Goin' Down, Down, Down

The basement called with Bordeaux.

As many times as I've been to Bistro Bobette, I'd never been to their subterranean event space, so getting an email about their French wine dinner meant they were all but putting me on notice to correct that wrong. That I knew Pru and Beau would jump on board with me only hastened my acceptance.

Arriving before they did, the server at Bobette greeted me by saying, "One for dinner?" This might not sound extraordinary to you, but as someone who resents being asked, "Just one tonight?" when I arrive solo, it was a welcome kindness. I am more than just one.

He showed me how to get downstairs and a gaggle of women followed me into the elevator. Like me, they'd never been to one of Bobette's basement wine dinners, but unlike me, they said they buy most of their wine at Costco.

Luckily, vintage soul music was playing on the sound system loudly enough to drown out most of the rest of their conversation as I found a seat several chairs away.

It wasn't long before Pru and Beau arrived and we were introduced to Jules, a stylish Frenchman working in Chicago for the wine distributor. Jules had a lovely accent, red socks and the most un-French peccadillo imaginable: he didn't like cheese.

I mean, I don't want to say we judged him for his failure lacking, but how does he keep his French card if he doesn't like fromage? Quelle horreur!

We had no choice but to overlook that since he'd brought such wonderful (and well-priced) wines to share with the long table of wine lovers tonight. To my right was the wine rep from the local distributor, a young NOVA escapee, and he provided delightful color to the conversation, not to mention a whole lot of Snapchatting.

First wine out of the gate was a white Bordeaux, Chateau la Freynelle, and given Pru's love of Sauvignon Blanc, Beau and I both knew he'd be taking some of that home with them. Paired with it were shrimp and soba noodles in an Asian dressing, a lovely complement to the balanced wine with the juicy finish.

Between courses, we discussed how both Beau and Pru had forgotten about tonight's dinner, despite having made the reservation only days ago. When Pru and I were messaging earlier this afternoon, I mentioned seeing her in a few hours and that was her first inkling that tonight was the night. Beau, meanwhile, had made plans with his oldest friend, completely oblivious to the reservation he'd made.

Clearly it's my job to remind everyone what plans they agree to with me. Just call me your private social secretary. Oh, and if you do, I want a raise.

Our next course featured Chateau Haut Colombier, a blend with 90% Merlot which Jules promised us was "well-balanced, not big," a solid assessment. We sipped it with plates of stuffed baby veggies, miniature foods that warmed the cockles of Pru's hors d'oeuvres-driven heart. It was the kind of thing I'd love to see (as would vegetarians, I'm sure) on a restaurant's regular menu for the sheer variety of flavor profiles on one plate.

The foursome next to us, two couples, were the first to decide that they needed a bottle of wine to tide them over between courses and a bottle of that Merlot soon showed up. The three of us looked at each other and Beau wasted no time in ordering us a bottle of the white Bordeaux to sip in the interim.

At one point, our server came by - we've known each other since his days at La Parisienne - to refill water glasses, pointing to my metal straw and grinning. "You still have your straw," he said.  Using the white paper over the tablecloth, I drew a quick sketch of a sea turtle with a plastic straw up his nose for reference in case anyone wondered why I never leave home without my straw.

Not to sound too groovy '70s, but I want to be part of the solution, not the problem.

By then, the quartet next to us was feeling their Merlot - they were already tilting to the obnoxious side before that bottle was ever opened - so we focused our attention in the other direction, chatting with young Ryan about his time in Richmond and why Charlottesville had been too small town for him.

"You walk down the Mall and everyone knows everyone's business," he said with a shudder.

Because Chateau du Caillau was 100% Malbec, it led to a lively discussion of how most people's opinions of Malbec are based on South American makers and not more the more round and mellow French expression of the grape. Pru still took issue with its mature tanins, but it made for a fine pairing with bistro steak with bleu cheese sauce and whipped potatoes.

One of the funnier moments happened when Beau screwed up his visage and announced, "That's my Dr. Evil face!" Raising an eyebrow, Pru asked, "You have a Dr. Evil face?" in a tone that said she clearly didn't think he could pull it off.

That was the end of Dr. Evil.

During a lull in the chatter, I shared that I'd gotten asked out and Beau's first question wasn't whether I'd said yes or who'd asked, but whether or not that meant the blog would go live again. That's what friends are for, right? To make sure I'm documenting their lives any time I'm with them.

Besides, I didn't say I was going, I said I was asked.

Glancing at the menu, Beau wrinkled his nose when he saw that the next wine was a Sauternes, saying he was no fan. I politely reminded him that he should taste the pairing before pronouncing judgement on the wine while Pru, a devoted Sauternes lover, rolled her eyes.

It was about then that we noticed that not only had the music faded to nothingness, but the inebriation level in the room had risen so that it sounded like a party and poor Jules had to fight to get everyone's attention to brag about his wines.

Which is just what he wanted to do about the Chateau Laribotte Sauternes, reminding the boisterous crowd that, "It's always a great year for Sauternes" before leaving us to the sublime pairing with orange blossom sabayon adorned with bits of fruit.

Looking across the table what seemed like moments longer, I noticed that Beau, the Sauternes hater, had drained his glass. Looking sheepish, he admitted that his perception of Sauternes was that of cloying sweetness and that perhaps he'd spoken too soon. Again.

Pru's eyes did a lot of rolling tonight. Beau did a lot of wine ordering tonight. A Frenchman who doesn't like cheese did a lot of explaining tonight. Me, I had some very interesting conversations. Just don't get me started on what.

I believe the rule is that what happens in the basement stays in the basement.

Hi, My Name is Karen

Fortunately, First Baptist didn't have a security checkpoint for heathens.

It was a good thing, too, or I'd never have made it inside for the "Color of Law" panel discussion tonight. The church has been holding discussion groups all month about Richard Rothstein's book "The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America," as part of their acknowledgement of Black History Month.

I give them major props for that.

But tonight's panel discussion was open to the public and while Mac was the one who'd told me about the event, she couldn't go. Not long after taking my seat, a woman named Betty Ann approached to welcome me and ask how I'd heard about the event. Presumed on her part was that I was not a member of the congregation or she'd have recognized me.

I prefer to think I just don't look like a Baptist.

Not long after she moved on, a man came over to adjust the iPad mounted on a tripod right next to my feet. After introducing himself, he pointed to his name tag, letting me know it was there for me in case I forgot his name. Considering he was the pastor of the church, it didn't seem likely.

Besides, there was little chance I'd forget him after he stepped in front of the iPad - now turned on - and welcomed the home audience and told them that the event would be starting...when it started. That's a joke, son.

The five-person panel took their seats on the dais and my immersion into the history of government-mandated segregation began.

Prior to the 20th century, Richmond wasn't terribly segregated, in part because of all the urban slaves who lived here near their masters and worked the flour mills, the ironworks and the tobacco factories. But come the 20th century, the U.S. government got serious about extending segregation.

And to bring that home to RVA, Baltimore was the first city to adopt race-based zoning codes to segregate people. And, yes, sadly, Richmond was second in the country. It's not enough we have an avenue dedicated to white men guilty of treason, now this. We ought to be ashamed.

In its typically underhanded way, the government passed racial purity laws which stated, in part, that people could only live in neighborhoods made up of residents they could marry. Well, we all know Virginia (among others) had laws on the books prohibiting blacks and white marrying, so the racial purity laws ensured separate neighborhoods.

The panel reminded us that our country was built on a lie, citing the American Revolution as truly only half a revolution. That's because at the time of the Declaration of Independence, 300,000 whites were granted equality, life, love and the pursuit of happiness while 300,000 blacks were told to get back to work.

1776 is looking less glorious all the time.

We heard about urban renewal plans begun as early as the late 1930s and the formula was always the same. Tear down a black neighborhood and replace 1/3 of it with highway (hello, I-95), 1/3 with industrial and 1/3 with public housing. Even with my poor math skills, that tells me that X amount of people are now being forced to live in 1/3 the amount of space (and not allowed so much as a garden) simply because their skin is black.

The structural barriers of race were discussed, things like the FHA's refusal to make mortgage loans to blacks, thus ensuring they'd have to rent not own, a sure way to limit any possible wealth growth.

Lofty as it is, the goal, everyone agreed, is to economically and racially integrate.

After the panel discussion, audience questions were taken and don't you just know that some blue-haired white woman raised her hand and said it was her impression that black people wanted to stay in the projects. I think I saw a black woman on the panel silently count to 10 before she politely explained that that wasn't always the case.

"In many cases, they don't want to live there any more than you do," she said explaining it in a way that white privilege could relate to.

The minister was quick to remind us that anyone who'd come to this kind of panel discussion was a good person, but sometimes, you just have to cringe to be part of a race where people can be so clueless.

At the end of the evening, the minister led us in a short prayer (I spent the time deciding what dessert I was having next) and said he had an extra copy of the book if anyone wanted it.

Heathen that I am, I marched right up there and asked for it. He was more than happy to hand it over and expressed the hope that I come back again soon. And I may. I always enjoy their movies in the garden series in the summer.

Oh, that's not what he meant? We heathens can be so dense.

The Almighty Dollar

I didn't want to go out, but I knew I needed to.

By that I mean I needed to get back to interacting with people besides my innermost circle of friends (3 women, with one non-alpha male attached to one of them) even when I don't feel like it (for some time now), but also I needed to go be exposed to something I could learn from (beyond my daily reading) because doing so inevitably makes me feel better.

When I ran into a photographer I know on my way over, she said seeing me headed there meant that it was the place to be tonight. If only she knew how untrue that was these days.

For the past two days, Candela Gallery's exterior has been draped in a giant flag reading, "Puerto Rico is dying," in an effort to remind people that it is day 156 for Puerto Ricans without any return to normalcy. As part of the 3-day event, artist Steven Casanova had illuminated the chandelier he'd made out of a collection of the type of small solar lights that were handed out to islanders with no power.

