I have two just questions, at least for right now.
Who changes their clock in the middle of the night? And will this slow death by snow ever end? Three days in and it feels interminable.
When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was inexplicably certain my bedside clock had stopped, so I checked another clock and reset it in the dark. Only once I got up and began making breakfast did I realize that I'd mistakenly set my clock half an hour ahead.
And, believe me, a snow day doesn't need to start any earlier than it already does, if you know what I'm saying.
While the snow didn't prevent me from walking, it definitely slowed down the process to the point that a four mile walk - usually an hour-long endeavor - took an hour and 20 minutes. A lot of that had to do with my inability to walk at my usual speed because of un-shoveled sidewalks, unexpected swaths of black ice when walking in the street to avoid icy puddles and detours due to enormous mounds of plowed snow deposited on sidewalks.
Pedestrians become secondary when it comes to snow removal.
Still, I was out of the house and seeing signs of life, so that at least was progress and there are worse ways to spend the afternoon than writing to the accompaniment of the sounds of snow shifting and melting outside. But after spending the last two nights at home, I also made a deal with myself that if got enough work finished, I was going to cut out in late afternoon to go indulge my inner documentary dork.
Besides mixing things up a bit, it was a chance to prove I could stay home three nights in a row and I know I have friends who doubted I could.
It was hardly surprising how uncrowded the Movieland parking lot was, not to mention finding only three other people in the tiny Criterion Cinema where I was seeing "Maria by Callas: In Her Own Words."
Two of them were older and obviously on a date, but they'd both lost the ability to whisper, so their frequent exchanges were loud enough for me and the other loner to hear every word. And he was one of those men who felt the need to explain every preview to her as if she hadn't just seen it with her own eyes.
Red flag, honey, cut bait while you can.
As for the documentary's subject matter, Maria Callas has interested me since the whole Jackie business. Back in those days, my family had subscriptions to three daily newspapers and I recall quite clearly that the Washington Daily News, an afternoon tabloid-format paper, always had the best juice in it.
So when they ran a piece about Onassis' plans to marry JFK's widow, they didn't stint on the fact that it broke Callas' heart because of their long-time relationship. It may have been the first time I'd ever read in a newspaper about a woman having an affair, so it piqued my curiosity and stuck.
Years later, I picked up "Maria Callas: The Woman Behind the Legend" by Arianna Stossinopolous at one of the library's used book sales and learned a lot more about the diva. So it only took seeing the previews to tonight's movie once to know I needed to come back and hear the story of her life in her own words.
Because that was really the cool part of this non-traditional documentary. Director Tom Volf chose to only use interviews of Callas, along with home movies, filmed performances and press footage with an occasional overdub of American opera singer Joyce di Donato reading Callas' letters aloud.
Letters to people like Grace Kelley. Letters to Onassis. Letters that explained exactly where her head and heart were at any given time.
So without a talking head in sight, the story truly felt like it was being told by Maria herself, in all her perfect make-up and fashionable splendor.
An added bonus of the film was the extensive and dated footage of Europe, meaning I go to see Athens and the Acropolis in 1937 and Paris in 1963, neither much resembling the crowded metropolises I saw in the 21st century.
Pushed into a career in opera by a demanding stage mother, Callas talked repeatedly about a woman's value being in having a family and children, but that wasn't the hand she'd been dealt. "Destiny is destiny," she tells the interviewer. "There's no way out."
To add to the vintage vibe, some of the old footage had been colorized, giving it that over-saturated '50s look where yellow, orange and red reign supreme and blue is tough to find.
It was obvious how much of a Callas fan the director was because of the multiple live performances he included, and not just a snippet, but the entire aria. Seeing her perform onstage made it easy to see why her acting skills had been touted, along with her voice and technical skill.
But like with that long-ago Daily News, I reveled in the details of her love affair with Aristotle Onassis, whom she referred to as "Aristo," but whom she always described as a friend, not a lover. Tellingly, she said that Aristo made her feel "liberated and feminine" and that he was more than happy for her to take a break from a demanding career that had begun at 13 and never let up.
As a side note, I'd only seen photographs of Onassis in his late '50s and early '60s, but seeing him in his '40s revealed that he'd once been a very handsome, if very Greek-looking, man.
Everyone may know now who worships at the altar of divas, but back when Callas returned to New York City, her hometown, to sing after having been gone for seven years, it wasn't all that much different. A CBS correspondent roams the long line of people waiting to get into the Met, asking them why she's worth waiting all day to see.
All three men asked responded with praise and deference to the magnificent woman they idolized and, without profiling anyone, I'd guess that every single one of them was a gay boy. Slender, attractive and absolutely enthralled at seeing their heroine, they positively fawned as long as the CBS microphone was held in their face. One said he expected the ovation to be "standing and last 30 minutes."
That's a true fan. Adorable.
But also of note was what that before there were rock stars, Maria Callas was an opera star of the rock star magnitude, the kind greeted at every airport and train station where she arrived with a gaggle of paparazzi hanging on her every word, at least when she deigned to talk to them. Performances sold out overnight when her name was announced as part of the cast.
And yet, the sad part was she didn't get the family and children she craved nor did she get the one man she truly loved, even if he did go back to meeting her in secret after marrying the world's most famous window.
It's like she told David Frost, "There are two people in me. I am Maria, but there is Callas that I have to live up to." Helluva trade-off to be considered the finest operatic female voice of the 20th century.
There are two people in me, too, but since I'm not the finest anything, I get to do whatever I want, even when it's not what others expect.
Destiny, shmestiny. Like Emerson said, the only person you're destined to become is the person you decide to be.
I'm shooting for liberated, feminine and almost always hungry. I like to think it's enough to keep me out of the diva category.
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
Saturday, December 9, 2017
The Winter of My Discontent
Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, snow is glistening
A beautiful view, 'though me without you
Walking in a winter wonderland
Gone away is the heron
Here to stay solo Karen
No cause for a song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland
On Brown's Island, I can see a snowman
And perhaps built to be Parson Brown
He'll ask if I'm married, I'll say no, man
Though Mom says she can't die until I am
Later on, I'll feel dire
Wanting for talk, not desire
To face once again the want of that friend
Walking in a winter wonderland
Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, streets are glistening
A monochrome view, still moi without vous
Walking in a winter wonderland
All alone on the pipeline
Still it feels like a lifeline
Thinking of this song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland
In Jackson Ward, I could build a snowman
And pretend that he's the one I seek
I'll have lots to say to Mr. Snowman
Until my neighbors take me for a freak
When it snows, ain't it thrilling
Though my legs got a chilling
We'll talk and we'll play, the fun, brainy way
Walking in a winter wonderland
Walking in a winter wonderland
In the Ward, snow is glistening
A beautiful view, 'though me without you
Walking in a winter wonderland
Gone away is the heron
Here to stay solo Karen
No cause for a song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland
On Brown's Island, I can see a snowman
And perhaps built to be Parson Brown
He'll ask if I'm married, I'll say no, man
Though Mom says she can't die until I am
Later on, I'll feel dire
Wanting for talk, not desire
To face once again the want of that friend
Walking in a winter wonderland
Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, streets are glistening
A monochrome view, still moi without vous
Walking in a winter wonderland
All alone on the pipeline
Still it feels like a lifeline
Thinking of this song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland
In Jackson Ward, I could build a snowman
And pretend that he's the one I seek
I'll have lots to say to Mr. Snowman
Until my neighbors take me for a freak
When it snows, ain't it thrilling
Though my legs got a chilling
We'll talk and we'll play, the fun, brainy way
Walking in a winter wonderland
Walking in a winter wonderland
Sunday, January 8, 2017
January is Bustin' Out All Over
I've been told it's all in the hips.
The unexpected beauty of deciding to walk to see a 60th anniversary screening of "Carousel" this afternoon was that by some miracle, the city had cleared the bike lane on Leigh Street, which just happens to be my regular route when I walk to Movieland.
It was a good thing, too, because most of the sidewalks were a crusty mess.I didn't even feel guilty because I only saw two bikers using the lane in the two miles there, so it wasn't like I was displacing any cyclists to speak of.
Halfway there, a truck pulled up next to me and the guy inside smiled and asked, "Are you going to the end?" Nope, just to the movies. "Would you like a ride?" he asked. Thanks, but I'm just getting my exercise.
"Good for you! Okay, cool, enjoy your movie," he said, waving as he pulled away. I prefer to think he was just a nice guy and not an ax murderer, but I guess I'll never know.
Going to see Rodgers and Hammerstein's classic "Carousel" wasn't just about wiling away a frigid afternoon away from home, it was the latest in my ongoing effort to get up to speed on films I should've probably seen decades ago and haven't.
But apparently between the weather and the fact that most musical fans have already seen it, I was the sole occupant of theater #11. That's never happened before, although I've watched a film there with as few as four other people, but today? Just moi.
Because it was the 60th anniversary screening, it began with an interview with its star Shirley Jones dishing about the long ago shoot. Like how Frank Sinatra had been cast opposite her and they'd recorded the entire soundtrack when he abruptly quit the day filming was to begin.
Seems that the love of his life, Ava Gardner, had called and said that if he didn't show up on the set of the movie she was filming, she was going to have an affair with her co-star Clark Gable. Sinatra was on the next plane out.
Shirley said the director gave her a handful of quarters and told her to call her friend Gordon MacRae and ask him to substitute. "Give me three days to lose ten pounds and I'll be there," she claims he said and the rest is musical theater history.
Where the movie shone for me was the location shots from Maine (the beach shots looking exactly like the Maine beaches I recall from my one and only month there when I was ten), the elaborate ballet-like choreography of Agnes de Mille (shades of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" with so many acrobatic male dancers) and how uncharacteristically dark the story was (talk about a love story ending badly, he's already dead when the film opens).
And I, of all people, can appreciate a clambake that begins when someone yells, "Butter's melted!" and pulls a pitcher of it off the top of the mess of roasting clams and lobsters.
By the time I left Movieland to walk home, the sun was low in the sky but it was a tad warmer than when I'd arrived and the wind had settled down, both major pluses.
Half a mile from home on Clay Street, a guy on a bike passed me slowly on the ice-covered street. Isn't that difficult to do on this mess, I asked him.
"You just need to stay on your toes," he said, rounding the corner onto Hancock Street and wobbling some in the process.
"It's all in the hips!" he called over his shoulder, offering me one last bit of advice.
Isn't everything?
The unexpected beauty of deciding to walk to see a 60th anniversary screening of "Carousel" this afternoon was that by some miracle, the city had cleared the bike lane on Leigh Street, which just happens to be my regular route when I walk to Movieland.
It was a good thing, too, because most of the sidewalks were a crusty mess.I didn't even feel guilty because I only saw two bikers using the lane in the two miles there, so it wasn't like I was displacing any cyclists to speak of.
Halfway there, a truck pulled up next to me and the guy inside smiled and asked, "Are you going to the end?" Nope, just to the movies. "Would you like a ride?" he asked. Thanks, but I'm just getting my exercise.
"Good for you! Okay, cool, enjoy your movie," he said, waving as he pulled away. I prefer to think he was just a nice guy and not an ax murderer, but I guess I'll never know.
Going to see Rodgers and Hammerstein's classic "Carousel" wasn't just about wiling away a frigid afternoon away from home, it was the latest in my ongoing effort to get up to speed on films I should've probably seen decades ago and haven't.
But apparently between the weather and the fact that most musical fans have already seen it, I was the sole occupant of theater #11. That's never happened before, although I've watched a film there with as few as four other people, but today? Just moi.
Because it was the 60th anniversary screening, it began with an interview with its star Shirley Jones dishing about the long ago shoot. Like how Frank Sinatra had been cast opposite her and they'd recorded the entire soundtrack when he abruptly quit the day filming was to begin.
Seems that the love of his life, Ava Gardner, had called and said that if he didn't show up on the set of the movie she was filming, she was going to have an affair with her co-star Clark Gable. Sinatra was on the next plane out.
Shirley said the director gave her a handful of quarters and told her to call her friend Gordon MacRae and ask him to substitute. "Give me three days to lose ten pounds and I'll be there," she claims he said and the rest is musical theater history.
Where the movie shone for me was the location shots from Maine (the beach shots looking exactly like the Maine beaches I recall from my one and only month there when I was ten), the elaborate ballet-like choreography of Agnes de Mille (shades of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" with so many acrobatic male dancers) and how uncharacteristically dark the story was (talk about a love story ending badly, he's already dead when the film opens).
And I, of all people, can appreciate a clambake that begins when someone yells, "Butter's melted!" and pulls a pitcher of it off the top of the mess of roasting clams and lobsters.
By the time I left Movieland to walk home, the sun was low in the sky but it was a tad warmer than when I'd arrived and the wind had settled down, both major pluses.
Half a mile from home on Clay Street, a guy on a bike passed me slowly on the ice-covered street. Isn't that difficult to do on this mess, I asked him.
"You just need to stay on your toes," he said, rounding the corner onto Hancock Street and wobbling some in the process.
"It's all in the hips!" he called over his shoulder, offering me one last bit of advice.
Isn't everything?
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Dancing with Myself
For crying out loud, what's a girl to do?
Despite what may go down as the two longest days of my life, I have a dubious (at best) list of accomplishments to show for so many hours.
I'm on my fourth book, Bill Buford's "Heat," having crushed "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit" (classic '50s post-WWII tale of former soldier's adjustment to new suburban world order), "A Gift from Brittany" (memoir of young Chicago artist who decamps to Paris in 1960, marries fellow artist and moves to French countryside for love and loss) and "Parallel Lives: Five Victorian Marriages" (1983 assessment by strident second wave feminist about why sexless marriage are flexible, not abnormal).
