I Got Soul, But Not From Tacos

When given the choice, I chose to shirk my civic duty.

Weeks ago, Mr. Wright had reserved us two spots at the Mayorathon at the ICA and I readily agreed to an evening devoted to taking a mid-term temperature on how our mayor is handling his duties. Since he was never my first choice for mayor in the first place, it's not surprising that I haven't exactly been thrilled with some of the decisions he's made.

But when it came down to it, when Mr.Wright admitted that he could go either way on going or not, I was that irresponsible person who voted for fun over civic responsibility. Let someone else do the heavy lifting tonight.

So when I walked outside to greet him after a full day knocking out two deadlines, I already had a plan in mind and it began with wine at Saison Market. It was early enough that things were quiet at the market, so after scoring glasses of house Rose and red, we retreated to our favorite table in the middle of the room to allow the place to fill up around us.

I told him how Mac and I had once again gone down to check on the status of the pipeline this morning only to find the water had receded enough that we could walk it. What hadn't receded was the abundance of fine white sand that rose in sand dune-like mounds on either side of the easternmost end of the walkway. We only got about a fifth of the way out on the pipeline itself because waves were still rolling over most of it.

I told him we'd stopped midway along to take a selfie of our smiling faces against the roiling whitecaps behind us as documentation of what a long stretch it's been that we've been unable to get on it from Brown's Island.

My plan once our wine needs were sated was to stroll down to Second Street for some Soul Tacos and we did set out, but the moment we walked by Saison's window and saw the unoccupied bar, Mr. Wright had other ideas. Pointing out that our favorite stools were available, he suggested dinner on them instead of on unknown stools.

I am nothing if not flexible.

Besides, as Mr. Wright pointed out, had we gone to Soul Taco, we likely wouldn't have been keeping to our Spanish drinking theme, a goal easily accomplished with the floral and complex Raventos Blanc Brut Nature "de Nit."

So we'll say we did it for the research. Penedes, we're working our way to you.

As darkness fell and Saison began to get busy, our taco replacements arrived. A dish of roasted and fermented turnips, crispy on the outside and yielding on the inside, wasn't new to us, but we always agree that they'd make a turnip lover out of anyone. For a change, the cast iron cornbread didn't arrive in cast iron, but the familiar corn and sweet notes were there, along with that magnificent crust, my favorite part.

Watching the bartender work his magic, I commented that after six years, he must be able to do his job behind that bar blindfolded and he chuckled and agreed. The only exception, he said, was when he does the seasonal change in the cocktail menu because then bottles of booze get rearranged and it takes a week or two for him to feel blindfold-confident again.

Another tidbit he dropped was that next week is spring break for VCU - hooray, a week of easy parking and no parties in the 'hood - and that always means a week of tiki/island-style drinks at Saison. Beckham and I went a couple years ago and drank far too many fabulous rum drinks for our own good, so chances are high I'll drop by next week.

In a repeat of what we'd had at Adarra, we dined on fish stew, which was called a rundown. This time it was a melange of monkfish, rockfish, mussels, shrimp and catfish with small chunks of sweet potato swimming in a broth of coconut and habanero, a one-two punch of sweet and spicy best sopped up with the large pieces of grilled crusty bread rising out of the stew.

For a change, our conversation centered on my history, why I'd made certain decisions, how I'd put up with things I'd never tolerate now. You know, the usual soul-searching you do when the right person wants to understand the past in order to better plan the future. Good stuff.

Constitutionally unable to resist something called fig and chocolate torte, I was nonetheless gobsmacked when what looked like a quarter of  torte landed in front of me. Fig bits in the dense chocolate torte and whole figs atop it meant my fig lust - actually, our shared fig lust - meant mouthfuls of the darkest chocolate alternated with pops of the ultra-sweetness of fig.

And, no, that monster slice did not get polished off because after a lot of wine and food, apparently you can have too much of a good thing. The remainder followed us home because no fig/chocolate is ever left behind in my world.

Did we regret selling out our mayor and soulful tacos for an intimate dinner in the corner of a busy restaurant?

Don't make me laugh. As Mr. Wright likes to say, we've got 40 years to eat tacos.

Life Shift

We had two strikes against us right off the bat.

Listen to me, I watch the Superbowl once and now I'm spouting sports metaphors.

The last two days of 72 degree weather had been enough to motivate Quirk Hotel to open their rooftop bar for sipping and sunset-watching, so that was the first thing on tonight's to-do list. At least it was, right up until it starting raining on our parade plans.

So instead, Mr. Wright and I walked over to Saison Market, passing the art scene-devoted Parker who was headed to Gallery 5, but not without mentioning that G5 is finally getting the new roof it's needed for years.

In Jackson Ward, that's big news.

Things were quiet at Saison Market, making it easy to score glasses of house Rose and order a couple of plates. Feeling far more wintery than the weather called for, grilled and fermented turnips in black garlic sauce delivered varying textures in a hearty dish meant to stick to your ribs. Arriving on a white plate with elaborate magenta squiggles, cured Arctic char gussied up with radishes, pickled onion, croutons and herbs were arranged atop the dramatic beet yogurt design.

You can be sure that design was a sloppy mess by the time we got through dredging our char in it and scoring more Rose.

Honestly, we could have sat there all evening talking about the upcoming Architecture and Design Film Festival in D.C. or the appeal of Tuscon or Austin in January, but we had places to be.

And that's where our second strike came in.

Weeks ago, I'd gotten an email blast alerting me that trumpeter Rex Richardson was playing at the ICA and put it on my calendar. I'm a long-time Rex fan, having discovered him back in the mid aughts when I saw his Rhythm and Brass group do a performance of his original work, plus stuff by the Beatles and Radiohead.

Hooked, that was the beginning of my Rex fandom.

Can't say I knew the trumpet could be so versatile until that night, but the many performances I've gone to since have only solidified my opinion. So of course I'd wanted to go the moment I saw the announcement.

My faux pas was in not going to the event page, where I would have learned that the event required tickets. Free tickets, but reserved tickets nonetheless, a fact I only learned this afternoon when I finally went to the event page and saw a big banner screaming "SOLD OUT."

And while that might have deterred a less savvy ICA-goer, I had experience in this arena. The first time Mac and I tried to go see a film there, I'd been the idiot who'd been unaware that tickets were required (yikes, I'm starting to see a pattern).

In my defense, most Afrikana Film events I'd been to before that hadn't required tickets. Still, I'm an idiot.

But Mac and I had gone anyway and learned that because the tickets are free, some people inevitably claim them and then don't show up. I told Mr. Wright and the woman at the front desk of the ICA that our plan was to occupy the seats held by unused ticket holders.

Worked like a charm and boom, we had second row seats, just a few down from Style's jazz critic and his posse.

Introducing Rex and the band was RVA music supporter extraordinaire Tim Timberlake (hey, D!)who correctly pointed out what an all-star line-up it was. Backing Rex were Brian Jones on drums, Randall Pharr on bass, Trey Pollard on guitar and J.C. Kuhl on saxophone, musicians I've seen dozens of times and will never tire of hearing.

Rex seemed impressed by the auditorium space, mentioning multiple times how great the space was and how gratified he was to see a sold-out crowd. Pshaw, as much as the man plays out all around the world, he was probably being modest since I'm guessing sold out venues are a frequent thing for him.

The performance was only an hour, but when the talent is that good, you take what they offer. Meanwhile, a cadre of students photographed and/or videotaped every moment for posterity, moving 360 degrees around the musicians for the best possible shots.

When Rex was introducing "The Tao of Heavy D," he mentioned that there was a good story behind it, but he wasn't telling it tonight. "One of these days, you're going to tell that story," sax player J.C. admonished him.

The band played several songs off Rex's "Blue Shift" album, including songs by Brian and Randall, and of course himself.

When the set finished up and Rex thanked us, Carlos of In Your Ear Studios - the studio sponsors the series - got up and asked the crowd if they wanted another one. When the room erupted, he responded, "I knew that!"

Speaking of his admiration for Wayne Shorter, Rex said they were going to do his "See No Evil," though he couldn't do it like Wayne, so they'd do it in a different time signature. "Here's 'See No Evil' in 7/4!" he said, clearly pleased with himself. "We'll see how this goes."

You want to know how it went? Magnificently, beautifully. Between the acoustics and the talent performing, you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone looking at their cell phone (okay, except a couple of students I spotted). Everyone there knew they were in the presence of musical magic and focused their attention on the here and now.

Walking out of the auditorium, I ran into a favorite couple, long married and very happy, I hadn't seen in months. Explaining my absence, I admitted that since meeting Mr. Wright, I've had little time for some of my former pastimes.

"Yea, relationships take a lot of time," she confirmed with a big smile. "But you deserve it. And you look radiant!"

Not bad for a woman who came to bat with a lifetime of strikes behind her.

The Life You Choose

We're going to have to start calling me a very bad blogger.

Believe me, I started out with all good intentions at the beach last week. Then, as four guests were replaced by one bearing flowers, time became a precious commodity and blogging was replaced by endless oceanfront conversations.

