Flying the Friendly Skies

I did not come from a traveling family.

Granted, part of it was undoubtedly the sheer numbers - six daughters plus Mom and Dad - so cost and difficulty must have factored in. That and Mom had absolutely no curiosity about unknown places beyond wanting her ashes scattered over County Cork from whence her grandparents came.

For my family, travel meant two weeks in the Outer Banks each summer and honestly, I was grateful for that. One summer stands out because we broke rank and instead of heading south, drove to Portland, Maine and took a ferry across Casco Bay to Peak's Island, where we spent a month eating lobster, wandering the island and dipping our toes in the frigid water, despite it being July.

When I turned 21, I did what any travel-deprived young woman did in those days: marched myself into an American Express Travel office, sat down and asked for help planning my first trip. I'd talked a slightly younger girlfriend into joining me but she left all the decisions to me.

My burgeoning wanderlust was limited somewhat by my budget but I gave the agent a starting point: I wanted to go somewhere not touristy, preferably where the primary language was not English. Her suggestion was Guadeloupe - with a caveat that we should learn some French and that their tourism industry was in its infancy - a place I knew nothing about, which made it a perfect destination.

That my friend's mother was a native born Frenchwoman seemed like a good omen, although as it turned out, I spoke and read far better French than my friend did, even if it was schoolbook French.

Despite never having flown or so much as traveled without my parents, I don't recall any hiccups getting to the Caribbean island or navigating once there. My girlfriend, however, had several complaints starting with the food, much of it new to us. While I happily ate my first conch fritters and some whole fish we'd never heard of, she declined, planning to order a ham and cheese baguette once we got back to the hotel.

For the record, she ate one of those nearly every day we were there. Le sigh. She also experienced major homesickness which made me sorry I'd asked her in the first place. Lesson number one: choose your travel companions carefully.

During the time we were there, we went on day trips in rickety buses to see the island, learned to snorkel, took a sunset cruise in a questionable boat and went to a market where I bought locally-made bowls and a large handled basket, all of which I continue to use today. And while I still have the brown t-shirt I bought to remember the Hotel Meridien (though it's now faded to ghost lettering), an online search reveals that it's long-since been knocked down and turned into a resort.

So I guess tourism did finally arrive full-blown in Guadeloupe.

Tellingly, that vacation to a strange place with new foods and never-before seen sights lit something in me that's only grown with time. First it was other tropical places - Aruba, the Bahamas - and eventually other continents. Though I've only traveled alone a few times - Dallas, New Orleans, California, one of my two weeks in Italy - my solo flight to Dubrovnik last fall to meet up with my main squeeze reminded me of the pleasures of the unknown, even when it's just for the length of a flight.

So here I go again after multiple trips to the nearby AAA Travel for adapters and a phrase book, packing and repacking my dresses and dealing with usual Dulles madness. Only this time, I'm flying past a full moon to my next adventure as a stranger in a strange land, at least for a few days.

After that, you can be sure that lesson number one goes into effect. In travel, as in love and life, choosing the best possible companion is everything.

My 21-year old self had no idea how much she had to look forward to.

Pescado's in High Summer Mode

One of the husbands I borrow on occasion lives south of the river.

I don't hold this against him because he eats everything and likes coming in to the city to eat.

It also means that although he's been telling me good things about Pescado's for a while, he sensed that there was not much likelihood I'd end up there.

Which probably explains why he seized the moment and suggested we try Pescado's China Street tonight.

While it hasn't taken quite as long as Center Stage or the VMFA to complete, it does seem like it's been a work-in-progress for some time now.

Since I hadn't been to the original, I was unprepared for how colorful it was, with its blue walls, yellow and orange woodwork and mottled green bar.

Even underfoot, it was a floor of many colors. The bar was smaller than I would have expected, especially given the limited bar options in Oregon Hill.

One neighborhood guy at the bar observed that he was seeing "a lot of regulars. I completely support that in the neighborhood." I could see his point.

Our end bar stools had a straight shot view to the kitchen and the abundance of staff.

My friend knows restaurant kitchens intimately and he found several things to praise about the design of Pescado's kitchen; the overhead sauce caddy alone put him in a reverie.

But that aside, it was clear the kitchen was on point all evening (or at least the three hours we were there).

We began with white sangria (vino verdhe, triple sec and gobs of fruit and their juices squeezed into it) because my friend wanted to and I hadn't had it in years.