I love to read, but this is ridiculous.
My refrigerator is dazzling, the cleanest it's been since it was delivered two years ago. While far fuller than usual with snow foodstuffs, I doggedly removed every edible bit of it, scrubbed the inside down and returned everything to its place. Mind you, that's my second Suzy Homemaker endeavor of the weekend, after the top to bottom bathroom scrub down.
Don't I get a golden apron pin for that or something?
Last night, I made a big pot of chili (mind you, using light red kidney beans because Kroger was out of the dark ones by Wednesday) so it could sit for a day melding before eating it. Warming it up tonight, I stirred up a batch of corn muffins, an excuse to go through half a stick of butter in the name of dinner.
I'm just showing my solidarity with my walking friend who laid in provisions yesterday at Sub Rosa, Stock, Rostov's, Sugar Shack and Kroger and then emailed me saying, "I figure I will come out 20 pounds heavier by the end of the weekend."
We're kindred souls. I'm well aware that the rest of that pound of butter in my sparkling fridge isn't going to eat itself. Hot chocolate is the drug.
My usual walking was supplanted by even more useless snow shoveling and car clearing because I desperately needed to do something physical and, to put it bluntly, walking was a bitch. Ten hours of that noisy wintry mix last night made for deep, slippery surfaces and cars spinning out dangerously close to where I was trying to walk. Twice.
Thank you, no, I don't think I do trust the snow navigational skills of students behind the wheel and those were the fools who were out in cars this afternoon.
In what can only be an acknowledgement that some people are spending the day trolling Facebook, I got four friend requests today. Four! Apparently when there's nothing else to do, you can always look for new friends.
Being the Luddite that I am, I retaliated by sitting down and writing a long letter, not that I expect the Postal Service will be operating any time soon. I haven't had mail delivery since Thursday and, needless to say, I did not get my Washington Post this morning.
Sigh. I can stand a missing Saturday paper, except I know it bodes poorly for the likelihood that I'll get my Sunday paper and that will be missed.
Sort of like real life at this point. All I can say is, thank heavens for music, because eleven new CDs are what's keeping me going at this point.
Loud music, muffled by all that snow.
Despite what may go down as the two longest days of my life, I have a dubious (at best) list of accomplishments to show for so many hours.
I'm on my fourth book, Bill Buford's "Heat," having crushed "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit" (classic '50s post-WWII tale of former soldier's adjustment to new suburban world order), "A Gift from Brittany" (memoir of young Chicago artist who decamps to Paris in 1960, marries fellow artist and moves to French countryside for love and loss) and "Parallel Lives: Five Victorian Marriages" (1983 assessment by strident second wave feminist about why sexless marriage are flexible, not abnormal).
I love to read, but this is ridiculous.
My refrigerator is dazzling, the cleanest it's been since it was delivered two years ago. While far fuller than usual with snow foodstuffs, I doggedly removed every edible bit of it, scrubbed the inside down and returned everything to its place. Mind you, that's my second Suzy Homemaker endeavor of the weekend, after the top to bottom bathroom scrub down.
Don't I get a golden apron pin for that or something?
Last night, I made a big pot of chili (mind you, using light red kidney beans because Kroger was out of the dark ones by Wednesday) so it could sit for a day melding before eating it. Warming it up tonight, I stirred up a batch of corn muffins, an excuse to go through half a stick of butter in the name of dinner.
I'm just showing my solidarity with my walking friend who laid in provisions yesterday at Sub Rosa, Stock, Rostov's, Sugar Shack and Kroger and then emailed me saying, "I figure I will come out 20 pounds heavier by the end of the weekend."
We're kindred souls. I'm well aware that the rest of that pound of butter in my sparkling fridge isn't going to eat itself. Hot chocolate is the drug.
My usual walking was supplanted by even more useless snow shoveling and car clearing because I desperately needed to do something physical and, to put it bluntly, walking was a bitch. Ten hours of that noisy wintry mix last night made for deep, slippery surfaces and cars spinning out dangerously close to where I was trying to walk. Twice.
Thank you, no, I don't think I do trust the snow navigational skills of students behind the wheel and those were the fools who were out in cars this afternoon.
In what can only be an acknowledgement that some people are spending the day trolling Facebook, I got four friend requests today. Four! Apparently when there's nothing else to do, you can always look for new friends.
Being the Luddite that I am, I retaliated by sitting down and writing a long letter, not that I expect the Postal Service will be operating any time soon. I haven't had mail delivery since Thursday and, needless to say, I did not get my Washington Post this morning.
Sigh. I can stand a missing Saturday paper, except I know it bodes poorly for the likelihood that I'll get my Sunday paper and that will be missed.
Sort of like real life at this point. All I can say is, thank heavens for music, because eleven new CDs are what's keeping me going at this point.
Loud music, muffled by all that snow.
Friday, January 22, 2016
Record High, Record Low
Cocooning goes against my nature. Who do I talk to if I'm home alone for days?
What I mean is, I woke up knowing that I was going to start my walk by heading to Kroger, not because I was in dire need of anything - although I did have a craving for waffles and I'm out of blackberry jam - but because I knew it would be an experience. Hell, earlier this week I got asked out just walking out of Kroger.
Trudging up Clay Street, I saw a girl headed back, toting two heavy-looking Kroger bags. How bad is it, I wanted to know. "Really, really busy," she said with a smile. "Crazy busy."
Perfect, company!
I was amazed that they still had bananas, but not a single egg or rasher of bacon. "No eggs, what's wrong with these people?" a man asked me, shaking his head in disgust. The number of people clutching frozen pizzas was ridiculous.
Walking home with my jam, I passed half a dozen people making the trek toward Kroger and every single one of them spoke to me.
One girl wanted to know how bad it was and whether she had a chance in hell of getting what she needed for lasagna and baking cookies. One guy just rolled his eyes and told me without provocation that yea, he knew he was nuts for going today. Further up, a guy shoveling his walk invited me back for a chili party. An older woman wished me "happy snow day."
Snow makes everyone so friendly.
I detoured by Nick's Market where there was zero sandwich business, but several neighbors busy picking up groceries rather than facing the chaos of Kroger. While I was paying, they got a call from a Baltimore supplier saying they wouldn't be coming on Monday to make deliveries.
First world snow problems.
When I got home, I did the least logical thing: I cleared the snow off my car and shoveled the sidewalk and walkway, not because there was any point in it, but because of my Scottish girlfriend Irene's cardinal rule. She says if you're cold, get up and vacuum and you'll be warm in no time. Snow shoveling is the outdoor equivalent.
Back inside, I was trying to decide between reading and my to-do list when I saw a friend's post.
"I can now spend the rest of the weekend on the couch, as I organized my spice/baking cabinet. I have a WHOLE ROW of extract that is not vanilla."
Her friend responded, "Have thoughts of cleaning out my dining room hutch, but just in the thought stage right now. Maybe if I am bored tomorrow."
"Do it! It's so satisfying!" my friend goaded her. So, yes, I succumbed to that inexplicable urge that hits some women on snow days and got busy hanging pictures in the hallway and making phone calls I'd been putting off. Scrubbing the bathroom top to bottom, including the floor on my hands and knees.
She'd been right. It was incredibly satisfying, I immediately sat down and read two days' worth of the Washington Post, both of which had been delivered today. Snow news dominated.
Looking out the window, I saw that my car and walkway were again covered. Time to fetch the umbrella (ignoring the Canadian who'd told me back in the big 2009 snow that it was silly to carry an umbrella in the snow), go for another walk and see what was happening in the Ward.
In the hallway, I inhaled the heady scent of baking bread, alerting me to how my neighbor was passing her afternoon.
Once on the street, you know what I found happening in J-Ward? Pretty much the same stuff that happens here any other time.
A guy stuck his head out the door of his English basement to pour out the remains of a friend's PBR and we got to talking (he's given up drinking). Clutches of people were gathered on porches, drinking and talking. From inside a house, I heard a band practicing. A guy complimented my umbrella. GWAR Bar was just getting going.
Downtown was a ghost town except for people getting on and off buses. Vagabond had a sign saying they were closed tonight- "sorry for the inconvenience" - making me wonder why they didn't just acknowledge they'd be closed Saturday night, too. Surely another 24 hours of this weather all but guarantees they won't be open tomorrow, either.
Passing a guy with just a jacket on and no hat or umbrella, I was tickled when he smiled and asked if I was enjoying this wonderful weather.
Sure am. My only regret is that my beagle's not here because he adored the snow, so we'd walk five or six times on a day like this, his tail up and nose down sniffing in the snow.
Back home, I busied myself clearing my car and shoveling the sidewalk, not that it'll make any difference besides momentary warmth and personal satisfaction.
And since I'm also not lowering my blinds today - it's far too charming a view not to enjoy all evening - I can watch my hard work undone by Mother Nature.
My work is finished, but tonight's Fretful Porcupine show has been canceled. Time to read...at least until it isn't. Cocooning is hard for some of us.
What I mean is, I woke up knowing that I was going to start my walk by heading to Kroger, not because I was in dire need of anything - although I did have a craving for waffles and I'm out of blackberry jam - but because I knew it would be an experience. Hell, earlier this week I got asked out just walking out of Kroger.
Trudging up Clay Street, I saw a girl headed back, toting two heavy-looking Kroger bags. How bad is it, I wanted to know. "Really, really busy," she said with a smile. "Crazy busy."
Perfect, company!
I was amazed that they still had bananas, but not a single egg or rasher of bacon. "No eggs, what's wrong with these people?" a man asked me, shaking his head in disgust. The number of people clutching frozen pizzas was ridiculous.
Walking home with my jam, I passed half a dozen people making the trek toward Kroger and every single one of them spoke to me.
One girl wanted to know how bad it was and whether she had a chance in hell of getting what she needed for lasagna and baking cookies. One guy just rolled his eyes and told me without provocation that yea, he knew he was nuts for going today. Further up, a guy shoveling his walk invited me back for a chili party. An older woman wished me "happy snow day."
Snow makes everyone so friendly.
I detoured by Nick's Market where there was zero sandwich business, but several neighbors busy picking up groceries rather than facing the chaos of Kroger. While I was paying, they got a call from a Baltimore supplier saying they wouldn't be coming on Monday to make deliveries.
First world snow problems.
When I got home, I did the least logical thing: I cleared the snow off my car and shoveled the sidewalk and walkway, not because there was any point in it, but because of my Scottish girlfriend Irene's cardinal rule. She says if you're cold, get up and vacuum and you'll be warm in no time. Snow shoveling is the outdoor equivalent.
Back inside, I was trying to decide between reading and my to-do list when I saw a friend's post.
"I can now spend the rest of the weekend on the couch, as I organized my spice/baking cabinet. I have a WHOLE ROW of extract that is not vanilla."
Her friend responded, "Have thoughts of cleaning out my dining room hutch, but just in the thought stage right now. Maybe if I am bored tomorrow."
"Do it! It's so satisfying!" my friend goaded her. So, yes, I succumbed to that inexplicable urge that hits some women on snow days and got busy hanging pictures in the hallway and making phone calls I'd been putting off. Scrubbing the bathroom top to bottom, including the floor on my hands and knees.
She'd been right. It was incredibly satisfying, I immediately sat down and read two days' worth of the Washington Post, both of which had been delivered today. Snow news dominated.
Looking out the window, I saw that my car and walkway were again covered. Time to fetch the umbrella (ignoring the Canadian who'd told me back in the big 2009 snow that it was silly to carry an umbrella in the snow), go for another walk and see what was happening in the Ward.
In the hallway, I inhaled the heady scent of baking bread, alerting me to how my neighbor was passing her afternoon.
Once on the street, you know what I found happening in J-Ward? Pretty much the same stuff that happens here any other time.
A guy stuck his head out the door of his English basement to pour out the remains of a friend's PBR and we got to talking (he's given up drinking). Clutches of people were gathered on porches, drinking and talking. From inside a house, I heard a band practicing. A guy complimented my umbrella. GWAR Bar was just getting going.
Downtown was a ghost town except for people getting on and off buses. Vagabond had a sign saying they were closed tonight- "sorry for the inconvenience" - making me wonder why they didn't just acknowledge they'd be closed Saturday night, too. Surely another 24 hours of this weather all but guarantees they won't be open tomorrow, either.
Passing a guy with just a jacket on and no hat or umbrella, I was tickled when he smiled and asked if I was enjoying this wonderful weather.
Sure am. My only regret is that my beagle's not here because he adored the snow, so we'd walk five or six times on a day like this, his tail up and nose down sniffing in the snow.
Back home, I busied myself clearing my car and shoveling the sidewalk, not that it'll make any difference besides momentary warmth and personal satisfaction.
And since I'm also not lowering my blinds today - it's far too charming a view not to enjoy all evening - I can watch my hard work undone by Mother Nature.
My work is finished, but tonight's Fretful Porcupine show has been canceled. Time to read...at least until it isn't. Cocooning is hard for some of us.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Everybody Was a Book Lover
For all the online blathering about the impending Snowpacalypse, it seems to be completely focused on one of two things.
The first is alcohol, with reports of heavy-duty trips to the ABC store, trying to figure out how many bottles of wine or cases of beer will be necessary to manage so much leisure time.
The second is the inevitable grumbling about what might happen, as in, the city will be slow to clear streets, how long will we be without power, why do people have to lay in provisions for a week, whine, grumble, complain.
I've yet to see anything about laying in sufficient reading material. Aren't snow days the best possible time to curl up with (insert beverage of choice) and get lost in a story?
January's been a wonderful reading month for me, partially because of vacation, but also because I've been devoting more time to reading at night, resulting in three books already finished this month. I'm on a roll.