When I got back Sunday, I barely had time to shop for and make Boursin-stuffed mushrooms (Pru's suggestion, natch) to take to a South African wine tasting patio party at Beckham and the Beauty's house.

The wines - souvenirs from their month-long honeymoon - were fabulous, starting with a magnum of Waterford Estate Sauvignon Blanc we agreed we could have sipped right through until sunrise. For something completely different, next came a viognier, Bloemcool Skilpadrug, particularly appealing because it was made at Fairview, a winery I'd also visited, as was Fairview Broken Barrel Red Blend boasting Petite Sirah, Tempranillo, Tannat and Shiraz and pretty much an ideal pairing with our host's obscene Derby pie.

It hasn't helped that my week away at the beach meant that I had double the deadlines to meet this week, not to mention housecleaning, grocery shopping and all the other business of life to re-establish life in the city. The satisfaction I achieved mopping the floors of a week's worth of pollen (via open windows) alone was worth the time spent on menial labor, though I probably should have been writing.

Monday meant a trip to the Byrd House, aka the Graduate rooftop bar, where the view of the Jefferson Hotel is nothing short of breathtaking and you can all but look down on the Manchester Bridge like an osprey might. My favorite planner and I followed that with dinner at Saison Market surrounded by the raucous and the comedic, not that we paid attention to any of them.

When Tuesday rolled around, it was girlfriend time, so Mac and I headed to Rapp Session for smoked bluefish dip, Old Saltes and a catch-up session. Not long into the conversation, she said that she'd been reading the blog, saying it was blatantly obvious how happy I sounded, even going so far as to point her finger down her throat for smiling emphasis.

This is especially funny because if you knew Mac, you'd know she's the kindest person in the world. So while she made clear she's terribly happy for me, she couldn't resist doing it with teasing.

The thing is, I knew I'd been sounding deliriously happy going into beach week, but I wasn't expecting others to notice. And now, after a much anticipated reunion, I'm not fit to blog about anything but how unbelievable it is that I find myself in this enviable position.

Truly, madly, deeply happy and with a forecast of lots more to come. Let's get real here, I'm far too effusive and annoying to blog right now and not bore people with how wonderful my life is.

While being introduced to Pru's dog-walker, she mentioned the euphoric state of my love life, causing the woman to unexpectedly congratulate me. I thanked her, but explained that it had been a challenging, convoluted path to wind up where I am now.

Her response was immediate. "Was it worth it?" was all she wanted to know.

Completely doesn't begin to cover it. I would have done whatever it took to get to this place at this time.

See how obnoxious I am? Truly sorry, it cannot be helped. As Lady G likes to say, I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

Post-Serenade Unctuous Notes

Apparently, there's a presumption that I'm always up for something.

How else to explain three last minute invitations from friends of wildly varying degrees in one evening?

After spending the day at my parents' house, some of it watching the memory lapse-laden testimony of our Attorney General - I kissed them goodbye and headed out the door after his 37th bogus "I don't recall" - I got home to a phone message from an out of town friend and a FB message from an in-town friend.

This is a long shot, but I was thinking of grabbing a bite in your 'hood soon.

Since I had two tickets to an early performance and no date, I welcomed the chance to share music with a musician, inviting X-tina to join me, after which we could have that bite in the 'hood she was desperately seeking.

Driving to the Virginia Holocaust Museum for its 20th Anniversary concert, we discovered that neither of us had ever been to the museum, despite both being interested in doing so and the museum having been open since 2003. Tonight was not the night to do it (the exhibits were closed), so we made plans to make that happen so we can hold our heads up as worthy Richmond culture mavens.

Walking into the Choral Synagogue Auditorium, I would guess we were in the non-Jewish minority, although unlike that time I went to a lecture at the Jewish Community Center, no one approached me to guess, "You're not Jewish, are you?" like they had there.

Seated in the front row were Holocaust survivors while in our section, it was more about older people kvetching until historian Charles Sydnor took to the lectern to welcome us with a moving speech about silence signaling consent and the importance of speaking out against racism and intolerance. Sadly, there were far too many eerie parallels to today.

Next came Tony Morcos, whose great aunt had been a violinist until she was killed in a concentration camp, although she'd handed off her violin - now known by her nickname, Nettie - to a safekeeper before being arrested. That violin was to be played tonight, all these years later, as part of the performance, but first he showed old photographs of his great aunt, often with her violin in hand, and their family during happier times.

I particularly liked one of her with her hot jazz trio, looking very modern and hip.

Performing were the Richmond Symphony's Jocelyn Vorenberg on violin and David Fisk on piano doing works by Jewish composers whose work had been suppressed or banned during the Nazi regime. Surprisingly, for work made during such a dark period, much of it was uplifting, light and beautiful and in the case of "Serenade '42" by Robert Dauber (who died at 20), almost Gershwin-like.

The entire performance was wondrous, watching these two musicians perform against a backdrop of an elaborate, arched, gold, altar-like bema in a high-ceilinged two-story room where the sounds of their instruments seemed to float heavenward as they played music no one had heard live for decades, if ever.

Saying, "You can't end the evening without "Schindler's List," the duo closed out with the heart-wrenching piece and took their final bows.

Even the speeches afterward were moving (Fisk saying, "When words fail, there is music"), with reminders that being Jewish is a cultural identification as much as religious and one with Jewish soul at the heart of its music. X-tina was tearing up and I was feeling privileged to have witnessed such a touching reminder, musical and spoken, of a hideously dark period.

Rather than staying for the reception - because did it really need two non-Jewish, unmarried women? - we made our way back to J-Ward and Saison Market so X-tina could have the burger she'd been craving and I could dive into a bowl of chicken wings with smoked jalapeno and charred pineapple rub. Fernet with ginger was icing on the cake while we commiserated about our love lives and debated the appeal of difficult men.

Not that I have one in my life, unless you look at my wider circle. Although really, in order to rate as a friend, there has to be frequent contact and shared adventures, not to mention hours of conversation. I can't see where I have any male acquaintances who qualify there, so my difficulties will have to come from the most casual of relationships.

You can't end a blog post without a thinly veiled reference. Oh, can't you?

All That Glitters

On Richmond theater's high holy night, all I can do is dress up, walk five blocks and settle in for the show.

The scene: the November Theatre for the 10th anniversary of the Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards, aka the Artsies. To put that in perspective, the Artsies began on the cusp of the new world order: the year the first iPhone was available.

A non-event for me then and now, the difference being I am now a complete anomaly and not just one of the less connected.

A decade on, the Artsies involve blasts of smoke and confetti falling from the ceiling, the constant shrillness of screaming girls next to me (an unearthly pitch that hurt more than the noise of a punk show) and reminders to actors to limit their speeches to one minute.

Please, they're actors.

As it turned out, that was a non-issue because one presenter and eight winners weren't in attendance for a variety of reasons - just moved to NYC, at a rehearsal, couldn't find a sequined tux - so the show just moved along.

Some non-attendees planned ahead, so when "In the Heights" won best musical direction, a stand-in could share, "If you know Ben Miller, you won't be surprised that he sent words to read." Nope, no surprise there.

One of the most hilarious moments came early on when the lovely and talented Georgia Rogers Farmer took the stage to such thundering applause that she had to curtsy and wait for the crowd to settle down, "Please!" she squeaked with her mega-watt smile over an absolutely gorgeous dress, "I'm a professional!"

Cut to row F, seat 5, where I am sitting next to Melissa Johnston Price's best friend from college and in front of Alexander Sapp, tonight's big winner, it turns out.

Having marveled at just about every performance he's ever done, I shouldn't be surprised that he plays an audience member with everything he's got, making him among the loudest at applauding and shouting affirmations when nominees are announced and winners called to the stage.

When he won Best Supporting Actor, he dazzled the crowd with well-deserved praise for the local theater scene, warning newcomers that, "People who come here from New York or Chicago, L.A. or Terre Haute, you better bring your "A" game!"

It was positively inspiring.

Proving that he was worthy of being part of the cast who won Best Acting Ensemble (for "Toxic Avenger," with the entire cast wearing some shade of toxic green) for more than superior acting skills, when Dean Knight won Best Leading Actor (along with the stellar Jeremy Morris for "Top of Bravery") and began praising such unsung heroes as stage managers, Sapp called out, "Dean, you classy guy!"

He then showed his own classy guy cred by praising the other nominees when he won best actor, but only after saying, "Holy shit! Thanks, Richmond, I'm in love with you!"

It's mutual, I'm sure.

Cut to jokes about the longevity of actors in this town - Jill Bari Steinberg admitted to 39 years in theater and Michael Hawke (who couldn't resist tossing out, "Trump is still an asshole!") to 50 years, and you have some idea of how theater talent can thrive here.

When Grey Garrett won best actress in a supporting role for a play for "Rabbit Hole," she immediately began singing the praises of getting to ask a Pulitzer Prize-winning author questions about his play as the cast worked on it.

Cut to Debra Wagoner winning best actress in a leading role/musical for her masterful turn in "The Toxic Avenger" and bringing it down to earth by saying her feet hurt and her contacts were dried out and it had been 10 years since she stood up there to say thank you. Too long.