Even grouped, it wasn't a lot of light. What it was, was a powerful reminder. Ditto the bottled waters handed out to each audience member as the film began playing.  Looking at the bright side, at least we didn't have rolls of paper towels being thrown at us.

Tonight's main event was a screening by the Bijou of "Harvest of an Empire" about the history of Latino immigration to the U.S., beginning with Puerto Rico, although, of course, that's not immigration since they're U.S. citizens.

But it was a good starting point to teach us how the U.S. meddles in the affairs of other countries, always for financial gains, and once the country is destabilized, people flee it for opportunities or asylum here.

I needed to be reminded that Mexico once extended as far north as California and Utah and that while we were technically two countries, it was very much one economy and we desperately needed the labor supplied by Mexico. Or we did until the economy went south and then those workers were easily expendable. And re-hirable at our convenience.

The filmmakers methodically showed how our government had used greed to motivate meddling in the governments of El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Mexico, moves that drove thousands of people to flee brutal wars and regimes and land here.

Where the movie shone was in using accomplished immigrants - a Pulitzer prize winner, a brain surgeon, renowned writers and musicians, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Geraldo Rivera - to explain their path here. What came through time and time again was how many immigrants fought for this country, were dedicated employees for decades and raised children here to give them a better life.

No one expected a handout, but they did hope for a chance.

Learning all this history was disturbing enough - old colonial habits die hard - but then there's the other side of the coin that we're dealing with today. If it's our government's fault that life in these countries has become intolerable, shouldn't we have a moral obligation to accept people trying to flee it?

I can't hear you, immigrant haters. How can we turn our backs on people who are suffering because of our unlawful actions in their country?

Turns out I didn't get a whole lot of social interaction after all. But I did go out, I chatted with a few familiar faces and I learned a lot.

It's not progress exactly, but I am trying.

Youse, With the Axes and Melancholy

Our second day in Philly started on a disturbing note. By choice.

After yesterday's glorious sunny day and 78 degrees, we woke up to 52 degrees and falling with occasional showers. It wasn't about to stop us from doing anything, but it did require more clothing and an umbrella in hand.

Besides, a gloomy day was the ideal setting for a trek to the Mutter Museum, a place whose mission was to be "disturbingly informative" and how better to describe a place where you can see skulls and skeletons of diseased and abnormal people behind glass (no leaning, please)?

Of all the strangeness - shrunken heads, co-joined twins, pieces of Einstein's brain - assembled by Dr. Mutter for educational purposes, I can say without equivocation that my favorite was the mega colon, a distended colon that contained 40 pounds of poop when the subject died of it.

Needless to say, he wasn't terribly regular.

Truth be told, I was also fascinated to see how much of a man's face was covered by pustule lesions and half eaten away by syphilis, but that was one of countless objects that Lady G didn't even try to look at for fear of getting sick.

What she did do was pull out one of the many drawers of swallowed objects - keys, buttons, hair pins - to show me things comparable to the object she'd swallowed as a 2 year old. And we were both taken with the skull exhibit because under each one was a simple dossier telling you the skull owner's name and/or occupation, age and how he died. "Charles, 36, petty thief, shot by gendarmes" or "Marie, 25, well-known prostitute, suicide." One man was injured but recovered and "lived to 81 without melancholy."

Personally, I'm shooting for 101 without melancholy.

Once she convinced me to leave the carbuncle-covered body parts behind, we set out in a light rain for the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, although G's phone directions somehow took us in circles despite the museum being barely 8/10 of a mile away.

After an hour of walking and not finding (although G did get to hear the bell at Liberty Hall announce noon with its authoritative and no-nonsense ring), I flagged down a construction worker in a yellow hard hat, seeking local directions. And color, as it turned out.

He only had to think about it for a second - "That's the place with the giant paintbrush outside, right?" - before directing us around Independence Hall, past LOVE Park and left at the Subway and repeating the directions at least 3 or 4 times to make sure we got it. In the pouring rain and with a smile.

And like the restaurant manager we'd talked to yesterday, he repeatedly referred to us as "youse" before sending us on our way.

It's been 11 years since I'd been to the Academy and it's still every bit as wonderful, what with its salon style arrangement of paintings (new were the iPads with which to identify the art since there was zero signage) and focus on artists who trained at the Academy.

Besides getting to see Eakins' career-defining "The Gross Clinic," we caught "Women's Work," an exhibit of paintings showing the things that women do, both domestic chores and childcare. Many, but not all, of the artists were women, meaning we saw art by artists we'd never heard of in some cases, along with old familiar names like Hopper and Cassat.

Wandering through a gallery, an older women with an Academy name badge and a cane came up to us to share some information about a painting. "You looked like you were enjoying yourselves so much, I thought you'd like some more information," she said, then looked at me. "Are you an artist?"

Of course not, but G is, so it seemed strange that she'd pegged me for the artsy one. As a long-time docent, she stayed to talk about the art for as long as we had time. We paid rapt attention, enjoying her distinctively Philly upper crust accent.

Once we made it downstairs, she followed and offered up some detailed info about the buildings' architecture, including that the massive two-level staircase once floated, at least until they put in the subway underneath and it cracked in places. These days, it's supported from below.

Not pretty, but time and construction wait for no staircase.

Happily for us, Porto was far easier to locate and its enormous, castle-like wooden door ushered us into the former furniture store-now-pizza-and-pasta joint. By arriving at the tail end of lunch (and may I just say how civilized it is for a restaurant to serve lunch from 11 to 4?), we were just getting started as the other tables were clearing out.

The building's interior was elaborate with carved arches with reliefs, but they'd dressed it down with colorful graffiti on one wall and two massive pizza ovens in the back. And, yes, because it had formerly been a furniture store, the floor slanted up, the better to show off suites of furniture. Most appealing about the decor were all the various sizes and colors of doors mounted on the walls of the restaurant like art.

Lady G went for the Zola Jesus pizza with black pepper gorgonzola crema, fennel and housemade Italian sausage, but an even bigger hit for her was my Winter Betty - goat cheese bechamel, garlic, thyme and brussels sprouts - which is named after a favorite customer, who donates $1 to a local scholarship fund for every one of her namesake pies sold.

I was feeling pretty smug about eating good to do good for the second time in two days when our server informed us that the Betty pie changes every season and I was scarfing the winter version. That's practically an invitation to return and try the summer heirloom tomato Betty, right?

We were throwing down pizza when I saw smoke start rising from the pizza ovens and mid-bite the fire alarm began screaming incessantly and the hostess propped open the front door, ushering in the cool, damp air we'd come in to escape.

Within moments, in troop four firefighters in full gear with axes, looking like they mean business. Back they go to the ovens, then back out front, then back in, each time sweeping right by our table and adding a bit of excitement to our last lunch in Philly. You haven't had pie in Philly till you've had it with firemen.

By the time our chocolate budino arrived, they were focused on resetting the fire alarm, demonstrating something to the restaurant employees at a panel near the bar. The creamy budino got an extra kick from chilis, which you couldn't taste right away, but made themselves known with insistent heat on the finish.

We made it out of Porto by the time lunch hours ended (okay, roughly 3:57, but still), yes, the final customers but also the most deserving of a lingering lunch given our non-local status.

Our Philly adventure ended on South Street because an artist like G needed to see the many mosaics and murals that cover alleys, house facades and brick walls between the shops, eateries and community gardens.

Seeing South Street after nearly a dozen years gives me faith in the funky, because while there were undoubtedly more chain stores, there were still plenty of places that look as comfortably decrepit as they did on my first visits during the Bush years.

It's good to know some things don't change. Far too many things have in the years since and that's got me feeling pretty low.

Here's hoping Winter Karen will be replaced by a Spring or Summer Karen with a sunnier outlook. Youse guys know what I'm talking about.

It's Always Sunny in Philly

Let's just say we didn't come for the brotherly love.

When Lady G and I set out for Philly, it was for multiple reasons - she hadn't been in 30 years, I hadn't been in 11- with the main ones being we wanted some out-of-town art and food. We got even luckier when it turned out to be a 78-degree day, because, let's face it, almost anywhere would be a fine destination when the February weather is so agreeable.

On a stop in Elkton, Maryland, I got out to stretch my legs and spotted what looked like an 18-wheeler with the words, "Mobile Chapel" on one side, and underneath, "Transport for Christ." Is it just me or does this have the makings of a hysterical Saturday Night Live skit?

We rolled into Philly around lunchtime, paid a king's ransom at a parking garage  for expediency's sake and sat down at Rooster Soup Company just as the regular lunch rush was winding down. The subterranean spot got our business because they a) make great food and b) donate their profits to "vulnerable Philadelphians."

When I asked about that last part, the manager said they work with a Broad Street ministry that supplies all kinds of services to locals in need.  In order to do my part for those less fortunate people, I was willing to scarf today's special: a smoked trout tartine on housemade semolina with pickled fresno pepper salad, green goddess dressing and sunflowers.

I raved about the flavor combination when asked by our server and she nodded approvingly. "We're putting it on the menu tomorrow," she said. Not a moment too soon, I told her. Meanwhile, we swooned over G's cauliflower soup with capers, which the manager told us he eats almost every day.

Our seats at the long, sleek counter were near a metal cabinet with a collection of colorful, magnetized plastic letters scattered on it, so I took the opportunity to create some short-term graffiti by arranging the letters to reflect both my and Lady G's initials, the date and our location (RS Co).

Proof, in other words, should the cops come looking for us.

We wanted dessert, we asked about dessert and our server let us down gently by saying they were sold out of desserts and their local bakers hadn't replenished their desserts yet. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that we'd have some killer desserts at dinner.

Properly fortified, we headed back outside to enjoy the spring-like weather at the Morris Arboretum. You might wonder why two art-loving tourists would choose to visit an arboretum in February when trees are leafless and few flowers are in bloom (snowdrops, crocuses and heliobores were about it, but, wow, were they ever fragrant) and it would be a fair question.

