Painting the Town

I excel at being the extra woman.

When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.

Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.

Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.

This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.

I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.

Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.

Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.

When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.

So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.

Next time.

The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.

Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.

I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.

On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.

Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.

This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.

Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.

As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.

"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.

The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.

Funny How Time Flies

I got the memo: it was small business Saturday.

With limited funds, I couldn't do a lot to support the cause, but I did what I could.

That meant a walk to Carytown, five plus miles there and back, to pick up a shoe being repaired at Mitchem's and observe capitalism in action.

It was a zoo.

Traffic barely crawled, the sidewalks were jam-packed and all I could hope was that all those independent stores were making bank today.

But you can be sure that once I procured my shoe, I escaped as quickly as possible.

Turning south to escape the hullabaloo of Cary Street, I was greeted by the sound of bells and horse hooves clopping as a holiday-decorated horse and carriage headed down Idlewood.

Nice seasonal touch.

Returning to Cary just in time to score a chocolate-frosted doughnut from Dixie, I headed east where I was surprised to see two artists working on a street art mural near Stafford Street.

Curious about why they were still painting at this point, I crossed the street to ask.

Seems there were a couple of unfinished sections of wall and they'd been given the chance to do something about that.

"This is our third weekend working on it. So now we're out here in the dead of winter, well, I guess the dead of fall, but it feels like winter, finishing up finally," one told me.

A foursome walked by and complimented her on her piece, saying it looked like a quilt and she smiled broadly as if she wasn't freezing with a paintbrush in her hand on the shady side of the street.

An unexpected art bonus.

Further on, a favorite bartender jogged past, waving and saying hi as we uncharacteristically saw each other in broad daylight.

In what seemed like no time at all, I was back in J-Ward where we also have small businesses in need of support.

This was more fun because it involved music.

Local band My Darling Fury (a brilliant band name if you ask me) was playing at Steady Sounds as part of Black Saturday/Record store day or maybe just because they frequently host bands on Saturday afternoons.

Here was my chance to support a local business and hear live music.

The first surprise was that the performance started right on time, a rarity in record store shows, but MDF began playing before I even got started looking through the record bins.

It was at least my third or fourth time seeing the band and I like these guys a lot.

In the casual atmosphere of Steady Sounds, the crowd was practically on top of them, but in a good way.

Some people continued to browse the stacks but eventually they were won over by the sound.

I recognized several of the songs like "Friendly Parasite" and "Spilled Milk" and laughed when during "Perfectly Mad," drummer Joel called out "guitar solo!" to alert us what was coming up.

Midway through their set, Todd, whose upright bass playing adds immeasurably to MDF's sound, suggested to the others that they do "Head Over Heels," and Danny claimed he didn't know the lyrics.

Conveniently, Joel had them in a zip-lock bag so with that instantly-recognizable (at least to me) intro, they launched into the 28-year old nugget as Steady Sounds owner Marty looked over at me grinning.

They did a really excellent version, and let's be real here, plenty of singers don't have the range for that song, but it took some of the audience a while before they recognized it, understandable since they hadn't been alive in 1985.

Singer Danny didn't want to do "Blots in the Margins" but bowed to band peer pressure and then finished with "The End of the World," which has been their closer, appropriately enough, every time I've seen them.

My music itch scratched, I finally got a chance to do some record shopping, picking up three albums for Christmas presents and doing my small part for small business Saturday while the band packed up.

It occurred to me that if My Darling Fury wanted to cover a Tears for Fears song, they'd have the perfect set-ender with "Goodnight Song."

Here on the stage the time has come
With the strains of "be my angel" of rock in two four
Time may keep alive that old swan song
That we've been playing forever
Till the time may be right to say goodbye

But then I remembered that my responsibility on this Saturday was to spend money, not offer set list advice to strangers, so I took my records and walked home.

You have to admit, 'tis the season for an angel of rock in two four...just saying.

Wheels on the Bus

Of all the reasons to go to the RVA Street art Festival, and there are many, one of the very best is oral history.

Since this year's event is happening at the former GRTC bus depot, the exhibit is a natural.

So on opening day, I decided to have a look and listen before things got too crowded.

I'll definitely be back to check out the progress of the murals, but today I had a goal.

Walking around, I only saw three people I knew- one painter, one organizer, one culture-lover - but lots of artists already busy painting on the sides of the bus sheds.

I was asked to complete an unbelievably short survey by the high speed transit folks and shown on graphs how my answers compared with other festival-goers.

Duty done, I found what I'd come for: "Driving Richmond: Stories and Portraits of GRTC Bus Drivers," set up in a shady shed that looked cleaner than any of the others.

Maybe that was due to the vacuum cleaner I spotted in the center of the cavernous building.

Hung on the walls were photographs and text from long-time bus drivers about their memories and careers driving.

First takeaway: our bus drivers are a diverse bunch from myriad backgrounds.

Farmers, New Yorkers, college graduates, Vietnam veterans.

Second takeaway: there are way more benefits to driving a bus than had ever occurred to me.

Driver Deborah Hopkins got a role in the film "Finnegan Begin Again" because the director was so taken with her glowing smile.

CEO Eldridge Coles began by sweeping floors and moved up the ladder to being the big cheese.

He also met his wife on the 32 Ginter Park route 42 years ago by talking to her when she got on the bus.

According to his history, they're still talking. "Most of the time."

There's the sense of humor I expect most, if not all, GRTC bus drivers must have to fully enjoy their jobs.

Harry West also met his wife while driving a bus, in his case the Main Street 13 line, but his opening line wasn't terribly smooth.

He asked her if she was wearing a wig. "It was the wrong thing to say," he admits now.