When Dawn Westbrook won the same award but for a play ("Grand Concourse") she began by saying, "I have just two words: TheatreLab!" and praised the upstart company to high heaven. She then assured the people who had seen the play that the cat was alive and doing great (significant because in the play, it had died due to neglect).

When Nathaniel Saw won for best direction/musical for "In the Heights," he seemed genuinely touched. "This marks one year of me being in Richmond. Thanks for welcoming me into this beautiful community!"

Of all the unexpected presenters, our former first lady, Anne Holton, showed up to deliver the awards for best play and musical (after some mild ribbing about how it feels to lose to a narcissist) to "Grand Concourse" and "In the Heights."

As another year of Richmond theater was brought to a close, all the glamorous people headed across the street to Quirk to celebrate while I made my way home to change out of glitz and into everyday to meet an old friend from D.C. for conversation and laughs, always lots of laughs.

Seven years we've been friends and he still waits until the last minute to alert me that he'll be in town, so I can't help but razz him about that.

I found him in a dark corner at GWAR Bar eating, but convinced him it would be far more pleasant to be outside in the warm, humid October night than in the frigid air conditioning with heavy metal screaming from the speakers. The windows were dripping with condensation from the contrast inside and out.

Call me a good salesman, but it was an easy sell.

Apparently we weren't the only ones looking for night air because Saison Market's patio was full, so we settled for an indoor table until a prime spot opened up outside.

I'll give him this much: he's a master with words (and likes to tell me that he gives better words than any man I know) and not at all shy about teasing me about my "gentlemen callers," as he likes to call this non-existent group, among whom he counts himself.

But his best line came about during a discussion of his older brother, with whom he has a fractious relationship these days.

"I'm the last person to talk to about norms, but I do know what a norm is," he claimed, despite hours discussing the freelancer life we both live. Can't say that I do, but I'm also decades into being non-norm.

Please, I'm a professional.

Hard to Handle

How do you blog  about your innocuous Saturday when white supremacist terrorists are mowing down peaceful protesters an hour away?

The same way a person deals with any of the unpleasantness of life - heartbreak, sickness and death of a loved one, natural disaster - I would guess, so any way you can.

When I left for my walk, I knew several friends were in Charlottesville as part of the resistance to the rally, but other than observations that some brawling had been happening, they seemed to think things were going well.

Walking down Fifth Street, I passed two motorcycle guys in leather vests dragging a cooler up the hill. When I commented that surely the load was lighter coming up than it had been going down, the one with the vest marked "chaplain" offered me (and a family exiting their SUV) bottles of cold water from his cooler (thereby proving that even heathens can benefit from a chaplain's ministrations).

Friday night's rain meant that some of the more elaborate spiderwebs on Brown's Island were dotted with raindrops, looking luminescent and lacy in the partly cloudy light.

I wasn't surprised to see how un-populated the pipeline was with just one guy fairly far ahead of me. What did surprise me was when he stopped, turned and began shooting photos of the pipeline where yours truly just happened to be walking.

For a nanosecond, I thought I was being smart by passing him, but now I'm not so sure.

Under a massive rock stood two men off to the side and submerged far enough that they looked to be naked, with the nearby rapids splashing water on their bodies. Ever the art historian, it looked to me like a study for Frederick Bazille's "Summer Scene."

Climbing out on to the rocks to put my feet in the water, the scent of men's cologne wafted toward me, although I couldn't see another person around. But it persisted and a while later, I saw a quartet of kayakers paddling downstream. One even waved at me.

As I was waving back, I couldn't help but wonder if one of these guys had decided to bathe in cologne before shooting the rapids this morning. Maybe what I'd been smelling had been traveling across river and not island.

Walking home along Broad Street, I overheard a young woman tell another that a state of emergency had been declared and her friend, busy texting, asked, "Why?" in a completely uninterested way. Clearly more had happened in Charlottesville since I'd left.

As I breezed through Jackson Ward, I spotted a family standing on a corner, clearly looking for help, so I offered my services. All the nice Australian tourists wanted was a lunch suggestion and preferably someplace their three young sons would be happy and I delivered three options.

They voiced their gratitude but offered me no "G'day, mate" as I walked on.

Facebook gave me all the unpleasant updates, although when people began posting video of the neo-Nazi driving into the crowd of counter protesters, I had no stomach for watching such a thing. Seeing photographs of people flying in the air as the car hit them was horrific enough for me.

I was most interested in reading the accounts of people I knew who were there, but just as compelling was the online commentary by my friends of color. I don't think there's any doubt that if a black group had organized this rally, the police presence would have been far larger and more proactive.

Sadly. At least none of my friends had been hurt.

I wasn't sorry to turn off my computer and go eat in service of my hired mouth while discussing the day's mayhem with a like-minded sane person. It seems forever ago that dinner dates didn't have to involve a rehash of whatever the latest can-you-believe-it-scenario-of-the-day is.

We decided to drown our sorrows on the patio at Saison where we acted as the clean up crew, finishing off bottles by having the last two glasses of a Jura bubbly before doing the same with a Willamette Valley Rose.

"Well, if we didn't, who would?" my date inquired, tongue firmly in cheek. Isn't that the staff's job?

Next to us was a guy with his adoring dog Jada Boo (who wasn't above snapping at a stranger) and on the other end, a trio of tattooed young women discussing all the things the men they've gone out with don't know.

The night isn't long enough for that subject to be exhausted, ladies.

Because today had been a difficult one in terms of where our country seems to be, it only made sense to spend the last of it laughing, so we rounded the corner from Saison and went to Comedy Coalition's late show.

If long form improv by the most senior members of the comedy troupe can't distract you for a while, you may as well call it a day. But it did and before long we were laughing at all of it and, for one bit where the guys slipped into a pretend language, so were the comedians.So hard they couldn't talk.

The bit was funny but their reactions were funnier.

It was a good thing, too, because I arrived home to read that people had died yesterday because of the rally over white supremacy. That was sobering news to learn.

It's difficult to process everything that happened in Charlottesville, but personally, today changed my mind. Up until now, I still thought that context could allow the statues on Monument Avenue to stand, probably because no art geek wants to lose public sculpture.

Wrong, so, so wrong. Those statues need to be relocated to someplace where only people who choose to view them can do so. They have no place on any street in our city.

If calling a statue-less street Monument Avenue bothers you, then let's replace the losing white men sculptures with some celebrating our non-white past (say, Gabriel Prosser, John Lewis or John Jasper and for heaven's sake, some women) and begin to unite as a city.

Before going to bed, I sat on the balcony and admired my lone moonflower in the near-darkness. It feels impossible to take anything for granted anymore when normal changes so often.

Only resistance remains a constant now.

When You're Home

When you can't vacation, staycation.

For the first time since, I don't know, the early '90s, I won't be on vacation for the week of July fourth. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird.

So in an effort to make the most of being stuck in the city when most of the population bugs out, I'm trying to do things almost as pleasurable as vacation, except I'm still sleeping in my own bed at night.

I'm also not waiting until Saturday to begin doing it.

So after luring a willing walker to join me by the river this morning, I suggested a road trip, although without sharing its destination. We hopped in the car and he obligingly followed my directions, moving toward lower elevations and, as he put it, more sky.

I love that sense you get as you head past cornfields and boat dealers toward sea level and any sense of far ground disappears, leaving trees in the foreground but only the promise of water behind it.

Getting out of the car, he asked incredulously, "How do you know places like this?" Please.

It was an absolutely lovely day to find a table under the canopy at Merroir and spend the afternoon watching boats come and go from the marina, marveling at the changing bands of color on the river and sipping Vino Verde.

If that's not enough to evoke time away from home, I don't know what is.

For my companion, it was an especially interesting sojourn because he's never been much of a seafood eater, having only recently tried mussels for the first time.

Today was the equivalent of a hat trick since we shared crab and vegetable soup (the vegetables tasting like pure summer), smoked cobia salad with pickled cauliflower, butter lettuce and grilled bread and, most impressively, Old Salte oysters.

You know a guy is completely under the spell of the setting (sparkling company?) when he's willing to slurp bivalves for the first time.

We'd barely finished ours when the two couples seated behind us got theirs. They'd already proved themselves worthy as they debated what their first bottle of wine should be when one of the two women announced, "Let's begin with the better bottle since we won't know the difference later."

Eating through their oyster sampler - Rapphannocks, Rochambeaus and Old Saltes - one guy finished the latter and decided, "That's like licking a salt lick!"

Well, you know given my affection for Old Saltes, I had to couch his feelings in more positive terms, so I swung around and explained that, no, it's not salt lick-like, it's like being knocked down by a wave and getting a mouthful of saltwater.

"I never would have come up with those words, but you're right," he said, sounding vaguely amazed. No big deal, sir, I traffic in words.

They then ordered a second dozen, this time all Rappahannocks. Wimps.

Best of all, Merroir wasn't crowded so we felt zero guilt about lingering while we talked about overuse and inappropriate use of quotation marks (If you break a "plate," you will be charged $1.00), our initial sailing experiences (very different) and oyster farming (this was before he saw the oyster chart in the men's room).