Let me tell you. We wanted to experience Out on a Limb, a 450' long walkway 50' in the air, with a 12' nest complete with 3 oversize robin's egg blue eggs at one terminus and two rope suspensions built around massive trees for those brave enough to walk it or sprawl out on it at the other.

Lady G opted out of both, while I couldn't resist doing either.

Besides, even if I hadn't gotten the chance to literally hang out 50' feet up, the grounds were well worth a walk. Sure, the trees were leafless, but they were all such magnificent specimens that it was like looking at nature's sculpture as we admired the dramatic trunks and branches of massive old locusts, chestnuts and, yep, even redwoods.

Best of all, there was a TV crew there filming people's reactions to such an oddly warm day and while I was running back to the car to get my hat, G got asked to share her opinion on camera. They had no clue she was a visitor and she happily opined on the problems of warm weather arriving too early.

When she said, "We thought it would be rainy and in the 40s when we came, " I called out from off-camera, "It's going to be tomorrow!" and the crew cracked up. Needless to say, my comments didn't make it onto the 6:00 news, although G's did.

More clues for the coppers if they're hot on our trail.

Once I'd worn her out walking past keyhole ponds, outdoor sculpture (the kinetic "Two Lines" was my favorite) and fields of wild crocuses, we headed back to the Museum District to our short-term digs, accessed by going behind the gyro shop, up the 2 steps to the purple door under the blue awning, where you enter the secret code that allows you inside, where you climb three flights to apartment #4.

Good luck following that bread crumb trail, fellas.

After freshening up, we strolled to dinner, bottle of wine in hand, past Philadelphians reveling in their weather. The sheer number of shorts and tank tops we saw made us think that these people never truly pack away their summer clothes, they just push them to the back of the drawer so they're ready on days like this.

Our destination was Trattoria Carina, a former fine dining place that had recently decided to forego reservations, welcome BYOB and simplify the menu to a few housemade pastas, a couple entrees and some starters and call it a night.

Lady G wasn't in the mood to sit outside, but the host all but insisted we take the corner table outside - a prime spot with privacy - when I let on that I was dying to sit out there. It wound up being the best table anyway because everyone crossing the street - and it was prime time, after work, walk your dog time - walked within inches and most of the dogs gave us a sniff hoping for scraps.

For the record, we did not share with the dogs of Philly. Who would when the food was so good?

A tomato soup with chicken and barley was loaded with rich thigh meat and a touch of heat, while warm farro with roasted brussels sprouts made me so full I couldn't do dessert. After shells granchio arrabbiato with spicy crab, G was every bit as stuffed, a shame since we'd been owed dessert since lunch.

Instead, we walked off the wine and fabulous food at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which is not only the third largest in the country, but also happens to be open on Wednesday evenings. Moseying through the Impressionist galleries, we were terribly impressed with breadth of their collection, seeing for the first time  a Monet done in England that was completely unfamiliar to both of us and looked almost Degas-like.

But it was in the American galleries that we swooned the most, what with the Sargeants, Whistlers and Philly's own Thomas Eakins. The sheer number of works and sketches by Eakins make it the largest Eakins collection in the world, although we were both a little disappointed not to see a single male nude.

Come on, Philly, we all know he painted them. Show us the goods.

The museum was lively, with lots of people also taking advantage of the evening to mill about and get lost in the art. We made it nearly till closing time, when Lady G announced that her legs had had quite enough walking, thankyouverymuch, and it was time to head back to our clandestine digs.

And even though it had been a very long, non-stop day, when we walked out of the museum only to be met with warm air, a crescent of a moon and a view of the lighted city, the sore bits were forgotten and I, for one, would have happily walked until I dropped.

Yo, Adrian, a balmy night in Philly is a seductive thing. And with my bedroom windows wide open, every bit as noisy as J-Ward.

But it's not J-Ward, and for me right now, that's just what I need.

Away in a Motel

People are going to talk.

For the second night in a row, my dance card was identical to that of the night before: dinner and a play with a good friend's man. Same old same old.

I kid, but where else am I going to get a man for an evening out? Fortunately, Pru doesn't mind lending him out on occasion and this well-reviewed play had piqued both our interests, but not hers.

We began sating our curiosity at dinner at Rogue, the new incarnation of what was Rogue Gentlemen, but after pipes froze and burst in the apartment over the restaurant, causing flooding downstairs, it was time for a makeover. Not only did the place get a shortened moniker, but also a sleek new look that's lighter and more welcoming than the original.

Or perhaps I'm just more of a fan of mid-century modern than I was of Prohibition-era speakeasy decor. And for a change, I was glad my Google calendar-obsessed companion had made a reservation because there were no available seats at the bar, no doubt because of people wanting to experience the new bar stools with backs!

Rogue has gone comfortable and I like it.

I also like a wine list with champagne by the glass, meaning I sipped Lallier Grand Reserve Grand Cru whilst Beau sought something single malt and smoky (but not peat-y, he hastened to explain) because, unlike last night, he wanted nothing to do with fruity and sweet.

Periodically, aromatic clouds from his brown liquor drifted my way.

Both Beau and I are big fans of small plates, so Rogue's new all small plate menu suited us to a "T." Charred carrots, red and golden beets with chevre and pumpkin ravioli with sausage wowed us with nuance, bright flavors and standout seasonality.

While we ate, people kept arriving and those without reservations were given the option of hanging around in hopes of bar stools being vacated. One trio of guys cooled their heels for nearly an hour with not a stool in sight before giving up and going who-knows-where.

Beau was the perfect dinner companion, telling me with all sincerity that he can't for the life of him understand why I am single. His only theory was that I'm daunting to approach, a theory I reject because anyone who sees me is likely going to see me smiling and laughing and that overrides the daunting issue. Subject closed.

Come dessert time, our server  explained that we could expect deconstructed takes on classic sweets. Beau thought his deconstructed carrot cake - complete with shavings of fresh carrots - took first place, but my deconstructed chocolate cheesecake gave it a run for its money. It's not often you get desserts that are both clever and swoon-worthy.

We digested while watching Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Corpus Christi," an updated take on the life of Joshua, aka Jesus, that re-imagines him and a couple of his apostles as gay men.

Before the play began, I admitted to Beau that most of my knowledge of religious stories was gleaned from art history, not from church-going. He, on the other hand, had one of those crazy Christian upbringings where everything was about religion (or at least the organized version of it).

We were a pair, alright.

Even so, both of us were sucked into the narrative, from Joshua's non-traditional birth through his difficult years at Pontius Pilate High School to his dramatically-lit crucifixion as king of the queers. Along the way, the cast of 13 men had scads of opportunities to play drag female roles to perfection.

For a heathen like me, it was a much more compelling story than the tired version long foisted on believers, which is why it was completely gratifying to see online that there were protesters, albeit a small, motley group, marching outside the theater Sunday.

Get over yourselves. It's a play.

Despite having borrowed her man for the evening, Pru welcomed us into the manse once the play was over. Once we'd given her the full scoop - restaurant menu and renovation, thoughts on the play - she got down to business: my lack of a love life.

The problem, she told me, is that I'm not flirtatious when I go out and she says she's been out with me enough times to know that's been the case for years. Claims I send out a "do not try anything with me because I'm not interested" vibe in spades.

After reminding her that I had a boyfriend for 4 of the 8 years she's known me, she reminded me that I was still terrible at it during the 4 years I was available. I didn't have a good argument for that.

Considering the three of us had seen each other the night before, we found enough new to talk about to keep us going until nearly 2 a.m. and fortunately for me, I was only the topic of discussion for part of it. I know, I know, they only care because they love me.

Still, you hate to get crucified by friends.

Save Me from Soma

Not everyone cares to revisit the dystopian memories of youth.

To be clear, I'd invited three friends to join me for Quill Theatre's production of "Brave New World." Although not one of us had ever seen it performed live, two turned me down flat on the spot and only one, the ever-agreeable Beau, signed on.

Where's your spirit of adventure, kids?

When he came to pick me up, I invited him upstairs to admire three pieces of newly-framed art I'd just hung. It's all part of my master plan to convince him to finally frame the art he bought two years ago that has yet to make it to his walls.

How do people live with no art on their walls anyway?

Even after I'd made my clunky point, he was still willing to drive us to Brenner Pass for dinner. I don't know what kind of week it had been for him, but he said for the record that he needed something sweet and fruity (no judgement here), resulting in a frothy pink Caribbean Canneberg showing up, while I kept my drinking simple (and bubbly) with a Cremant de Jura while the dining room crowd multiplied around us.

He was curious about what I'd been up to, so I dished on the cyclist I'd interviewed the day before and the month-long biking trips he takes all over the world. He'd told me that once he biked a place, he never went back because he preferred that his first memory of a place be his only, a sentiment I said I could understand.

Not Beau. He was immediately flummoxed. What if you like a place and want to see it again? Why go somewhere new if you liked the last place you went? It's fascinating to me how some people can't even imagine the pleasure of something they personally have no desire to do.

Once we got down to the business of food, there was some horsetrading going on because he wanted the quail (turns out he grew up eating quail...Beau, I hardly knew ye) but he also wanted bucatini, so I agreed to get the bird and share, allowing him to have his pasta and eat quail, too.

But before any of that, I wanted to share the citrus salad, a brilliant choice, it turned out, as we both raved about the complementary flavors and textures.

The quail had gotten the Thanksgiving treatment, with stuffing and pureed root vegetables subbing for mashed potatoes, but it was the crispy, seasoned skin neither of us was forgetting anytime soon.

Amazed to see a new dessert on the menu since I was last in, I felt obligated to fall on that sword. Did I mention it happened to be chocolate? It was called a mousse, but came across as more of a bombe, with a thick coating of dark chocolate ganache over a lighter chocolate, while Beau finally ordered the coffee profiteroles and promptly went into raptures.

