Chemistry of Romance

I'm as contrary as the next woman, but I couldn't quite figure out who to root for at first.

When it's a story about a middle-aged couple bored with each other after 30 years of marriage, it's only natural to want to see them each end up with their younger lovers, right? Why keep plodding through a relationship that's grown tepid when you can start fresh with someone new who doesn't know you as well...yet?

Because why wouldn't I cap off a Memorial Day afternoon eating crabs by myself in the back yard with a movie that takes an unabashed look at screwed up grown-up relationships by acknowledging that romance and sexual attraction continue unabated into middle age?

Don't answer that.

Anyway, I had every reason to go because "The Lovers" was directed squarely at adults, an authentic comedy that was played for the familiar notes of reality rather than easy laughs. That it starred a 62-year old Debra Winger as Mary and Broadway actor/playwright Tracy Letts as Michael turned it into the most fascinating kind of character study.

Watching the two of them go from happily unfaithful (Michael tells his girlfriend, "I was just tired of all the bullshit" about why he strays) to re-finding their attraction for each other amounted to a master class in acting, especially watching cold-hearted Mary melt with the attention and PDAs of her real love.

And once that happened, watching how much passed between them without words was as romantic as having poetry read to you (or written about you).

Almost immediately, they're cheating on their paramours with their spouses, an absurdist premise if there ever was one. But it also oozed romance because they're not just lusting after each other, they're firmly back in love with each other, or at least acknowledging that the love never really left, it was just buried under duty, routine and ennui.

Even Michael's girlfriend notices a difference, telling him, "You're so light and cheerful and nice! I love when you're like this!"

Needless to say, he didn't admit what had put the spring back in his step.

One of the sweetest scenes involved Michael sitting down at the piano after decades of avoiding it to play and sing (not particularly well, but that wasn't the point) a Madness song to Mary.

I never thought I'd miss you
Half as much as I do
And I never thought I'd feel this way
The way I feel about you
As soon as I wake up
Every night, every day
I know that it's you I need
To take the blues away
It must be love, love, love
It must be love, love, love
Nothing more, nothing less
Love is the best

How often does a film tackle the nitty gritty of middle-age relationships - why we plan to leave someone we love, what makes us choose to stay and what urges lead us in both directions - and deliver a classic '80s ska song?

Spoiler alert: I rooted for Mary and Michael, not the lovers. It must be was clearly love.

Unmarried Woman Hero

Like the rest of America, I traveled for the Memorial Day holiday. Unlike most, my journey included Norfolk, Cumberland and Little Saigon.

Besides a tour of a gorgeously restored 1906 house, there were pork chops, presents and birthday cakes in Norfolk, after a hot drive down during which the phrase, "And in celestial news..." was uttered in all seriousness.

Cumberland offered up memories of steak salad at 821 Cafe, a lot of Bryan Ferry and New Jack Swing and poring over guidebooks and maps. Color me bowled over at the unlikeliest of clarifications.

Little Saigon, aka the multi-cultural neighborhood behind Mekong, presented a backyard party with crabs, crawfish and rap playing, the first two out back partially under tents and the latter in the house where homemade chocolate cake with cognac seduced me.

It was at the pickin' table (where I showed no less than three people how to dismember a crab properly) that I got reacquainted with the girlfriend of a rock star, herself a fashionista/hoarder (if that last part is to be believed about defining herself), providing several meandering conversations about the nature of textiles (she was elated when I explained with diagram the different in woven and knit fabrics), astrology (as a Virgo, she explained their perfectionist nature and why she's so hard on herself) and about the variable conditions of earning your "adult badge," a phrase she praised me for.

It was by the enormous wine cooler that I shared a story about the songwriter responsible for "Up, Up and  Away" and "By the Time I Get To Phoenix" that had the guy grinning, saying, "I know those songs, but if half the people here heard them, they'd have no idea what you're talking about."

"I hate talking to young people now because they don't know anything," his wife said. She, on the other hand, was beyond thrilled when I told her Irish actor Richard Harris, a huge favorite of hers apparently, had a pop album, immediately suggesting to her husband that he make a mental note for a future gift.

You don't meet a lot of people who even know who Richard Harris is, much less claim to be devoted fans.

I saw a kid eat his first oyster and a young woman take one, look at it sloshing around in its brine, curl her lip and return it to the table. "I just can't do it," she said.

