My World and Welcome To It

Surreal:  \sə-ˈrēal/
weirdly unfamiliar, bizarre, fantastic

A perfectly lovely evening ended on a perfectly surreal note.

But I'll get to that.

I had plans to meet friends at Bonvenu and waited for the worst of the thunderstorm's rain to end before driving over.

What's the point in dressing cute if I'm going to arrive looking like a drowned rat?

Two of the three  friends I was meeting were walking out as I pulled up.

Seems that the pouring rain had come through the ceiling into Bonvenu's kitchen twenty minutes earlier.

Dinner was no longer being served.

Plan B was Rowland's and although they were wildly busy, there were four barstools available and that's all we needed.

A bottle of Charles Krug Sauvignon Blanc was poured and another couple put on ice for the near future.

Like everywhere in town lately, softshells were a special, but since I've had them four times in a few weeks, I instead chose the seared diver scallops with sweet plantains, cilantro mojo and quinoa with sofrito.

Those with me enjoyed a special of flounder stuffed with local crabmeat, a seafood (squid! lobster! scallops! shrimp!) linguine and the massive pecan-crusted pork chop.

During the course of the evening, I was introduced to the chef's recently transplanted brother with the mortifying qualifier, "And she's single!"

Luckily we both ignored that and discussed instead the varied places where he's lived (San Diego, Puerto Rico, Peru) and his dislike of Richmond's summer bug season.

I'd met my friends for dinner as a prelude to going to see the Picasso show on its last night.

It was my third time, but my friend's first and the other two had been.

As a bonus, we managed to convince Chef Virginia to join us.

And although I had a a ticket for the 9:30 viewing, it was way after 10 before I got out of there, as my server (who also works at Amuse) pointedly reminded me.

It was fun going through the exhibit with first-timers and interesting to see the variety of people there with us, including far more children than I would have expected given the hour.

A fair number of people were dressed up for the occasion, with some women wearing fancy dresses and very high heels.

You know, perfect choices for an eleven-gallery stroll with hundreds of other people.

But the energy in the galleries was terrific as everyone seemed jazzed by being in the museum late and taking in the once-in-a-lifetime show.

I was glad I'd decided to be a part of it.

It was after midnight when we finally walked out and I was pleased that it was still nice out since I hadn't brought a wrap.

(Begin surrealistic period)

As I was driving up Monument Avenue, the light at Robinson changed and I stopped.

The car next to me beeped at me, so I rolled down my window.

"Hi! I'm a musician from DC and I saw you back at the museum and I think you're just beautiful. Can I give you my card and see you sometime?"

Not what I was expecting.

I had figured him for a lost museum visitor seeking directions.

Or maybe I had a brake light out.

But this...?

"No, really," he said, pulling on something. "See, here's my sax. I was down here doing a gig. Then I went to the museum."

He held up the case and began pulling out his sax.

No, no, don't show me your sax.

"Do you always stop strange woman and talk to them at this hour?" I asked, amazed at what was happening.

"No, but I couldn't let you drive away and not try to speak to you."

He got out, handed me his card and introduced himself.

"If I thought you'd say yes, I'd put on some music and ask you to dance with me on the sidewalk," he said as if that was a normal thing to suggest.

My look must have conveyed my answer because words were escaping me.

"Please call me. I would love spending time getting to know you."

"Goodnight," I said and drove away, my head spinning with the oddness of what had just happened.

Maybe it was seeing Picasso for the third time that caused some of his surrealistic influences to bleed over into my life.

Because that just may be the most bizarre, fantastic and weirdly unfamiliar thing that's ever happened to me, and I've had some doozies.

But dancing on the sidewalk after midnight?

Touché.

Amused Until Midnight

I don't know when the next time will be that Amuse lets me stay until midnight, so I had to take advantage of their hospitality tonight.

It was all part of my couple date, you see. We met at Black Sheep for a pre-theater dinner and managed to sneak in just before the Friday night crowds arrived and began the waiting game.

With a bottle of white Rioja and plates of the crawfish etouffe biscuits and the barbecued shrimp, we recounted recent meals (my rabbit and softshells and their brains and liver) while ogling the battleships being served around us.

