Don't Check Me for Ticks

Just when I'm ready to get discouraged about doing so much alone, I have an evening where I run into friends all night long. It may not be as good as a partner's company, but it was great to have the unexpected conversation almost everywhere I went.

And I went all over tonight. I began at the Visual Arts center for the other part of Darkroom: Photography and New Media in South Africa since 1950. This show had more contemporary photographs than the VMFA show, but was just as compelling.

The photo of 15-year old Lawrence Matjee after being assaulted and detained by the Security Police was heartbreaking. The unsmiling boy stares into the camera shirtless and with haunting eyes, both his arms in casts up to his armpits. Tragic.

Another photo shows eight young people running from a smokey blast during the political unrest in Soweto in the late 70s. Of the eight, only two have their feet on the ground. The other six are running so hard that both feet are in the air at the moment the shutter closed. It took my breath away.

In contrast to that is the image from 1952, Private Golf Lesson showing a couple in Sophiatown with their bodies curved around each other as he shows her how to make a shot. Their matching berets are seen against the background of the township's simple homes sloping up a hill.

If I'd been smart, I'd have taken the trolley from there instead of driving to the Anderson Gallery where I encountered a traffic accident (one car was up on the sidewalk of the Pollak Building), a street festival (one lane closed on Franklin on the first weekend of school? Lunacy) and non-existent parking. Luckily the exhibit was worth it.

Imaging South Africa: Collection Projects by Siemon Allen showed various collections of the South African artist, including relevant newspapers, 50,000 stamps and countless records. All three were meant to address the complex nature of South African identity.

Naturally the record and record label collections (two separate entities) gave me the most pleasure. The signature image for Darkroom is of singer Miriam Makeba and the record collection showcased primarily her records, in some cases duplicate copies, some autographed, some in other languages. I was surprised at how many records were on familiar American labels.

I ran into a friend who raved about the stamps (he's a biologist who pointed to a mole on a guy's neck and said, "Thought it was a tick." So stop thinking.) and a couple I have been running into everywhere lately ("Him: "Yea, but I like that."), who asked me about my later destinations, anticipating seeing me there.

I recommended to all three that they check out the accompanying VMFA and Visual Arts Center shows for a fuller sense of the South African experience, not to mention some outstanding photographs.

Afterwards, I strolled into Bistro 27 for a bite to eat, only to discover one of my very favorite couples, so I pulled up a chair to their bar table and joined them. After sharing some of their beef carpaccio, I had the deep fried sweetbreads over mushroom ragout and it was such a treat. Both of them tried it and agreed that this was sweetbreads done right. It's all about texture, as Carlos says.

I had such a good time chatting with them about a wide variety of topics (hangovers, the new Lulus's, birthday party plans, dressing faux pas) that I barely had time to pay my respects to the staff, always a favorite part of my evening at 27. I promised to be back soon to worship at their altars.

Lastly I made it to Balliceaux for Photosynthesizers and while I may not normally be much of a hip-hop fan, there is something about these guys doing live hip-hop that I knew from previous shows I loved. Two voices, male and female, with a live band and they had the audience enthralled (even the bad dancers who couldn't seem to find the beat).

And here I ran into loads of friends: the wild woman entrepreneur, the farmer and his harem, the restaurant owner and his chef, the trumpet player and his beloved, resulting in as much conversation as I could handle in between sets.

Eventually I took a seat at the bar, not to escape chatting with friends, but to talk to one of my favorite bartenders and to meet the random strangers stopping by for drinks. It's amazing how friendly people can be if they think you can get the bartender's attention. Or even just to kill time until it's their turn.

One guy kept asking if he could buy me another tequila and my bartending friend kept subtly shaking his head no at me, as if to underscore what I already knew: not my type, so don't let him get friendly. It's nice to have someone looking out for a girl when she's on her own.

And wouldn't you just know it was a restaurant owner tossing out the non-stop compliments and drink offers? Big sigh.

I see a lot of couple dating in my future.

Taking In Amuse and Darkroom

Tonight was something like my sixth visit to the museum since it reopened. The occasion was the opening of the new exhibition, Darkroom: Photography and New Media in South Africa Since 1950. I was really looking forward to the show.