That's fine, honey, I can do it for you, thank you very much. Slurp.

The councilman challenged our little circle by asking about a movie that changed us. One woman said, "Jaws," although she wasn't entirely certain why.

I hesitated with mine and he asked if I'd ever seen "An Unmarried Woman."

Freaky because that had been the film that had popped into my head when he'd first asked the question, but it's an obscure one that I'd mistakenly assumed no one would know. Not to mention I'd seen it at least half a dozen times at the theater back in the '70s, young and dewy-eyed at its depiction of a liberated woman.

And not just because Alan Bates represented everything sexy and artsy about guys, either.

He said the movie had changed his perception of women. I said it had changed my perception of what was expected of women. The others in the group had never even heard of it.

Explaining how it had transformed the way he treated his wife (taking her off the pedestal and seeing her as a person...how novel for that era), he was agog to hear of my serial viewings and that I had the soundtrack (on vinyl, natch, although probably worn down to a slinky after years of playing repeatedly).

But where I stopped the conversation cold was when a friend announced to general surprise that she wasn't on Facebook. I think the party actually stopped for a few seconds when I trumped her by saying I didn't have a cell phone.

"You are my new hero," the film fan intoned. "But how do you have a life?" Hmm, let's see, without all the interruptions of constant connectivity?

It's pretty great if you like living in the moment.

And in technology news, the classic mini-series "Roots" has been remade for the generations with so little attention span that their characters must be limited to 140 and their life validated by Instagram and Snapchat.

What this means for Roots 2.0 is faster pacing so viewers don't get bored and 30 whippings instead of the ten in the original because we have become so accustomed to violence that whipping a human being on camera for a mere ten times just doesn't resonate anymore.

That is the world that I don't need to be a part of. "You're not ordinary," a fellow language nerd writes.

I know and I've got the badge to prove it.

Kiss Them For Me

Apparently it arouses suspicion if I answer an email at 9:45 p.m.

I thought you were out and about every evening. Here it is Friday night and you're answering me. Don't you have a restaurant to review or a gallery opening to attend?

Don't get smart with me, mister. My hired mouth had already met a friend for dinner and I was at home long enough to change clothes and shoes before going to Balliceaux to see Psychic Mirrors, the Miami funk septet I'd so enjoyed dancing to three years ago there.

A greeting at the front door evolved into a philosophical discussion of the myriad benefits of music - intellectually, physiologically, emotionally, spiritually - with the door guy. We only dropped our meeting of the minds when a line began to form to get in.

But not much of a line. Nothing like the line waiting to get into the line to ride the elevator to Quirk's rooftop bar was when I walked to dinner. Or the line for the '90s dance party at the National when I came back. Or even the two-sided line at the club on Harrison, with cops attending both side, on my second time out.

But enough of a line that he went back to work and I headed towards the back.

"Siouxsie!" the booker says, gesturing at my hair. When I don't have a snappy comeback, he prods. "And the Banshees?" like I'm an idiot, which I sort of feel like.

Moving on, we reminisce about how much both of us had gotten off on this band's last show.

Everyone I talk to - the gallerist, the record store employee, the IT guy - is here because these guys are from Miami and we get so little Miami music. Also, they note, Miamians don't even start playing until midnight.

In the meantime, to warm us up DJs are spinning obscure disco records getting the crowd in the mood. It's an odd assortment of people of all ages and colors who have not gone away for the holiday weekend. A guy walks in and his t-shirt tells me we must talk.

Rap - lies = Hip hop

Is it really this simple, I ask. He insists it is, saying that hip hop is about a vocal styling focused on a more laid back lifestyle than rap, one that focuses on kicking it old school and enjoying yourself with good people, not negativity.

Another guy decides to chat me up, but between his West End address, techie job and stiff manner, we're striking out until he asks if I'd like to see a picture of his girlfriend. Sure, why not?

He pulls out a picture of a shiny, red 1972 MGB, fully restored. Instead of fawning over the good-looking car, I tell him I had a 1971 MGB GT and his jaw drops. "Then you have to come for a ride in my car."

From there, we're just two MG nerds, swooning over chokes and lamenting electrical problems. "You know they were all hand-built?" he asks. Do I?

