Palm Paradise

A getaway to the beach in January is like buttered rye toast with your Popeye's omelet. Indulgent in all the best possible ways.

As many times as I've been to the beach for a stretch, Islamorada is a different kind of salt life. Yes, we're right on the ocean and sure, all the windows are open night and day, just like they'd be if we were in Kitty Hawk.

There's even an outdoor shower, albeit not an enclosed shower, mere feet from the ocean. I can work with that and I have.

But plenty lately is a revelation to this long-time beachgoer.

New to me is the heated pool, tended to by a guy who shows up every Thursday to skim leaves and do whatever else pool guys do. The house sits at the end of Seashell Drive, with an under-construction house on one side (sawhorses present, but no actual construction workers) and on the other, a house that's been unobtrusively occupied for a day or two once a week.

And get this: once a week, four guys show up to shovel any seaweed debris off their beach and into the ocean. Make no mistake, the seaweed returns with the next high tide, but our mostly absent neighbors must think it's worth paying to have their beach cleaned even for temporary results.

This is a whole new kind of beach life I've never seen.

So basically, we have no neighbors and the privacy of that is very new and hugely appealing to us. One of the first things I do when I wake up every morning is push aside the screened sliding door from the bedroom to the deck and walk out there for a weather check.

Is it 68 or 72 degrees first thing in the morning? How much is the breeze blowing? Is the ocean gently lapping or mirror-like today? Is anybody out there yet paddle-boarding, parasailing or kayaking?

When we don't go out for breakfast, we eat it on that deck. When we do let someone else cook for us, it's at a place like Mangrove Mike's, where we're seated near an empty table that begins to fill up with a group we dub the Wednesday morning breakfast club.

One or two at a time, they dribble in, this collection of men in marina t-shirts, some with newspapers tucked under their arms. No one orders until all six of them have arrived, then it's a free-for-all of ribbing each other, fish stories and teasing the servers, who tolerate them like the regulars they clearly are.

It's easy to spot the owner of Mangrove Mike's and when he stops by our table to check on how we liked our waffle and omelet, I use the opportunity to get his story. Turns out he grew up in Tidewater, so we discuss the area's overgrowth and he laments how Portsmouth never caught on. After 21 years in the Keys, he's lost all interest in places with winters.

After 13 days and counting here, I can't disagree with him. Since our arrival, my wardrobe has alternated between sundresses and shorts. My jean jacket was only useful on the flight and on a particularly windy day at a bayside bar.

The funny part is, locals think it's cold once the thermometer hits 64 and that's where I keep my thermostat in my apartment during the winter. Here, they don jackets and hats when it hits 65. One server called 65 degrees "sweatshirt and gloves weather."

Don't make me laugh, kids.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my daily sunbath on the deck. I's a little ritual I picked up last week once I realized that with absolutely nothing on the agenda beyond eating, drinking and sleeping - and, yes, Mac, most days I do walk and generally we walk to breakfast and dinner - why not toast my buns before beginning happy hour?

That's a rhetorical question, by the way.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

True story: nothing says special occasion like a good dive.

Knowing we had reason to celebrate, Mr. Wright had suggested the Shrimp Shack after we'd stopped in one night to score a pound of steamed shrimp to eat on the deck. Waiting for them to pack up our crustaceans, we'd snuck a peak into the bar and been immediately seduced.

Wood paneled walls and a low ceiling worthy of a '70s rec room. Bar stools that have seen a lot of big butts. Colorful signs all over the mirror behind the bar. Silverware wrapped in paper napkins.

And, yes, a signed poster of Guy Fieri from that time in 2015 when he stopped by to sample the shrimp fritters and the Senator-style (that's almond-crusted) catch of the day and gone on to feature the Shrimp Shack on "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives."

And while we're no Guy Fieri fans, we knew a good dive when we see one.

Although the Shack had been practically empty the night we'd stopped by, when we got there last night, it was bustling, as evidenced by the smiling hostess who greeted us by saying, "Would you mind a 20-25 minute wait?"

Honey, we've got nothing but time. And if you want to talk about a couple of patient people, let us tell you about the wait we had to meet each other.

Besides, barely twenty minutes later, people began exiting the bar like rats from a sinking ship and she led us in, menus in hand and apology for the wait on her lips, to the prime real estate of two center stools.

Turns out the reason for the mass exodus was that the Tuesday evening happy hour club had just left for the Moose Lodge, where it was Queen of Hearts night. The bartender, who was also a co-owner, explained that the group of four couples comes in every Tuesday and the men sit at one table and the women at another, all gabbing and drinking.

Promptly just before 7:00, the slightly loopy posse pays up and moves on.

