songbird Lauren Christy, when my Perly's friend suddenly appeared right next to us, determined to hear her lovely voice from the best possible listening post in the room.

Why do you think this is my permanent position?

My friend got all excited when she saw that Potty Mouth had just tweeted about their set at Gallery 5, saying how friendly people in Richmond were.

"She's talking about you!" she insisted.  Good, maybe they'll come back like I asked.

Although the show was running a tad behind schedule, they almost made up for it with an unusually short break and then, hello!

Real Estate took the stage in their unassuming, so very un-Jersey-like way.

What they do very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals, making for the best kind of wistful nerd pop.

I'd been fortunate enough to see them their first time in Richmond, back in April 2012, at Strange Matter in a room that felt like a sauna and left me dripping wet after the show.

Not that it wasn't worth it.

Like last time, lead singer Martin isn't big on banter between songs, or even smiling much, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.

They began with the instrumental gem "Kinder Blumen," the ideal song to ease into their catalog, full of guitar interplay and catchy hooks and moved on to new stuff off their latest album, "Atlas."

Bassist Alex took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").

Haven't we all had those moments in a relationship?

As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams and extended finishes that equaled pure pop heaven.

Before it was all over, they mentioned the hot tub backstage and invited us all to bring swimsuits and join them.

After a week away, I had a lot to make up for but not enough time for a soak.

It's enough that I tried a new restaurant, saw four stellar bands and told complete strangers what to do, from my car no less.

I can't do everything in one night.

Call Me a Voyeur

Thank goodness the Civil War happened before the computer age.

Because otherwise, the Civil War 150 Legacy Project wouldn't have any old letters or diaries to collect and scan for posterity. Or be able to give much of a lecture at the Library of Virginia about the endeavor.

And it's me being a fan of the written word that makes having access to other people's letters so appealing. What CW150 Legacy is doing is spending two years going around the state scanning and photographing  family letters, ledgers, diaries, whatever people are willing to share from the period just before and after the war.

LVA archivists Laura Drake Davis and Renee Savits talked about holding events around the state to record people's history; they've been to 43 such events since last September. And people line up to have their stuff scanned.

Savits said, "I'm a Pennsylvanian but Virginians keep and preserve their history better than anyone else," and then proceeded to show us images of some of the more interesting stuff they'd scanned.

There was a VMI diploma signed by Stonewall Jackson, a reunion photo of "Mosby's Men" from 1901 and a sketch  in the margins of a prisoner's journal done of six men being hung.

One of my favorite letters was from a young man home. He'd heard Lincoln speak to a huge crowd in 1860 Illinois . Afterwards, he went to Lincoln's house, hoping to meet him. Mrs. L. said he was taking a nap, so he and his friends snuck around the house and looked in the window to see the great man sleeping.

Today that would be the equivalent of stalking and invasion of privacy followed by texting Mom and Dad with the news. Just doesn't have the same resonance somehow.

Part of the goal of the project is to gather materials from underrepresented viewpoints.The diaries of women on the homefront provided information on how they were handling things on the farms. One spoke of letting Confederate soldiers use a parcel of their land to graze sheep...without even asking her husband.

Historical significance aside, the voyeuristic peek into long ago relationships and domestic goings-on is fascinating to me. People wrote for pages to say what they needed to say. Maybe you just have to be a big history geek to be willing to gather history through letters.

After the lecture, I met up with a friend from Williamsburg, also a history buff, and went to Perly's for lunch. It was less about the food and more about catching up since we last saw each other seven months ago.

I told him all about the CW150 Project lecture, resulting in him suggesting an historical field trip to Hollywood Cemetery. It was a perfect day to enjoy a garden-style cemetery what with the dogwoods in bloom and everything so newly fresh green.

If it hadn't been for the construction crews, we could have been post-war Richmonders spending an afternoon at the cemetery with a picnic lunch.

And then I would have come home and written a letter to my beau about how I passed a sultry Spring afternoon at Hollywood.

And in a hundred years, someone would have found it a fascinating glimpse at 2011. Even if they only read it on a computer screen.

Hollywood Cemetery in the Hot, Hot Heat

The Richmond restaurant world is almost as incestuous as its musical world; you're likely to see a member of either group at another place or in another configuration somewhere.

So it was that on walking into Perly's today that the waitress eating at the end of the bar looks up and says, "Hi, Karen."

It's not that I go in Perly's often, because I don't, but I actually know the waitress from the Belvidere.

Later as I'm leaving, I hear a voice from the corner table, "Hey, Karen!"

It's a fellow Census worker and waitress from Tarrant's. It's 11:45 in the morning and the familiar faces are everywhere.

I ordered a turkey sandwich because their menu said that they roast their own turkey (I asked to verify), but it can't compare to the turkey sandwich at Comfort, which I had just last week.

Ideally, I want big, irregularly-shaped chucks of turkey to mimic a day-after-Thanksgiving Day turkey sandwich; Comfort gives me that, but Perly's doesn't.

Still, it's a perfectly fine turkey sandwich, with chips on the side, another post-Turkey Day requirement. I'm satisfied.

I am having lunch with my long-time friend from Williamsburg, here, and it's good hearing his stories after so long; he was in radio forever so he has a Voice with a capital V.

We couldn't be more opposed politically, but we have plenty to talk about without that (and I do try to avoid it).

And in all the years I've had lunch with him, I've never seen him eat anything except either eggs and sausage or a hamburger with fries and mayo.

He's an odd one, but unusual in a fascinating sort of way. He calls himself "the last of his kind" which may very well be true for a host of reasons.

Afterwards we went to Hollywood Cemetery, a favorite place of his and one he hadn't visited in several years.

Because of the heat and his health, we drove it rather than walked it, parking periodically under a shady tree to roll down the windows, admire the view and chat.

We could see all the people sunning themselves on the rocks and enjoying the water at Belle Isle.

I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that at least a few of them were restaurant workers I know, but it was too hot to walk over there and find out.

And no one was shouting, "Hey Karen" from across the river.

So the last of his kind and I stayed in the shade, amongst the past, talking about the present and hoping the best for the future.