Before he cuts out mid-set, he hands me a card with the Barnes & Noble info scratched out. On the reverse side, he's written, "John 495 8230 MY CARD." Seeing that he's written MY CARD on this card may be the funniest thing I've seen all day.

He scuttles back to the West End and a weekend, he said, of doing chores around the house. Happy Memorial Day.

Once the merch table was being set up, we knew the show couldn't be far behind and if you could have seen the satisfaction on Psychic Mirror's sound guy's face when he looked at the singer just as the other five began playing, you'd have seen a Cheshire cat grin. Balliceaux is a good-sounding room.

I am dancing before the first song reaches the halfway mark and so is the guy beside me.

A song ends. "That song sounded like Steely Dan, didn't it?" Guy Next to Me asks. True enough. Before the set was over, any number of bands had been cannabalized: The Clash (particularly "Rock the Casbah"), all kinds of Stevie Wonder, the Time, maybe a bit of Sheila E. some '80s R & B obscurities.

Endlessly changing influences, the band stays in a constant groove like a disco DJ would have done, leaving very little time to recoup between songs. Most shocking is that some people are actually rooted in place, not moving so much as a shoulder or foot.

The set lasts just over an hour, we scream for one more and they oblige with a "new" song that sounds like '50s do-wop, except done with synth, screaming guitar, bass, keyboard, drums and multiple vocalists, including a woman.

Coming back to Jackson Ward, I spot two students on Marshall Street, each with one end of a white scarf in both hands. Standing under a tree, they are waving the scarves alternately to create a ripple effect and giggling with delight at the results in the warm night air. At 1:30 a.m.

It's only late if you're not out and about.  Let's face it, no one would be the least bit surprised to get an email from me at this hour, now would they?

Raise the Flag

Memorial Day to-do list.

Accept an invitation to the country for a day of doing nothing.

Take a walk through the woods and down to the stream, enjoying the coolness of the shade the further in we go.

Set the day's tone with screened porch music blasting serious soul: first Pandora set to Marvin Gay and then, six hours later, updated to Luther Vandross. R & B is meant for a hot afternoon.

Begin the holiday celebration with a bottle of Laurent Perrier Brut and a toast to more Memorial days. Follow with hours of music discussion, research and wonderment. The band America was formed in London? Get the hell out!

Eat like you're an American: burgers grilled over charcoal with fries cooked outside. Even the one who says he's not a ketchup person dips these fries in it. Maybe it's how well they pair with the Russian River Valley Pinot Noir we're drinking.

Set up a croquet court, toss the coin and play two games of a lawn sport I haven't played since junior high. While I won both coin tosses, I lost both games. Don't tell my father, but I am no better now than I was then.

Retire to the porch to wait out the remaining daylight in anticipation of the massive firefly display that begins just after dusk this time of year.

Watch for hours as hundreds of fireflies sparkle and dance mid-air brightly against the backdrop of a row of darkened trees that encircle the property. I have never seen so many concentrated in one place at one time. It's like nature's fireworks sans noise.

Take advantage of the '80s R & B playing with occasional slow dancing before returning to the cocoons of the chairs.

Indulge in the unique pleasures of an old favorite experienced in a new way. Musical evening closer: Neil Finn's lush brand new album, "Dizzy Heights." Pop psychedelia grandeur and goodnight.

Nailed this holiday.

Here We Go

I hate when marriage gets in the way of music.

Arriving at Balliceaux for the Oumar Konate show, eager show goers such as me were delayed by a wedding party still occupying the back room.

Once it became clear they were camping out, they let us back there to mingle until the band started. The only downside to that was that they were an annoying and shrill bunch drunk enough to repeatedly knock into the growing crowd of music lovers.

I saw a few familiar faces - the pony-tailed jazz guitarist, the world music DJ and his artist wife, the scientist, the feminist, the Turkish singer and her date - among the crowd.

The photography gallery owner was there and said he'd recently seen me out and spoken, but I hadn't responded to his hello. Turns out it wasn't me, so I felt much better about ignoring him.

The show had been advertised as a band from Mali playing jazz, funk and rock but I heard from a guy who'd seen them sound-check and he said they were mostly funky, with some amazing acoustic guitar and killer drums that required special mic'ing.

Oumar Konate took the stage alone around 10:45, with only his electric guitar and began playing intricate and dynamic music that immediately stopped half the people in the room from talking.