The first was Patti Smith's "M Train," a Christmas gift, but also a title that had been highly recommended to me a week before by my aunt as something especially suited to me. And it was, both Smith's prose and the snippets of her colorful life, especially the thread about her finding a ramshackle bungle by the sea, a dilapidated old place that manages to survive Hurricane Sandy's devastation a short time later.
From there, I began a book loaned to me by a friend who knows my taste. "Everybody Was So Young" told the true story of Sara and Gerald Murphy, a well-off couple who married after World War I and proceeded to live their life by entertaining, supporting and sharing ideas with an incredible array of Lost Generation notables.
I'm talking Picasso (who did drawings of Sara), Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald (who was a bit in love with Sara), Dorothy Parker, Cole Porter, John dos Passos and Stravinsky, among many others.
Naturally I was as fascinated by two people who could attract that kind of circle of friends as by their life in Antibes in their bohemian Villa America.
It left me wondering if those kinds of people still exist today, Americans living abroad and willing to support starving artists, critique their work when asked, buy their art when it would help them or if we've become too self-centered a culture for that.
And it wasn't even as if their entire lives were charmed because two of their three children met tragic deaths and, at least in my reading, Gerald was actually a closeted gay man who ignored his own needs for the sake of the marriage and family.
Yesterday, I finished "Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis: A Life," one of my library giveaway finds offering many details about Jackie's life I'd never before read. Surprisingly, the book left me feeling sorry for a woman who was never properly loved her entire life, beginning with her parents and right on through her husbands.
It was fascinating reading about how separately she and JFK lived their White House years, with one or the other often in another state or country most of the time, something that seems unthinkable for a First Lady today and yet that was 50 years ago.
Finishing that book last night leaves me wide open to pick the perfect Snowmageddon book or books for the next few days.
Do I want another memoir - I have so many to choose from - or perhaps a best-selling 1950s novel? Ooh, maybe I should finally read the third book in a five book series, having read numbers one, two and five?
Assuming that all my going out plans for the next three days will be canceled, I've got days to lose myself in books, all the more so for the stack of 26 books awaiting my attention in my bedroom. It's a little like my annual sojourn at the beach, when I happily devour books by the day.
Come on, Jonas, give me a reason to knock off a few more.
The first is alcohol, with reports of heavy-duty trips to the ABC store, trying to figure out how many bottles of wine or cases of beer will be necessary to manage so much leisure time.
The second is the inevitable grumbling about what might happen, as in, the city will be slow to clear streets, how long will we be without power, why do people have to lay in provisions for a week, whine, grumble, complain.
I've yet to see anything about laying in sufficient reading material. Aren't snow days the best possible time to curl up with (insert beverage of choice) and get lost in a story?
January's been a wonderful reading month for me, partially because of vacation, but also because I've been devoting more time to reading at night, resulting in three books already finished this month. I'm on a roll.
The first was Patti Smith's "M Train," a Christmas gift, but also a title that had been highly recommended to me a week before by my aunt as something especially suited to me. And it was, both Smith's prose and the snippets of her colorful life, especially the thread about her finding a ramshackle bungle by the sea, a dilapidated old place that manages to survive Hurricane Sandy's devastation a short time later.
From there, I began a book loaned to me by a friend who knows my taste. "Everybody Was So Young" told the true story of Sara and Gerald Murphy, a well-off couple who married after World War I and proceeded to live their life by entertaining, supporting and sharing ideas with an incredible array of Lost Generation notables.
I'm talking Picasso (who did drawings of Sara), Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald (who was a bit in love with Sara), Dorothy Parker, Cole Porter, John dos Passos and Stravinsky, among many others.
Naturally I was as fascinated by two people who could attract that kind of circle of friends as by their life in Antibes in their bohemian Villa America.
It left me wondering if those kinds of people still exist today, Americans living abroad and willing to support starving artists, critique their work when asked, buy their art when it would help them or if we've become too self-centered a culture for that.
And it wasn't even as if their entire lives were charmed because two of their three children met tragic deaths and, at least in my reading, Gerald was actually a closeted gay man who ignored his own needs for the sake of the marriage and family.
Yesterday, I finished "Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis: A Life," one of my library giveaway finds offering many details about Jackie's life I'd never before read. Surprisingly, the book left me feeling sorry for a woman who was never properly loved her entire life, beginning with her parents and right on through her husbands.
It was fascinating reading about how separately she and JFK lived their White House years, with one or the other often in another state or country most of the time, something that seems unthinkable for a First Lady today and yet that was 50 years ago.
Finishing that book last night leaves me wide open to pick the perfect Snowmageddon book or books for the next few days.
Do I want another memoir - I have so many to choose from - or perhaps a best-selling 1950s novel? Ooh, maybe I should finally read the third book in a five book series, having read numbers one, two and five?
Assuming that all my going out plans for the next three days will be canceled, I've got days to lose myself in books, all the more so for the stack of 26 books awaiting my attention in my bedroom. It's a little like my annual sojourn at the beach, when I happily devour books by the day.
Come on, Jonas, give me a reason to knock off a few more.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Walking in a Winter Wonderland
Of course I was going to take my daily walk despite the piles of snow on sidewalks and streets.
The logical thing seemed to be to clear off my car before walking and I had just begun sweeping the powdery snow off it when I heard a man's voice behind me. "Can I dig out your car for you, sweetheart?" A neighbor, snow shovel in hand, had shown up to do the hard part.
Snow had drifted halfway up my tires so he got busy removing that as well as the piles of snow the plows had pushed up against my car, effectively imprisoning it in a snowbank.
He'd already ventured out in the world, informing me while he worked that Broad Street was completely clear and Marshall Street semi-clear but that the side streets were a disaster. He wanted me to start the car and sit inside while he toiled, but I couldn't live with myself if I was warm and seated while he worked on my car.
Once he'd moved a whole lot of snow, I drove my car in and out of the parking space a dozen times to pack down a path to make it easier to leave later. "Too bad you can't reserve this space when you leave," he said. Too bad is right after all the work he'd done for me.
I thanked him profusely for his assistance ("Happy to do it for you, sweetheart") and my knight in shining armor headed inside to warm up, shovel over his shoulder.
Not me. I intended to explore the neighborhood and see what had been wrought in the snow. Jackson Ward's creative residents have been known to craft some spectacular snow sculptures (including far too frequently snow penises) when we get this weather and I was curious to see what might be out there.
Although Broad Street itself was cleared, plenty of the sidewalks weren't yet or were still in the process. One guy was using a snow blower (who knew anyone around here even had one?) to clear a parking lot between two buildings in the Arts District. I found that out by accident as I walked by and felt a flurry of snow being forced in my direction.
It was quieter than a Sunday along Broad Street with only occasional small groups of people at bus stops. I saw one guy trying to navigate the snow-crusted sidewalk in a wheelchair and helped him over a particularly difficult ridge of snow.
Someone had crafted a small snowman complete with twig arms and smile in the unlikeliest of places: in front of the Marriott Hotel near the curb facing the hotel. In front of a bank of snow at the Library of Virginia, someone (presumably Monica) had written in the snow, "Petersburg, A Stop by Monica." I have no clue what she meant by that.
As I approached the National, I saw a guy get out of his truck and go up to the box office window, tapping on it. Surely he didn't think anyone was in there and I said as much to him. Shrugging, he said he'd been hopeful. I had to know what show had motivated him to come out in this weather for tickets.
Get this: the Buckeye Country Superfest in Columbus, Ohio, a two-weekend country music extravaganza. And you're trying to get tickets for that here, I asked incredulously. "Well, this is a Ticketmaster, so yea," he said as if I were an idiot.
Needless to say, he got no tickets since the National was closed up tight.
Coming back toward home, a guy passed me and smiled, saying, "Lookin' good, Boots." For the record, I didn't have on boots, but I appreciated the thought.
Few places were open beyond Steady Sounds/Blue Bones Vintage and a convenience market; very few had even bothered with a sign, probably presuming that no one would even try to stop by. The bead shop's read "Closed for inclement weather" but I had a feeling that it had gone up yesterday before an early closing.
But of course Nick's Market was open. I can tell you that the people coming out of there, bags of subs and chips in hand, looked mighty happy or maybe that was just unadulterated gratitude. If I hadn't just made a batch of chili yesterday, I'd have gone in myself.
Instead, I went home to get out the snow shovel and clear my front steps and sidewalk somewhat before the temperature drops to 14 degrees come darkness. Now that this lapsed Catholic and my car can escape tonight to celebrate Mardi Gras, I wanted to ensure a path back into the house whenever all that ends.
My beads and I aren't going to want to navigate snowy steps in the wee small hours of Ash Wednesday, I can assure you.
The logical thing seemed to be to clear off my car before walking and I had just begun sweeping the powdery snow off it when I heard a man's voice behind me. "Can I dig out your car for you, sweetheart?" A neighbor, snow shovel in hand, had shown up to do the hard part.
Snow had drifted halfway up my tires so he got busy removing that as well as the piles of snow the plows had pushed up against my car, effectively imprisoning it in a snowbank.
He'd already ventured out in the world, informing me while he worked that Broad Street was completely clear and Marshall Street semi-clear but that the side streets were a disaster. He wanted me to start the car and sit inside while he toiled, but I couldn't live with myself if I was warm and seated while he worked on my car.
Once he'd moved a whole lot of snow, I drove my car in and out of the parking space a dozen times to pack down a path to make it easier to leave later. "Too bad you can't reserve this space when you leave," he said. Too bad is right after all the work he'd done for me.
I thanked him profusely for his assistance ("Happy to do it for you, sweetheart") and my knight in shining armor headed inside to warm up, shovel over his shoulder.
Not me. I intended to explore the neighborhood and see what had been wrought in the snow. Jackson Ward's creative residents have been known to craft some spectacular snow sculptures (including far too frequently snow penises) when we get this weather and I was curious to see what might be out there.
Although Broad Street itself was cleared, plenty of the sidewalks weren't yet or were still in the process. One guy was using a snow blower (who knew anyone around here even had one?) to clear a parking lot between two buildings in the Arts District. I found that out by accident as I walked by and felt a flurry of snow being forced in my direction.
It was quieter than a Sunday along Broad Street with only occasional small groups of people at bus stops. I saw one guy trying to navigate the snow-crusted sidewalk in a wheelchair and helped him over a particularly difficult ridge of snow.
Someone had crafted a small snowman complete with twig arms and smile in the unlikeliest of places: in front of the Marriott Hotel near the curb facing the hotel. In front of a bank of snow at the Library of Virginia, someone (presumably Monica) had written in the snow, "Petersburg, A Stop by Monica." I have no clue what she meant by that.
As I approached the National, I saw a guy get out of his truck and go up to the box office window, tapping on it. Surely he didn't think anyone was in there and I said as much to him. Shrugging, he said he'd been hopeful. I had to know what show had motivated him to come out in this weather for tickets.
Get this: the Buckeye Country Superfest in Columbus, Ohio, a two-weekend country music extravaganza. And you're trying to get tickets for that here, I asked incredulously. "Well, this is a Ticketmaster, so yea," he said as if I were an idiot.
Needless to say, he got no tickets since the National was closed up tight.
Coming back toward home, a guy passed me and smiled, saying, "Lookin' good, Boots." For the record, I didn't have on boots, but I appreciated the thought.
Few places were open beyond Steady Sounds/Blue Bones Vintage and a convenience market; very few had even bothered with a sign, probably presuming that no one would even try to stop by. The bead shop's read "Closed for inclement weather" but I had a feeling that it had gone up yesterday before an early closing.
But of course Nick's Market was open. I can tell you that the people coming out of there, bags of subs and chips in hand, looked mighty happy or maybe that was just unadulterated gratitude. If I hadn't just made a batch of chili yesterday, I'd have gone in myself.
Instead, I went home to get out the snow shovel and clear my front steps and sidewalk somewhat before the temperature drops to 14 degrees come darkness. Now that this lapsed Catholic and my car can escape tonight to celebrate Mardi Gras, I wanted to ensure a path back into the house whenever all that ends.
My beads and I aren't going to want to navigate snowy steps in the wee small hours of Ash Wednesday, I can assure you.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Modern Vintage
Put on your boots, get out the skis and come to Balliceaux tonight. Free Miss Tess and the Talkbacks show!
When a drummer tells you what to do, you do it.
I'd been hoping against hope that tonight's show wouldn't be canceled due to weather and here was Fate answering my prayer.
I immediately messaged a few people I thought would care, put on my green and pink flowered boots and got over there.
The staff had obviously been anticipating a slow evening. When I ordered my Cazadores, I noticed the bartender's game "Cards of Humanity," brought as a hedge against boredom.
Meanwhile the chef was busy in the kitchen making snow ice cream for himself.
The crowd waiting to get in wasn't large, but it was choice and I was pleased to see my favorite VMFA employee there in her boots, too.
She introduced me to her music-loving friend who not only recognized my name but follows my restaurant reviews, commenting favorably about my style, voice and the nuances of my reviewing.
Now that was an unexpected bonus.
Like me, she had seen Miss Tess before and I told her how I'd been fearing a cancellation based on Chris Bopst's dire updates about the snow and expecting no one to show (stuff like, "I just hope somebody shows up").
"Well, that's not very GWAR of him," she sniffed, a witty and accurate summation.
My companion showed up, drinks were procured and while we were busy chatting, the poet arrived despite my not having messaged her (school's closed, so she's off tomorrow) along with the theater critic I knew of but had never met.
Once in the back room, I saw the sax player I'd messaged arrive and heard about his day - beer, brown liquor, electric blanket, nap - including how he'd awakened to find my message and high-tailed it over, but admonishing me, "They better be good!".
It's satisfying to know you don't have to be a drummer to make people do what you say.