Granted, it wasn't sitting on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, but it was no afternoon in the city, either.

We could have lingered hours longer, but one of us had early plans tonight (his were later), so we hit the road before we were ready to give up the gorgeous tableau in front of us. After a crash caused us to have to detour on the way home, we arrived 12 minutes after a friend was to have picked me up at home.

Oops. Luckily, Pru was smart enough to amuse herself until I belatedly made my appearance.

We dished (more accurately, a post-vacation debrief) while I got cleaned up and changed before strolling over to Saison Market for dinner. It's my third time there in five days, not that there's anything wrong with that, but we wound up eating inside because all the outside tables had been claimed on such a lovely day.

Our meal was prelude to seeing Virginia Rep's new production of "In the Heights," a big deal because it's Lin-Manuel Miranda's award-winning pre-"Hamilton" musical.

And we weren't the only ones stoked for it judging by the buzz in the room and sold out house on a Thursday night.

And with good reason. The talented cast wowed the crowd with stellar singing, dancing and acting that brought this rapidly-gentrifying corner in Washington Heights to life against a set that evoked a NYC streetscape with the blinking George Washington bridge in the background.

Despite the large size of the cast, only the handsome Josh Marin was familiar (as Benny), and seeing so many out-of-town faces only increased the sense that I was seeing a play somewhere other than Richmond.

Because sometimes when you're on vacation, you want to relax by the water. Other times, you just need a bit of culture.

And when you're on staycation, sometimes you get both in the same day.

As Pru commented tonight, "It must be exhausting to be you."

When it is, there's always the low-hanging fruit of a vacation staycation nap to tide a girl over. Maybe tomorrow...

Speaking the Same Language

The transition can be tricky.

Saturday was a practically perfect last day at the beach. Blue skies, clouds of every type and temperatures that never felt unpleasantly hot would have been sufficient to ensure a good time but when you add in an ocean temperature of 67 degrees, well, it was almost like someone ordered up a fabulous finish to my week.

And while it was a two nap-day (I make no excuses), we managed a nice long walk in the morning and an hour in the ocean at low tide before deciding that what we needed was to move camp (one umbrella, two chairs) to the water's edge and finish out the day there admiring the bands of ocean colors: olive, aquamarine, sea green and dark blue.

In the laid back spirit of the day, we went no further for dinner than the local raw bar where I decimated a half dozen blue crabs while we eavesdropped on the two guys next to us, one of whom seemed bent on establishing his drinking cred.

This is what happens to me, man. With three Long Island ice teas, I'm out and with four, I'm speaking another language.

Hmm, seems like it should be the other way around.

For the first time in the many decades I've been vacationing at the beach, I got up at the crack of dawn (7:05) Sunday so that I could take my walk on the beach before having to check out at 10 a.m. Who knew there would be so many people out walking and fishing at that hour?

It's always sad closing up the cottage and knowing it'll be another year before I'm back in it. Sure, I'll be back at the beach in July, but not in this magical space. It's like a friend noted as we luxuriated in our beach afternoon, "It's hard to accept that all this goes on when we're not here to experience it."

The drive home Sunday was pleasant enough - it should be noted that while I stopped at Granby Farm Market, I did not bother to stop at Gale Force Guns - with my favorite beach radio station entertaining me with bands like the Secret Sisters and their gorgeous harmonies on "He's Fine."

The problem with being ripped from the beach and set down in the city is that nothing can replace the sound of waves 24/7. I'm a city girl and I love my apartment, my neighborhood and my town, but I go through some fierce beach withdrawal when I first get home.

To the rescue was a fellow beach lover (or should I say beach convert?) who showed up with a bottle of Nero d'Avola and a desire for conversation.

We ambled over to Saison Market for dinner - fried chicken, Bibb lettuce salad - where the patio was full and I ran into a couple of favorite beer geeks waiting for their fried chicken dinners (it was Sunday night).

We settled at a high table to admire and dissect the Virginia map on the wall until our meal came, drinking Eden Imperial 11 Rose, easily the funkiest (as in barnyard, like a good stinky cheese) tasting and most tannic cider I've had. That it was served to us by a woman named Eden was icing on the cake.

Although nothing replaces the sounds and sights of the ocean, we made do quite well on my balcony, where a steady breeze ruffled the nearby treetops and the music inspired observations about guitars and guitar collecting from the bearer of the Nero d'Avola, who also claimed to have conjured up the unusually pleasant weather to welcome me home.

If I had to come back to the city, I couldn't have asked for a better reentry evening. Seems that transitions aren't so tough with the right welcoming committee.

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.

Cherish the Light Years

Director of Vibe, now there's a job I could excel at.

In many ways, I suppose I already am my own director of vibe - I do, after all, curate everything about my life from music played to routes taken to gathering a group that has come to be known as "my people" - but only now am I learning that there are restaurants who hire such a person.

Joe Blow
Director of Vibe
Such a business card could open doors.

As director of my personal vibe, rather than getting upset or worried when a lunch date is tardy, I embrace a make-the-most-of-it vibe, planting myself on the sunny front porch of the house and taking in the 65-degree air while the sunshine warms me to the bone.

How better to chat with passersby and await his eventual arrival?

Once he does and we're strolling through a wildly windy Jackson Ward to Mama J's, the vibe shifts to familiar and teasing because while this is the second time we've met up in 11 days, prior to that it had been a year and a half. This is partly attributable to him living across state lines (sounds almost dangerous, right?), but also to some adjustments in his personal life.

When he mentions having just seen a good friend of mine, I joke that he's gone from one opinionated woman to another. "Oh, you're way more opinionated than she is," he assures me before clarifying that strong women hold all the appeal, a sentiment I appreciate hearing.

We're a most unlikely pair at Mama J's because it's his maiden voyage and I've been dozens of times but neither fact compromises our pleasure vibe as we swoon over Mama's incomparable fried catfish, pork chops both fried and baked, the signature seafood pasta salad and collard greens that spark a debate.

I find the greens positively perfect in flavor and texture, as always, while he's not ready to concede that fact. Granted he's a long-time food writer, but I've had these greens plenty and I've compared them to others so I know they're standouts.

He tries to explain that for him, there are three sub-categories of greens: traditional long-cooked with pig, contemporary interpretations that lean toward crisp and vinegary and a variation he calls "modern southern" that falls somewhere in between.

Potato, patahto, let's just call them delicious and move on to just as important a topic: how sweet a corn muffin should be. The two of us could do this all day and night. Despite having grown up in the same county, not all our flavor profiles would overlap on a Venn diagram

A good Mama's vibe necessarily includes a fat slice of homemade cake and my visitor chooses buttercream, but the cake itself is as dense as a pound cake and the buttercream a half inch thick, so we barely make a dent in it. Now he's got a souvenir of our afternoon, not that I expect it'll last long.

Our conversation has a lot to do with the differences in Washington and Richmond, with our relaxed vibe and extensive yet accessible and affordable scene posing an even greater allure for him now that he's less encumbered by situation. Being the saleswoman for the city I am, I wasn't the least bit shy about extending the welcome vibe to the point of discussing neighborhoods he should consider and why.

Despite my lack of cheerleading chops, I am a spirited booster rooting for everyone to consider a move here.

Walking back along Clay Street, we see what the mighty wind has wrought in our absence: much scattered debris and branches down everywhere, including what looks like half a tree atop a car. I come home to a message from a friend," This wind is no joke. I feel like god is trying to communicate something."

Some of us are hoping they're just winds of change.

I have only to do an excruciating interview with a space cadet (so many platitudes, so little to say) before curating my next vibe with a favorite girlfriend I haven't seen since early December. Walking over to Saison Market, she regales me with a gory tale of how since we last met, she sliced her finger using a mandolin to make scalloped potatoes and wound up with five stitches.

But we've come to talk blood and guts of a different sort.

We've come for opinion swapping and updates on each other's lives, accompanied by a bit of wine, fried Brussels sprouts with goat cheese, fennel and coriander (too much cheese, I opine, while she insist she's never uttered those words because such a thing is impossible) and meaty pastrami spare ribs over a vinegary red slaw.

Alternating seems to be the best way to cover the past seven weeks efficiently, so we volley back and forth - the Women's March in D.C., my trip to California, watercolor classes, plays seen, the appeal of new friends, dealing with old friends, welcome and unwelcome visitors, life, love and chocolate.

The vibe is convivial and familiar with an '80s soundtrack of the Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Split Enz. She and I have traded in these types of in-depth conversations for two decades now and it's become increasingly essential that we keep each other abreast of where the bodies are buried.

Somebody will need to know.

Before we can get to dessert, her beloved texts that they are still without power at home so he wants to meet her for dinner at Joe's Inn in Bon Air. Just like that, our outing winds down with the expectation that it will resume next week exactly where it left off.

If only all relationships worked that way. If we stop here, then we begin exactly here next time, with no period of reacquaintance necessary. Such tactics result in getting to the buried secrets so much more naturally.