After a bit, he was joined onstage by the other two musicians, one of whom played a five string bass and the other drums.

But what a drum he began with! It appeared to be a gourd set on a blanket resting in a crate and he proceeded to hold shaker balls in his hand and fist the gourd like a drum to elicit rhythmic sounds.

Oumar spoke in French and a little English and sang in what I'm guessing was the native language of Mali pre-French, which only made the songs better since we couldn't understand them, instead focusing on the intricate music.

Once they'd shown us how impressive they were like that, they switched it up and the drummer moved to a full drum kit and Oumar switched to an electric guitar.

Half way through the first song, I turned to the guitarist friend who'd unexpectedly shown up and said that it sounded like 1968.

"It's like what Hendrix would have sounded like if he'd grown up on a remote island," he said, noting the pentatonic scale.

Whatever. To me, they now sounded like a late '60s British band aping American bluesmen, with intricate and ridiculously fast guitar parts and lyrics I couldn't understand.

By the end of the first high-powered song, the drummer had shed his shirt and was glistening with sweat.

Part of what made them so compelling was Oumar's infectious energy and that all three of them smiled for almost all the time they were playing, as if tickled to be doing this for us.

Before the next song, Oumar looked out at the crowd and instructed, "Danser!" Mostly, people swayed or bopped in place while some of the annoying wedding people continued to shout at each other in the back.

I loved the way the bassist and Oumar eventually got into a lock step, Motown-like, dancing in place themselves.

Late in the set, the drummer took off on a solo that was knocking everyone's socks off and people began throwing wadded up money at him as he wailed on the drums.

When he began to slow down, Oumar looked at us and said, "Il ne pas fini!" and the drummer grabbed a small, African drum, slung it over his shoulder and began hitting it with a mallet.

But it was when he came out from behind the kit and played that little drum on the floor in front of the stage that people went nuts.

It was then that the artist came up and said, "I want to suggest your next article, if you're taking suggestions. How do African musicians feel when we start throwing wadded up money at them? I bet they think we're crazy." I'm inclined to think she was right.

After song after screaming rock songs evoking the blues, the bassist and drummer left the stage and Oumar went back to just his acoustic for a bit before the three of them closed out the set together.

"They're straight up killing it!" Reggie of No BS Brass band said to me as they kept taking the crowd higher and then providing release.

Translation: sure, it would have been great to have been away for Memorial Day weekend, but we would have missed a hell of a show.

No Horses, No Balls, No Regret

In the further interest of celebrating my birthday, I was invited to a polo game today.

Picnic lunch in hand, we drove to King Family Winery for the kickoff of a season of Roseland polo.

The line down the gravel driveway was long and when we got to the front, we saw why.

A woman was patiently explaining to each carload that the polo match had been canceled due to the rain-soaked field.

But, she made sure we knew there would be a rugby match instead.

Okay, so no horses, but another unlikely sport.

My first thought was, I've seen polo played a couple of times and I've never seen rugby.

Good enough.

We parked the car under a drooping pine tree and addressed the first priority: acquisition and release.

After the drive, I wanted to find the facilities plus we needed to get a bottle of wine from the tasting room.

The bathroom line was already ridiculously long, but we used our time in line to buy a bottle of Crose' Rose, so it wasn't in vain.

Bucket and bottle in hand, we marched back down the driveway past license plates from Ohio, Maryland and New Jersey and set out a blanket, chairs and foodstuffs near a boisterous group who may or may not have been from New Jersey.

My guess: yes.

Especially after I overheard one of the women ask someone, "What is it with Virginia and sunscreen? I see kids over there lining up to get sprayed with sunscreen. It's a beautiful day, no one's going to get burnt."

She was correct, it was a beautiful day, cloudless and incredibly sunny.

I figured the UV factor was probably a full-on 10.

I know I had SPF 50 slathered all over every inch of skin.

One of her friends responded, "Well, so-and-so said she once got burnt when it was only 40 degrees outside!"

Jaws dropped.

All I'm saying is, the people in front of us were not the brightest.

Meanwhile, on the polo field we saw dogs frolicking, balls being kicked, Frisbees tossed and many kites being flown.

But no sign of rugby players.

And, horror of horrors, we heard a rumor that it was going to be a touch rugby game.