Before long the former Floyd Avenue neighbor I'd messaged showed up as well. It was still a small crowd, but it was a mighty one.
Thomas Byron Eaton opened the show with a hat low on his forehead, a scaled-down guitar he'd just bought and songs off his new record, for sale for the first time in the south tonight.
His set was short but since he's also one of the Talkbacks, he couldn't exactly wear himself out before their two sets.
This was my third time seeing Miss Tess and only my date's first but it didn't take long before he commented on the musicianship and how tight the band - two guitars, upright bass, drums - were.
For me, it's the three-part harmonies, the note-bending Miss Tess does and the eclectic and well-written songs.
He talked about how impressive the rhythm section was, not flashy or grandstanding but solid.
I'll tell you what's impressive, Miss Tess "playing" the trumpet using her voice. When she first began doing it, I looked around to see if people were noticing and smiled at my date, saying, "Right?"
You can look all day, people, but you'll find no horn, only Miss Tess' vox trumpet.
"This one's for the ladies," Tess said before singing, "One for the money, two for the show, three to walk right out that door, Gonna leave that man," the kind of classic honky tonk song women been singing for decades.
It was about three or four songs in when they played a Latin-influenced number and a couple began dancing over by the bar.
Dancers are usually de rigueur at Miss Tess' shows, but apparently tonight they'd all been snow wimps. Their loss, given how dancable the music was.
The band sang songs of Brooklyn ("People Come Here for Gold"), New Orleans ("Adeline") and of course, love.
They dug deep and got laughs, too, with Ted Hawkins' "Sorry You're Sick," about a hungover mate, with the lyric, "What do you want from the liquor store? Something sour or something sweet?"
During the break, I checked in with the sax player to get his take. He liked them a lot. You hate to take a man away from his blanket and not have him enjoying himself.
The neighbor said he'd known about it and forgotten, so my message was timely. Turns out he's on his way to Cat's Cradle near Chapel Hill to see them tomorrow night with Lake Street Dive.
After doing "Everybody's Darling, Nobody's Sweetheart" and getting several people up and dancing, Miss Tess held up her necklace saying that a fan had made several "everybody's darling" lockets and there was one left for sale on the merch table.
Considering she'd already asked if anyone in the room was on an early Valentine's date (nobody admitted to it), it was like she was trying to be an emissary for Cupid.
Keeping to the theme, they did a stellar version of "The Love I Have for You," a classic slow dance song, for those who like to stump and drag.
When their set ended, Bopst put music on, inexplicably starting with an old Lowenbrau commercial. Now that was kind of GWAR of him.
But also irrelevant. Miss Tess and the Talkbacks had set the tone and I don't know what could have been better than wiling away a snowy Valentine's eve with a Brooklyn swing band.
On my way out, my boots and I thanked the drummer for saving me from a second evening at home.
One a season is plenty.
When a drummer tells you what to do, you do it.
I'd been hoping against hope that tonight's show wouldn't be canceled due to weather and here was Fate answering my prayer.
I immediately messaged a few people I thought would care, put on my green and pink flowered boots and got over there.
The staff had obviously been anticipating a slow evening. When I ordered my Cazadores, I noticed the bartender's game "Cards of Humanity," brought as a hedge against boredom.
Meanwhile the chef was busy in the kitchen making snow ice cream for himself.
The crowd waiting to get in wasn't large, but it was choice and I was pleased to see my favorite VMFA employee there in her boots, too.
She introduced me to her music-loving friend who not only recognized my name but follows my restaurant reviews, commenting favorably about my style, voice and the nuances of my reviewing.
Now that was an unexpected bonus.
Like me, she had seen Miss Tess before and I told her how I'd been fearing a cancellation based on Chris Bopst's dire updates about the snow and expecting no one to show (stuff like, "I just hope somebody shows up").
"Well, that's not very GWAR of him," she sniffed, a witty and accurate summation.
My companion showed up, drinks were procured and while we were busy chatting, the poet arrived despite my not having messaged her (school's closed, so she's off tomorrow) along with the theater critic I knew of but had never met.
Once in the back room, I saw the sax player I'd messaged arrive and heard about his day - beer, brown liquor, electric blanket, nap - including how he'd awakened to find my message and high-tailed it over, but admonishing me, "They better be good!".
It's satisfying to know you don't have to be a drummer to make people do what you say.
Before long the former Floyd Avenue neighbor I'd messaged showed up as well. It was still a small crowd, but it was a mighty one.
Thomas Byron Eaton opened the show with a hat low on his forehead, a scaled-down guitar he'd just bought and songs off his new record, for sale for the first time in the south tonight.
His set was short but since he's also one of the Talkbacks, he couldn't exactly wear himself out before their two sets.
This was my third time seeing Miss Tess and only my date's first but it didn't take long before he commented on the musicianship and how tight the band - two guitars, upright bass, drums - were.
For me, it's the three-part harmonies, the note-bending Miss Tess does and the eclectic and well-written songs.
He talked about how impressive the rhythm section was, not flashy or grandstanding but solid.
I'll tell you what's impressive, Miss Tess "playing" the trumpet using her voice. When she first began doing it, I looked around to see if people were noticing and smiled at my date, saying, "Right?"
You can look all day, people, but you'll find no horn, only Miss Tess' vox trumpet.
"This one's for the ladies," Tess said before singing, "One for the money, two for the show, three to walk right out that door, Gonna leave that man," the kind of classic honky tonk song women been singing for decades.
It was about three or four songs in when they played a Latin-influenced number and a couple began dancing over by the bar.
Dancers are usually de rigueur at Miss Tess' shows, but apparently tonight they'd all been snow wimps. Their loss, given how dancable the music was.
The band sang songs of Brooklyn ("People Come Here for Gold"), New Orleans ("Adeline") and of course, love.
They dug deep and got laughs, too, with Ted Hawkins' "Sorry You're Sick," about a hungover mate, with the lyric, "What do you want from the liquor store? Something sour or something sweet?"
During the break, I checked in with the sax player to get his take. He liked them a lot. You hate to take a man away from his blanket and not have him enjoying himself.
The neighbor said he'd known about it and forgotten, so my message was timely. Turns out he's on his way to Cat's Cradle near Chapel Hill to see them tomorrow night with Lake Street Dive.
After doing "Everybody's Darling, Nobody's Sweetheart" and getting several people up and dancing, Miss Tess held up her necklace saying that a fan had made several "everybody's darling" lockets and there was one left for sale on the merch table.
Considering she'd already asked if anyone in the room was on an early Valentine's date (nobody admitted to it), it was like she was trying to be an emissary for Cupid.
Keeping to the theme, they did a stellar version of "The Love I Have for You," a classic slow dance song, for those who like to stump and drag.
When their set ended, Bopst put music on, inexplicably starting with an old Lowenbrau commercial. Now that was kind of GWAR of him.
But also irrelevant. Miss Tess and the Talkbacks had set the tone and I don't know what could have been better than wiling away a snowy Valentine's eve with a Brooklyn swing band.
On my way out, my boots and I thanked the drummer for saving me from a second evening at home.
One a season is plenty.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
That's Life
My downstairs neighbor was aghast at my audacity.
Out on his porch for a smoke when I came out, he asked if I'd seen the snowman they'd spent an hour last night building.
It would have been hard to miss. It was laying in three parts all along my walkway when I left for my morning constitutional.
After admiring his building skills, I suggested he reassemble it before the second wave of ice and snow in hopes the drop in temperature and ice coating would make it whole again.
Not to mention get it out of my sidewalk.
When I proceeded to clean off my car, he got worried. "You're not going to drive in this, are you?"
The hell I'm not. I'd been looking forward to seeing "It Happened One Night" at the Library of Virginia for weeks and that had already been canceled. No telling if any walkable restaurants were going to stay open tonight.
You're damn right I was going to escape during daylight and before the skies opened up again.
I thought two plus hours with the artistic and well-to-do set in sunny Rome sounded like a grand way to spend this afternoon.
Arriving at the Criterion, the ticket seller informed me I was the third patron of the day. And there are four theaters.
So apparently I was the only person in Richmond seeking an existential Italian afternoon, which also meant that for the first time in my life, I was completely alone in the theater.
I'd chosen "The Great Beauty"- a bittersweet Italian comedy about a man who wrote one perfect book and spent the rest of his life doing nothing more than enjoying literary and society life, going out every night and working occasionally as a magazine writer until he hits his 65th birthday - because I wanted something as far away from a snowy day in Richmond as I could get.
Mission accomplished.
The main character Jep explains that he was destined for sensibility so he was destined to be a writer, albeit one who can afford an apartment with an enormous rooftop patio, complete with hammock, that overlooks the - wait for it - Coliseum.
The whole film is like that, though, with the eternal beauty of Rome as much a character as all his artsy and wealthy friends.
Sometimes it's the city, like a scene where a friend with a case of keys takes him through palaces filled with art at night, or in the country where he attends a wedding where people dance under the shade of huge, old trees.
The kind of people who have elaborate parties with techno music throbbing, go-go dancers and drag queens, people of all ages dancing and casually intellectual conversations.
The kind of party where you'll have a sultry female DJ with a Mac and a string quartet playing along with her.
It's the coincidence of Jep turning 65 and learning that the love of his life, a girl he fell in love with at 18 and then lost, has died.
Bad as that is, it gets worse when her husband of 35 years visits to inform him that he read her diaries and discovered that she'd been in love with him all these years.
There's information that'll change the way you look at life, especially at 65, spurring Jep to observe, "I can't waste any more time doing things I don't want to do."
As a man who's gone through adulthood taking advantage of any woman who offered herself up, he no longer wants to. "At my age, beauty isn't enough," he says after having a pretty young thing pointed out to him.
Even though the extent of his writing is celebrity profiles, he still has the observation instincts of a writer, talking long walks day and night to see what he can see to distract him from his very full life's emptiness.
The film was full of Italian oddities - a recipe-spouting cardinal, a midget editor with blue hair, a toothless, 104-year old saint-to-be, a man wearing only underwear who directs his sexual impulses to masterfully bouncing a soccer ball between every part of his body- and natural beauty.
I found it sad, funny and beautiful, but mostly rueful and contemplative, perhaps an inevitable condition when your each 65.
People, even the saint-to-be, keep asking Jep why he never wrote a second book and he finally concludes, "I was looking for the great beauty but never found it."
Personally, I was looking for an afternoon where the world could have stopped outside and I wouldn't have known it and that's exactly what I got.
When I got home, it was to endless Facebook posts about the house-shaking and fear-inducing "thunder-sleet" that had apparently happened while I was lost in Rome and a sexy, satiric reverie about life.
Somehow I think I got the better end of the stick.
Out on his porch for a smoke when I came out, he asked if I'd seen the snowman they'd spent an hour last night building.
It would have been hard to miss. It was laying in three parts all along my walkway when I left for my morning constitutional.
After admiring his building skills, I suggested he reassemble it before the second wave of ice and snow in hopes the drop in temperature and ice coating would make it whole again.
Not to mention get it out of my sidewalk.
When I proceeded to clean off my car, he got worried. "You're not going to drive in this, are you?"
The hell I'm not. I'd been looking forward to seeing "It Happened One Night" at the Library of Virginia for weeks and that had already been canceled. No telling if any walkable restaurants were going to stay open tonight.
You're damn right I was going to escape during daylight and before the skies opened up again.
I thought two plus hours with the artistic and well-to-do set in sunny Rome sounded like a grand way to spend this afternoon.
Arriving at the Criterion, the ticket seller informed me I was the third patron of the day. And there are four theaters.
So apparently I was the only person in Richmond seeking an existential Italian afternoon, which also meant that for the first time in my life, I was completely alone in the theater.
I'd chosen "The Great Beauty"- a bittersweet Italian comedy about a man who wrote one perfect book and spent the rest of his life doing nothing more than enjoying literary and society life, going out every night and working occasionally as a magazine writer until he hits his 65th birthday - because I wanted something as far away from a snowy day in Richmond as I could get.
Mission accomplished.
The main character Jep explains that he was destined for sensibility so he was destined to be a writer, albeit one who can afford an apartment with an enormous rooftop patio, complete with hammock, that overlooks the - wait for it - Coliseum.
The whole film is like that, though, with the eternal beauty of Rome as much a character as all his artsy and wealthy friends.
Sometimes it's the city, like a scene where a friend with a case of keys takes him through palaces filled with art at night, or in the country where he attends a wedding where people dance under the shade of huge, old trees.
The kind of people who have elaborate parties with techno music throbbing, go-go dancers and drag queens, people of all ages dancing and casually intellectual conversations.
The kind of party where you'll have a sultry female DJ with a Mac and a string quartet playing along with her.
It's the coincidence of Jep turning 65 and learning that the love of his life, a girl he fell in love with at 18 and then lost, has died.
Bad as that is, it gets worse when her husband of 35 years visits to inform him that he read her diaries and discovered that she'd been in love with him all these years.
There's information that'll change the way you look at life, especially at 65, spurring Jep to observe, "I can't waste any more time doing things I don't want to do."
As a man who's gone through adulthood taking advantage of any woman who offered herself up, he no longer wants to. "At my age, beauty isn't enough," he says after having a pretty young thing pointed out to him.
Even though the extent of his writing is celebrity profiles, he still has the observation instincts of a writer, talking long walks day and night to see what he can see to distract him from his very full life's emptiness.
The film was full of Italian oddities - a recipe-spouting cardinal, a midget editor with blue hair, a toothless, 104-year old saint-to-be, a man wearing only underwear who directs his sexual impulses to masterfully bouncing a soccer ball between every part of his body- and natural beauty.