Little was required from me to direct the vibe for the rest of the evening because company and location mostly did the job for me. I'd bought a ticket to see Cold Cave at Strange Matter back before Christmas and only a couple of days ago spontaneously invited a fellow music lover to join me for some deliciously millennial neo-'80s.

No, really, that's how I sold it to him. And he bit.

By design, I suggested Ipanema for a pre-show glass because the dim, low-ceilinged room is an ideal place to start the conversational ball rolling, not that that's been an issue at our meet-ups. Rapport came easily from the first.

Arriving first and snagging a prime seat at the head of the bar, I overhear the two young women behind me discussing life.

I'm so glad I'm in a relationship again. I'm a shit show when I'm single, out of control! I need to know I'm in a relationship to behave.

So much I could offer there. But before I could whirl around and share some older woman experience on that subject, a friend stopped by to say hello and share that he and his girlfriend had split up, a fact I hadn't known. Asking if it was mutual, he grimaced. "Well, look at her and look at me, so, no, not really. It's best for her, though and we're still friends."

My words were probably inadequate, as they tend to be when someone is clearly still hurting, but it was then that my friend showed up, shifting the vibe from casual social empathy to the pleasures of pre-music sipping and banter among a crowd full of others headed to the same dark place.

We walked into Strange Matter - the handwritten yellow sign on the door screamed "sold out!!" - where he took one look at the crowd and decided he was dressed wrong. But honestly, did he have anything suitable for watching L.A.'s Drab Majesty, a two-piece led by an androgynous singer in a space-age tunic with shocking Warhol-like white hair and kabuki-style make-up with black points above and below his eyes?

I'm not sure he did. Suspecting as much, I hadn't even tried.

The band's sound was equal parts Flock of Seagulls and New Order with liberal sprinkles of Goth darkness and played at a volume that probably should have had me reaching for the ear plugs in my bag, but didn't. What it did have me doing was moving in place non-stop, wishing there'd been room to really dance.

With no effort on my part beyond a ticket purchase, here I was part of a solid retro '80s vibe that spoke to an entire decade of music I'd loved the first time around.

Standing behind me, my friend leaned in and whispered, "How did you hear about this show?" Pshaw. My people know that at any given time, I often have the dirt on, if not the most compelling stuff going on, certainly something worth experiencing. That said, I also have a bad tendency to just make plans to go alone when I could be more mindful of inviting company to join me.

Cold Cave, the reason for the evening, came out and took the volume down just a notch, but kept us solidly in the '80s groove with leader Wesley's darkwave take on synth pop performed against a backdrop of changing images, words ("People are poison") and pulsating light shows.

Coming from a  hardcore background as he does (and which you could feel in his black leather-jacketed quasi-menacing performance style), we could have heard far more nods to Nine Inch Nails than we did, but mainly it was Depeche Mode and Joy Division influences front and center as they sucked in the electronica and goth-loving crowd.

On a night where the temperature had been steadily plummeting since I'd walked in shorts this morning, S'Matter still managed to wind up a sweaty, hot mess before Drab Majesty had even finished their set.

I marvel at how a venue can be stifling hot in both summer and the dead of winter. First I shed my coat, then my scarf, then my outermost shirt, yet still I glowed. And it's not like I run hot or anything 'cause it's gotta be stinkin' hot before you see me start disrobing.

The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to settle in again at Ipanema, where the bartender welcomed us back by pouring more wine, while others from the show straggled in and we dove down the conversational hole.

By that point in my evening, the vibe once again established itself based solely on fine company and the cozy setting so truthfully, there wouldn't have been much a director of vibe could do to improve either.

Correcting a matter of semantics, perhaps, but who's up to to clarifying definitions at 1:30 a.m.? Even opinionated women have been known to get caught up when good vibes abide.

Deep Calling Unto Deep

We must allow time tonight to revisit our discussion of the mayoral race given the withdrawal of the preferred candidate.

It's certainly been a heated topic of conversation all day long - at least for the scores of creative types and artists I know - after having our mellows harshed last night when our best chance at a truly good mayor evaporated when Jon Baliles fell on his sword to help prevent the election going to the pedophile.

Great, just great, now we're left with the slimy corporate sell-out complete with facial hair affectation or the pre-fab (just add water and watch him grow) come-here unable to speak beyond spouting the party line.

Sigh.

But since we already had plans to see a play, there was no reason not to spend some quality conversational time on the state of the mayor's race, among other things, when we met for dinner at Saison Market.

I'd been given my instructions to order for both of us if I arrived first - "based on our previous dining experiences, I know you have good taste" - but I didn't, so ordering temporarily fell by the wayside once I did walk in, self-identifying hibiscus blossom in hand.

The problem is that once you start examining a topographic map with a geologist is that before you know what hit you, you'll be knee-deep in igneous and metamorphic rock formations, so busy talking that by the time you order, there's about 20 minutes remaining to inhale a whole lot of food.

I'm talking pork pozole, warm and spicy; spirited seafood escabeshe of shrimp, fluke, mussels, carrots, radishes and jalapenos with hushpuppies; addictive fried brussels sprouts; and cast iron cornbread for good measure.

Someone's eyes were bigger than our minimal dinner time slot, that's all I'm saying.

In reality, the problem was not so much the short window to eat as it was all the topics that kept burbling up to the surface as we kept focusing on conversation rather than chewing.

All I can say is, good thing the theater was barely a block away. Even so, we were those people picking up tickets at 7:58 and sliding into our seats moments before Cadence Theatre's production of "John" began.

The elaborate set of the downstairs of a fussy and fusty Victorian-looking B & B set the scene for a play about how difficult it is to communicate effectively, much less ever really know someone.

But, as one character put it looking around at the object-filled cutesy rooms, it was also the "tragedy of the bed and breakfast."

Along the way, a blind woman explained why she'd committed herself to an institution ("The thing about being crazy is, it can also all be true"), another raved about "the great Ferlin Husky" as if everyone recognized the name (I did, but that's not the point) and a whiny millennial couple dealt with the unraveling of their relationship.

Where the play shone was in the completely believable language between the characters, which sounded natural and unsure like actual conversation, rather than measured and assured like play-writing too often does.

One of the most beautiful moments came when the innkeeper explained that for amusement, she'd memorized the terms for collections of birds, the phrases rolling off her tongue like poetry.

A congress of crows
A troubling of hummingbirds
A colony of gulls
A siege of herons
A mustering of storks
A tiding of magpies
A wisdom of owls
A charm of finches
A cast of falcons
A raft of loons
An exaltation of larks...

Understandably, that last one had  been her favorite for the sheer joy it conveyed.

That this Obie Award and Drama Desk Award play ended with anything but a neat, happy ending only solidified its place as a story that hews closer to real life than a convenient tying up of loose ends into a pretty bow ever could.

Because whose life ever really works out that way?

Returning to Saison Market afterward for sherry, Rose and a final dissection of "John" also provided an opportunity to dig deeper on personal histories, Hull Street taquerias and life lessons learned while a warm rain fell steadily outside.

Although "John" had already taught us that you can't ever really know someone, to be human is to try, right?

All in all, an adventure full of exaltation...minus the larks and as charming as the finches.

Without Words

I know all of you wanted it, but I'm hating it already.

Fall, that is.

It hadn't even crawled into the '60s when I walked late this morning, not to mention that walking west meant walking into the wind, and, well, the humidity? So low as to make it feel even colder.

I just hope all you "Fall-is-fabulous" people are happy now because I'm already sweater and socks chilly.

Sure, I could start closing windows in my apartment, but I refuse to this early. Besides, I know Hurricane Matthew 's effects are going to be felt soon, so I'm hanging on with only screens separating me from the potentially soggy and humid beach weather on the horizon.

But when Mac and I walked to Saison Market for dinner and the Perfect Unpop happy hour, I was layered with a tank top under my dress and a sweater over it.

Positively tragic for October 6th.

After ordering food, I chose a Squirt soda (Mexican, so sugar not corn syrup) in a green glass bottle from the case out of sheer curiosity.

Squirt didn't seem familiar, but it also didn't seem completely unknown and one swig of the citrus-flavored drink did bring back tastes of various green bottled sodas of my youth.

Like the last time I was in the market, a fair amount of time was given over to the wall, where a riveting school map of Virginia with smaller maps - annual rainfall, number of freezes, settlement, population - surrounding it caused endless study and discussion.

Mac, ever the Orange County expert, explained why the foothills tended to be colder (because dolts like me don't automatically figure such things out), how big Orange used to be (hello, Kentucky) and where the Spottswood Trail was (proving again how informative maps are as visual aids).

Everything about our meal was stellar, from an earthy root vegetable salad of beets and carrots with bleu cheese, walnuts, frisee and chives in a shallot vinaigrette (a dish that inadvertently reminded me that, unlike its weather, I don't hate Fall vegetables) to pitch perfect (meaning not overly sweet) cast iron cornbread studded with peppers to killer chicken wings with a dry rub of Sechuan peppers that left both my lips and fingers all tingly.

Which was kind of true of my ears as well because everything about DJ Kenny's music was just as outstanding, as he played song after song that spoke to various times in my life whether I'd heard them before or not.