And, yes, she knows every one of their drink orders by heart, despite the fact that half the couples are snow birds who are only down here half the year. When she goes on vacation, she notifies the group in advance so they won't be disappointed when they arrive to a new face.

Once they leave, she knows the rest of the night is smooth sailing.

Our sojourn at the bar began when Mr. Wright explained that we needed bubbles. Although they were recently out of splits of the Coppola "Sofia" Brut Rose, my first choice, we had no complaints with her suggestion of the JP Chenet Blanc de Blanc Brut splits - truth is, French bubbles do trump California bubbles - which were nowhere to be found on the menu.

Because of course the Shrimp Shack would have a secret stash of bubbly with subtle notes of lime.

We were noshing hard on smoked fish dip - a staple of our diet down here - although I couldn't help asking for Saltines instead of the Ritz crackers they typically serve theirs with, when we asked our girl to take a picture of us and the reason for the celebration slipped out.

"That's why you needed bubbles!" she grinned, snapping away.

It wasn't the moment to share that we can drink bubbly for no reason at all, but sure, we could let her think that as long as she kept bringing the splits.

Meanwhile, regulars came and went around us, each of them greeted by our knowing bartender with a killer smile and a memory that catalogued each of their preferences.

"Miller Lite, Danny?" she asked the sunburnt guy who sat down next to me wearing a tank top and sunglasses on the back of his head. "The usual cheeseburger or are you in the mood for something else?" she inquired of a blond at the end of the bar. Sometimes, she had the drink poured or beer open before they even sat down.

That's some good service right there.

Mr. Wright took her recommendation on the special of yellowtail snapper, while this beach chick went with a traditional shrimp basket (albeit served on a plate) because what's a true beach meal without cole slaw and hushpuppies?

We were sitting back stuffed and still sipping bubbles when our girl arrived with a slice of Key lime pie and two spoons, her gift to us in honor of our celebration. It's the third time we've had the local dessert since we got here and each version is different than the last. The Shack's was the least creamy and most dense, its graham cracker crust nowhere near as thick as the one we'd had at Islamorada Fish Company a few nights before.

Hell, we even saw a menu with a chocolate ganache-covered Key lime pie, a combination that even this chocoholic has trouble getting her head around.

Our charming bartender had been right about the trajectory of the evening and the longer we lingered, the clearer it became that the tourist trade arrived and left early while the locals rolled up once the amateurs had gone back to their temporary digs.

We may not be locals, but we'd timed our visit perfectly, made an ally of the bartender/owner, documented the occasion and had a ball doing it.

And frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if the next time we hit the Shrimp Shack, a couple of JP Chenet splits are waiting on the bar for us before our butts hit the stools.

Seems that's just how Islamorada dive bars do.

Pumping and Reeling

There's no tour guide like an old friend from college.

After getting up early enough to see the sunrise - I had pledged to do it once - Mr. Wright and I struck out because of heavy cloud cover that obliterated any rise. A thin line of orange was about all we got before a heavy fog rolled in and all but swallowed up the ocean view.

Not to worry because we were going to hit the road anyhow. Destination: Key West.

My friend has been living down here for years now and had offered to show us around and since it had been close to ten years since I'd seen him, combining my first look-see at the southernmost Key with seeing his smiling face was irresistible.

Honestly, I had no idea how much he knew.

Walking toward their gate, he called to us from behind it in a voice I'd know anywhere. That he looks exactly the same (minus a few gray flecks in his hair and mustache) surprised me not at all, although the last time I recall seeing him in shorts, it was the '70s and his shorts were, ahem, far shorter.

Regardless of what he was wearing, it was just wonderful to see him.

After taking us on a tour of the house his wife had designed, we set out on a driving tour. His first question was, "When's the last time you were in a minivan?" knowing full well what an unlikely scenario it was.

From there, the adventure was just beginning. He drove us around Old Town, Casa Marina, New Town, Truman Annex and told us about Bahama Village. His strength was in pointing out houses of people of note as well as houses that had been impressively renovated or restored. He reeled off the sale prices of houses like a realtor, sometimes sharing what the house had gone for to multiple owners.

He always was good with numbers.

With a nod to his own past, he took us to a 5th floor condo in a building he'd lived in during the '70s while stationed in Key West during his stint in the Navy. The coral-colored buildings looked out across the Atlantic Ocean and the roller-bladers, cyclists and pedestrians making their way in the park along the shore.

Eventually, we landed at the new Truman Waterfront Park, where, of all things, we spotted a Florida car with an RVA sticker on it. Now, I ask you, what are the chances?

