Midnight Love and Cheap Cigarettes

And other tales from 36 hours with a Kiwi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A tour guide's work is never finished.

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

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

It was a pleasure, in other words.

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

94 and Rising

We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave
The temperature's rising, it isn't surprising
She certainly can can-can

With a forecast of temperatures close to 100 degrees for Monday and Tuesday, I declined an invitation to the country. It was going to be too hot to head inland. Instead, I got up yesterday and started for the river.

A mile in and sweat was running down my back. Two miles in and all I could think about was a drink of water, but with cemeteries to my left and houses to my right, there was no water in sight.

I crossed my fingers that there would be a water fountain at Texas Beach, although I knew it was unlikely.

Walking through the neighborhood a different route, I came across all kinds of charming things to take my mind off my unrelenting thirst. A tidy white church tucked onto a corner, with rows of blooming roses surrounding it. A front yard garden labeled "potager" with a rainbow-colored gate behind it. A yard so full of kitsch that it was difficult to take in the hundreds of items that adorned every inch of space.

And when I got to the parking lot at Texas Beach, I was thrilled to see not one but three water fountains, one for adults, one for kids and one for dogs. Drinking greedily, I yielded the fountain to two overheated runners and headed to a bench to sit down.

On it was a large, unopened bottle of water, condensation indicating it was still somewhat cold water. I picked it up and put it back down. Looking around, I saw no one looking for their water. In that instant, it became mine.

Once hydrated, I walked down the stairs to Texas Beach to get in the river and was completely surprised to see ten Japanese rock pile statues dotting the water. I'd been down there just last Wednesday and noticed that all the pilings from last year were gone. Somebody had been busy in the past few days reconstructing them.

Let the summer begin.

Heading back up to the parking lot to start the hot walk home, I got behind two men on the staircase discussing the Koran and how "they" are just as afraid of us as we are of them. When they paused on a landing to get their breath, one guy waved me by. "I can see you're in tip top shape and we're not, so go ahead," said the one in the VCU shirt.

I don't know about all that, but I passed them anyway, refilled "my" water bottle at the fountain and slogged toward home, grateful that the water gods had looked out for me when I hadn't had the sense to bring my own.

Half a mile from home, I heard my name called and there was a friend offering me a brief home in air conditioned comfort. With over five miles of walking under my sweaty belt, I happily hopped in. Maybe my Mom's right and some days are just too hot to walk.

Awaiting me at home was an invitation to spend the day in air conditioned places of my choosing, an offer too good to refuse.

We began at Saison Market for a cold beverage before moving on to Criterion to see "Love and Mercy," the biopic about Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. I've never been much of a Beach Boys fan, but I'm on record as loving a good true story and this one is hard to beat given its sordid elements: abusive father, controlling doctor, mental illness.

Probably most fascinating was the glimpse of Wilson's creative process as he tries to recreate the voices and sounds in his head into a record in the studio. Hearing those familiar songs broken down into the abstract components of his complicated vision was mesmerizing and all but a music lesson for the less musically savvy (read: me).

From there, we headed to the air conditioned comfort of Can Can for happy hour deals, enjoying three kinds of P.E.I. oysters (my favorite for the name alone: Salutation Cove) and a charcuterie plate with Morbier, pork pate and prosciutto-wrapped ripe cantaloupe, washed down with Muscadet.

In the bathroom, a woman was making a face at herself in the mirror, holding up a lock of hair. "Why did I spend half an hour straightening it if it's already curly again?" she asked me. Meanwhile my straight hair was losing what little body I'd forced in with a blow dryer to the heat, I pointed out.

"Your hair looks great," she claimed, but only a curly haired girl would say that. We all want what we don't have and my hair was suffering in the heat as much as hers.

From there, we braved the oven-like heat of Cary Street to walk down a few blocks to Chop Suey Books where the Music Circus was in full swing. I don't even know how many years now I've attended the annual tribute to John Cage, but at least since it was held at the old Chop Suey eight years ago.

Moving from room to room, looking at books along the way, I heard the Man About Town reading from his unfinished novel, saw a sax duo that included JC Kuhl upstairs near cookbooks and lingered to watch drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones playing percussion and song flutes. It was a far smaller Music Circus than any I'd seen before but just as cacophonous, which is exactly the point.

Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped at Belmont Food Shop for appetizers of crab and avocado (one of my very favorite warm weather combos), lobster salad and, wait for it, lamb belly (obscenely delicious and one of my go-tos at Belmont).

As the crowd dwindled, the bartender got tired of the usual soundtrack ("I've been listening to it for two and a half years") and offered up his phone so I could choose some different music. Everyone knows I love playing DJ.

Hmm, so many options. I choose Strand of Oaks because I'd just seen them and Father John Misty because I'm currently infatuated with that album, eventually going with Ryan Adams because who doesn't like Ryan Adams? My date did and that's all I care about.

I couldn't leave without ordering silk pie, a crumb-encrusted dark chocolate mousse-like round that never disappoints, or a few minutes' conversation with the low key chef about his upcoming beach and fishing trip.

Sure, it would have been so easy to just go home at that point, but how could we when it was heavy metal Monday at GWARbar?

A DJ was set up just behind the stools we sat in and while I didn't recognize a single song as a series of appropriately dressed DJs took turns spinning, it's always great people watching there, whether it's poseurs or metalheads.

Not to mention that their air conditioning was working just fine and spending time in it had been our one and only goal of the day and night. We're simple people, although he was going home to sleep in air conditioned comfort while my overnight involved a ceiling fan and two auxiliary fans pointed directly at me. Bliss.

This morning, I considered routes for my walk, taking into account that it's supposed to be 99 degrees today, so desperately seeking some shade along the way.

Heading downtown, I was immediately struck by how few people were out and about. The Jehovah's Witnesses who usually set up shop near city hall were M.I.A. The lunchtime crowd appeared to have stayed inside. Even the guys who usually hang out in front of the barber shops were absent.

But a few brave souls were out. Walking down Marshall Street, from the apartment house stairs above me, I hear a man say, "There she is! There's summer!"

Looking up at him, I remark that it's not summer till next week. "It's summer today, darlin' and so are you!" he calls with a big smile. I have to assume he's referring to my wide-brimmed hat and limbs glistening with sunscreen.

"Nice sunblock!" a man with a backpack and tall walking stick calls to me from across the street, obviously not referring to my pink shorts.

We're having a heat wave, a tropical heatwave
The way that she moves, that thermometer proves
She certainly can can-can

Oh, and, for the record, under that hat that gets me so much complimentary attention, my hair most definitely does not look great. It's summer.