I found it sad, funny and beautiful, but mostly rueful and contemplative, perhaps an inevitable condition when your each 65.
People, even the saint-to-be, keep asking Jep why he never wrote a second book and he finally concludes, "I was looking for the great beauty but never found it."
Personally, I was looking for an afternoon where the world could have stopped outside and I wouldn't have known it and that's exactly what I got.
When I got home, it was to endless Facebook posts about the house-shaking and fear-inducing "thunder-sleet" that had apparently happened while I was lost in Rome and a sexy, satiric reverie about life.
Somehow I think I got the better end of the stick.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Hello Winter
If you're going to preview your winter menu, you can't do much better than a snowy night.
Good thing Bistro 27 is only a few blocks away so it didn't take that much effort to traverse the ever-whitening streets.
Inside, a crowd of neighbors was already mingling and eating, the only surprising part being that I didn't recognize anyone.
Turns out it didn't matter because a woman walked up to me and asked me to join her and who am I to refuse a conversational partner, even a stranger?
Over pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, skewers of grilled eggplant filled with herbed goat cheese over marinara and lamb kabobs, we got to know each other at a table by the window with the heat vent blowing on my feet and a view of Broad Street becoming a winter wonderland.
It must have been the occasion, but the stereo was set to house music, the kind of pulsing beat you'd expect to hear in a club.
My new friend turned out to be a delightful woman just back from a business trip to California where, besides enjoying the 78-degree days, she was working on merging an east coast group that mentors girls with a west coast group that does the same.
A Church Hill resident, we bonded over a love of city living, our mutual disappointment with the fried fish tacos at Kitchen on Cary and the hurdles of getting over good girl syndrome when you're the oldest child.
While we were downing a dessert of nut-crusted chocolate pate, her friend arrived and she began introducing us, unnecessary because it was a local gallery director I've interviewed twice now.
All of a sudden, it was three woman of an age, all passionate about urban, feminist and gentrification issues and we were off and running.
How do we prevent losing the rich cultural history of Jackson Ward as more newcomers arrive? How exciting is Sonya Clark's new show at 1798 Gallery going to be given its marriage of hairstyling and art? How do we get more people off of Broad and into my neighborhood on first Fridays?
As lively and interesting as all that was, we got even more into it on the subject of the lost art of conversation, increasing lack of interactivity amongst subsequent generations and how our mothers had talked to us about "girl issues."
You'd have thought we were old friends, but it was really a case of daughters of similar childhoods all grown up.
Sitting watching the snow fall on Adams Street, we could have talked the night away but instead made plans to meet up again and take our discussion even further when the threat of bad weather wasn't hanging over us.
If you're going to make new friends, you really can't do it more enjoyably than over new dishes in your neighborhood joint with non-stop conversation.
And if you're foolish enough to wear a dress in a snowstorm, especially when the heat vent is blowing directly on your feet.
Good thing Bistro 27 is only a few blocks away so it didn't take that much effort to traverse the ever-whitening streets.
Inside, a crowd of neighbors was already mingling and eating, the only surprising part being that I didn't recognize anyone.
Turns out it didn't matter because a woman walked up to me and asked me to join her and who am I to refuse a conversational partner, even a stranger?
Over pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, skewers of grilled eggplant filled with herbed goat cheese over marinara and lamb kabobs, we got to know each other at a table by the window with the heat vent blowing on my feet and a view of Broad Street becoming a winter wonderland.
It must have been the occasion, but the stereo was set to house music, the kind of pulsing beat you'd expect to hear in a club.
My new friend turned out to be a delightful woman just back from a business trip to California where, besides enjoying the 78-degree days, she was working on merging an east coast group that mentors girls with a west coast group that does the same.
A Church Hill resident, we bonded over a love of city living, our mutual disappointment with the fried fish tacos at Kitchen on Cary and the hurdles of getting over good girl syndrome when you're the oldest child.
While we were downing a dessert of nut-crusted chocolate pate, her friend arrived and she began introducing us, unnecessary because it was a local gallery director I've interviewed twice now.
All of a sudden, it was three woman of an age, all passionate about urban, feminist and gentrification issues and we were off and running.
How do we prevent losing the rich cultural history of Jackson Ward as more newcomers arrive? How exciting is Sonya Clark's new show at 1798 Gallery going to be given its marriage of hairstyling and art? How do we get more people off of Broad and into my neighborhood on first Fridays?
As lively and interesting as all that was, we got even more into it on the subject of the lost art of conversation, increasing lack of interactivity amongst subsequent generations and how our mothers had talked to us about "girl issues."
You'd have thought we were old friends, but it was really a case of daughters of similar childhoods all grown up.
Sitting watching the snow fall on Adams Street, we could have talked the night away but instead made plans to meet up again and take our discussion even further when the threat of bad weather wasn't hanging over us.
If you're going to make new friends, you really can't do it more enjoyably than over new dishes in your neighborhood joint with non-stop conversation.
And if you're foolish enough to wear a dress in a snowstorm, especially when the heat vent is blowing directly on your feet.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
When the Weather Outside is Frightful
It's the inverse snow effect.
As soon as it's forecast, as soon as everyone starts announcing closings, I begin plotting where I can go that's still open.
While I understand that snow makes many people want to cocoon, making soup and hot chocolate, I begin to feel claustrophobic and in dire need of conversation.
Mercifully, there are solutions for that, like making tracks for a neighborhood bistro, in this case Max's on Broad.
Trudging the sidewalks, umbrella in hand, I remembered meeting a Canadian at the now-defunct Belvidere on Broad during a snowstorm a few years back.
He was highly amused, scornful even, by the way Virginians used umbrellas for snow, not that that prevented me from having an umbrella in hand tonight.
Max's was far busier than I expected (one of the valets said he'd already parked eight cars), with a large group upstairs and a smattering of men drinking downstairs.
Fortunately for me, one of them was a friend so I joined him at the end of the bar.
Anticipating that my meal was going to start with French onion soup given the tingling in my toes, I began with Didier Desvignes Domaine du Calvaire de Roche-Gres Fleurie because I love how the gamay grape's acidity cuts through the richness of a soup like that.
My friend joined me in his own bowl of soup while I heard about the headaches of his day, not the least of which was the weather because he's in the restaurant business.
When he asked me about the writing life, I had to admit that bad weather days are kind of great for me because I'm less tempted to head out and about so I stay in and meet deadlines instead.
It leaves me feeling quite virtuous, but starved for conversation, not an issue when you run into a chatty friend.
He told me about a big party he and his sweetheart are planning, one with a budget that exceeds my quarterly income, and one to which I will be invited.
With snow swirling outside and a surprising number of people walking and biking down Broad Street, we moved on to dinner.
I chose the Crab Louie cocktail which I'd had before while he got all manly on me, ordering a NY strip with Bernaise and frites.
Like last time, I was impressed with the amount of crabmeat and abundance of lumps, but tonight's had a decidedly pasteurized taste, leading us to conclude it was probably canned crabmeat, something I prefer to avoid, having grown up in Maryland with particular crab preferences.
But with enough lemon juice and a bit of salt, I managed.
By the time we ordered dessert, the group had left and restaurant employees were starting to arrive at the bar. The music went from Edith Piaf to the Head and the Heart, a sure sign that the evening was winding down.
Friend had chosen the trifle, a mistake because what arrived was nothing like trifle, more like a misguided deconstruction with alternate ingredients.
I chose the cream puff which turned out to be three puffs, a bonus, but the ganache was milk chocolate and not dark chocolate, a miscalculation in my book given the sweetness of the cream filling.
Since my friend had pushed his trifle aside after two bites, I gave him a cream puff for a consolation prize.
We talked about a recent article of NYC food critics' pet restaurant peeves - server phrases like "no problem" and "what are we thinking for dinner?" among them- as we finished up our wine.
It was when we saw our first snow plow lumbering down Broad Street (blade up, mind you), that we broke camp and headed out past the valets huddled in the makeshift vestibule into the blustery night.
In my book, it was still ridiculously early, but at least I'd gotten some conversation out of my system.
Sometimes that's all I need. Sometimes, more.
As soon as it's forecast, as soon as everyone starts announcing closings, I begin plotting where I can go that's still open.
While I understand that snow makes many people want to cocoon, making soup and hot chocolate, I begin to feel claustrophobic and in dire need of conversation.
Mercifully, there are solutions for that, like making tracks for a neighborhood bistro, in this case Max's on Broad.
Trudging the sidewalks, umbrella in hand, I remembered meeting a Canadian at the now-defunct Belvidere on Broad during a snowstorm a few years back.
He was highly amused, scornful even, by the way Virginians used umbrellas for snow, not that that prevented me from having an umbrella in hand tonight.
Max's was far busier than I expected (one of the valets said he'd already parked eight cars), with a large group upstairs and a smattering of men drinking downstairs.
Fortunately for me, one of them was a friend so I joined him at the end of the bar.
Anticipating that my meal was going to start with French onion soup given the tingling in my toes, I began with Didier Desvignes Domaine du Calvaire de Roche-Gres Fleurie because I love how the gamay grape's acidity cuts through the richness of a soup like that.
My friend joined me in his own bowl of soup while I heard about the headaches of his day, not the least of which was the weather because he's in the restaurant business.
When he asked me about the writing life, I had to admit that bad weather days are kind of great for me because I'm less tempted to head out and about so I stay in and meet deadlines instead.
It leaves me feeling quite virtuous, but starved for conversation, not an issue when you run into a chatty friend.
He told me about a big party he and his sweetheart are planning, one with a budget that exceeds my quarterly income, and one to which I will be invited.
With snow swirling outside and a surprising number of people walking and biking down Broad Street, we moved on to dinner.
I chose the Crab Louie cocktail which I'd had before while he got all manly on me, ordering a NY strip with Bernaise and frites.
Like last time, I was impressed with the amount of crabmeat and abundance of lumps, but tonight's had a decidedly pasteurized taste, leading us to conclude it was probably canned crabmeat, something I prefer to avoid, having grown up in Maryland with particular crab preferences.
But with enough lemon juice and a bit of salt, I managed.
By the time we ordered dessert, the group had left and restaurant employees were starting to arrive at the bar. The music went from Edith Piaf to the Head and the Heart, a sure sign that the evening was winding down.
Friend had chosen the trifle, a mistake because what arrived was nothing like trifle, more like a misguided deconstruction with alternate ingredients.
I chose the cream puff which turned out to be three puffs, a bonus, but the ganache was milk chocolate and not dark chocolate, a miscalculation in my book given the sweetness of the cream filling.
Since my friend had pushed his trifle aside after two bites, I gave him a cream puff for a consolation prize.
We talked about a recent article of NYC food critics' pet restaurant peeves - server phrases like "no problem" and "what are we thinking for dinner?" among them- as we finished up our wine.
It was when we saw our first snow plow lumbering down Broad Street (blade up, mind you), that we broke camp and headed out past the valets huddled in the makeshift vestibule into the blustery night.
In my book, it was still ridiculously early, but at least I'd gotten some conversation out of my system.
Sometimes that's all I need. Sometimes, more.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
The Intimacy of Snow
Snow is the great equalizer.
So when I go outside for my daily walk and find that between the time I looked out the window upstairs and walked down the steps it has begun to snow, I am surprised.
Back up I go to get an umbrella and walk through the swirling flakes.
When I stop at the ATM by the VCU Welcome Center, there is a man already using it.
Suddenly he turns around, grins and says, "You have a friendly face."
Not sure why this matters, I ask.
"I turned around once and saw a 357 Magnum pointed at me," he explained. "I told the guy I was broke, but he patted me and my friend down anyway."
I almost never have cash with me, so I'd always thought my plan would be to claim poverty, which I told him.
"But you're easy on the eyes," he said. "So then you got to worry about what else he might want."
Gulp.
"Be safe!" he said, lumbering off. "Stay warm in the snow!"
Turning back down Broad, I immediately heard what I thought was bucket drummers.
From behind a column came a long-haired guy with snowflakes in his hair grinning and holding a box.
"Got any spare change for a song?" he asked, gesturing at his instrument.
I explained that I was just getting some exercise and hadn't a dime with me.
Since I love an unexpected song, all I could do was apologize.
"You got a great smile," he said, "So you deserve a song anyway."
Next thing I knew he was beatboxing and singing to me as we stood under the shelter of the Welcome Center.
Passing by the bus stop on the next block, a guy smiled and said, "Good morning, pretty lady. How are you doing?"
Quite well, I said.
"You need to get home and out of this snow," he advised.
And miss all this random interaction? Pshaw.
Coming back up Clay Street, I saw an elderly woman who looked like she weighed 90 pounds lugging two enormous bags of groceries.
I approached her and asked if I could carry one if them for her.
She agreed timidly, so I tried chatting her up to make her more comfortable with me.
By the time we got to her house in Carver, I knew she'd raised the children of the Dementi family, living with them and having Thursdays and every other weekend off.
When they grew up, she'd taken a job with another family, but lived in her own home.
"That was much better," she said, smiling. "Now I work in a medical office."
She asked what I thought of the meteor over Russia, a subject which clearly has her concerned.
We discussed the importance of snow in killing off germs that are making so many people sick lately.
When we got to her house, I placed the bag I'd carried on her porch and wished her a good day.
"I so enjoyed talking to you," she said, smiling widely. "Thank you for helping me with my bag."
Waving good-bye just as the snow tapered off, I headed home.
If you're out while it's snowing, you become part of an exclusive club.
My fellow members made it an especially enjoyable club meeting today.
So when I go outside for my daily walk and find that between the time I looked out the window upstairs and walked down the steps it has begun to snow, I am surprised.
Back up I go to get an umbrella and walk through the swirling flakes.
When I stop at the ATM by the VCU Welcome Center, there is a man already using it.