As I told his gorgeous partner, I can see why she fell for a man of his superior musical taste and selection skills.

I'd have happily stayed and listened to such fine music until we left for the play, but Mac desired a cocktail and Saison's new Fall cocktail menu wasn't going to drink itself.

That we had to move from the market to the restaurant to obtain for her the tequila and mezcal-based Rose Colored Glasses cocktail (notable for its smokey grace notes between agave and citrus) meant we lost a DJ-curated experience, but at least I ran into a favorite neighborhood couple for widely varying conversations.

With the social butterfly I talked about the great music on tap next door and why he needed to get over there.

With the homebody, the topic was the VCU lecture on the early gay student group and how the millennials in the audience had reacted to the subject (hint: without a clue).

Here's a  tip, kids: you can't apply a 21st century prism to events of the '70s. There, I've said it.

Because the universe can, that conversation turned out to be a natural lead-in to our next stop at Richmond Triangle Players for "Perfect Arrangement," a play that was as much a cultural history lesson as theatrical experience.

Further coincidentally, our seats were next to those of yet another favorite Jackson Ward couple and with them we talked neighborhood tenure (their 17 beat my 10), our community garden and upcoming neighborhood cleanup.

At its most basic, "Perfect Arrangement" told the story of two State department employees in 1950 when the department (and Joe McCarthy) was on a witch hunt for communists (Red Scare), followed by one for perverts and deviants (Lavender Scare), along with any loose women and persons of general turpitude.

That's a lot of people to round up, you know?

Being set in 1950 meant all the usual period details: shirtwaist dresses, crinolines, hats and gloves, but also foodstuffs ("You know I adore potted meat," which everyone finds hilarious including those of us who really do adore potted meat) and love of lard.

The set's living room was painted the exact same shade of pink as my own, not that I believe for a second that anyone painted their living rooms pink in 1950.

Okay, maybe two gay couples, one male, one female, married to the opposite sex for propriety's sake but really each living in closeted same sex relationships might have, but no one else.

Presumptions about gay men - that they read movie magazines and go to the opera - abounded, as did references to the play's Georgetown setting (Wisconsin Avenue for shopping, U Street for a butcher) and arcane mid-century phrasing ("We caught a lark" about deciding to do something on a whim).

Generalizations about women by men - even gay ones- stung ("Give a woman responsibility and her emotions are bound to pop up") while comments about women by women - even gay ones - resonated.

Explaining how impressed she was with targeted "loose woman" Barbara's self acceptance and attitude, Millie shares her reasoning. "That woman told me her age! Who does that?"

Who? A woman tired of deception about her life and sexuality and finally motivated to be honest about it so the shame can stop, or at least lessen to the degree it could have in 1950.

Let's not forget that's barely 30 years after women got the vote and 53 years before sodomy laws came off the books. It's hard to fathom now how prehistoric a time it really was.

One of the most poignant moments of many was a scene where one of the lesbians explained to her partner that she'd give up all the material comforts of her sham marriage just to be able to display pictures of her with her female partner.

Strikingly, even the gay men didn't understand that desire.

Jennifer Frank chewed scenery as Barbara, the loose woman and subject of State Department scrutiny, who let go with one of the finest truisms of the night.

"Regardless of the gender, good sex is hard to find and always worth fighting for." Amen and pass the cornbread.

When the play ended, the guy in front of me announced, "That's the best play I've seen in years." Next to me, my neighbor looked stunned, saying only, "Wow, that was really something." Mac concurred. "Man, that was good!"

Yet again, Richmond Triangle Players ably demonstated that if they didn't do it, who would?

"Perfect Arrangement's" strength was in shedding light on the dilemma of gay people during a deeply closeted period when every American was expected to follow the straight and narrow and some chose instead to stand up for their hearts.

Me, I was just thrilled that when we left the theater, it was noticeably warmer and more humid than when we'd come in or even when I'd walked this morning. Is it too much to be thrilled that this storm will bring a short reprieve from Fall?

My favorite lesbian wrote me today, firmly instructing, "No ripping for you at the beach this weekend, ok? Stay out of Matthew's sights and be safe."

To the surprise of no one who knows me, I intend  to revel in his warmth and wetness.

I know, I know. Who does that?

It's Only New Until It's Post

One of the more unlikely perks of being the upstairs tenant is being a fly on the wall to youth.

My living room windows are directly over the downstairs porch, so when the windows are wide open - as they've been for over a month and will be until practically Halloween - snippets of conversation from the guys downstairs waft up for my amusement.

Often it's music geek talk because they're all VCU students, musicians and spirited enough to want to discuss things passionately while dragging on cigarettes. A couple of days ago, I overheard bits of a conversation about post punk, but not enough to establish the direction of the conversation.

Naturally, the next time I walked by the porch to find them strumming and earnestly discussing, I stopped to clarify what they'd been talking about, namely whether they'd been discussing actual post-punk or the more recent post-punk revival.

When I asked, they got the same confused look they had when I'd asked how they felt about Prince dying: vagueness, a little confusion, curiosity at my interest.

Explaining the difference to them seemed to be as appallingly illuminating as when I'd ranted about why three guitarists should know Prince's place in the guitar pantheon. They knew nothing of the original post-punk movement. Nothing.

The lively conversation I'd overheard bits of centered entirely on the post-punk revival, that is, Interpol, Editors, Franz Ferdinand, all very much 21st century stuff. I'm shaking my head in disgust that that's as far back as their musical memory goes before realizing that they'd been about six or seven years old when those bands had hit.

To them, the revival is ancient history and the original post-punk era lumped in with that period when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

So I lectured the boys (yes, I'm calling them that) about Joy Division, Husker Du and the Waterboys, hoping to impress upon them how completely differently that music registered after short, fast and hard ruled. They nodded, but the names meant nothing to them. Hell, they didn't even know all the post-punk revival bands I threw out.

This is when I go on with life and give up trying to expand their horizons.

My date tonight was Pru, who arrived in time for a glass of Rose and a recap of recent events before we set out for dinner and a show. On the way out, we found a package cleverly hidden under the open-weave doormat downstairs (this is the UPS driver's pointless attempt at camouflage) and I delighted her by opening it on the spot.

It may be a while before I live that down.

At Saison Market, we took seats by the window with a view of street theater to eat Spring salads - proprly May-like with fresh peas, asparagus, charred Chevre, coriander vinaigrette, pea shoots - and a cheese plate with Meadow Creek Dairy "Grayson," sweet pecan crumbles, pickled ramps and whey on it. It was way good (lame, I know).

Tonight's theatrical entertainment was Cadence Theatre's "4,000 Miles," a play about generational adjustments when a 21-year old shows up in Greenwich Village to visit his fiercely independent 91-year old grandmother after riding his bike all the way from the West Coast.

He's every millennial cliche: bearded, unwilling to eat food that isn't locally sourced, eager to follow his unstructured path in life and it's only when he skims his dead grandfather's book on fighting the good fight for Communism that he gets a glimpse of what he's not.

"I thought I was non-cynical, but Grandpa took non-cynicism to another level," he says before offering his grandmother "a hug from a hippie," which, by the way, he was not. The concept of a hippie culture revival is laughable because of the movement's inability to exist outside of a specific time in cultural history, a fact that seems to have escaped playwright Amy Herzog.

There's no denying the satisfaction of seeing two generations separated by 70 years hit it off in small ways, whether it's smoking a joint together or discussing a shared admiration of Marx, but I have to question a 21-year old male character who tells his grandmother, "Stop, it's making me sick for you to talk about her body that way," when she suggests the woman could stand to lose a few pounds.

I have no reason to believe that those words ever came out of a 21-year old man's mouth, except when written by a woman.

Look, I've got years of experience with things men of all ages say and that one just doesn't sound likely to me. In fact, it sounds stilted and totally implausible.

Sorry, boys, I pre-date the original post-punk movement.  Shoot, I pre-date punk. I should know.

Highway to the Danger Zone

So, those 18 years of near daily walking? Paid off in spades by 10:30 this morning.

"You've got a badass walk," a guy informs me on Cary Street as I walk toward Can Can to have an apricot scone while my companion destroys a half baguette, the sausage of the day and a French Press.

Badass, you read that right.

Fittingly, I end the day with Mac, who never seems to have an umbrella on a rainy day (you have to appreciate a person's idiosyncrasies) despite prodigious walking skills but who doesn't mind borrowing or mocking one of mine (what's a few broken spokes between friends?).

Umbrellas in hand, we made it to Saison Market before the deluge was unleashed on J-Ward. There was an appropriately groovy alternative soundtrack while we ate the Springiest of Spring salads: asparagus, fresh peas, pea shoots, radishes, carrots, pickled onions and goat cheese lovingly drizzled with a practically perfect coriander vinaigrette.

Because how much help, really, do Spring vegetables need?

Fact is, I've been craving asparagus since spotting bunches of local Northern Neck asparagus on the counter at Ellen's store yesterday.

We followed our salads with oxtail sopas, which looked so enticing that a woman who sat down next to us asked what they were as if she might order them. Originally from Mechanicsville, she'd worked at an Applebee's there, which had proved to her that she needed to escape Mechanicsville ignorance and move into the city (her words).