Never mind that I'd suggested them when we were there two weeks ago and he'd claimed to be too full for dessert. Of course, he then went on to eat half of mine.

There was no lingering after dinner, much as we might have enjoyed it, because we needed to get to the far reaches of the Henrico county for the play. Along the way, we made a pit stop at the Dugout, not for cheap drinks and the so-so jukebox, but for a photo of us against the sign, the better to taunt the employee we know who wasn't there and missed our brief appearance.

And as a side note, I'd like some bonus points for venturing to the county, since everyone is convinced I don't. We all make sacrifices for art, you know.

Waiting for the play to start, Beau inquired about my break in blogging, asking if it felt weird not to blog when I'm still going out every night. When I told him that wasn't the case, he was gobsmacked. In fact, he was still wrapping his man brain around it when the action onstage began.

Once we got through the initial exposition, "Brave New World" turned out to be a well-acted, creatively-directed take on a story most of us haven't read since high school or college (except Ihad reread it about 6 or 7 years ago), but still mostly remember.

Cliff Notes: Soma is the government-supplied happy drug, babies grow in test tubes and there is no emotion. The end.

In the not-often-enough category, it was especially gratifying to see the colorblind and gender-blind casting of Lucretia Anderson in the main role of Mustapha. Just as satisfying were the sheer amount of lines taken directly from Shakespeare - a joy to hear spoken - along with Caleb Wade's terrific performance (and fine-looking chest) as the savage John.

And lest I sound like I can't get past a firm young body, Jacqueline Jones chewed up scenery as Linda, the savage's mother, but then when isn't she magnificent in whatever role she's playing?

Once we left Huxley's dystopian world, it was for the glamour of Pru's manse and a few hours of conversation. She may not have wanted to go to the play, but she did want every detail on dinner and the play.

As Beau and I fell over each other's words describing what we'd seen, he praised Wade's performance but said he couldn't recall seeing him before. Knowing this wasn't the case and whipping out the program to prove it, I showed Pru his bio listing with its accompanying photo.

"Of course I remember him!" she said, with a wave of her hand, as I knew she would. An attentive playgoer remembers a fine physique talent such as his

Of course, if she'd gone with us, she could have appreciated it from the good seats. His talent, I mean.

Mid-Day Tropicale

I'll be honest, what I really wanted was a flaming pu pu platter and a hurricane.

But, alas, it was not long after noon on a dreary, rainy Monday and I was meeting Lady G for planning purposes, not to kick off a party. Although given how busy the place was - I think I passed exactly 2 empty tables being led to ours - there was a sort of festive vibe to the place.

Little Nickel is what had drawn me to southside for lunch (fact: I'm a sucker for a tiki bar) and the place delivered, from the colorful decor (c'mon, textured pink flamingo wallpaper in the loo?) and catchy menu to all kinds of dishes not seen in other Richmond restaurants.

Heck, before even sitting down, I ran into the cider king enjoying some Hawaiian nachos - that's bacon, pineapple and pork - with friends. Lady G and I immediately targeted the shrimp ukey, described as a bird's nest of carrots, sweet potatoes, shrimp, cilantro and tarot root, with a chili vinegar sauce riding shotgun, for its unique-sounding appeal.

And, yep, what was delivered looked very much like a green-flecked orange nest, which I promptly tore in half, musing to G about whether or not it was the kind of thing we should eat with fingers or forks. Before she could answer, I made an executive decision and went with bare hands, savoring every bite of the crispy, fried veggies with shrimp hidden inside.

I don't want to make it sound like we didn't discuss details for our upcoming trip (that came later), but first we had to catch up on life and love, meaning she couldn't resist reminding me, "I really miss the blog."

Sigh. Tell me something I haven't heard. And, if you ask and of course she did, I'll tell you how low I've been and why no one would want to read most of my words these days. I'm doing my readers a favor.

Then it was on to the main event. While she may have grown up in NOVA, G lived for over two decades in Massachusetts, meaning she responds to New England standards like Pavlov's dog. Translation: she ordered the filet o' Nickel, a fabulously battered hunk o' cod at least an inch thick and slathered with caper tartar sauce on a glossy bun and situated next to a mountain of salty shoestring fries.

Me, I couldn't resist the siren song of an avocado crab "cocktail" piled atop a mound of arugula with bits of grapefruit for sass and a pile of tortilla chips for scooping, should that be one's preferred method of delivery (it wasn't mine).

We took a tangent on the subject of tea (G has a multiple cup a day habit) when I told her I'd discovered Earl Grey with double bergamot (her squeal told me she's an Earl Grey fan) but it was so strong and caffeinated that it required some adjustment on my part. Given my lack of coffee drinking, I need to drink my lone cup of tea early in the day or suffer the consequences of a low caffeine tolerance.

"Just use the tea bag 3 or 4 times," she advises me. "All the caffeine's in the first cup. Make it and throw it away and then use the teabag for the other cups." Brilliant.

When we finally got down to the business of our getaway itinerary, it soon became clear how spoiled we are. Between the Smithsonian's various museums and the VMFA, Lady G and I rarely pay for art (the Phillips Collection being a notable exception), so she was gobsmacked when I told her nearly everywhere we were going put a price on our heads.

It'll be worth it, no doubt, but it did require some mental adjustment on her part. Then there were the choices: oddities or contemporary? the '60s or Monet? airborne or black history? Decisions, decisions.

By the time we'd worked out a non-stop itinerary, our smiling server was asking about dessert. Remembering our mid-century childhoods, we went with warm pineapple upside down cake, even better than our memories because Little Nickel's is rum-soaked and Mom's wasn't. Fortunately, the maraschino cherries are still just as artificially red and cloying as they always were, so some things never change.

It only took us two and a half hours to gorge ourselves and nail down 48 hours in the city that's been cholera-free since 1866.

These days, I'm not setting my sights very high. But at least I'm getting my sour puss out of town.

SO Low SO Long

They grow up so fast. Restaurants, that is.

When I'd first visited Brenner Pass last July, it was uncrowded, having barely been open a month. and some servers were still learning how to open wine bottles (ours had to call in someone more qualified). The second time, wine skills had been mastered and the food was even better.

Craving a third time, Pru, Beau and I had made dinner reservations ahead of tonight's play at the Basement. Unlike that first time, though, the hordes began arriving as soon as the doors opened. We had a good excuse for our ridiculously early reservation (an 8:00 curtain), while I'm guessing many others in the first seating were there simply because it was the only time they could get seats.

Keeping with our Jura theme from last visit, we began with a bottle of Benoit Badoz Cremant Rose and a small plate special: rillete of oil-poached swordfish with frisee, mustard and housemade chips to spread it on. The night was off to a good start.

One noticeable difference was the level of the music, meaning we could actually hear it this time (and who doesn't want to hear Slowdive?), which added considerably to the overall vibe. And when you have a restaurant as large as Brenner Pass, you really need a good sound system to overcome the din of loud talkers in an industrial space.

Beau couldn't resist the fondue burger, although I think that had to do with the ability to order it "tres epique," meaning with veal demi-glace and mushrooms. I can attest to the burger's tastiness even if the fries were a bit on the dry side.  Pru's lamb leg was swoon-worthy with prune jam and armagnac puree.

My arctic char with pickled mushrooms over barley boasted an obscene caviar cream sauce that ensured my choice of fish scored me no virtuous points whatsoever, but, man, was it memorable. And something else, too - barley is an underused grain and I'd love to see it on more menus. Along with flour, sugar and tea, my D.C. grandmother's kitchen canister set had a container for barley but it fell out of fashion by the time I was a kid, so I've only discovered my taste for it as an adult.

We were already on the second bottle of Cremant when we finished our entrees, but our server was good enough to understand that we were in no hurry for dessert and allowed us to linger before ordering.

Pru, like several other friends recently, demanded to know why I was suddenly on Instagram and where my line in the sand was when it comes to technology. Apparently it unnerves some people for me to exist in a new realm without having a cell phone.

Looks like they'll have to adjust.

Since we hadn't had time to order the souffle on our last visit, Pru corrected that this time, while Beau and I shared a salted caramel and dark chocolate ganache tart with hazelnut dragees while they explained to me the appeal of Cubano coffee and I pretended to appreciate the nuances.

By the time we vacated the premises two and a half hours after arriving, Brenner Pass was in full-on Saturday night mode, with people waiting for tables, the bar too crowded to see the staff and the music lost to tipsy conversations.

Coincidentally, the first act of the play we were seeing at TheatreLAb, "I'm Gonna Pray for You So Hard" was a drunken conversation between a father and daughter as she waits for the reviews to come out of her first play.

Alan Sader was superb as the father, displaying a restraint with his acting unlike his usual scenery-chewing ferocity. Any theater fan knows he's a master, so seeing him rein it in was all the more impressive.

TheatreLAB's theme this year is "taking sides," which means the stage is placed between two risers of audience seats, providing a view of half the audience in addition to the action on stage. It's a brilliant move, allowing us to observe what others are watching or how they're reacting in a way viewers don't often get to do.

Not gonna lie, I like to watch. Does that make me a voyeur?

Maybe, but in my present state of mind, I'm not good for much more than that. Tres triste.

Broad Street Bent

No one is shy on Broad Street, a fact you learn when you walk some part of it just about every day.

A man has stopped and is looking at me as I approach him walking down Broad. "Are you that lady who walks in the summer with the shorts and great legs?" Um, yes?

He breaks out in a huge grin. "I knew it was you! I could tell by the way that you walk! Keep up the good work." For you, stranger? Anything.

I'm at the Dugout, a dive bar out on Mountain Road, standing in front of the jukebox with a dollar in hand. A woman sitting at the bar comes over and hands me two dollars so I can play more songs, though she makes no requests or demands. A stranger trusting a stranger's music taste, nothing more.