Suddenly he turns around, grins and says, "You have a friendly face."
Not sure why this matters, I ask.
"I turned around once and saw a 357 Magnum pointed at me," he explained. "I told the guy I was broke, but he patted me and my friend down anyway."
I almost never have cash with me, so I'd always thought my plan would be to claim poverty, which I told him.
"But you're easy on the eyes," he said. "So then you got to worry about what else he might want."
Gulp.
"Be safe!" he said, lumbering off. "Stay warm in the snow!"
Turning back down Broad, I immediately heard what I thought was bucket drummers.
From behind a column came a long-haired guy with snowflakes in his hair grinning and holding a box.
"Got any spare change for a song?" he asked, gesturing at his instrument.
I explained that I was just getting some exercise and hadn't a dime with me.
Since I love an unexpected song, all I could do was apologize.
"You got a great smile," he said, "So you deserve a song anyway."
Next thing I knew he was beatboxing and singing to me as we stood under the shelter of the Welcome Center.
Passing by the bus stop on the next block, a guy smiled and said, "Good morning, pretty lady. How are you doing?"
Quite well, I said.
"You need to get home and out of this snow," he advised.
And miss all this random interaction? Pshaw.
Coming back up Clay Street, I saw an elderly woman who looked like she weighed 90 pounds lugging two enormous bags of groceries.
I approached her and asked if I could carry one if them for her.
She agreed timidly, so I tried chatting her up to make her more comfortable with me.
By the time we got to her house in Carver, I knew she'd raised the children of the Dementi family, living with them and having Thursdays and every other weekend off.
When they grew up, she'd taken a job with another family, but lived in her own home.
"That was much better," she said, smiling. "Now I work in a medical office."
She asked what I thought of the meteor over Russia, a subject which clearly has her concerned.
We discussed the importance of snow in killing off germs that are making so many people sick lately.
When we got to her house, I placed the bag I'd carried on her porch and wished her a good day.
"I so enjoyed talking to you," she said, smiling widely. "Thank you for helping me with my bag."
Waving good-bye just as the snow tapered off, I headed home.
If you're out while it's snowing, you become part of an exclusive club.
My fellow members made it an especially enjoyable club meeting today.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
An Experimental Life
So here's my experimental memoir for the evening.
It's not easy finding an appropriate way to celebrate Burns' Night, at least in Richmond.
There is no haggis, so there can be no reading of "Address to a Haggis."
But there must be a way to have a poetic January 25, I felt certain.
So when a friend from Washington lets me know he'll be in town today, he stipulates, "If you know a spot that's open and does a great lunch - one of the best in RVA- I'm all ears."
I suggested several personal favorites and then threw out Rappahannock, telling him I'd had dinner there but never lunch.
It was there that we met, just as the snow began to fall, and with its two sides of windows, the restaurant turned out to be prime snow-watching vantage point.
Instead of offal and oatmeal in a sheep's stomach, though, we stayed strictly nautical.
Oysters with pearls (caviar) came highly recommended by our server who said he didn't usually like caviar.
I tried not to judge.
They were followed by a generous serving of fluke ceviche with toasted bread.
Our order of Barcat oyster chowder had thoughtfully been split into two bowls and one taste told me that a full bowl would have put most people in a food coma.
Cream plus flour = zzzzz.
And speaking of, our last order was rockfish brandade, an ideal winter dish of potatoes and fish spread on bread, but we barely put a dent in the large crock of it.
As far as honoring Robert Burns went, our meal from the sea was a far cry from what the bard himself would have expected.
But the company was good in that way that only someone who grew up where you did can relate so comfortably.
After he learned I wasn't a coffee drinker, he joked, "So you're just naturally high," which he then translated to, "You've got great energy," a compliment, I felt certain.
It was still snowing when we walked outside, making Grace Street look as picaresque as a citified Currier and Ives print in the gray, late afternoon light.
I wasn't sure how the weather would affect the evening's activities, but enough places seemed to be promising to stay open to risk going out.
A slow but crunchy drive to Chop Suey for a poetry reading seemed as Burns-like as I was likely to get tonight.
Reading was Kate Greenstreet from her new book, an experimental memoir called, "Young Tambling."
Not many people had braved the weather for the sake of poetry (I have to assume they'd forgotten it was Burns' night), but Kate immediately honed in on three of us, thanking us for coming out in the bad weather.
Looking at me, she questioned, "Why did you come? I know these other people, but what brought you out?"
Nothing like having the teacher call on you the minute class begins.
I told her that I came to lots of poetry readings. That it was Robert Burns' birthday. That I thought snow was perfect for reading poetry.
"That's a good answer," she said, smiling.
She said she usually uses a mic, but for the half dozen of us, she eschewed amplification and just read.
He voice was tiny but her reading expressive and the overall effect was of someone very curious (or wise) and observant asking questions and drawing her own conclusions while we listened in.
We heard that she'd had a Catholic upbringing and for a while had considered whether she had a "calling" to God and she also compared addiction to having a calling.
An interesting woman.
Sometimes she would begin reciting a poem before she'd even located it in the book.
This was a poet who made the reading seem effortless, although I got the impression she was an introvert, so even small performances are likely anything but for her.
Someone asked her about the pictures in her book and she said they were from her own photographs and paintings.
Now that's impressive, having talent with words and images.
After she finished reading, Kate said that it felt like we were in church and now was the time for refreshments.
I almost hated to leave such a welcoming little group on this cold night.
But my fellow poetry lover (and Catholic school attendee who didn't have the "calling") and I left, me feeling pretty good at this point.
Then it was on to the VMFA for no particular reason other than they'd insisted that they'd be open despite the snow.
Walking up to the members desk, I told the woman that I was a regular at the museum but wanted to know if there was anything new to see.
Her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Have you seen the new Rembrandts?" she inquired enthusiastically.
Bingo. Upstairs we went to find the Baroque gallery and see some early Dutch masters.
But you can't just jump into something like that feet first, either, so we did a spin around the French and Italian Baroque gallery first.
Then it was on to the two new small works, "The Stone Operation" and "The Three Musicians."
In one, a man is having a stone removed from his head to cure his craziness. It looks pretty painful.
In the other, three musicians, young, middle-aged and old, try to sing together but judging by their looks, the result probably wasn't terribly harmonious.
Compositionally, they were similar with three figures arranged in a triangle, but with more vivid colors than the master used in his well-known later works.
I saw that these two were early, early Rembrandts done when he was only eighteen and hadn't yet been taught by his best teacher.
Even so, the basics of a Rembrandt were there.
Striking contrasts between light and dark. Exaggerated facial features. Thick layers of paint.
Shoot, that's Rembrandt 101 stuff. And here was proof of just how early he'd come to that major talent of his.
Surely Burns, who had been only fifteen when he was inspired by a girl to write his first poem, would see the poetry in taking in Rembrandts on his night.
Surely Burns would understand wanting to hear a quiet poet read on that snowy night.
Surely Burns would concede that haggis is hard to come by in Virginia and sometimes seafood shared with the kind of friend you can discuss politics and quality of life with serves a similar purpose.
You weren't forgotten here, old man.
If I start on my "Rebuke to a Fluke" now, I could have it ready by next January 25.
I'm afraid my experimental life memoir will take a good while longer.
It's not easy finding an appropriate way to celebrate Burns' Night, at least in Richmond.
There is no haggis, so there can be no reading of "Address to a Haggis."
But there must be a way to have a poetic January 25, I felt certain.
So when a friend from Washington lets me know he'll be in town today, he stipulates, "If you know a spot that's open and does a great lunch - one of the best in RVA- I'm all ears."
I suggested several personal favorites and then threw out Rappahannock, telling him I'd had dinner there but never lunch.
It was there that we met, just as the snow began to fall, and with its two sides of windows, the restaurant turned out to be prime snow-watching vantage point.
Instead of offal and oatmeal in a sheep's stomach, though, we stayed strictly nautical.
Oysters with pearls (caviar) came highly recommended by our server who said he didn't usually like caviar.
I tried not to judge.
They were followed by a generous serving of fluke ceviche with toasted bread.
Our order of Barcat oyster chowder had thoughtfully been split into two bowls and one taste told me that a full bowl would have put most people in a food coma.
Cream plus flour = zzzzz.
And speaking of, our last order was rockfish brandade, an ideal winter dish of potatoes and fish spread on bread, but we barely put a dent in the large crock of it.
As far as honoring Robert Burns went, our meal from the sea was a far cry from what the bard himself would have expected.
But the company was good in that way that only someone who grew up where you did can relate so comfortably.
After he learned I wasn't a coffee drinker, he joked, "So you're just naturally high," which he then translated to, "You've got great energy," a compliment, I felt certain.
It was still snowing when we walked outside, making Grace Street look as picaresque as a citified Currier and Ives print in the gray, late afternoon light.
I wasn't sure how the weather would affect the evening's activities, but enough places seemed to be promising to stay open to risk going out.
A slow but crunchy drive to Chop Suey for a poetry reading seemed as Burns-like as I was likely to get tonight.
Reading was Kate Greenstreet from her new book, an experimental memoir called, "Young Tambling."
Not many people had braved the weather for the sake of poetry (I have to assume they'd forgotten it was Burns' night), but Kate immediately honed in on three of us, thanking us for coming out in the bad weather.
Looking at me, she questioned, "Why did you come? I know these other people, but what brought you out?"
Nothing like having the teacher call on you the minute class begins.
I told her that I came to lots of poetry readings. That it was Robert Burns' birthday. That I thought snow was perfect for reading poetry.
"That's a good answer," she said, smiling.
She said she usually uses a mic, but for the half dozen of us, she eschewed amplification and just read.
He voice was tiny but her reading expressive and the overall effect was of someone very curious (or wise) and observant asking questions and drawing her own conclusions while we listened in.
We heard that she'd had a Catholic upbringing and for a while had considered whether she had a "calling" to God and she also compared addiction to having a calling.
An interesting woman.
Sometimes she would begin reciting a poem before she'd even located it in the book.
This was a poet who made the reading seem effortless, although I got the impression she was an introvert, so even small performances are likely anything but for her.
Someone asked her about the pictures in her book and she said they were from her own photographs and paintings.
Now that's impressive, having talent with words and images.
After she finished reading, Kate said that it felt like we were in church and now was the time for refreshments.
I almost hated to leave such a welcoming little group on this cold night.
But my fellow poetry lover (and Catholic school attendee who didn't have the "calling") and I left, me feeling pretty good at this point.
Then it was on to the VMFA for no particular reason other than they'd insisted that they'd be open despite the snow.
Walking up to the members desk, I told the woman that I was a regular at the museum but wanted to know if there was anything new to see.
Her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Have you seen the new Rembrandts?" she inquired enthusiastically.
Bingo. Upstairs we went to find the Baroque gallery and see some early Dutch masters.
But you can't just jump into something like that feet first, either, so we did a spin around the French and Italian Baroque gallery first.
Then it was on to the two new small works, "The Stone Operation" and "The Three Musicians."
In one, a man is having a stone removed from his head to cure his craziness. It looks pretty painful.
In the other, three musicians, young, middle-aged and old, try to sing together but judging by their looks, the result probably wasn't terribly harmonious.
Compositionally, they were similar with three figures arranged in a triangle, but with more vivid colors than the master used in his well-known later works.
I saw that these two were early, early Rembrandts done when he was only eighteen and hadn't yet been taught by his best teacher.
Even so, the basics of a Rembrandt were there.
Striking contrasts between light and dark. Exaggerated facial features. Thick layers of paint.
Shoot, that's Rembrandt 101 stuff. And here was proof of just how early he'd come to that major talent of his.
Surely Burns, who had been only fifteen when he was inspired by a girl to write his first poem, would see the poetry in taking in Rembrandts on his night.
Surely Burns would understand wanting to hear a quiet poet read on that snowy night.
Surely Burns would concede that haggis is hard to come by in Virginia and sometimes seafood shared with the kind of friend you can discuss politics and quality of life with serves a similar purpose.
You weren't forgotten here, old man.
If I start on my "Rebuke to a Fluke" now, I could have it ready by next January 25.
I'm afraid my experimental life memoir will take a good while longer.
Monday, December 27, 2010
If It Weren't for Bad Luck...
...I'd have no luck at all. At least it seems that way today.
Finally exiting my abode and breathing fresh air for the first time since Christmas Eve, I put clearing the snow off my car at the top of my to-do list (wishing, of course, that I had a honey-do list instead) for my first day back in the real world.
As I moved around the car grateful for the dry texture of the snow and easy removal factor, I had an oh-no moment. One of my rear tires looked suspiciously close to flat; given that I'd just put air in all the tires before my last road trip, this did not bode well.
So my daily walk was going to be postponed while I took the car in to have the tire repaired/replaced. No biggie; I'd walk back after dropping it off and continue with my day. If only.
I didn't even get out of the garage's parking lot before taking a spill. A thin metal sign had fallen out of its frame and onto the sidewalk and, with snow and ice covering it, become like a banana peel in a comic strip. Down I went.
My feet went out from under me and as I did the grand sit-down in the icy slush, I remember thinking, "I must have plenty of padding 'cause that didn't even hurt." But while I was priding myself on my backside, my left hand had instinctively taken the fall.
If my wrist could have screamed out loud, it would have at that point. A guy driving by who'd seen my graceless descent stopped his car and asked if I was okay. "I am but my wrist hurts like hell," I told him. "Can I help you?' he kindly asked, opening his car door.
Guessing that he didn't have any dry yoga pants or a wrist splint with him, I thanked him and said no. I then gathered my soggy body and throbbing wrist as gracefully as I could under the circumstances and began the walk home, thinking that this was another fine mess I'd gotten myself in to.
