Calling Out, Calling Out

My balcony is small but mighty.

It only has room enough for two chairs - one director's, one adirondack, both spring green - and a table (for a boombox) because the rest of the space is taken up by two large window boxes and a plant stand. The two deep window ledges hold more potted plants, candles, a clay sculpture of a head, seashells and, because time evaporates out there like rain on hot pavement, a clock.

Just last weekend, there were four of us on that balcony (a first), making for a pretty tight squeeze, but generally, I entertain one person at a time out there. It's cozy and intimate, an ideal place to dish while sipping wine or watching moonflowers open.

So when an old friend showed up with a bottle of Jean Laurent Blanc de Noirs Brut wanting to toast to a mutual friend, neither of us could think of a better place to enjoy it than in the soft evening air of my balcony.

My sole job - besides the all-important one of holding up my end of the conversation - was handpicking our soundtrack and after one false start ("It's not very happy music," he observed of Yo la Tengo's "I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One" that I'd put on), we settled in with an old mix CD from summer 2003.

Called "Get Your Drive On," it had its own liner notes where the maker had written, "Music for a drive in the country...wishing you had a '67 Chevy droptop and an underwear model in the passenger seat."

And, yes, a former boyfriend actually thought it was a good idea to write that on the first mixtape he ever made me. Clearly he wasn't worried about leaving me with the wrong impression.

In any case, listening to the mix was a treat for both of us because it was such a well-chosen assortment of underplayed artists from the happy-go-lucky sounds of Amy Correia to the guilty pleasure pop of Rocking Horse Winner to the psychedelic groove of Mae Moore (aided by a requisite cover done by Todd Rundgren).

As my guest pointed out, with that kind of masterful song selection, it was no wonder I'd fallen hard for the guy who'd made it for me all those years ago.

By the time the 17 songs were over, we were ravenous and abandoned the balcony to head straight to 821 Cafe for dinner. Except that once parked, my friend decided he'd rather have Dinamo and I'm hardly going to argue with that.

We slid onto stools next to the massive espresso machine and in the blink of an eye were bantering with a guy at the bar about how mean people live longer. This was good news for my friend, who has limited tolerance for most human beings.

When the bar sitter got up to leave not long after, he came over to use his theory to reassure my friend, "You're going to live a long time!" Apparently I didn't come across crabby enough to rate my own dire warning.

A bottle of Italian Rosato accompanied a starter of crostini with smoked whitefish and red onions, so good it was worth being mean just so you could stay around to eat it longer. That was followed by an impressively large piece of rockfish with mixed greens (friend dubbed it the best piece of fish he'd ever had) and my abundance of mussels in sop-worthy white sauce with squid ink fettuccine.

Of all the available toppings for our chocolate espresso torte, friend opted for whipped cream and cherries and good as it was, we still couldn't finish it.

By that time, the other guests had cleared out and we realized that we recognized one of the servers from her former days of being a wine rep. Turns out serving suits her better these days since she became a Mom. "Nobody tells you what it's like," she lamented.

That's how we keep the human race going, my dear.

With an elegant sufficiency for both of us, we saw no better way to wile away the evening than returning to my balcony for music. The air was just as soft, it was still relatively early and we both knew there was plenty more conversation to be had.

The next CD was a 2008 mixtape that got us talking about the National's unusual drummer, the Decemberists' singer's braying voice and how I'd once been chided for not recognizing Neko Case's voice.

Following that was Tim Finn's 1993 gem "Before and After," a CD we'd both listened to repeatedly over a decade before discovering that we shared an appreciation for it. "And he's not even the most talented brother, " my friend cracked.

In vino veritas. He only wishes he was Finn brothers fan #485 (and yes, that's a real person).

Like I said, time vanishes on that balcony and the night was no exception as we talked about his current relationship ("It's not going to last," he announces), a recent missive from a mutual New Zealand friend and, most satisfying of all for me, people who are hokey.

Once the neighborhood had quieted down and my neighbors' lights went out, we were still hanging on the balcony, by that time listening to the evening's final offering, Big Star's "In Space" from 2005. It was a CD I'd gotten as a Christmas present just before going to London and Scotland for the first time and it holds up beautifully.

Not that just about any music wouldn't show well when you're comfortably ensconced on the balcony with a single moonflower in bloom and the occasional stiff breeze ruffling the wind chimes and tree tops just beyond my backyard.