After parking near a couple of massive cruise chips, we took a stroll before setting out on a rambling journey through Key West. We saw former Navy base buildings, including a picaresque hospital with hurricane shutters, that had been converted to residences. It wasn't hard to see how locals had been priced out of the area with large houses, extensive porches and shaded lots that screamed, "MONEY!"

Once my stomach began grumbling loud enough for tourists to notice, he took us to First Flight Restaurant and Brewery, notable because it's the building where Pan-Am Airways first began selling tickets in 1927. When given the choice, I opted for a table in the red-bricked garden under a canopy of trees but within earshot of a singer/guitarist entertaining the afternoon crowd.

When you've known someone since college, you kind of know what they eat and my friend didn't disappoint, either in his choice or his knowledge of me. When his cheeseburger was dropped off, he immediately rotated his plate so that the steak fries on it were facing me across the table. "Help yourself," he said with a grin, knowing I would.

It's no secret I've been eating fries off this man's plate since I can remember.

My shrimp and bacon flatbread quieted the noises emanating from my belly and fortified me for the non-stop touring that was to come. My friend wanted to know from Mr. Wright how we'd met and offered up a tidbit about me.

Seems he's always thought I was particular when it came to men. Never more so than this time.

Once we'd eaten, the marathon walking tour began with a vengeance. Just don't expect me to remember everything I saw or even half of what he told us, because this was upper level touristing of the highest order.

Passing by the Audubon House and Tropical Gardens, we decided not to go in, although I did admire the lush garden from the sidewalk after he spoke highly of it. Joining the throngs at Key West First Legal Rum Distillery meant that we were in a former Coca Cola bottling plant, but also that we were in a place where you had to be 21 to buy a rum cake.

T-shirts labeled "Bad Bitch" referred to an early female distiller with a penchant for red wine in her rum and shooting men who tried to steal her hootch. Sounds more like a capable  bitch to me.

Climbing the steps to the Custom House Museum, Mr. Wright was smitten with architect William Kerr's Richardsonian Romanesque-style architecture, while my friend pointed out its steeply pitched roof. Seems that the Feds had a standard design for such buildings at the time and while the rooves made sense for northern buildings in places that got snow, they weren't about to change the design for Key West.

That probably accounts for the fireplaces, too, since Key West's lowest recorded temperature is 41, at least according to our knowledgeable guide. Was there anything my friend didn't know?

Inside, we saw exhibits of playwright and local Tennessee Williams' paintings, an historical exhibit called "Overseas to the Keys" about Flagler's railroad (we're becoming experts) and a whimsical exhibit by the late Ferron Bell, who split his time between Key West and Fire Island.

His colorful work used all the usual Key West tropes - tropical birds, palm trees and drinking - as frequent motifs. One of my favorites showed a house where atop the roof line sat a martini glass, a rocks glass and three shot glasses in the night sky under the moon.

An entire island summed up succinctly.

My only regret was that we arrived at the Key West lighthouse and Keepers' Quarters Museum ten minutes too late to climb its winding stairs and admire the view. I do love a good lighthouse climb.

The consolation prize after missing that was going to the Ernest Hemingway House and Museum, a treasure trove of Papa's books, photographs of him throughout his life and a glimpse into his writing studio next door. The rooms in the house, especially the kitchen and bathroom, were light-filled with large windows on three sides - such a  luxury! - but the loo got extra points for the stunningly bold yellow and black floor tiles.

One room was dedicated to his love of fishing, including the method he developed for pulling in heavier fish than had been possible before. Dubbed "pumping and reeling," it replaced constant pressure as the means to land the big one.

At least I think it was a fishing term, given that the man had four wives, a nurse love and who knows how many paramours.

Out back, the enormous pool was said to have cost Hemingway his last dime, but equally of note was that city officials wouldn't allow dynamite to be used to break up the earth, so it had been dug out by hand with picks and shovels.

Rich people have different problems than the rest of us, no?

Afterward, Moondog Café welcomed us on their deck for a final pitstop after absorbing as much local color and knowledge as two people could reasonably be expected to. We toasted the day with Gruet sparkling Rose and Big Dad sangria while nibbling on pesto flatbread and pot stickers and marveling at how much ground we'd covered in eight hours.

The subject of blog mentions came up and my friend admitted how exposed he felt whenever I refer to him in a post. "Tell me about it!" Mr. Wright cracked.

And while you might think we'd call it a day at that point, my friend had one final stop in mind. It was Mallory Square, but our Moondog linger meant arriving too late for the circus that accompanies sunsets in Key West. All was quiet when we got there.

That said, it wasn't too late to see one of two legal panhandling spots on the island and it was still fully populated despite the darkness. The handwritten sign near the men read, "Need weed and a bottle of rum."

There's much to be said for blatant honesty when trying to loosen money from tourist pockets.