I briefly considered going to have my hand x-rayed, but then did what any good 21st century klutz does and went online to research my pain.
It sounded like I had sprained it, so with my car in the shop and an ice pack on my hand to reduce swelling, I called my guardian angel to bring the truck and take me to the drug store for painkillers and a wrist support with splints. That ought to do it.
I hope.
On the minor plus side, my tire merely had a nail in it, so that was a cheap and easy fix. Leaving, Guardian Angel said something about napping and having a nice quiet evening resting my wrist.
After two days at home? It is to laugh (out loud even). I have to go out tonight for sanity's sake. I'll just have to figure out which tights will best accessorize my charcoal gray wrist support.
Fuchsia, I'm thinking.
Finally exiting my abode and breathing fresh air for the first time since Christmas Eve, I put clearing the snow off my car at the top of my to-do list (wishing, of course, that I had a honey-do list instead) for my first day back in the real world.
As I moved around the car grateful for the dry texture of the snow and easy removal factor, I had an oh-no moment. One of my rear tires looked suspiciously close to flat; given that I'd just put air in all the tires before my last road trip, this did not bode well.
So my daily walk was going to be postponed while I took the car in to have the tire repaired/replaced. No biggie; I'd walk back after dropping it off and continue with my day. If only.
I didn't even get out of the garage's parking lot before taking a spill. A thin metal sign had fallen out of its frame and onto the sidewalk and, with snow and ice covering it, become like a banana peel in a comic strip. Down I went.
My feet went out from under me and as I did the grand sit-down in the icy slush, I remember thinking, "I must have plenty of padding 'cause that didn't even hurt." But while I was priding myself on my backside, my left hand had instinctively taken the fall.
If my wrist could have screamed out loud, it would have at that point. A guy driving by who'd seen my graceless descent stopped his car and asked if I was okay. "I am but my wrist hurts like hell," I told him. "Can I help you?' he kindly asked, opening his car door.
Guessing that he didn't have any dry yoga pants or a wrist splint with him, I thanked him and said no. I then gathered my soggy body and throbbing wrist as gracefully as I could under the circumstances and began the walk home, thinking that this was another fine mess I'd gotten myself in to.
I briefly considered going to have my hand x-rayed, but then did what any good 21st century klutz does and went online to research my pain.
It sounded like I had sprained it, so with my car in the shop and an ice pack on my hand to reduce swelling, I called my guardian angel to bring the truck and take me to the drug store for painkillers and a wrist support with splints. That ought to do it.
I hope.
On the minor plus side, my tire merely had a nail in it, so that was a cheap and easy fix. Leaving, Guardian Angel said something about napping and having a nice quiet evening resting my wrist.
After two days at home? It is to laugh (out loud even). I have to go out tonight for sanity's sake. I'll just have to figure out which tights will best accessorize my charcoal gray wrist support.
Fuchsia, I'm thinking.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Snow Pictures
I'm not a photographer, although one of my photographs did make it into the "I Dream of a Richmond" photography show a few years back, a fact of which I am inordinately proud.
Still, when I opened my bedroom shade this morning to discover it was snowing, it didn't occur to me to grab my camera before leaving for my walk. It was a shame, too, because Grace Street was a winter wonderland, offering endless photographic possibilities with the snow coming down.
At a house where the tree out front had been decorated with giant colorful Christmas balls, each wore a slightly askew cap of snow, its angle dependent on how the snow was blowing. It was especially interesting because only the balls on either side of the tree had snow caps; the center ones did not.
Holly bushes looked like something off a Christmas card, with just the sharp green points and bottoms of the red berries visible. Greenery garlands strung on porches had a similar holiday look with their accents of white. If ever these homeowners wanted to take a seasonal picture of their houses, today was the day.
I saw a few tired pumpkins covered with snow as well as some scraggly mums buried under the a blanket of it, making for a perfect analogy about the shift of the seasons.
And everyone I passed asked me some version of the same question, "Isn't the snow great?" Besides the pure pleasure of walking while it's snowing (something I love) I like it because this is the perfect snow experience: beautiful, seasonally appropriate and not the least bit inconvenient.
And while I didn't take any photographs, the images are in my head so I could go on and on about all the beautiful snow-covered things I saw (the fences, the birdhouses, the rooflines...).
Just ask.
Still, when I opened my bedroom shade this morning to discover it was snowing, it didn't occur to me to grab my camera before leaving for my walk. It was a shame, too, because Grace Street was a winter wonderland, offering endless photographic possibilities with the snow coming down.
At a house where the tree out front had been decorated with giant colorful Christmas balls, each wore a slightly askew cap of snow, its angle dependent on how the snow was blowing. It was especially interesting because only the balls on either side of the tree had snow caps; the center ones did not.
Holly bushes looked like something off a Christmas card, with just the sharp green points and bottoms of the red berries visible. Greenery garlands strung on porches had a similar holiday look with their accents of white. If ever these homeowners wanted to take a seasonal picture of their houses, today was the day.
I saw a few tired pumpkins covered with snow as well as some scraggly mums buried under the a blanket of it, making for a perfect analogy about the shift of the seasons.
And everyone I passed asked me some version of the same question, "Isn't the snow great?" Besides the pure pleasure of walking while it's snowing (something I love) I like it because this is the perfect snow experience: beautiful, seasonally appropriate and not the least bit inconvenient.
And while I didn't take any photographs, the images are in my head so I could go on and on about all the beautiful snow-covered things I saw (the fences, the birdhouses, the rooflines...).
Just ask.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Bruising the Moneymaker
Murphy's Law of snow, at least as it applies to me, is exactly what you'd expect.
I went for my usual four-mile walk down Grace Street yesterday, still having to navigate around mounds of crusty snow and ice.
For the first time in ages, though, there were long stretches of cleared sidewalk, but still interrupted by ice and snow piles.
No doubt as a result, there were more of my regulars out and about.
About to step off the curb over an enormous pile of icy snow, a car started honking furiously at me just as I crested the mound.
I jumped visibly, and almost lost my footing, but didn't; it was Pedro, one of my favorite waiters, who claims to see me everywhere, but never says hello.
Finally, he had.
Further up Grace, and trying to negotiate an icy patch, I hear my name shouted from across the street.
I slide a little, but don't fall, as I look up to see who it is and answer back.
When I run into him last night at Ipanema, he asks if it was that morning he had seen me.
Perhaps if I'd actually taken a dive, I'd have been more memorable.
And then there was the Crooner, the guy on the bike who always sings to me.
Only this time, he approached me from behind, singing "Hey, there, lonely girl" and almost running me off the sidewalk.
He's got to find a new theme song for me; I'm anything but lonely.
But maybe that's the only song he knows.
The point here is that despite a still-treacherous walk yesterday, I remained upright.
So why then when out walking the dog less than a block from home, did my equilibrium desert me?
The beagle was answering nature's call and in an instant, I was headed to the ground.
Somehow I managed to both twist my ankle and land on my knee.
I could feel the ice dig into my kneecap as I landed.
One frickin' block from home.
And while this probably wouldn't be a problem for most females (a girl told me last night that she has her "winter coat" on, not having shaved her legs since before Thanksgiving. TMI) at this time of year, for me it is.
I awoke to a small cut and large pink bruise forming on my knee this morning. I could wear pants to hide it, except I don't wear pants.
I could wear a skirt or dress to cover my knees, except I don't own any that long.
Looks like I'll have to resort to using opaque tights for camouflage for a while,which unfortunately eliminates some of my most fetching ones...and just before Valentine's Day, too.
Such a shame.
But isn't that how Murphy's law works?
I went for my usual four-mile walk down Grace Street yesterday, still having to navigate around mounds of crusty snow and ice.
For the first time in ages, though, there were long stretches of cleared sidewalk, but still interrupted by ice and snow piles.
No doubt as a result, there were more of my regulars out and about.
About to step off the curb over an enormous pile of icy snow, a car started honking furiously at me just as I crested the mound.
I jumped visibly, and almost lost my footing, but didn't; it was Pedro, one of my favorite waiters, who claims to see me everywhere, but never says hello.
Finally, he had.
Further up Grace, and trying to negotiate an icy patch, I hear my name shouted from across the street.
I slide a little, but don't fall, as I look up to see who it is and answer back.
When I run into him last night at Ipanema, he asks if it was that morning he had seen me.
Perhaps if I'd actually taken a dive, I'd have been more memorable.
And then there was the Crooner, the guy on the bike who always sings to me.
Only this time, he approached me from behind, singing "Hey, there, lonely girl" and almost running me off the sidewalk.
He's got to find a new theme song for me; I'm anything but lonely.
But maybe that's the only song he knows.
The point here is that despite a still-treacherous walk yesterday, I remained upright.
So why then when out walking the dog less than a block from home, did my equilibrium desert me?
The beagle was answering nature's call and in an instant, I was headed to the ground.
Somehow I managed to both twist my ankle and land on my knee.
I could feel the ice dig into my kneecap as I landed.
One frickin' block from home.
And while this probably wouldn't be a problem for most females (a girl told me last night that she has her "winter coat" on, not having shaved her legs since before Thanksgiving. TMI) at this time of year, for me it is.
I awoke to a small cut and large pink bruise forming on my knee this morning. I could wear pants to hide it, except I don't wear pants.
I could wear a skirt or dress to cover my knees, except I don't own any that long.
Looks like I'll have to resort to using opaque tights for camouflage for a while,which unfortunately eliminates some of my most fetching ones...and just before Valentine's Day, too.
Such a shame.
But isn't that how Murphy's law works?
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
These Clothes are Staying On
I know I get cold more easily than 98% of the population.
When I go in a restaurant and the hostess points out the coat rack, I smile politely and keep my coat.
A musician friend posted a picture of me at a show at the Camel and I have a sweater across my legs and my big muffler still on; the people around me are dressed normally.
Apparently I have no blood.
Even so, it's cold outside today by anyone's estimation.
There's a wind advisory, it's gusting to 30 mph and it feels like 20 degrees.
Going out to walk the dog, I was bundled up like a kid in a snowsuit, arms akimbo, scarf covering half my face.
And here's a guy on my street shoveling snow in a short-sleeved T-shirt.
I couldn't stop myself. "You have to be cold, right?" I asked with a smile.
He looks at me with dead eyes, no expression and says, "It's not cold out here."
Well, okay then, the beagle and I will just move along.
Around the corner, we see a guy clearing off his car wearing shorts and no socks.
As he flings the snow, I see a flurry hit his bare legs. I cringe for him and ask why he's wearing shorts.
"All my jeans are dirty," he explains. Because, you know, clean clothes are essential for snow removal.
We did talk to one halfway sane soul who was dressed appropriately for the snow.
A guy biking down the street said hi and mentioned how challenging it was biking in this mess.
I offered my empathy for his situation, but he laughed it off. "I got my snow tires on, sweet baby," he assured me. "I'm good."
Me, I'm cold out there with that wind blowing over the ice and snow.
Even with four layers on top, a coat, two layers on bottom, two pairs of socks and two pairs of gloves, it's not enough.
My first choice for relief would be shared body heat.
Barring that, I'm at least going to spend the afternoon inside and away from this wind.
And I'll take off the coat and gloves, but the rest stays on.
Luckily, no one will be taking a picture of me to post this time.
When I go in a restaurant and the hostess points out the coat rack, I smile politely and keep my coat.
A musician friend posted a picture of me at a show at the Camel and I have a sweater across my legs and my big muffler still on; the people around me are dressed normally.
Apparently I have no blood.
Even so, it's cold outside today by anyone's estimation.
There's a wind advisory, it's gusting to 30 mph and it feels like 20 degrees.
Going out to walk the dog, I was bundled up like a kid in a snowsuit, arms akimbo, scarf covering half my face.
And here's a guy on my street shoveling snow in a short-sleeved T-shirt.
I couldn't stop myself. "You have to be cold, right?" I asked with a smile.
He looks at me with dead eyes, no expression and says, "It's not cold out here."
Well, okay then, the beagle and I will just move along.
Around the corner, we see a guy clearing off his car wearing shorts and no socks.
As he flings the snow, I see a flurry hit his bare legs. I cringe for him and ask why he's wearing shorts.
"All my jeans are dirty," he explains. Because, you know, clean clothes are essential for snow removal.
We did talk to one halfway sane soul who was dressed appropriately for the snow.
A guy biking down the street said hi and mentioned how challenging it was biking in this mess.
I offered my empathy for his situation, but he laughed it off. "I got my snow tires on, sweet baby," he assured me. "I'm good."
Me, I'm cold out there with that wind blowing over the ice and snow.
Even with four layers on top, a coat, two layers on bottom, two pairs of socks and two pairs of gloves, it's not enough.
My first choice for relief would be shared body heat.
Barring that, I'm at least going to spend the afternoon inside and away from this wind.
And I'll take off the coat and gloves, but the rest stays on.
Luckily, no one will be taking a picture of me to post this time.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Maker's Mark Slushies at Garnett's
One of the many events cancelled due to snow is tonight's performance of the Richmond Symphony, which worked out well for me because it left my friend Nicholas, who plays bass clarinet for the symphony, with a free afternoon and nobody better than me to hang out with.
Nicholas lives in NYC, so we can only get together when he's down here for a performance and he offered to pick me up for a late lunch.
Where do you take a former Richmonder to show him what's new and delicious since we last ate together?
I'd dazzled him with the Belvidere (here) last time, which meant it was time to impress him with Garnett's today.
Walking in, the place was only half full, a rarity for Garnett's, but perfect for us.
We sat at the raised table by the door, so as to have the best view of the room since it was Nicholas' first visit.