Nobody tells you what it's like, so the only surefire way to find out is to get invited to my balcony. There's not much to it, but I can pretty much guarantee a most engaging evening once you're there.

Some people have even been known to thank me.

To Dream the Impossible Dream

On a day when the rain just didn't want to stop, a trip to Spain sounded mighty appealing.

Not Spain the actual country - although I'd happily accept an invitation any time it comes along - but the film "The Trip to Spain," which was playing at Movieland. I'd seen the last in the series, "The Trip to Italy," in 2014, two years after my own first trip to Italy and enjoyed every moment of it.

But Spain, that was fresh territory for me.

My date and I began with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and a record listening party to test his memory and launch tangents. Listening to the Grass Roots' "More Golden Grass" led us to "The Supremes Sing Holland Dozier Holland" when he heard a similar musical phrase ("whoa, whoa, whoa"), which necessitated me demonstrating the same sort of connection I'd heard between a song on the Brass Ring's "Disadvantages of You" and another on "The Association's Greatest Hits."

Nothing is new, kids, we just recycle the riffs of the past and hope no one's paying attention.

Because that kind of musical tangent-following can lead a couple of music nerds down endless rabbit holes while we starved to death, we stepped away from the turntable and made our way to Peter Chang's for dinner.

There were far more families with young children than you might expect on a Saturday night, but we were seated at a table in the bar area far from high chairs.

Since it was my date's first visit to Peter Chang's, he was understandably overwhelmed at the menu, but seemed to have little problem pinpointing a wine we'd both love. Cherrie "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose delivered all the textbook charms of a good Sancerre with its clean-tasting grapefruit flavors the color of pink diamonds. The Loire never disappoints.

Bowing to the power of Peter Chang's dry-fried anything, my companion chose dry-fried shredded chicken while I took our server's advice and opted for dry-fried flounder with wood ear mushrooms, potatoes, broccoli, onions and peppers. Naturally, an air-filled scallion bubble pancake accompanied our meals so we could pinch up food and mitigate heat when necessary.

It's such a pleasure to experience Peter Chang's with a first-timer and my date did not disappoint as he rhapsodized over the pancake and accustomed his palate to the spiciness. Our only complaint was that we had to request chopsticks because they weren't automatically offered.

There was no way either of us could finish such enormous servings, though we gave it our best shot as the families moved on and the second wave of Saturday night date couples began taking their places. And while we qualified to stay, we had a movie to catch.

We came in out of the rain into the theater just as two friends - a fellow theater panel member and a former art gallery director working on a new book - did, providing some last minute socializing before finding theater #2.

Although my date hadn't seen either of the first two installments of the series featuring Brits Steve Coogan and Rob Bryden, I felt like I knew him well enough to know how much he'd enjoy the dry humor, middle age ruminations and vocal impressions that are standard in these films.

Me, I go because the movies encompass my interests: travel (with splendid photography of places I'd love to see in person and an introduction to a sleep aboard ferry I can only dream about), food (Bryden is supposedly writing restaurant reviews so we see loads of shots of kitchen prep and sumptuous plus rustic dishes being delivered to their table) and endless brilliantly clever banter.

Their conversations about aging were just icing on the cake.

That so much of the dialog is improvised ensured our interest and attention, in the same way that listening to an erudite and comedic friend riff on life at a party does. What will he say next?

Less than an hour into the film during a quiet moment in dialog, I could hear fireworks outside the theater coming from the Diamond's final fireworks display of the baseball season. Yet another unpleasant reminder that summer is fading and cooler weather looms.

But while we were entertained by conversations about Cervantes and Don Quioxte and seduced by scenes of Spain, its architecture, mountains, monuments and churches - not to mention fabulous seaside restaurants - I forgot all about Richmond and rain.

In fact, scenes of them driving around the countryside instead brought Joni Mitchell's "California" to mind.

So I bought me a ticket
I caught a plane to Spain
Went to a party down a red dirt road
There were lots of pretty people there...

Never have red dirt roads and the red dust clouds that trail vehicles on them looked so appealing. And certainly, never has a rambling discussion that begins with the Moors and segues to Roger Moore been so laugh-out-loud funny.