Just then, a man sitting near my elbow at the bar looks over and asks, "Aren't you the girl that's been walking by the barber shop for, like, 20 years?" I immediately know he means Salon Z ("Come on in and get fresh!" their sign has read for all those years, which is actually 12, not 20) and confirm my identity.

Truth is, I'm amazed that even out of context and so far from where he usually sees me (near Belvidere on Broad) he nevertheless recognizes me.

I go back to punching songs in the jukebox, beginning with Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," which gets me a high five and praise from my female patron. Meanwhile, I'm still considering and choosing songs when my second selection, Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On?" unmistakably begins.

The well-groomed barber looks over at me, smiles winningly and says, "Now don't go givin' away all the Broad Street secrets!" Never.

Local fixture Special K has proposed to me on Broad Street twice, once with the promise of a Corvette if I agreed and another time sweetening the pot by saying he'd feed me lobster dinners. I accept neither offer of marriage, but appreciate that he's offering more than just a husband.

Walking along Broad Street another morning, I see a group of well-dressed construction managers - one woman, three men - all in hard hats, standing in front of a building renovation in progress. The woman steps in front of me and gestures at one of the guys.

"I'd like to introduce you to my main man, Chris, here. He's smart and funny and a real good catch. And, he's single!" She's so casually forward about it that I smile and ask what makes her so sure I'm single, too?

She raises her eyebrows and says, "Oh, you're single!" Caught. I admit I am, but keep walking.

You gotta walk Broad regularly to merit this kind of attention. I do.

To Catch a Breeze

You don't expect to see a fire tower in the middle of downtown.

For that matter, you don't expect to wear out your tour guide and leave him huffing, puffing, red-faced and exhausted, either. Clearly the first day of February was not going to be a typical day.

Mac and I had signed up for a walking tour dubbed "Above Calhoun," a reference to the less chi-chi neighborhoods of Charleston. As it turned out, much of the tour centered around the neighborhood we'd already become acquainted with because it's where we were staying: Canonborough-Elliottborough.

Our guide Brian was new to the tour guide business - we were his 5th tour - but clearly had all the arcane knowledge Charleston requires of its guides. You know, who built the house and when, who bought it later and why.

As we walked from block to block (stopping at Sugar, a jewel box of a bakery, so Mac could score a tiny cupcake), it became obvious that Brian, unlike us, wasn't used to 5 mile walks. Oh, he'd made it clear that he'd be happy to do two hours with us instead of the usual hour and a half (it is off-season, after all) so we'd taken him up on that, but now he was realizing we meant walking the entire 2 hours.

Barley an hour in, he asked where we were headed for lunch and tried to lead us there, at least until we informed him we weren't ready for lunch at 10:53.

Curious about why all the side porches had doors on them, since you could easily talk to porch occupants or climb over the railing, I asked. Answer: the door insures that climbing over is considered breaking and entering. Only the South Carolinians.

Strolling down King Street, I spotted what looked like a fire tower and asked about that, too. Sure enough, it was one of two fire towers in downtown Charleston, odd because I thought those towers were rural things. Brian looped us around to the 1888 fire house to get a better look and the taller of the two firemen on duty regaled us with fun facts.

Back in the day, the tower was manned 24/7, with a bell at the top so the sentry could ring the bell and alert the squad. Right downtown. But of course, how else?

When we eventually released Brian to return to his tiny house via public transportation (and before you jump to any assumptions about Brian's hipster lifestyle, know that he's prime Baby Boomer material), it was my guess he was going home to nap. But we'll never know.

Our final meal in the Palmetto state was less than half a mile from our adopted hood, albeit across the Septima Clark Parkway that hovered above the dead end of our block, reminding me of how I-95 chops into Jackson Ward (and I'm sure for the same racist reasons).

Leon's Fine Poultry and Oysters was everything an eatery in a garage promises. Despite a lovely patio, sunglasses-less Mac passed on dining al fresco for the dining room. Fortunately, the inside dining room was wisely taking advantage of the sunny 69-degree day by having the single pane industry windows on two walls opened out, as well as front patio access and back door flung open.

We were there because Leon's is devoted to my three favorite food groups: bubbles, fried chicken and oysters. They have an entire menu devoted to grower champagne. It begins, "The combination of fried chicken and champagne is one of the finest in the world," and then goes on to explain why, in wine lover, not geek, terms.

I'd already been given that exact spiel years ago by an old boyfriend, tested it extensively and didn't need convincing.

As luck would have it, the oyster special was - wait for it - wild-caught Virginia oysters, which is not what we'd driven six plus hours to eat. No, for that we needed Bull's Bay oysters from 20 miles north, which had the brine we craved, although not as much as Virginia's Old Saltes. Go figure.

When we each ordered our chicken, our server felt obligated to warn us it had a bit of spice because of cayenne and Old Bay, but he could have them make it without. Please, we assured him, bring it on. Cava alternated with chicken skin that shattered with each bite and our fingers got stickier and more worth licking as we went. Meanwhile, the brussels sprouts got points for originality for the peppery and tomato-y piperade jazzing them up.

We could say we'd earned such a fabulous lunch after a 5-miler, but the truth is, it would've been every bit as satisfying and deserved if we'd just rolled out of bed an hour earlier.

Then, because nothing could be more wonderful after lunch at Leon's, we drove the 11 miles back to Folly Beach, this time to walk to see the lighthouse (unfortunately, the unclimb-able kind). Tuesday when we'd been there, it had been too chilly and windy to walk barefoot, but not today, though Mac had no interest in it.

When she'd bought a Leon's ball cap to shade her eyes at the beach, she'd complained that it was too stiff and I'd suggested a baptism in the Atlantic to break it in. She liked the idea but chose me to do the baptizing because she didn't want to get her shoes wet. I dunked it a few times and handed it back to her, but there was a dry spot, so she came to hand it to me, soaking her shoes in the process.

My point is, when a person goes to the ocean in January and February, a little saltwater's the least of her worries. As it was, she shook the droplets off the hat and put it on, tiny rivulets of ocean water running down her face and eventually dampening her hair.

Beach hair for life.

With less than an hour to sunset, we reluctantly hit the road, listening to local radio from town to town, scanning through clusters of jeezus radio, conservative crazies and 45-loving country pop in search of alternative, only to land mostly on dude rock: Bad Company, Rush, Thin Lizzy. You have no idea how grateful I was for small bones like Thompson Twins or Eurythymics.

The trade-off for cliched sounds was an astronomer's eye view of the enormous yellow rising blue super blood moon, which we watched burst forth from the horizon right up through lines of Carolina pines and eventually up into a Halloween-worthy assortment of drifty clouds.

It had been a clearer night last night when it was full, but we hadn't seen the whole of the moonrise, so that was tonight's cherry on top of the Charleston sundae.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Under the Blue Super Blood Moon

There are already daffodils blooming...and other tales from Charleston.

At the Old Slave Mart Museum, a passionate well-researched woman on the staff enriched our knowledge of slave life in the low country and questioned us about how Richmond is handling its slave history (answer: poorly) before we made our way through the museum itself.

Heavy on disturbing narrative and light on artifacts, it was just the kind of museum a history nerd can sink her teeth into. Hearing former slave memories as told to WPA oral historians was especially moving.

As has been the case on this trip, our next plans got derailed, so we punted and set off to see a grand city house nearby. 

Making our way through the historical Aiken-Rhett House allowed us to see how slaves on urban plantations (a term new to both of us) lived and worked. The enormous house, complete with outbuildings like brick privies, stables and a carriage house (reached via a backyard path between two rows of magnolia trees) were striking for the glimpses they afforded of the actual rooms where slaves lived.

House servants' rooms not only had fireplaces, but doors that locked from inside. That small dignity surprised both of us.

For me, the house's main attraction was a piazza that spanned on entire side, the mother of all balconies, wide and high as it was. It was gratifying to hear that at big parties at the house, people had moved room to room via the piazza.

Heck, I'd have slept out there on occasion, too.

For a black history tour of Charleston, we boarded a van with Franklin Delano Williams, a tour guide as opinionated as he was knowledgeable. He was especially impassioned about the word "Gullah," insisting that it was a reference to slaves being from Angola and thus, a derogatory term.

After listening to him pontificate for hours, I'll never use "Gullah" again.

Semantics aside, his tour was fascinating for all the unmarked black landmarks he showed us, from wooden frame Senegalese-style shotgun houses to the tarp-covered birthplace of civil rights activist Septima Clark, with stories of the days when Charleston was a walled city, complete with moat.

What had been billed as a 2-hour tour wound up being more like 2 3/4 because of FDW's verbose nature, drawling way of speaking and propensity to pull over to share his firmly-held opinions about the lack of signage giving black history its due.

In other words, as a tour guide, he was practically perfect and seeing the city through his eyes was like seeing Charleston for the first time. As we drove around former black neighborhoods, I saw Meat Share, where I'd eaten a few years back and Stella's, the Charleston outpost of the venerable Richmond Greek eatery.

Gentrification was everywhere around us, but Franklin made sure we knew what the 'hood had originally been like: full of slaves living off premises, former slaves and freemen, most of them skilled artisans.

But by the time we got back, we were past hungry and bordering on unpleasantly starving, having missed lunch for the sake of knowledge. As luck would have it, Sean Brock's Mexican restaurant Minero wasn't too far away, so we settled onto bar stools just as normal people were eyeing happy hour.

Short of mainlining it, we couldn't have inhaled the stellar guacamole (delivered with a paper bag of warm housemade chips) any faster than we did, which restored our blood sugar, tiding us over until lunch arrived. For me, that meant fried cauliflower tacos, shrimp tacos, buttery Carolina gold rice (our morning had taught us that rice was the #1 slave crop in South Carolina, followed by cotton and indigo), broccoli salad and refried beans that could give lessons to most Mexican joints about what refried beans should be.