I'd decided to make an evening of it by making a reservation for one at the bar at Amuse. I'm still testing the waters on which Richmond restaurants take bar reservations and whether they do it easily or begrudgingly.

I continue to be pleased with each restaurant that agrees to do so (Acacia, Bonvenu, Bistro 27, Six Burner). And although I was the first to be seated, every table except three were full within half an hour. Thank you, opentable.com for making it all possible.

It was my first visit since the second week they were open, here, and the staff was noticeably more comfortable; the menu had also gone through a revision, as had the wine pricing. I ran into a guy working there who'd left one of my neighborhood restaurants a while back; now I knew where he'd landed.

My tastes turned out to be the popular choices tonight. When I asked for the Chateau Routas Rose, bartender Tommy told me that they were out of it, so my second choice was the White Hall Viognier. Within minutes, a nearby couple also tried ordering the rose, only to learn that pink was all gone.

I began with the soup du jour, a roasted tomato and roasted corn with wild rice. It's the best time of the year for corn and tomatoes and the chunky soup had a lot of fresh flavor and texture.

Tommy and I had some great conversations when we found out how much we had in common. We lived in the same neighborhood for years, watching it change from funky and a little dodgy to gentrified and wholesome. I learned his favorite places for reggae. Turns out he's also the oldest of six children, just like me.

I alternated talking with him with chatting up newcomer barsitters. Meanwhile, he brought me a small version of one of his drinks to sample: a sunset martini (Blueridge Vodka, Cristolino cuvee, Lemoncello, fresh-squeezed OJ and grenadine). It sure was pretty.

Just when I'd decided to order the hoison-glazed skate, I was told that the skate had been replaced by tilefish. So I took Tommy's recommendation and got the mussels and Surry sausage in butter and garlic.

The dish was heart-stopping, literally, with a healthy serving of P.E.I mussels with almost an overabundance of Surry sausage (consider that hyperbole because there is no such thing as too much pig in my mussels) in a decadent bath of butter with garlic and shredded fresh Parmesan. Tommy was right on with his recommendation.

Among the most interesting neighbors I had while eating was a native Richmonder who'd then moved on to Paris/NYC/LA and yet returned (don't they all?). Another was a woman I went through VMFA Docent training with five years ago (before I realized that I didn't want to become a docent). She wanted me to have dinner with her but she was too late.

Another was a confirmed bachelor in a kilt. And just for the record, I know exactly one Scottish man and he has assured me on more than one occasion (as recently as on my birthday in May) that no real man wears anything under his kilt. Despite this, apparently Richmonders do (I was told; I did not look). I can't bear to give my friend Frank one more reason to belittle us Yanks.

After a three hour plus meal, I finally made it downstairs to the opening and immediately knew I hadn't left nearly enough time to experience it properly. Most of the photographs were taken during the apartheid years 1948-1994, long before I visited in 2004.

Of course there were the familiar familiar faces: Biko leading the Black Caucus; Mandela in his law office in 1952, looking so young and unworn as to be almost unrecognizable.There was a wonderful shot of RFK on top of a car shaking hands with South Africans in Soweto in 1966. The image was was pure Kennedy charisma.

Some pictures carried reminders of the ugliness of the era. In one, a sign read, "United to Keep South Africa WHITE! " In another, hundreds of black faces were under a sign saying, "They will not kill us!"

But there were just as many photos of life as usual. A shot of a sax player exhaling with the smoke curling around him and his instrument. A bronzed couple lying on the beach, him in a Speedo with his shirt over his face and her with a book covering hers. Another showed, "A non-white family in bed on Sunday illegally."

I didn't even get to the video and I'll have to go back to really take in some of the images I had to rush through as the guard began accompanying me in a vain attempt to get me out of the museum. On the plus side, he did provide someone with whom to chat about the exhibit as he walked me out ("Thank god she's finally gone!" I know they were all thinking it).

I made one last stop on the way home at Balliceaux. Amazing Ghost was scheduled to play later, but I only stayed for the DJ. Kilt man showed up, I met a couple of guys having some after-work drinks (at 10) and I saw the usual musical suspects. I got in some conversation with my favorite bartender there about the Devendra Banhart show (yet another vote for how poorly that show was promoted). I watched the room fill up and furniture be moved out.

At a satisfying six and a half hours in to my evening, I was feeling satisfied and ready to move out myself.