Touch?

From a full-contact sport with the slogan, "The only pain in rugby is regret"?

Halfway through the Rose, I wandered down to the Port-a-potties by the horse barn where I found a far shorter line than the one inside.

When my turn came, I took care of things with my usual expediency (I am known for my brief visits), meriting applause and the remark, "Thanks, Speedy!" from the guy in line behind me when I emerged very shortly thereafter.

Everyone has to have a talent.

Back at camp, we sipped our wine (finding the 2012 more cranberry-tasting than grapefruit, which was our primary memory of the 2011), and watched the familial tableaux unfold around us.

A preppy-looking guy talking to a bunch of girls about his Cessna.

A trio of very buttoned-down looking business types, all with tattoos on their white legs.

Two little red-headed girls whose skin was burning in the sun before our very eyes.

A stocky kid from the New Jersey clan (white Oakley sunglasses, braided red and white necklace, basketball shorts so long they met his socks) wandered over to the tree under which we were sitting.

Fingering it and obviously looking for conversation, he asked me, "Why is the tree wet?' as he touched where several branches had recently been cut off.

I explained sap to him while the grown-ups with whom he'd come got progressively loopier.

After a couple hours eating, sipping and observing, we got the official word.

The rugby game wasn't going to happen.

I can't say I was sorry to miss the abomination of touch rugby, though.

Even without a game, the winery had been an ideal picnic spot for a sunny, breezy afternoon.

Driving out, I saw white chairs set up in front of an arbor and figured a wedding was in the offing on this beautiful night.

Rounding the bend in the driveway, I spotted a plein air painter perched on a hill recreating the pond below.

So the polo had been canceled and the rugby game never materialized.

It was a gorgeous day to drive to the mountains and have a birthday picnic.

Or, as the haters might say, yet another way for me to celebrate my never-ending birthday.

And the problem with that is...?

Eastward, Ho!

All bases were covered for Memorial Day and all in the east end, it should be noted

First there was the history component which took us down to the river to see the reproductions of the Nina and the Pinta that are here this week.

Floating in the James were the two small, black boats like the ones Columbus used to sail from Spain to this country.

Walking down toward them, the RVA skyline was glistening behind the ropes and lines of the ship.

The view looked like it had been Photo-shopped in.

Shocking was the scale of the Nina which was built for the average male size in 1492, namely 4'8" to 5'3." Even I felt cramped at 5'5".

Honestly, it was a little Alice in Wonderland-like with the low ceilings, short doors and abbreviated sleeping quarters we got to see.

The Pinta was the same as the Nina except at one and a half times the scale, so it seemed less claustrophobic.

One of the guys aboard the Nina scoffed at the over-sized Pinta, saying, "That's why we make fun of them when we're not working. We have fierce Nina pride."

All I can say is you'd have to in order to be willing to be crammed onto such a small boat and sail from port to port like they're doing.

They are on a North American tour, after all. I know; I saw the t-shirts.

But there's more. A sign seeking "Crew Wanted" was very specific.

"If you don't mind working on little sleep, having little privacy, getting some blisters, possibly suffering seasickness, taking orders and sharing in menial tasks, you're our type of candidate."

I accept that I am not.

The best view was from the poop deck of the Pinta where a good breeze and the view from downriver made me forget the cramped heat of the captain's quarters, a veritable sweatbox.

Turns out that they'd even fired the cannon yesterday, bringing scads of local people to their windows and doors to see if the world was coming to an end.

I was sorry to have missed the cannon, but the history nerd part of me was satisfied, so we took off for something more mindless, although certainly holiday-appropriate.

Namely, strawberry picking.

True, I'm not really a hunter/gatherer, but I can play one for an afternoon.

And yes, it's definitely the end of strawberry picking season, but what the hell?

If you can't have fresh-picked strawberries on Memorial Day you may as well hang up your Yankee doodle dandy.

By the time we got to the Berry Patch, it was late in the day and there was only one other person picking.

It didn't matter. One of us had never picked strawberries before and the other was a pro, so as long as we got some berries, everyone would be happy.

The rows were definitely picked over, but with half an eye and a willingness to bend over to find the berries remaining red and plump on the interior of the plants, the pickin's were good.

As we worked our rows to fill a basket, a man started down the driveway and called to us.