Only once we'd Hoovered lunch did I have the wherewithall to dive into my Sangria - a far cry from typical, made as it was with Barbera d'Asti, Aperol and citrus - and allow the hustle and bustle of our non-stop day to ease on down the road to our final historical destination of the day.

Approaching the Nathaniel Russell House through the back garden revealed anemones and daffodils blooming, a wondrous site compared to what's happening in Richmond gardens at the moment. 

Inside the wealthy merchant's extravagant home, our guide explained that there was no such thing as privacy in 19th century life. Although the Russell family numbered only four, they owned 18 (gasp-worthy, right?) slaves who shared the house and its outbuildings with them.

The magnificent flying staircase with no supports (all cantilevered) was meant to be the piece de resistance of the house, but for Mac and I, it was the Mrs. who was most memorable. Everything about Sarah Russell was extraordinary: that she didn't get married until she was 36; that she was wealthier even than her husband; that she insisted on a pre-nup agreement and that she had her husband sign an agreement that if they ever split, she got the two kids, the latter remarkable because at the time, women had no parental rights if marriages ended. 

Helluva woman.

As the last tourists out, we closed down the Nathaniel Russell House, impressed with its meticulous Neo-classical restoration (wall paint made and applied in the 19th century way) but hardly wowed by its wealth for wealth's sake showiness.

But then, when we got up this morning, we hadn't known how Charleston's 19th century wealth

had eclipsed that of New York, Philly and Boston combined. This was one rich town if you were white.

Which Mac and I are decidedly not (rich, that is), so we headed back to our slowly gentrifying neighborhood, where our apartment - the Skipjack - is across the street from a former auto body shop called A Cut Above, although presently it's abandoned and overgrown.

Oh, to know what that location housed originally. Like Franklin said, if only there were a plaque, people could start learning the history they were never taught.

We're trying...when we're not eating. Both are a full-time occupation down here.

Folly Dollies

If I'm going to spend six hours in a car, I want a reward at the end.

Few rewards can match a walk on the beach after so much sitting. That it is January and only 52 degrees in no way detracts from my pleasure in getting to stretch my legs, inhale salty air and absorb the sounds of the surf.

Mac and I - ever the optimists - hit the road at 8 a.m., leaving 38-degree Richmond as a snow shower wound down and hoping for better at the other end of the road. By the time South Carolina's palm trees began showing up, we were cruising under brilliant blue skies and a new attitude.

Bypassing Charleston, our ultimate goal, we parked in Folly Beach to begin our getaway with sand under our feet. The ocean was a deep blue with the winter beach littered in seashells, mostly empty except for us and a few dog walkers, all of whom made a bee line for us (the dogs, not the walkers) as we made our way toward the pier a mile and a half away, past surfers willing to brave the winter waters.

By the time we finished un-kinking our legs, a big, fat moon was starting to rise in the sky and we felt like equilibrium had been restored. Such is the power of climbing over sea walls, and talking to a local (his hat read: Citadel Class of 1963) out collecting wood and shells and more than willing to chat with female visitors.

When we told him we were thinking of Bowen's Island for dinner, he rhapsodized about he and his college buddies getting drunk and eating oysters there until they were sick, but qualified that by saying he and the wife had gone back 6 or 7 years ago and been disappointed with the service. His suggestion was the Lost Dog Café and he used a board he'd found to draw a map in the sand of how to get there.

Best sand map ever.

Much as we both enjoyed our conversation with him, we thanked him for the tips, got in the car parked under a palm tree and drove directly to Bowen's Island, a sprawling wooden  building on the Folly River.

It was an old school seafood place where you order at the counter, find a table with a view and wait for your food to arrive. Unless, that is, you order a bucket of cluster oysters, in which case, you're given a bucket and sent downstairs where your oysters are steamed to order by a guy with a sense of humor and two wisecracking buddies keeping him company.

Curious about Bowen's Island, we ask and he tells us it was built in 1946, burned down back in 2006 or 2007 and then rebuilt, all except for the three stone walls nearby which survived the blaze. Even more interesting is that back in the day, the owner insisted that people eating oysters eat them down there while people eating off the rest of the menu - shrimp, crabcakes, frogmore stew, fish - eat upstairs, even if it meant parties being split up.

Asking him if we have to eat oysters downstairs, he says no. When did that change, I wonder. "When the owner died back in the '90s, I guess," he says with a chuckle. Still, a dozen or so tables sit at the ready, all of them with a hole in the center for tossing oyster shells.

Back upstairs, we use our oyster knives to open bivalves from the river we can see through the screened windows next to our table. They're brinier than we expect, but only because we hadn't bothered to consider how close to the ocean this river is. We follow them with everything else on the menu that comes from the sea. Plus hushpuppies.

Next to us, a couple who look to be in their '80s are eating and chatting non-stop in low voices. "I'll trade you an oyster for a shrimp," he offers and she's willing. I'm tempted to ask if they're regulars, how long they've been together, what their story is, but I refrain.

Maybe it's a date and I don't want to interfere.

Our beachcombing friend's opinion aside, Mac and I have landed at exactly the right place for a seafood feast and a sunset view over the river at the end of a long travel day that involved far too many Doobie Brothers' songs.

By the time we finish eating, an enormous moon is hanging over the ocean, accompanying us as we drive into Charleston for a few days of R & R. Expansive beach to quaintly urban, what a difference eleven miles makes.

Hello, Charleston, whatcha got good?

Urban Women of 2017

Somebody needed a change of scenery.

Today's road trip to D.C. was as much about catching up with Lady G as it was seeing two exhibits and venturing to the waterfront for lunch. We hung our visit on history and art, but the underpinnings were nothing more than an an epic conversation.

Driving up under a break-your-heart-it's-so-blue sky, she shared with me her first visit to Dumbarton Oaks as a teenager on a bike, recalling an unfortunate incident where a homeless man knocked her off her bike and tried to grab her. It was startling how much detail she remembered about that experience (trying to retrieve a fallen shoe?) for how long ago it was. Trauma never forgets.

Like we seem lucky enough to always do, we slid into a parking space on Constitution Avenue around the time most of the local worker bees were thinking about their second cup of coffee. Our destination was an exhibit by the Smithsonian National Museum of Black History (and, no, I still haven't been in there yet), but one housed at the Smithsonian Museum of American History.

"City of Hope: Resurrection City and the 1968 Poor People's Campaign" brought together photographs and film documenting the six-week protest against economic injustice that was MLK's final legacy and the burning issue a month after he was killed.

And while I have vague memories of seeing newspaper photos of people living on the mall during that time, the exhibit provided a clearer understanding of how many poor people of all colors and races rallied together to make their cause known.

So much about the carefully planned and executed protest seemed quaint and downright impossible to conceive of today. I can't imagine for a second that the government would allow 3,000 people to set up a protest camp for six weeks on the national mall now. In 1968, the government had a team of architects work out how best to set up the simple wooden tents and sidewalks to make optimal use of the space and terrain.

For that matter, they had cultural programming in Resurrection City, a reminder of what a kinder, gentler time it was, not to mention a time when the importance of arts in life was better understood.

Photographer Robert Houston had been there and his pictures captured daily life in a newly created zip code. My favorite, by far, was "Woman Between Tents: Resurrection City," a gorgeous, warmly-colored composition that could have been a woman pausing between chores in Africa or the Caribbean. It had a painterly quality with the summer light giving a warmth to the many wooden tent walls around her as she sits barefoot in a chair.

Lady G and I left the museum better off for having seen the photos and films, but disappointed in the surface-skimming signage which provided so little in-depth information that we felt deprived of the bigger story.

Our only fear is that this is the new museum normal - shallow exhibits with minimal information - and we're woefully out of step in wanting to know more. Since neither of us had visited the American History Museum in over a decade, we vowed to return for a full look, albeit with concerns that the entire museum experience has been reduced to sound bite-sized signage.

Excuse me, Smithsonian, but we're here to learn.

Leaving there hungry for more knowledge, we allowed my friend's phone to direct us to Dumbarton Oaks, only to be flabbergasted when it took us south over the 14th Street bridge and back over the Key Bridge to land at the Dumbarton Museum.

In our sights (the gardens are currently closed) was a new exhibit, "Women in Art 1850-1910"," a show of fashionably dressed urban women of the late 19th century, as depicted by impressionists.

For a small exhibit, there were some major names - Renoir, Gauguin, Degas, Seurat - but the big revelation was Alfred Stevens, a Belgian painter who worked in France. Each of the never publicly displayed works of his we saw showed a clear homage to a better known artist (Whistler, Manet, Morrisot) as he executed a Whitman's sampler of then-current artist favorites, with occasional nods to Flemish and Dutch painting of the 1700s.

Since it was our first visit to the museum, we wandered down hallways and into a large circular glass gallery overlooking the gardens. It was as close as we were going to come to its beauty today.

By then it was mid-afternoon. so we once again crossed town, although not via two bridges, this time to head to Southwest and the hot new dining neighborhood, the waterfront. While I'd read about all the development going on along Maine Avenue and the old marina, I hadn't been down there in over 10 years when it was still looking tired and forgotten.

For that matter, if you want to go way back, in the '70s we'd come down to Southwest to go dancing at the gay clubs, back when the only other businesses were those enormous seafood restaurants like Hogate's. You can imagine the delight Lady G and I felt when we spotted a sidewalk marker acknowledging Hogate's rum buns, because no one who ever ate there didn't carb-load on those buns.

Can't say I'm impressed with the fake town center look of Wharf Street (and what the hell is up with piped-in music along the river?), but Del Mar de Fabio Trabocchi offered Spanish decor and eats plus a view of bobbing boats on the blue river while we relaxed into a late lunch.

Besides being enormous and high-ceilinged, Del Mar made it clear it had been fashioned by a Spanish decorator, with a fish sculpture clearly inspired by Picasso, deep blue Majorcan tiles fronting a wall and glass walls looking over the waterfront.