Dinner ran the gamut from the smoked trout salad to the barbecued duck leg with Israeli cous cous to the Cardinal, a perfectly balanced salad of mixed greens, dried cherries, roasted beets, pickled onions and "bird seed," a mixture of various seeds.

The unsurpassed LaBrea tarpit (dark chocolate creme brulee) finished the meal, as usual.

Tonight's cultural offering at Firehouse was Israel Horovitz "Shorts,"  four very brief plays interspersed with short dance pieces and two violinists providing musical interludes.

"The Bridal Dance" underscored every negative stereotype about womanizers, body image and relationships, including marriages gone bad from the get-go (as in at the wedding).

"Stage Directions" was the knockout piece, a story told entirely through three characters' speaking their stage directions only. It sounds like such a simple construct and yet it was very powerful.

During intermission, I headed to the head only to hear my name called. It was Treesa Gold, one of the Richmond Symphony's violinists who'd been called just hours before to sub for the scheduled violinist.

"You are everywhere!" she said, hugging me. "And you're sight-reading music in the dark of the theater!" I told her. Mutual admiration all around.

"Inconsolable" was about a mother's suicide and a failed marriage and was heartbreaking. especially when told through the eyes of the daughter who discovers her moms' dead body.

"The Race Play" ended things on a lighter note with the tale of a charity race where the younger runners allow the iconic older runner to take the race. The play required the actors to run in place the entire time and all were glowing by play's end.

Playwright Horovitz was in the audience and it was hard to deny the power of the stories he told so succinctly. The capacity audience was clearly impressed.

My couple date and I left for Amuse with our intellects stimulated, some built-in conversational material and seeling some late-evening libations, not sure how much of a crowd to expect.

At 10:15, the ticket lines at VMFA were headed almost to the entrance. Most people in line appeared to be under thirty, no doubt having decided that Friday night would be a great time to finally check out Picasso.

Upstairs at Amuse, there was a decent crowd which only grew over the next hour as people streamed in after seeing the show.

The bar was full, so we snagged a table by the window. Later the manager came over and playfully asked me if I'd ever sat at a table at Amuse. Why, yes, a couple of times...and never by choice.

There was a couple making goo-goo eyes at each other at the bar; later the manager told us that they had gotten engaged at the bar tonight. It was very sweet, although it seemed an unlikely location at which to propose, at least to us.

The green fairy floated over to our table with glasses for us womenfolk while the masculine one had a cocktail of some sort. All around us, tables were abuzz with post-Picassoites enjoying an uncharacteristically late night at Amuse; I saw musicians, servers and former neighbors.

With the cool glow of the purple lights overhead, it definitely didn't feel like we were in Richmond anymore. Do it again, Amuse. We'll stay as late as you let us.

Reclining Nude in Jackson Ward

Picasso has become the lingua franca of Richmond these days, forging a common bond with practically anyone you speak to, friend or stranger.

Rounding the corner to Grace Street today, I all but ran into Tom, a local artist and VCU employee easily recognizable for his aging hippie look: long, white ponytail, beard and twinkling blue eyes.

"Morning, Karen" he greeted me with a big smile. "Have you seen the Picasso exhibit yet?" Twice and craving a third, I told him, launching us into an in-depth discussion of the man, his many wives and muses, his prolificacy and the need for multiple viewings of the show.

As a painter, Tom especially wanted to discuss the enormous pleasure he'd taken from seeing works up close that he'd only previously seen as reproductions in books. "To be able to see the brushstrokes!" he rhapsodized.

We talked about how Picasso's life-long passion for women fueled his continuing creativity well into his nineties. Tom noted that he'd read a study about how one increased the longevity of the other. "An active sex life spurs creativity," he pronounced. Okay, I can see the connection there.

Like many of my friends, the show had made a VMFA member out of him and, honestly, that will be the ultimate lasting value of the Picasso exhibit in Richmond.

After a quarter of an hour of satisfying art chatter, I told Tom I needed to get going on my walk, having already gotten a late start.

"Now that you've seen the exhibit, you should know why I want to paint you!" he called to my back.

I turned around to smile at him. Oh, I understand why.