"You gotta pick 'em yourself and then you still gotta pay?" he asked incredulously, noting, "I thought they were bigger!"

I could have made a corny joke but didn't. And on some farms they do grow gigantic varieties, but not this place.

Here they grow a smaller, sweeter type (without pesticides, so even better) that take longer to pick but reward with truer strawberry flavor, which I told the guy.

Not persuasively enough apparently, because he eventually left rather than take on the challenge.

What, everyone doesn't want to sweat in the late afternoon sun gathering crops like we did?

The cashier was surprised at how quickly we'd picked almost four pounds and sent us on our way, mentioning that it was the last day for picking there.

Timing is everything, at least in fruit picking and romance.

We made the final stop Osborne boat landing so we could have a waterside picnic.

Settling on a pink spread under the shade of tall trees, we watched boats pass as we dug into roast chicken, legume and olive salad, fruit salad, watermelon (duh, it's Memorial Day) and leftover savory tarts from last night's superb picnic.

After a leisurely repast, we strolled down to the river to see the sunset and the source if all the childish screaming that inevitably accompanies water play.

Sitting on a large piece of driftwood on the sand provided a placid view of the river headed east.

Up on the pier we saw people fishing ("You should see the size of the catfish that guy just caught!" we were told) while we admired the sunset reflecting on the water.

Our final resting place was a bench in a wooded area near the gazebo where a family group had set up their outdoor meal and was now happily splashing in the river, taking turns riding a jet ski.

It was a 21st century Norman Rockwell scene, "Memorial Day in the County."

We headed out, passing Poe's Pub where a sign said, "Sorry, we're open."

Tempting as that was (and it wasn't), we decided to end our day in a most Memorial Day-like fashion.

Warm berries freshly picked were washed and hulled while heavy cream was beaten into submission with a touch of sugar to become whipped cream.

Forget history, watermelon and endless motorcyclists on the road today.

Nothing says summer's practically here like a big bowl of picked strawberries smothered in whipped cream.

I'd even go so far as to say it was as fine a way as any to bring to a close a worthy celebration of Memorial Day.

And definitely worthy of firing a canon.

Explosions in the Sky

What do you do on the Sunday night of a three-day weekend?

Well, you could start at the Shockoe Bottom Jazz Fest where the late afternoon sun had the good-sized audience hovering under the shade of the 17th Street Farmers' market shed.

Giving it their all was the Big Payback, a James Brown tribute band with a lead singer who observed, "Heat-wise, it's a hot day."

Considering that he had on all black, including a black blazer, and shades, I'm sure he knew about some sweating going on.

Standing in the refreshingly diverse crowd to watch the band, I smelled musk and watched as couples got their groove on.

Strangers danced with each other, booties were checked out and loose-limbed kids showed off their Michael Jackson moves.

Despite the sun and heat, there was no shortage of dancers of all ages, shapes and colors.

Although I'd heard of the Big Payback, I'd never seen them, so I was pleasantly surprised to see members of both the RVA Big Band and the funky New Belgians as members of the ensemble.

And if I'm going to stand around listening to a cover band, it may as well be one doing James Brown.

When their set ended, we ambled around the Bottom taking note of new restaurants (a tapas one opening Friday) before landing at C'est le Vin for a glass served by a handsome man in a pink button-down shirt, gray scarf, shorts and bossy sunglasses.

You know, the kind where people do what he says when he has them on.

I managed to score the last taste of the salmon-colored Perle de Roseline, a favorite and sadly out of stock, and instead enjoyed the Vina Altaba Rose tasting of rose petals and peach. Very girly.

After losing my jazz companion to northern Virginia, I was picked up by a favorite couple.

"You look adorable!" my girlfriend exclaimed, proving why I am devoted to her.

We were en route to Chimborazo Park for a picnic and viewing of the Rocketts Red Glare fireworks show for Memorial Day.

Yes, the very same one that was canceled due to inclement weather last year. We call this delayed gratification.

Parking right by the grassy hill, my girlfriend and I relaxed as her talented French boyfriend set up camp.

First there was a table on the edge of the overlook, followed by chairs. With cushions, I might add.

Nest came the loveliest yellow tablecloth, adorned with images of olive trees and flowering lavender.

"I bet everybody's watching us," my friend noted drolly as her beau continued to set up the perfect picnic.