From my vantage point, I had a view of masts snapping in the brisk January breeze a few feet from the river, while both G and I admired the staff jackets of blue and white seersucker with inset floral panels. Our server said they took some getting used to, but now he appreciates the stylish look as well as lightweight fabric for non-stop movement.

Beginning with Ramon Canals Cava Reserva Rose (an easy-drinking Temperanillo blend that would make outstanding porch sipping), we kept lunch to four courses and of course G thought her choices were better while I like to think mine were.

Let's see, inexplicably fresh-tasting chopped tomatoes (how is that possible?), garlic and olive oil atop crispy Catalan bread was followed by a bowl of vibrantly-colored charcoal-grilled beets with sheep's milk cheese and black garlic dressing, earthy and deeply flavorful.

When our server came over to check on our bliss level, we inquired about the upstairs and he offered to arrange a tour after lunch so we could see the views as well as the private dining rooms and terraces.

Because we were in a Spanish seafood restaurant and although it was too chilly for the patio, nothing but grilled branzino would do for my main course, especially with that Cava Rose. I only wish I could have teleported to some sunny Spanish coastal city while I ate it. Sure, G's Chorizo and pork belly with white bean stew was to die for in terms of today's chilly DC climes, but, oh, that fish.

For dessert I had the creamiest of vanilla flans, with a blood orange sauce and tiny little basil meringues for crunch. We took our time finishing up, but the moment we threw in the towel, our server appeared eager to hand us off to our upstairs guide. His last piece of advice was to be sure to use the bathroom up there so we could properly ogle it.

Can do, sir, I make a habit of ladies' rooms.

From Picasso prints forming a frieze in one private dining room to another with a wall housing hundreds of bottles of wine, everything about upstairs involved a stellar view of the marina and water. A patio looked like it was just waiting for the party to start.

In fact, the hostess told us that they're in the process of trying to figure out how to manage the very different crowds who will want to hang out on the upstairs patio (likely casual dressers) versus the downstairs main dining room (at these prices, people are bound to dress better). Good luck with that.

Besides, that's their problem and on a blue-sky day in my hometown with a favorite girlfriend, we still had over two hours in the car as the sun set to continue dissecting my lack of blogging, her come-to-jesus discussions with her man and why we handle saying goodbye so poorly.

Was it enough? Never! Do I feel better after all that history, art and Spanish food? Without a doubt.

Girl talk, it's what's for lunch.

Sinking, Rising, Reflecting

You know I'm not myself when I can't recall the last time I saw live music.

I know I haven't seen any in 2018 and looking back at my calendar, if you don't count plays, looks like it was early November.

All I can say is, that may be the longest stretch I've gone in years without seeing a band and I'm not proud of it.

So tonight I was among the music lovers who crowded Sub Rosa Bakery to see the Low Branches reunion, not to mention Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands opening up for them. For those not familiar with these two stellar local bands, allow me to clarify: first we heard JV& TB, a male trio singing sad songs, followed by TLB, a female-fronted trio singing sad songs.

Because if there is anything I need these days to reinforce my mood, it's sad songs.

Chairs and stools had been assembled to face the twinkle light-draped front windows and door and the room hushed quickly once Jonathan strapped on his guitar, greeted the crowd made up of lots of old friends from the Listening Room days - where I'd gotten to know both these bands - and began with the instantly recognizable "Days Go By."

With Nate (of bagel fame) on upright bass and doing harmonies and Curtis on pedal steel, the band did "You Were Gone," one of several songs off their new EP just released last month. You know, I've been listening to Jonathan make music since 2007 and his songs still move me every time.

Meanwhile, people kept arriving, making their way to the counter for wine and wedging themselves into any available spaces left. Jonathan lightened the mood after a group came in and quickly found seats, saying, "Now that my in-laws are here, we'll restart that one!"

Favorite lyric: We both crossed the line, but I can't remember who pushed who.

They closed their set with the very new "The Truth" with the timeless acknowledgment, "Change is the only thing that stays the same." Please don't remind me.

The break afterward allowed the latecomers to mingle with the punctual crowd and before long, the volume was such that you had to lean in to hear the person you were talking to. Two friends I chatted with have gotten pregnant since I last saw them and another had her one month-old with her.

I was delighted to chat with the scuba-diving artist who used to keep bees because we hadn't seen each other in over a year. Curious about why that was, she posited that it's her early bedtime to accommodate an early morning yoga schedule, leading to a discussion of how we both require 9 hours sleep a night.

She thought it might also be related to her absence on Facebook now that her social media platform of choice is Instagram. Asking if I used it, she was tickled pink to learn I'd just joined the Instagram fam a week ago. "Now we'll see each other there!" she predicted.

A musician friend I've known for 8 years now came over and asked me sotto voce why I wasn't blogging. Her question caught me completely off guard, although I didn't hesitate to tell her how flattered I was that she'd noticed. "Of course I noticed," she exclaimed. "Reading your blog is a regular part of my day and I miss it!" She even uses it as a reference to check on when things happened.

It's not like other close friends haven't asked me about the absence of my daily posts, but she wanted to know why. Without having put it into sentences before, I answered with words I didn't know my brain had formulated.

I'm really low right now and if I were to blog, it would be with a very different voice than my readers are accustomed to. I couldn't feign a cheerfulness or optimism I'm not feeling anymore and I told her that I don't think my readers would want to read the words of this mood and that voice.

"Well, I want to read your words no matter what the voice," she said, offering up perhaps the kindest response imaginable.

Jonathan, talking to friends about when the last time the Low Branches had played, turned to me and asked when it was. I wasn't exactly sure, but when I saw Christina, the heart and soul of the Low Branches, she laughed and said, "Well, you would know because whenever it was, you wrote about our final show."

The blog again. Seems I've been charged with keeping a record of Richmond goings-on.

Then it was showtime. "We're going to play some old songs and some new songs," Christina announced, her guitar on her crossed legs. "I have a lot to say."

Like with Jonathan, I recognized old songs such as "Like a Glove" and loved hearing new ones like "Down to the Church" and "The Stranger." It's always moving when she sings her lament-like cover of Dolly Parton's "Jolene," which I hadn't heard in years. Fittingly, today was Dolly's birthday, so Christina wished her a happy birthday.

Christina's got such a beautifully effortless voice and hushed way of singing and she mentioned that she thought her guitar was too loud (it wasn't), but two guitars and keyboards complemented the band's serene, introspective and meandering aesthetic.

"Thanks to Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands," she said after her final song. "It's just like old times!"

In terms of seeing two of my favorite long-time local bands, yes. In terms of life, I only wish.

The World Just Shrugs Its Shoulders

According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other half. ~ Plato, although it was Aristophanes' idea

I don't even know how many months I had to wait to see this movie, but I do know I've been seeing previews for it at least since summer.

It's not just that it's winter - a season I detest - but also it's my mood, which has been lower than I'd care to admit the past few months, so late on a Friday afternoon, I used it as a reason to stop working and visually escape to sunny Italy.

Better to focus on the setting since, let's face it, there's no way I needed to see a love story.

The last minute decision to go see "Call Me By Your Name" happened  at 4:23, when I looked at the Criterion schedule, saw that it had finally opened that day and was playing at 4:30 and made the split second decision to go. Even though the theater is barely 2 miles from home, I knew I'd miss the previews but could just make the movie.

It was enough.

What I wasn't expecting at a late matinee was a nearly full house once I got inside the theater, which is how I wound up in the second row just as the film was beginning. Yes, bucolic scenes of the Lombardy region in northern Italy were just exactly what my bruised spirit needed right about now.

The setting aside, everything about the movie had a European feel: the languorous pace, the casual conversations about sex between parents and child, or even the offhand depiction of sexual attraction. It was all so refreshingly un-American, un-Hollywood-like.

Even the film's title, a reference to that Plato quote, presumes a certain level of literacy on the part of the viewer. I can always appreciate presumption of intelligence.

For someone like me who remembers 1983, the year the story is set, it was a delightful reminder of a time when men wore shorter, attractive swimming trunks (and not those hideously unflattering board shorts), young people traded books and made reading recommendations to each other (and some of us weren't happy when our books weren't returned) and sunning yourself counted as a pastime.

And in a scene where the young people are dancing outside at night and the Psychedelic Furs' "Love My Way" - one of the summer's big songs - starts playing, it's positively transporting for those of us who remember dancing to it.

Everything about the film was swoon-worthy: the scenery, the coming of age story, watching first love unfold, the sprawling, unhurried outdoor meals, even the abundance of fresh fruit from nearby trees.

I don't know how a person who'd never been to Italy could have left that theater without a newly found passionate desire to do so. I've only been once and walked out wishing I could teleport.

But when all was said and done, the most powerful scene in the movie, the one that will resonate for some time to come for me, was the one in which Elio's father explained why he needed to allow himself to feel hurt for as long as it took...even if it was a lifetime.

We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of 30 and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing, so as not to feel anything, what a waste!

Because my first true love arrived post-30, I was as destroyed as a teenager when it didn't ultimately work out. One thing I knew for sure was that I was not going to be cured of it quickly or easily - a realization a much younger person might not have had - which in many ways only made it a heavier burden to come to terms with.

I'm inclined to think that being cured of the hurt and pain of losing someone you love isn't possible and likely not desirable. In the immortal words of Jens Leckman, "You don't get over a broken heart, you just learn to carry it gracefully."

It's the graceful part that's the challenge.

Forging On

We'll begin with the front door. It was candy apple red.

The little green house - 'though we didn't call 3-bedroom houses little when I was a pup - tucked into a mid-century neighborhood just west of Thornrose Cemetery surprised us by being newly built. The neighborhood was also home to Giancarlo Fine European Bakery which operated out of the back of the Giancarlos' little pink house and which we accessed by driving down a gravel alley labeled "Pastry Lane."

It doesn't get much cuter, even if we did arrive after they'd sold out and closed early for the afternoon.