It certainly seemed appropriate given the decor and the menu.

To munch as we sipped, we got the conch fritters and I have to say that they were the best I've had since discovering them in Guadaloupe when I was 21.

Instead of oily, heavy balls of dough, they were full of clearly discernible ingredients with a light, crispy outer shell.

They were served with micro-greens and an aioli, an updated take on a classic island appetizer. We were definitely into the beach vibe by this point (although Guadeloupe still would have been preferable).

Because he's the Pescado's expert, he insisted we get the voodoo shrimp (shrimp, habanero, banana, chorizo, allspice/rum/garlic sauce over bread with a fried egg on top) and I had to admit that its depth of flavor and intense heat were perfectly balanced. T

he dripping yolk didn't hurt the overall effect, either.

I wanted the arepas (South American corn cakes with pork and a pobalano/corn salsa with a jalapeno sauce) and, hands down, I picked a winner.

The pork was tender and plentiful, the little corn cakes perfect with pig and that corn and poblano salsa positively made the dish, with its freshness and subtle flavors.

I shared but not as much as I should have.

We lingered over our pitcher, talking to a couple of guys trying to rationalize not going to Friday Cheers.

I told them not to beat themselves up too much cause there'll always be good music in Richmond on another night.

One guy looked amazed. "I've been here six months and I didn't realize there was a good live music scene here."

Well then, you've come to the right person, my new friend.

Band of Horses, Manchester Orchestra and we were off and running.

Also offering conversation was a couple who lives in the neighborhood and had walked over; of course they are thrilled to have a new spot in O-Hill.

He was telling us he'd just gone to his 40 year reunion, so naturally I asked, "Anyone dead yet?"

They thought that was hilarious, but actually several people had died, so there you have it.

Not so funny after all.

Afterwards, I met friends for a drink at Mint and got to praise Bobby in person for his superb watermelon soda offering at Broad Appetit.

He showed his gratitude by making a watermelon and vodka drink for me so I could have a grown-up watermelon soda.

As I pointed out to my friends as I tasted it, though, I'm the boring customer mixologists dread.

All I want is my single spirit on ice.

So dull.

Seeing the rate at which I was drinking my pretty in pink drink, Bobby poured me his new favorite tequila, Cazadores Reposado.

He'd fallen for its delicate flavor, lush finish and, most importantly, because it has a picture of a deer on the label. I understand completely being captivated by something so random and odd.

And the connection between tequila and deer is...what?

It didn't matter because I liked it as much as he did.

These friends eat out as much as I do, so when they asked where I'd had dinner and I told them, their response came as if rehearsed. "Pescado's CHINA STREET?"

It was pretty funny to hear their shock in unison.

Needless to say, they'll be there tomorrow night and, like my friend, make comparisons since they've eaten at the original too.

Tonight they were heading to White Dog for one last helping of the bread pudding so many people swear by.

I wished them well and moved on to Poe's Pub for music by The Wiremen, followed by Marionette.

I arrived shortly after the Wiremen started and they were making almost too much sound for the room to hold.

I've seen them several times at Ghostprint Gallery, but you really can't compare a show there to a Poe's show, if you know what I'm saying.

Poe's is a noisy place, a fact suffered only because it used to be a loud AND smoky place and now it has only half the annoying factor.

They were incredibly tight and I love what that trumpet brings to their sound.

The lead singer had a bit of a warble which made me think Brian Ferry; my musician friend Adam heard Jeff Buckley doing Billie Holiday.

Either way, it was a great voice.

The crowd filled the room, so clearly others knew these NYC guys are worth a trip up the hill.

I rave about Marionette every time I see them, so instead of repeating myself, how about I just suggest that you make a point to hear them live?

You won't be disappointed and you may begin to understand why I see so many of their shows.

The only problem tonight was the band's starting time.

Fortunately for me, the late start gave me a chance to do a song-by-song analysis of The National's High Violet with guitarist Adam, something I'd been jonesing to do since becoming infatuated with it last month.

It was gratifying to hear that he'd fallen in love with the same songs I had (but then we have a history of mutual National attraction).

I had tried to get some of the friends I'd seen earlier in the evening to join me for music, but they all had issues with the late starting time.

Sort of like I have issues with going to the other side of the river if I don't have to.

Happily for me, sometimes those places cross the river for me, like Pescado's did.

If I'm patient enough, perhaps everything I want will come.

I can wait.