In all the times I've eaten at Garnett's, I've never gotten anything but sandwiches and desserts.
Today I ordered the spinach salad with avocado, pine nuts, red onions and grapefruit vinaigrette and it was wonderful and, most important, not over-dressed (my chief complaint with far too many salads).
Nicholas got the chicken salad sandwich on gluten-free bread, arguably the best chicken salad in RVA.
Well done, Hunter.
Semi-permanent Garnett's guest Cy was there, assembling a snowball stockpile with which to do battle with two five-year olds.
He was stacking them on the vintage chair collection outside the restaurant; it made for a very charming picture to anyone walking by.
Cy, like Nicholas, is gluten-intolerant, which led to a discussion of which spirits are okay for those who are.
Maker's Mark came up quite a bit; in fact, Maker's slushies made with snow occupied the conversation for far longer than it should have.
When we weren't being alcoholically distracted by Cy, Nicholas and I discussed the state of our love lives and why some people are willing to settle while others continue to seek out "the one."
Meanwhile, a couple came in wearing the latest snow accessory: plastic bags rubber-banded over their shoes.
Nicholas had never seen this before, but the last snowfall seems to have made it practically commonplace around here.
There used to be a time when boots weren't absolutely essential to get through a Richmond winter, but not so much anymore.
So we adapt.
Like Nicholas adapted to unexpectedly having his day free.
It's a shame for symphony-goers, but it worked out awfully well for me.
And he loved Garnett's, not that I thought for a moment he wouldn't.
Of all people, a transplanted New Yorker would see the beauty of a cozy neighborhood sandwich spot with a view of the snowfall...especially one with curbside parking.
So quaint!
Nicholas lives in NYC, so we can only get together when he's down here for a performance and he offered to pick me up for a late lunch.
Where do you take a former Richmonder to show him what's new and delicious since we last ate together?
I'd dazzled him with the Belvidere (here) last time, which meant it was time to impress him with Garnett's today.
Walking in, the place was only half full, a rarity for Garnett's, but perfect for us.
We sat at the raised table by the door, so as to have the best view of the room since it was Nicholas' first visit.
In all the times I've eaten at Garnett's, I've never gotten anything but sandwiches and desserts.
Today I ordered the spinach salad with avocado, pine nuts, red onions and grapefruit vinaigrette and it was wonderful and, most important, not over-dressed (my chief complaint with far too many salads).
Nicholas got the chicken salad sandwich on gluten-free bread, arguably the best chicken salad in RVA.
Well done, Hunter.
Semi-permanent Garnett's guest Cy was there, assembling a snowball stockpile with which to do battle with two five-year olds.
He was stacking them on the vintage chair collection outside the restaurant; it made for a very charming picture to anyone walking by.
Cy, like Nicholas, is gluten-intolerant, which led to a discussion of which spirits are okay for those who are.
Maker's Mark came up quite a bit; in fact, Maker's slushies made with snow occupied the conversation for far longer than it should have.
When we weren't being alcoholically distracted by Cy, Nicholas and I discussed the state of our love lives and why some people are willing to settle while others continue to seek out "the one."
Meanwhile, a couple came in wearing the latest snow accessory: plastic bags rubber-banded over their shoes.
Nicholas had never seen this before, but the last snowfall seems to have made it practically commonplace around here.
There used to be a time when boots weren't absolutely essential to get through a Richmond winter, but not so much anymore.
So we adapt.
Like Nicholas adapted to unexpectedly having his day free.
It's a shame for symphony-goers, but it worked out awfully well for me.
And he loved Garnett's, not that I thought for a moment he wouldn't.
Of all people, a transplanted New Yorker would see the beauty of a cozy neighborhood sandwich spot with a view of the snowfall...especially one with curbside parking.
So quaint!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Of Stalkers, Boners and Missed Music
Unlike yesterday's peaceful quiet, my street has been alive with noise all day.
People are out walking and talking, scraping their cars and whirring their tires trying to escape the mounds of snow, so I finally gave in and joined them.
Cleaning off my car was a cinch, but removing the drifts of snow that all but covered the tires took a while (I used a rake, a surprisingly efficient tool for the job of shifting the powder).
I even drove around the block to ensure that I had an exit strategy for later.
And then I set off on foot to see what was up in J-Ward.
My favorite Whiskey Wednesday friend was smoking a cigarette on his porch so I recruited him to inspect the 'hood with me and he was more than willing.
We saw a car parked facing east on Clay (it's westbound), but with no tracks in or out, indicating it was parked pre-snowfall. Interesting choice and for no apparent reason that we could think of.
We noted the absence of snowmen, probably due to the dryness of the snow.
In lieu of being able to pack the snow into recognizable forms, the artistic among us seem to have resorted to writing words on the snow canvas of cars.
We saw "VCU," "peace" and a heart written out on different vehicles, but my favorite would have to be the one that said "boner."
Now I'm just guessing here, but I'd be willing to bet that it was someone with a Y chromosome who was thus inspired (or maybe just over-sharing).
Two well-dressed men came out of their house as we passed, snow shovels in hand.
The one proudly pointed out to the other that he had cleared off both their cars; their intention now was to move the mounds of snow that were blocking them in.
Unlike me and my girly rake tool, they had manly snow shovels.
The one in loafers (you know, the perfect shoe for snow removal) inserted his shovel into a mound, where the scoop promptly snapped off from the handle.
The other guy burst out laughing at him, causing loafer boy to slink inside.
My friend and I walked on before making proper fun of them.
My friend peeled off when we got back around to his block and I kept going the block and a half home.
There was a guy smoking a cigarette and shoveling a walk at the corner house, who said hello to me in an eastern European accent.
"I haven't seen you on your walk every day lately. Like 9-10:00, right? I see you all the time. Where have you been?"
I've never seen this guy before and I have no idea who he is or that he knows about my daily walk.
Creepy or complimentary? You be the judge.
And now I come home to find that the Of Montreal show at the National tonight has been postponed.
Damn, I was hoping for some over-the-top musical spectacle tonight to cap off the snowy weekend.
I saw them in November 2008 and they were great fun.
Now I'll have to find another way to amuse myself.
Bet I can.
People are out walking and talking, scraping their cars and whirring their tires trying to escape the mounds of snow, so I finally gave in and joined them.
Cleaning off my car was a cinch, but removing the drifts of snow that all but covered the tires took a while (I used a rake, a surprisingly efficient tool for the job of shifting the powder).
I even drove around the block to ensure that I had an exit strategy for later.
And then I set off on foot to see what was up in J-Ward.
My favorite Whiskey Wednesday friend was smoking a cigarette on his porch so I recruited him to inspect the 'hood with me and he was more than willing.
We saw a car parked facing east on Clay (it's westbound), but with no tracks in or out, indicating it was parked pre-snowfall. Interesting choice and for no apparent reason that we could think of.
We noted the absence of snowmen, probably due to the dryness of the snow.
In lieu of being able to pack the snow into recognizable forms, the artistic among us seem to have resorted to writing words on the snow canvas of cars.
We saw "VCU," "peace" and a heart written out on different vehicles, but my favorite would have to be the one that said "boner."
Now I'm just guessing here, but I'd be willing to bet that it was someone with a Y chromosome who was thus inspired (or maybe just over-sharing).
Two well-dressed men came out of their house as we passed, snow shovels in hand.
The one proudly pointed out to the other that he had cleared off both their cars; their intention now was to move the mounds of snow that were blocking them in.
Unlike me and my girly rake tool, they had manly snow shovels.
The one in loafers (you know, the perfect shoe for snow removal) inserted his shovel into a mound, where the scoop promptly snapped off from the handle.
The other guy burst out laughing at him, causing loafer boy to slink inside.
My friend and I walked on before making proper fun of them.
My friend peeled off when we got back around to his block and I kept going the block and a half home.
There was a guy smoking a cigarette and shoveling a walk at the corner house, who said hello to me in an eastern European accent.
"I haven't seen you on your walk every day lately. Like 9-10:00, right? I see you all the time. Where have you been?"
I've never seen this guy before and I have no idea who he is or that he knows about my daily walk.
Creepy or complimentary? You be the judge.
And now I come home to find that the Of Montreal show at the National tonight has been postponed.
Damn, I was hoping for some over-the-top musical spectacle tonight to cap off the snowy weekend.
I saw them in November 2008 and they were great fun.
Now I'll have to find another way to amuse myself.
Bet I can.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Looking for Locals at The Belvidere
One of my favorite perks of living in the city is that when it snows, there's bound to be a restaurant open within walking distance filled with neighbors and locals wanting some snow company.
I'd heard from a friend earlier today that my closest watering hole, The Belvidere, would be open tonight and the owner was concerned they wouldn't have any business.
Far be it for me to be part of that problem and not the solution, so I set off in the snow.
The place was barely half full when I arrived, but neighbors did come, bike kids came, and a really drunk guy with a bright red nose and shorts on made a brief stopover.
I ordered the house-cured salmon (I think it's the best in RVA) and settled in with my book.
Not long afterwards, a guy with a book came in and took the stool one away from me and I'd have bet my bottom dollar he wasn't a local.
He ordered a glass of wine and started reading the menu.
Meanwhile, several people, staff and customers, spoke to me by name and he must have drawn a conclusion, because he put down his menu and addressed me. "Well, it's obvious you've been here before. What's good and what should I order?"
As it turned out, he was an out-of-towner, living three days a week in Toronto and four in NYC.
He was staying at the Omni, had had a mediocre meal there last night and wanted something funky and good tonight.
He'd tried Bouchon first because it was near the hotel, but they were closed, so he went back to his hotel room for more research.
Next he tried Lemaire because of what he'd read online about the recent renovation, but the piped in muzak and hotel guest crowd turned him off.
More research and he hit on The Belvidere, reading multiple enthusiastic reviews.
But this is Richmond, and a snowstorm was in progress, so it wasn't easy to find transportation to the B @ B, but he finally succeeded, a feat in and of itself.
So while I'd left the house expecting to chat away the evening with my neighbors, I ended up talking for four hours to a Canadian.
Since we 'd both brought books, we started there; he's reading How Fiction Works and by the end of the evening he was sure I'd like it.
He also wanted the scoop on what to see here since he's a history buff; he had a surprisingly extensive knowledge of the slave triangle and he was fascinated to hear about the Slave Trail.
His dad was a cartographer and yet he'd never heard of Matthew Fontaine Maury; I felt obligated to clue him in.
Like me, he had years of media experience, including radio, publishing and video (what are the chances?) and shares a love for the dying newspaper.
He wanted to know about Virginia's wine industry and questioned why there were no Virginia wines on the list (Julie, I'll let you take this one).
He mentioned that if he were at either of his homes, he would not be dealing with snow and laughed at the irony of coming south only to be snowed in (no outgoing flights today or tomorrow morning, at least).
He made fun of seeing Richmonders using umbrellas in the snow; I defended myself by saying at least I didn't jump in the James.
I went to hang out with locals on a snow day and instead stumbled on a stuck Canuck who wanted to eat local and chat local.
The neighbors I'll have another chance to talk to; better to enjoy the visitor conversation while it's stranded here.
After all, someone's got to represent.
I'd heard from a friend earlier today that my closest watering hole, The Belvidere, would be open tonight and the owner was concerned they wouldn't have any business.
Far be it for me to be part of that problem and not the solution, so I set off in the snow.
The place was barely half full when I arrived, but neighbors did come, bike kids came, and a really drunk guy with a bright red nose and shorts on made a brief stopover.
I ordered the house-cured salmon (I think it's the best in RVA) and settled in with my book.
Not long afterwards, a guy with a book came in and took the stool one away from me and I'd have bet my bottom dollar he wasn't a local.
He ordered a glass of wine and started reading the menu.
Meanwhile, several people, staff and customers, spoke to me by name and he must have drawn a conclusion, because he put down his menu and addressed me. "Well, it's obvious you've been here before. What's good and what should I order?"
As it turned out, he was an out-of-towner, living three days a week in Toronto and four in NYC.
He was staying at the Omni, had had a mediocre meal there last night and wanted something funky and good tonight.
He'd tried Bouchon first because it was near the hotel, but they were closed, so he went back to his hotel room for more research.
Next he tried Lemaire because of what he'd read online about the recent renovation, but the piped in muzak and hotel guest crowd turned him off.
More research and he hit on The Belvidere, reading multiple enthusiastic reviews.
But this is Richmond, and a snowstorm was in progress, so it wasn't easy to find transportation to the B @ B, but he finally succeeded, a feat in and of itself.
So while I'd left the house expecting to chat away the evening with my neighbors, I ended up talking for four hours to a Canadian.
Since we 'd both brought books, we started there; he's reading How Fiction Works and by the end of the evening he was sure I'd like it.
He also wanted the scoop on what to see here since he's a history buff; he had a surprisingly extensive knowledge of the slave triangle and he was fascinated to hear about the Slave Trail.
His dad was a cartographer and yet he'd never heard of Matthew Fontaine Maury; I felt obligated to clue him in.
Like me, he had years of media experience, including radio, publishing and video (what are the chances?) and shares a love for the dying newspaper.
He wanted to know about Virginia's wine industry and questioned why there were no Virginia wines on the list (Julie, I'll let you take this one).
He mentioned that if he were at either of his homes, he would not be dealing with snow and laughed at the irony of coming south only to be snowed in (no outgoing flights today or tomorrow morning, at least).
He made fun of seeing Richmonders using umbrellas in the snow; I defended myself by saying at least I didn't jump in the James.
I went to hang out with locals on a snow day and instead stumbled on a stuck Canuck who wanted to eat local and chat local.
The neighbors I'll have another chance to talk to; better to enjoy the visitor conversation while it's stranded here.
After all, someone's got to represent.
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