Later, inside the red-doored house, our host explained that the original house had burned down and this one built a few years ago in its place, undoubtedly making for less drafty digs, if also a tad plebeian. But it had front and back porches for sitting, two comfortable bedrooms and a fireplace, so no one was complaining.

Our host had warned us she had cats, suggesting we keep our doors closed if we were allergic (I am). What took us by surprise was that, cut into the owner's bedroom door was a little arch allowing the cats complete access night and day. Her friends may call her a crazy cat lady for all we know.

Welcoming and comfy as the house was, we saw very little of it given that we had only 25 hours in Staunton. That would be 25 extremely frigid hours in Staunton.

Mac and I started at the American Shakespeare Center's Blackfrair's Playhouse for a behind-the-scenes tour with one other couple that took us through a timeline of Shakespeare's original Blackfrair's Playhouse, through the costume shop and past a white board listing of music ideas for current productions (The Oh Sees, Amy Winehouse) and eventually to a balcony perch to watch actors rehearse "Richard II."

That's right, I'll get up with the sunrise to make it to the other side of the state for that kind of a nerdy peek.

Especially since I'd been to the Blackfriar's over a decade ago to see "King Lear," back when there were no seat cushions or backs to the hard benches, the better to allow patrons to experience Shakespeare as theater lovers had in his time. In the intervening years, soft, over-indulged Americans had demanded a more modern, comfortable experience and the theater had capitulated.

Let's just say my disdain was real.

Walking through the petite downtown to eat, it was clear given the few passersby that we were in the minority for tourists willing to stroll put up with the bitter cold and gusting winds for teh sake of sightseeing and eating. Call us rubes.

Farmhouse Kitchen and Wares was a low-key and charming place to get warm and fed as the only occupants at a community table. The crusty rolls on our stellar sandwiches were worthy of a quick prayer of gratitude to the bread gods and sausage, kale and white bean soup was nothing short of life affirming.

Properly fortified, we set out for Black Swan Books and Records - how could I not after all my wonderful finds over the years at the Black Swan Books in Richmond? - where I got a fascinating glimpse into how music and locale intersect. The used albums there bore no resemblance to the used albums I might find at my neighborhood record store (with the exception of spotting a friend's band's album, but he grew up out that way), as in was there no punk music in Staunton? Weird.

Conclusion: musical taste is geographic.

We wandered down to the old warehouse that houses Sunspots, a glassblowing studio, and watched a blower do his thing, although I'm not too proud to say I also reveled in the warmth of that fire. The last time I saw glass being blown was at Jamestown in the '90s and every two decades isn't too often to be reminded of the artistry of that skill set.

After we struck out at Ginacarlo, we did the only sensible thing and stopped at Cocoa Mill Chocolate for some almond bark to tide us over until we reached Reunion Bakery to satisfy Mac's bakery lust (a pistachio roll and chai did the trick).

That was to fortify us for the Woodrow Wilson Museum and manse, which turned out to be far more compelling (and relevant) than we'd expected. Three big takeaways:

1. Only President with a ph.D.
2. As a southerner, he opposed women's suffrage because if they gave it us, they'd have to give it to blacks.
3. The second wife, Edith, a widow whom he avidly pursued after his first wife Ellen died, basically ran the country when he had a stroke as president and was unable to function.

Tucked away in the garage, they even had his favorite toy, a shiny black Pierce Arrow that he loved being squired around in.

After a tour through the posh house where he was born (his father may have been a Presbyterian minister, but he was well paid for his efforts and the house came free), and being the walkers that we are, we set out to stretch our legs, only to be defeated by the hills and brutal wind after circling one large block.

I'm not proud of that, but then I shouldn't have worn boots to see a hilly town. One walker's demerit for that.

The centerpiece of the weekend was dinner at the Shack, so it was satisfying to arrive at the tiny restaurant and see a table with a strip of menu folded like a tent with my name and 7:00 written on it to secure our spot.

An intoxicating marriage of obscenely creamy and understated heat on the finish, the spicy golden beet soup impressed from the start with its presentation: a long, curvy-necked teapot poured the yellow soup over croutons of chaat masala that soaked it up like sponges. Mac's butternut squash peirogis over onion puree got a kick from chil and crunch from pecans and caused her to make Meg Ryan-like sounds as she ate them.

Sipping my Lois Gruner Veltliner, we struck up a conversation with the couple next to us who, naturally, were from Richmond (albeit the west end) and out celebrating her 50th birthday. She insisted we try her Heidi Shrock Rose "Biscaya" (a seven grape blend appealingly described as " a country wine made by a woman who's comfy in the city also) since she'd gotten a celebratory bottle and her husband didn't care for wine.

We thanked her for her hospitality by handing over restaurant recommendations written on a torn page from my pad and handed over surreptitiously. Since they were also in town for the weekend, they were curious what we'd done so far and then gobsmacked when we shared our day. Their own plans, it seems, were far less ambitious and involved as little outdoor time as possible.

For my main course, I chose guinea hen, boasting crisp, seasoned skin and moist meat over butterbeans, Carolina gold rice and fermented cabbage while Mac dove into fried chicken.

Just two city girls wallowing in southern cooking.

It was impossible to do full justice to dessert after all that, but we gave it our best, me with a chocolate cremeux, although its accompanying smoked apple butter failed to impress me. Call me old fashioned, but apple butter is already a practically perfect food group, no smoking enhancement required (or desired). Mac seemed equally happy with banana bread pudding with caramelized banana ice cream, or maybe she was just in a food coma. Hard to say.

When we got back to the little green house, we sat on my bedroom floor and talked about (of all things) technology, at least until we both conceded that our digestive systems had shut down our brains. Our host had informed us that she'd put extra woolly blankets on our beds in anticipation of the night's drop in temperature and sure enough, we needed them.

Waking up to a temperature of 11 degrees is meaningless when the wind makes it feel like 1 degree, but did we let that stop us from walking to breakfast? We did not. Did such biting weather prevent our getting lost twice before finally locating Nu Beginning Farm's Store? Absolutely not. Never mind that once there we saw they were closed.

We only had to slog another half mile or so to land at Cranberry's Grocery & Eatery, a place that smelled of patchouli and hippies and served fabulous oatmeal with figs and currants, dried apricots, walnuts and blackberries, with a crock of Virginia maple syrup riding shotgun. Chalk it up to my Irish roots, but that's a helluva bowl of oatmeal, especially after 3 miles of walking to get there. The everything bagel that accompanied it was mere filler.

Our final stop was the Frontier Culture Museum, which turned out to be even less popular than downtown Staunton when the air feels like 2 degrees. Given that handicap, it was pay-what-you-will day at the museum (off season, there are no costumed interpreters at the buildings), plus they'd recruited five women to give spinning demonstrations in a warm gallery.

I was raised in a family where you didn't get dessert if you didn't finish your vegetables, so you sure don't get to watch indoor demos until you've trooped all over the outdoor museum.

The 1700s African farm was closed for the season, so we began at the 1600s English farm, which was understandably more rustic than the 1700s Irish farm with its impressive stone walls to corral animals.

We lucked out when we entered the 1700s Irish forge because a master was training interpreters on the fine art of blacksmithing, meaning there was a hearth fire with massive bellows behind it being stoked as he refined a metal tool. The young men who were being schooled watched raptly as the master demonstrated technique.

Far cozier than the previous farms was the 1700s German farm and it was there we saw a stringed instrument lying on the table, an indication of leisure we hadn't seen in other farmhouses. My favorite oddball detail was the tiny little crank out window in the horse stall in the barn. Sure, there was a Dutch door which could allow half ventilation, but sometimes a horse needs a window apparently.

We never made it as far as the American farms of the 1820s and 1850s - don't judge - although we did see some spinning, but since we'd covered 5.86 miles since we'd left the little red-doored house for breakfast, we weren't exactly slacking, either.

Coming back, we detoured to Charlottesville so I could finally have my first Bodo's bagel (didn't measure up to Nate's bagels for me) and shoepeg corn salad in the crazy busy dining room, where two painfully skinny college students (one UVA, one Skidmore) discussed their bands and the upcoming house shows they have scheduled, all the while purposely flipping their shoulder length hair to mark their territory.

They were, neither one of them, remotely like VCU students (not a tattoo or piercing in sight) and I was again reminded: hipster prerequisites are geographic.

Sometimes only a change in geography will do when it's the dead of winter and life has been lacking for too long.

One distraction from that is a country weekend had by a city woman who's comfy in the mountains for short periods. Self preservation, that's what it is.

Tangled Up in Tinsel

If you know me, you know I'm not a phone person,

Never mind a cell phone, I'm not even a land line person. Phones, for me, are only used on an as-needed basis. In fact, mine rarely rings because friends and family know of my phone feelings.

Which means there are only so many likelihoods when you're sitting at home alone on Christmas evening and the phone rings.

For a change, it can't be robo calls or telemarketers. Even those nuisances dry up come December 25. It's unlikely to be family since I'd been with them earlier in the day. And friends rarely call on a normal day, much less a major holiday.

Except that when I look at the caller ID, it is a friend. A friend I've known since college. The friend who told me I was hopelessly romantic before I knew it myself. A friend I don't get to see regularly any more since he moved multiple states away.

He just wanted to know how I was. Then, in his usual, understated way and without asking why, he proceeded to tell me that he wasn't concerned that I hadn't been blogging all month. That he thought it was a good thing that I was taking a break. He wanted to know if I was seeing anyone. If I had a good Christmas.

In other words, he was concerned and he couldn't let the holiday go by without checking up on my state of mind.

I could say I was pea green with envy that he was wearing shorts and flip flops outside while chatting with me. But what I really felt was all kinds of happy to unexpectedly hear from him on a lonely Christmas night.

Don't get me wrong, I've had a lot of wonderful Christmases. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm, but this was most definitely not one of them.

Let's just say and to all a good night.