He had a citronella candle in a copper pot, multiple bottles of rose, water glasses and a speaker for his iPod.

Once he'd set up and we sat down to eat and drink, we played host to any number of passersby, all fascinated by the spread.

Or perhaps it was the Mozart playing softly.

"That's looking real good," said a man walking his dog. "He wants some."

Safe to say that both man and dog wanted some.

"We wanted to walk by to see," exclaimed one of two girls who'd especially made a trip over to check us out. "Every time we looked over, you'd added more and we just had to come see."

I tried to be friendly and appreciative of the attention, but mainly I wanted to eat the ham and tomato or olive tarts, the salad, the kabobs and rice and the marinated Vidalia onion, cucumber and tomato salad spread out before me.

"You should do this for people and charge," said one of the girls. "I'd tell my husband to hire you!"

Yea, right.

Except that the Frenchman admitted to having set up rogue picnics under the Eiffel Tower and on the Champs Elysee for other al fresco fans, so I guess it would work.

"We just had to come see what was going on here," a stranger said walking by.

By the time we got to the cheese course, the fireworks had begun at Rocketts Landing and, as it turned out, we had a straight-shot view of them across the Bottom.

And our viewing vantage was ideal - far enough away not have our ears assaulted and close enough to have a breathtaking view of each and every explosion.

Non-stop pyrotechnics were accompanied by apricot tarts and more Rose, and before we knew it, the display was winding down.

But not before I saw fireworks I'd never seen before.

There were circles and squares lighting up the night sky, so different than the typical starbursts.

At the end, there were white-hot explosions that just didn't let up.

And with our distance (half a mile, maybe?) we had a bird's eye view of it all.

The moment the fireworks ended, the crowds dispersed and we were left alone on the edge of the valley to linger over our wine while fireflies flickered all around us.

My girlfriend handed me a birthday card with a gift certificate for Chop Suey inside.

The card read, "Time in a Bottle. Pairs nicely with birthdays and a nagging sense of mortality. Cheers!"

Correction: a yellow-tableclothed picnic on a breezy Chimborazo hill with rose and tarts alleviates any nagging sense of mortality.

Next time I'll bring a date to enjoy time in a bottle.

And maybe the French picnic master.

Easy Does It

Staying in town for the long weekend makes it so easy to be lazy.

I could have gone to a benefit show. I could have gone to hear an Afropop  DJ.

And yet, after talking to some friends who were drinking tequila and bubbles while spending the weekend in Lovettsville in a cabin, my evening took a decidedly low-key turn.

Honestly, all I bothered doing was a simple meal at Secco with a bunch of other people who'd stayed in town.

One of them was the cheese whiz Sarah, who'll soon be moving to Charlottesville, their gain but our loss.

Sadly, all Sarah Sunday at Secco will be no more soon.

Another was a couple on what surely must have been a first date.

I overheard him tell her, "My music and my church are very important to me. I can't be with a woman who doesn't get that," while his date nodded in that early stages way.

Explaining to the bartender that my birthday week had left me a tad full, I chose the new salad of arugula, walnuts, dried cherries, Stilton and roasted shallot vinaigrette he recomemnded.

Debating about the addition of chicken confit, I went for it.

"Good, good," he said reassuringly. "You don't want to shock your system too much."

Right. You can't quit full fat cold turkey.

Besides, the richness of the confit made the peppery arugula all the more piquant.

Well, that and the Stilton and cherries, which kicked up the flavor in the best possible ways.

No surprise, my wine choice was listed under Rose, although with a note that it was not technically a true rose, but rather a light red.

Fine by me.

The 2011 Bisson Ciliegiolo Portofino Rosato, made with an indigenous grape from Liguria, Italy, was bone dry with a hint of cherries.

Sign me up. I'll drink this all summer.

Meanwhile the table behind me was having wine issues since the male of the table decided that the wine they'd ordered was unacceptable.

He may have even accused it of being Madeira, not likely since the ladies had asked for something "Chardonnay-like."

I often wonder how servers have the patience to deal with certain kinds of people.

Me, I just went back to finishing my northern Italian knowing that if I wanted to, I could just go home and read a book on my balcony overlooking a quieter-than-usual Jackson Ward.

But it would have to be with some birthday wine.

I don't want to shock my system too much.