Probably to no one's surprise, I'm also a fan of tilting at windmills. Whoa, whoa, whoa...

Harmonies of the I Love My Life Choir

Our cork popped before we even had time to be the squash.

The bottle that couldn't wait could be traced back to Greenleaf's Pool Room, where my date and I landed after quality time on the balcony with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and Todd Rundgren providing the soundtrack.

One of the many pleasures of Todd - besides the obvious: major talent - is the sheer pleasure of the liner notes. It's there we can glean who played the kalimba synthesizer (Brent Bourgeois) versus the spooky synthesizer (Roger Powell) and that Bobby Womack, the Dick Bright Strings and the I Love My Life Choir all contributed to "Nearly Human."

Thus fortified with obscure musical trivia, we set our sights on Greenleaf's Pool Room for dinner. Long a casual favorite of mine, it was my date's first visit and he fell for all the same things I do. What's not to like about low banquettes for lounging and colorful paintings of pool-playing greats by a Mexican artist?

Seeking a bottle to take with us to a show afterward, we decided on Treveri Blanc de Blanc before diving into a simple supper of tomato soup and the bar toast known as Tout de Sweet - goat cheese, herbs and housemade orange marmalade on toasted Billy bread (me) - and an oddly-shaped yet completely delicious Monte Cristo complete with housemade berry jam (him) to accompany it.

When we'd arrived, only one pool table was occupied, but as we chowed down, three other tables were taken over by players, many arriving with their own pool cues in zippered cases. It's great entertainment for the eating masses.

Although we were running out of time, I decided I couldn't do without a warm brownie (actually, two), although I did forgo the optional shot of bourbon on it. A woman's got to know her limits.

After the bartender fashioned a cork for our remaining bubbly, we were off.

Then it was across the river to the groovy Earth Folk Collective for their 3rd annual squash roast gathering and by then darkness was falling (damn you, Autumn!). A fire had already been lit and people were gathered around it when we strolled up the long grass walkway.

Standing near the house chatting, there was a sudden pop from the bag my date held and that makeshift cork took off, never to be seen again. But the pop was a pretty festive way to announce our arrival.

Further in, my date ran into a musician he knew and introduced me. "Are you two married? she asked, making both of us smile at the unlikely question. No, but we have been dating for almost 90 days, if that counts for anything.

After that, there was nothing to do but grab some jelly jars from the kitchen and spread our blanket near the campfire. As it was, Juan Harmon was already playing in the twinkle light-festooned shed that faces the yard and serves as the stage. We'd heard their mellifluous accordion/guitar/drum music just a few weeks ago at Scuffletown Park, but it was lovely to hear it again.

After their set, Fa Bra took the stage to lead anyone interested through some squash-inspired yoga in the fading light. We watched as people stretched to grow like a squash and eventually to become the squash. but we stayed rooted on our blanket sipping bubbles.

D.C.'s Elena y os Fulanos were up next, a treat because Elena's songs were bi-lingual and reflected the immigrant experience. "I love that you can be an immigrant and an American at the same time!" she gushed. She also explained that she'd been on tour for a while and had lost her hair gel, so her 'do wasn't up to par.

From a nearby chair out of the lights sat percussionist extraordinaire Rei Alvarez, effortlessly playing maracas and guiro to Elena's songs. I tell you, that man is a Richmond treasure.

The view from our blanket was about as wonderful as you'd expect, what with a campfire with a rack of squash roasting and lights strung on Laney and Jameson's little blue mobile home, the shed and arbor, all under a sky of cotton batting-like clouds with the moon doing its best to make its presence known.

Fa Bra returned to tease us into squash again with a pose that looked to involve the squash folding over on itself. I didn't do it, but I did imagine myself as a squash.

Last up was a feast of girl voices with Whatever Honey, who told us right off the bat that they hadn't played out in a year. You couldn't tell it by the harmonies they put out. As my musician companion noted, there's just something more complex about female voices singing together than males.

Leaning back, listening to the gorgeous harmonies and guitar playing while the scent of candles filled the air, we could have been teleported back to a commune in the '70s, it was that kind of easygoing vibe.

No mellows could be harshed when voices this angelic are being sung to the night sky. With apologies to Elena, I love that I can be a Blanc de Blanc sipper and an old hippie at the same time.

And not being on tour, all my hair products are present and accounted for.