A trip to the loo resulted in a memorization exercise when I flipped on the light switch and found the bulbs burnt out, but I only had to open the door once to determine the position of the essentials. Mac's subsequent visit benefited from me alerting the staff to the darkness problem and only then did I learn that the chalkboard wall in the loo had become a tribute to Prince. Sorry to have missed that.

I didn't even need the purple umbrella for the trek to The Basement, but the front had changed dramatically while we were eating, making it far cooler and drier than it had been pre-rain.

On Broad Street, we ran into some theater types "taking a walk" which they said was code for "sharing some gossip and talking about people," and isn't that one reason why having a walking buddy is essential sometimes?

Down the steps to the Basement we went, only to be greeted by the Prince station playing - although naturally there was no actual Prince music - but who's going to whine about Sheila E. and MJ?

My only complaint was when a Marvin Gay song came on and someone (Mags, was that you?) skipped it forward to Earth, Wind and Fire, whom I have nothing against (in fact, everything for) but seriously, no one at any time should ever be allowed to skip Marvin.

While the music was Purple-themed, the Basment's loo read, "Have you kissed a Canadian today?' with a drawing of a maple leaf beneath it. And you know what? I hadn't.

Tonight's comedy show was called "The Set Up" and featured four of Richmond Comedy Theatre's finest doing long-form improv on the set of TheatreLAB's current production of "Venus in Fur." For the uninitiated, this gave them access to a lounge chair (the kind psychiatrists had in their offices in Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies in the '50s and '60s), a desk, a radiator, two metal folding chairs and a fur coat.

Oh, yes, and a flip phone that was touted as a "brand new $800 Nokia phone" and got tons of laughs.

Using a bad Uncle Cracker song (redundant, I know) as a starting point, the first two actors took the lyric, "Swim through your veins like a fish in the sea" as their starting point for a riff on a shaky marriage ("I told you marrying me was a big mistake"), a Caddyshack-themed wedding ("Remember when the priest came out of the hole in the ground?") and a deluded attempt to arrange for more couple quality time to get the magic back by having their daughter kidnapped ("I have to come home every night and clean up my life!").

The crowd wasn't large but most everyone was doubled over with laughter watching masturbation under a fur coat and frustration with putting shoes on ("Double knots!").

Two people in the audience became part of the show with their non-stop commentary ("Oh, no, he did not just do that!") and reactions (hand slap to forehead, shaking head in disgust) as the drama and comedy unfolded.

Intermission gave everyone time to refill their glasses and give their face a rest from cracking up. Those of us huddled under a windbreaker were thrilled when the artistic director dialed back the A/C and put the warmth back in May.

For the second skit, the jumping off point was a song called "Nobody's Darlin' But Mine" - somebody in the audience's wedding song, awwww - with a line about, "Come lay your sweet head on my brow."

Somehow, this took us to the Founding Fathers' penchant for rye whiskey ("That's how they balled out") and getting the McGillicuddy contact ("Mama's gonna eat a lobster tonight!"). Maybe you have to be there to understand the transition, but it made perfect sense at the time.

What soon became clear was that when someone gets a grant to map the genome of a human squirrel, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to her injecting herself with squirrel venom containing squirrel genome.

The only problem with someone admitting, "I'm going to level with you, I'm 75% squirrel now," is that it also means they now have strong, furry thighs to climb a tree and that's not everyone's cup of tea (or bag of nuts).

With a cohabitation clause stipulating, "And they lived happily ever after" in her work contact, the squirrel woman finds out that contractually, she has to live in a tree with her coworker.

When he offers to inject himself with squirrel venom, she tells him, "I'm not attracted to squirrels," but she does sit him down to school him on what is and is not acceptable to say to squirrels.

She didn't mention it, but I'm pretty sure it's always okay to tell a human squirrel that she has a badass scamper. It's all in the furry thighs.

Footsteps in the Dark, Parts 1 & 2

Trust me, I can show a visitor from the county a real good time.

Step one: when they call on the way over, advise them to park the car because it won't be needed again until they head back to suburbia.

Step two: invite them up to your apartment to "see your newest pieces of art" (not a euphemism), marvel at the 9' ceilings and remark on the coziness of your bedroom.

Spotting a framed print with broken glass that mysteriously fell off the wall Christmas Eve when the Ghost of Christmas Past blew through, my guest insists on taking it to redo the glass for me. Everyone should have such a generous guest.

Favorite comment: "Your apartment is the antithesis of a suburban house." Oh, you noticed?

Step three: stroll over to Saison Market where the music is set to the Isley Brothers and "For the Love of You" is playing. This thrills me but the staff is debating how wise a choice it is. I assure them that anyone who walks out because of the Isleys is no customer they want and they take my word for it.

We make a meal of mussels in herbed white wine broth accompanied by piles of grilled Billy bread and one of the most artfully presented cheese plates I've seen in a while. Dried apple chips marched down a plate of Meadow Creek Mountaineer, piles of hazelnuts, Gruyere cheese straws, onion marmalade and, most intriguing of all, cider gel, while the cutest white-muzzled beagle stares at us from his perch outside the window facing us.

A couple of the guys from Richmond Comedy Coalition come in, not the first time I've seen them here given their theater's proximity to Saison, and we chat with our mouths full while the Isleys sing "Between the Sheets." Life is good.

A quick trip to the loo and I come back with a new philosophy from bathroom graffiti: Be the person Mr. Rogers thought you could be.

Working on it, every day, in every way.

Step four: backtracking to Steady Sounds to arrive early enough that we have time to browse the offerings at Blue Bones Vintage while upstairs, DJ Troy of Scorpio Brothers is playing his usual stellar soulful mix, somehow playing R & B songs you don't know but are nonetheless familiar.

While I can't be bothered with the racks of jeans or flannel shirts (although the cropped Geoffrey Beene plaid flannel is one for the ages), the dress and coat rack calls to me and before long, I'm trying on a full-length fur coat just for the hell of it.

There's already a section of white dresses, a nod to this year's all white Elby's theme. One very '20s-looking dress has a large portrait collar and a loose silhouette, much like something Zelda Fitzgerald would have worn.

If there's one color I can't wear, don't wear, it's white. Looks awful on me. And as the owner pointed out, it's not exactly slimming for anyone with a real figure. Count me out. As we discussed, a black and white theme a la Truman Capote, would have been far superior.

But there were other gems, one that looked like something a secretary in Manhattan in the '50s might have worn to her low-level publishing job and another that screamed French college student in the '60s, probably worn with knee socks.

Curiosity had me teasing a musician/DJ friend (and known homebody) I hadn't seen in months about his unexpected presence. Turns out today was his first post-snow day back at work and interacting with people had him feeling like a real person again. "So I decided to keep it going by coming out, plus it sounded interesting."

My thought exactly. Author and pop music critic Rashod Ollison's new book, "Soul Serenade: Rhythm, Blues and Coming of Age through Vinyl" had come out just two days ago and as Fountain Bookstore's owner told us, "The books still smell new."

I ask you, what reader doesn't love that new book smell?

Ollison was delightful to listen to and not just because of his Arkansas drawl and self-deprecating humility. He explained that his memoir tells the story of growing up with the soul records left behind by his Vietnam vet father ("A cold Miller in one hand and a Viceroy in the other") after he divorces his mother. "The connective thread in my dysfunctional family was music."

Son, you could have worse connective threads.

Explaining that even as a child, he could predict how things were going between his parents based on what music they were playing - some songs guaranteed a fight but, "Whenever Aretha was on, order was restored" - he went on to read a chapter to us before taking questions.

Needless to say, my date was among those in line to buy the book ("We'll share it") and have it signed while Troy went back to spinning soul.

So far, I was two for two in dazzling my suburban guest.

Step five: sauntering down Broad Street to the Basement, our book discussion gets a real world comparison when my guest shares a childhood anecdote. Seems you could guess how the family's night would go based on what Mom and Dad were drinking - gin meant fighting and probably no dinner, while bourbon made for a mellower night and hopefully dinner by 9.

So, loosely speaking, Aretha = bourbon.

We pass a guy who does a double take when he sees me. "Well, hey there!" he says, clearly surprised. He's one of the regulars I see on my walks but he's never seen me in anything but walking clothes. "You look very nice!" he says with a big smile.

I'm out on the town, don't you know?

We're at TheatreLAB to see "9 Circles," a dark and riveting play about war crimes based on actual events and loosely correlating to Dante's version of Hell. Because it's such a difficult story, it helps immensely that the actors are up to the task of interpreting it.

It's tough not to focus entirely on the very young-looking Tyler Stevens who admirably plays the disturbed and clueless young man sucked into military service when that's the last place he should be. For me, the heartbreaking part about a character such as his is knowing that there's some terrible back story that created this kind of person and it's too late to undo it.

Wrenching as the play is, my guest is bowled over with having seen such impressive theater.

Step six: taking the scenic way home past Quirk, my guest points out that it's not just the terrific food, satisfying soul music, interesting author reading and edgy play that made this night so outstanding, it's also all the walking we've done together (not that they - or anyone except my favorite walking buddy - can walk at my pace).