You think, Harry?

Several of the bus drivers mentioned memories of the blizzard of '96, conjuring up memories of my own.

There are speakers set up next to the photographs and written stories and randomly, a bus driver's voice will come on saying a line of his or her story.

It's a very cool way to get even more of a sense of the person.

Many of the drivers have been working for GRTC for decades, but not all of them.

Driver Sheronda Hill, who only graduated in 1998, recalled riding the bus as a child and the differences she sees now as a driver.

The biggest change, she says, is now there are apartments downtown so she passes people walking their dogs on Broad Street.

"It's the strangest thing I've seen this year," she says.

Bus drivers have seen it all and the exhibit shares their take on it, one most of us would never know otherwise.

It's the don't-miss gem of the RVA Street Festival.

Don't say I didn't tell you.

Exercising Excellence

I walk every day but some walks, like today's, are extra ordinary.

Wisely slathering on sunscreen because it was already seventy degrees by noon, we set out for the riverfront and the RVA Street Art Festival.

It's not like I hadn't been there just yesterday, but how could I resist seeing what progress had been made in the past 24 hours?

The result: a great deal. There was art being created everywhere.

Murals that were barely started when I visited Friday were now complete or nearly so.

New ones had been started and artists on lifts worked to the scent of spray paint and Jonathan the Juggler's incessant patter.

Barely an hour into today's festival and I saw a bustling crowd, including musicians (represented were Fight the Big Bull, Amazing Ghost, Now Sleepyhead, Jason Scott Quintet), artists and everyday people like me.

Perusing the Bizarre Market, I saw a favorite DJ in one of her vintage groovy 60s dresses, an artist selling faux antlers and an address book with a cover made from a Partridge Family album.

How could I possibly have forgotten to bring money?

When we finished with art, we moved on to nature.

A side trip to a nearby riverside trail, the Pipeline Walkway, allowed me to show a newbie why it's my favorite river walk.

And no wonder. Nests in the trees, fishermen flycasting in the river, a flock of geese cooling their webbed feet in the water, trains rattling overhead and rushing water surrounding us with every step.

It begins with a vertical ladder climb down and continues as the perfect spring walk.

Heading back up the hill towards J-Ward, we made a pit stop for lunch at a beer joint, notable for the fact that neither of us drink beer.

Capital Ale House was dark and not especially full and provided just what we needed.

A crab salad BLT and a duck salad gave us a chance to discuss all that we'd seen on our promenade.

Women at a street fest in four-inch heels. People too lazy afraid to walk the Pipeline and instead sipping a beer on the Pipeline Overview. Bimbos and edginess. Ryan Adams' theory, "That ain't a woman, that's a girl."

It's a hell of a difference.

But then so is my usual Grace Street stroll from what constituted today's walk.

Same mileage, but so much more for the eyes and ears.

And for a change, the compliments from behind came from someone I knew.

That's definitely out of the ordinary.

Hitting the Bull's Eye x 2

One of my favorite pastimes is the "what if?" question.

Like what if Richmond Triangle Players wasn't the only reason for me to go to Scott's Addition?

So far, it has been but after today's visit to Lunch, I have another just as valid.

Their slogan, "It doesn't matter when you get there, it's always the best meal of the day" certainly sets a high standard.

The tiny little place that used to be Sue's Kitchen is looking a whole lot hipper now.

Maneuvering through a cluster of mostly-filled tables to the counter, I took a seat at the end where takeout orders were coming out rapidly.

A couple of carafes of syrup set nearby, testament to their breakfast service which lasts until 3:00.

A vase of backyard flowers, a bit past their prime, graced the end of the counter near me.

Although sorely tempted by a chalkboard special patty melt, I figure the first thing I needed to know was how well they did a basic lunchtime sandwich.

That led me to the Ike, their house-made albacore tuna salad on thick-sliced multi-grain bread.

It arrived on black and white checked paper and was easily the biggest tuna sandwich I'd ever been served.

With a sweet gherkin and a mound of chips, it proved that Lunch knows lunch.

As I ate, customers came in to place orders or pick them up, so I had a changing array of conversational partners.

My longest chat was with the production director for Richmond Triangle Players, who ordered the Summit as we discussed which plays I'd seen that he'd made sets for.

By the time his to-go box came out, we'd established that since I'll be there next week, we'll be seeing each other again in no time.

Walking out, I felt certain I'll be back for lunch and, given the siren song of Scrapple on the menu, probably next it'll be for breakfast at Lunch.

From there I wound my way down to the site of this weekend's RVA Street Art Festival at the power plant building.

What if RVA found an outlet for the talents of street artists, both local and national?

With the big festival days tomorrow and Sunday, I was curious to see what was happening so far.

Holy creative transformation, Batman!

The site was abuzz with artists, a completed piece, pieces in progress, volunteer artists, media, tourists and more photographers than you could shake a stick at.

One piece, completed last night at 3:30 a.m. by an artist who needed to get back to Washington, showed an enormous dart board with the bottom half of people coming out of it.

That's right, legs and shoes only. It was whimsical and beautifully executed.

Other pieces were works in progress, like the bottom half of what looked like Wonder Woman, a bucolic country scene and a Gibson Girl-like portrait.

Organizer Ed Trask, in his trademark hat, was everywhere, answering questions on camera, talking to the media and looking like he could bust his buttons about this large-scale street art project finally happening in Richmond.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow when almost all of the artists will be on site and available to talk to visitors like me.

What if we found a creative use for abandoned buildings and tapped the talents of people who can make them a destination, not to mention a work of art?

What if Richmond just keeps getting to be a better scene all the way around?

Don't look now, kids, but it's already happening.