Aw, shucks, that's nothing but living up to expectations. Mr. Rogers must have thought I could be the kind of person to deliver a good time. I like to think he was right.

Dance the Night Away

On this, National Women's Equality Day, it's fitting I read that the New York Times describes  Madonna as a crusader, willing or not, against ageism.

Because after all, how can we have true equality if we consider one person less (take your pick) attractive, interesting, viable, capable, sexual or otherwise simply because of the year they were born?

I'm not a pop star, so I've never had the need to continuously shock and titillate, but I can completely relate to her mission to kick down the doors so younger women won't have to deal with ageism. Unlike Madonna, I'm not going to lift my skirt to show my fishnet-covered bottom, but I'm part of the sisterhood that believes that if I wanted to, I have as much right as a 22-year old to do so.

Madge and I, we're in the trenches together.

Except that she performs for thousands and I walk around Jackson Ward, taking advantage of what's happening in the 'hood. Tonight's later start could be attributed to all kinds of things - my father's first kidney stone, two cats taking up residence on the roof outside my balcony, and last minute news that I've got a guest coming for the weekend - but by the time I did get away, age was not a factor in my plans.

Gallery 5's chalkboard announced that it was game night -"Chess or whatever else you are into!" (doubtful) - as I strolled over to Saison Market for some cultural observation and a bite before the show. Minimal reward on the former: one mute couple, both on their laptops, and three people playing cards with the two guys still teaching the girl the game loudly.

And why weren't they at game night a block away?

I took the little two-top in the center near the (hipster alert) vermouth selection, taking in the reliably interesting soundtrack as I enjoyed a $5 glass of wine (Domaine Guion Bourgueil Cuvee) with brightly-colored and artistically-plated lamb belly with cantaloupe soubise, curried granola, fennel and shallot.

And by belly, I mean thick strips of lamb bacon to die for. When the server tried to take my plate when I still had one perfect bite left - belly, shallot, cantaloupe, granola - I shook my head like I meant it. "Oops, sorry, I should've realized," he apologized, smiling, hands over his head as if he were being held up.

From there, I walked down to Black Iris because if Olivia Neutron-John was giving an unbridled performance three blocks from home, I needed to be part of that.

I walked in as opener Louie, Louie from Philly finished their soundcheck and announced that the show was beginning. With age comes wisdom to know just when to show up to catch the opening band.

Good for me 'cause their all-girl reverb-heavy garage/psych/pop was right up my alley, catchy, guitar-driven and with that distinctive "music from a cave" sound I adore. Already happy shaking my non fishnet-covered booty to their energetic sound, my night was made with the one-two (covers) punch of the BeeGees' "To Love Somebody" followed by an extended take on Tommy James' classic,"Crimson and Clover," effects-laden guitar making for orgasmic ears.

It was during that medley that the dance party king spotted me and came over to share his enthusiasm for the band. "If Quentin Tarantino had a band, this is what it would sound like," he hypothesized. Yes, and there would be dancing, so we'd both be happy.

I was intrigued to hear about a recent dinner party he'd attended, its purpose being to bring people together to have more than quick, superficial conversations, the kind so common in bars and at shows. I lament that occasions must be created specifically to ensure such discourse, but I'd rather that than to think it didn't happen at all.

Explaining to the dance enthusiast that there was a time when conversations easily went deeper because no one was lost in their device, I saw a look of regret cross his face. Clearly that's a world he barely recalls.

What we share in common, though, is a love of availing ourselves of whatever the city has going on. Not for us the lifestyles of the cocooning couples and buried-up-to-their-eyeballs parents who rarely go out. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

"This is what I want to be doing on a Wednesday night," he said decidedly. "I don't want to be at home watching TV." Preach it, brother.

In no time, Anna Nasty of Chain and the Gang took the stage to deliver what should rightfully be called performance art. All synths, drumbeats and flying black hair, she crafted a sound that was secondary to the visuals and lighting effects.

On some songs, she whipped her hair side to side in one head-jerking motion while on others she did a proper up and down head-banging. Would her set have been as compelling without the hair? Chances are, no.

A gallerist friend walked by pushing ear plugs in his ears and asking if I needed some, not realizing it wasn't my first rodeo. I don't leave the house without a pair in my bag...just in case. Rarely used, but there if absolutely necessary, like Maxwell Smart's shoe phone (aged cultural reference #1).

It took me only a few minutes of the fast and furious set before I pulled out my plugs in a half-hearted attempt to be kinder to my ears.

Tonight's room was testament to the return of VCU students, with lots of fresh-scrubbed (and artfully dirty) faces in the crowd. That said, there was a small but confused subset of people who left after the first 15 minutes, not willing to take a chance on something they hadn't expected.

What they were missing was that it was loud, almost hypnotic plus she was selling it 100% so where else would you want to be on this Wednesday night?

Then came aged cultural reference #2. "If the computer Hal from "2001" had a band, this would be it," my friend concluded and I could laugh, but not disagree.

Madonna's gone on record - Instagram, even - as saying age won't slow her down.

Shut up, jealous bitches! I hope you are as fun-loving and adventurous as me when you're my age!!!! Hahahhaha let's see!"

I don't even need to see. Time makes you bolder, even children get older and I'm getting older, too. Let's see how you feel about age when it's you. Looking forward to hearing, "Oops, sorry, should've realized."

Raising hands over head not required.

Mediterranean Blast

Like Groucho, I'm not sure I want to be part of any club that'll have me.

That said, when it's Club Saison a few blocks from home and the meeting is a wine dinner, I'm in. My date for "inspired wines bolstered by bites from Chef Adam Hall," was a favorite chef happy to have a walkable way to spend his evening off. Ditto the handsome bartender and his date, also taking advantage of Monday funday.

Saison had been laid out with one long communal table with flowers and pale blue napkins while overhead, Wild Nothing was playing on the sound system.

We were handed glasses of Casteil d'Age Anne Marie Brut Nature Reserva as a greeting (possibly the most gorgeous way to say hello) and introduced ourselves to the one couple who'd arrived before us. We were told this was a night to play with wine and just have fun.

Now there's a club philosophy I can get solidly behind.

Before long others were coming in the door, the only familiar face being the bartender. I overheard one woman describe the lovely bubbles we were drinking as "hot tub wine, you know, porch wine." Are they one and the same? Also overheard, "I'm going to set up a Tinder app to be the perfect Tinder experience..." Isn't that an oxymoron?

It mattered not that all but two faces were new to me because the invitation had plainly stated that part of tonight's purpose at Club Saison was to have an interactive/lively evening, which meant getting to know strangers.

To my left was a delightful couple who thanked me profusely for making them aware of Saison's parking lot, something they hadn't known existed. To my right was a woman described by her husband of 15 years as having "a degree in psychology, a master's in English literature and I'm from West Virginia!"

When I asked if that dichotomy made for problems in their relationship, he said no. "I came pre-trained and so did she." This is why middle-aged relationships have so much potential.

"I was feral," quipped my date. True that.

We started with an octopus terrine in heirloom tomato gel, a dish we should have been eating in some little coastal town while sipping the hot tub wine, which we learned was made by successive female generations of a family

I'm all about some girl power.

Next came goat and sheep's milk cheeses accompanied by two pairings, both Sicilian, one of which was Arianna Occhipinti's Tami Nero d'Avola. I'm an unabashed fan of Arianna's wines after being introduced to them by a fellow Gemini and then following up by having them on two occasions while I was in Italy.

That's actually one of my favorite Italy stories because I tried to order a bottle at a cliffside restaurant in Vico Equense and the very Italian waiter looked at me like I'd insulted his mother. "But, but that's Sicilian!" he'd sputtered. Sure is. And a woman to boot.

Next came scallops two ways, one seared and one salt-cured, with hen of the woods and two more pairings, this time from Corsica: Domaine Leccia Patrimonio Rose and Rouge. Our wine goddess shared that she'd been determined to include Corsican wines in this dinner one way or another.

Everyone swooned over lamb loin with beets, radish slices and blackberry jam paired with the funky unfiltered Celler Jordi Liorens' Blan 5-7 and the fabulous (if a tad pricey) Panevino's Su Chi No'Nao, a real treat to drink by the glass.

Meanwhile I quizzed those around me about their first concerts (Chicago Transit Authority for him and the Doobie Brothers for her), marveling at the host of '70s-era shows one woman had seen. We even had a textile talk, discussing the brilliance of colors achievable on polyester as evidenced by thrift store disco-era finds. Only problem? Hot as hell to dance in at the club.

It was while we were having our stone fruit dessert that a woman at the table looked at her husband and said, "I won't make a face if you buy any of these wines." I told her that her statement was a variation of something my friend Pru had told her Beau at a wine dinner once: "If you want to keep me liquored up all summer, you'll buy lots of this."

I make no such demands and yet far too much wine seems to flow my way. Maybe it's the dues I pay for being in the club.

That said, you won't catch me getting in a hot tub with my wine. I'm pre-trained better than that.