Personally, all I loosened was my shoes from my feet as Mr. Wright drove us up the coast in the darkness past road construction, flashing tiki bar lights and an ocean too dark to see.

A long day, sure, but well spent with an old friend, followed by heading back to Islamorada with my new love.

Lucky and happy? Tell me about it.

To Walk, Perchance to Learn

Every now and then, you've got to stop sipping rum and tanning your legs on the deck and learn a little something.

That meant setting out on a 5+ mile walk south, my first attempt at heading toward Key West beyond a half mile stroll to the Midway Café, which didn't count. Once I discovered the Old Road - which was the main road before the Overseas Highway aka Route 1 took over as the main drag - it had become my go-to for walks.

But once I determined to head toward the equator, my plan was to give Route 1, with its wide bicycle/pedestrian walkways, a try. It worked out well because the strip between here and Indian Key Channel was so narrow that I had views of the Bay and ocean almost the entire walk and I thrive on water views.

It was also a good way to scope out oceanfront cottages (quaint places like the Pines and Palms), marinas with diners dating back to the Hemingway days (like Bud 'n Mary's, with a hand-painted sign out front pleading, "NOW Hiring!") and, a personal favorite, a small blue sign reading "Roadside table."

And because this is Florida, the roadside table was blue and purple and under a palm tree.

My walk took me as far as milepost 78.5 where a trio of historical markers rewarded my inner nerd. One was to the Cuban rafters who have died trying to reach these shores, one was to Ponce de Leon because he'd stopped there for well water (and, who, I learned, was governor of Puerto Rico and never actually looked for the fountain of youth, despite myths to the contrary) and one to the Spanish treasure fleet that got lost in a hurricane.

I may have been hot and sweaty by that point, but the history lesson made it all worthwhile.

More schooling followed late yesterday afternoon when Mr. Wright and I took a walk over to the Islander Resort which, for reasons I can't explain, is where the pastel blue Florida Keys History and Discovery Center is located.

Bypassing tanks of beautiful but voracious and predatory fish, I went straight for the exhibits detailing local history. I don't need no stinkin' science on vacation, just extra portions of history.

Like how Key largo only became the name after the Bogart movie. Before that, it was known as Rock Harbor, which doesn't sound nearly romantic enough to attract Bogie or Bacall.

Because the Over-Sea Railway is such a huge part of the history down here, I spent time ogling photos and artifacts from the days when the train was the only means beyond boating to access Key West.

Given my food fixation, perhaps most fascinating of all was a dining car menu from 1926-1930 that featured six kinds of marmalades. The breakfast menu was as notable for the prices as for the offerings. Sliced bananas in cream? Never heard of such a thing, but at 25 cents, worth a try.

An omelet with Florida grape fruit (apparently, it was always two words back in those days) marmalade would set you back 75 cents, while a Virginia corn muffin was only 15 cents.

You know what was a steal when you needed a hearty breakfast? Lamb chops at 55 cents a piece.

Eventually, we tore ourselves away from photos and stories to head upstairs to the theater to see moving pictures of the history we'd been seeing in stills.

A Chevrolet Leader newsreel showed the new train tracks to Key West, pointing out that automobiles could drive the route in between train trips, the tires absorbing the bumpy railroad ties. Considering the size of the cars in the '30s, it probably wasn't all that uncomfortable.

But the truly compelling film was the one about the 1935 Labor Day Hurricane, which to this day is still the most intense storm to ever hit the U.S. with winds that reached 185 mph. Down here, it's legendary and we'd already been to the hurricane monument where the remains of over 300 are entombed, but I wanted to know more.

The film provided first hand accounts of the hurricane from seniors who'd been children when the storm hit. One, who admitted she'd always loved hurricanes before the Labor Day storm, felt differently after this one.

Hemingway - who loved Islamorada for its sport fishing - was quoted in the film as saying about this stretch of islands, "There is no autumn, just a more dangerous summer." He also came down after the storm to assist in any way he could. Many of the workers who'd been helping build the railway were, like him, World War I vets who'd been celebrating the Labor Day long weekend by getting drunk when the storm hit.

Many chose to cling to the railway bridges because they were 8" above sea level, although the storm surge was 17', leaving them 9' underwater. Footage of their dead, bloated bodies along the shore made for a solemn reminder that men who'd made it through "the war to end all wars" had been taken down by Mother Nature. Tragic.

The survivors spoke about how in those days, there was little to warn people of major storm beyond a falling barometer, which they lived by. All had memories of their clothing being stripped from their bodies by the ferocity of the storm.

Almost to a person, the survivors recalled what their fathers had said about the storm that day and afterward. Probably the most poignant was the man who, as a child, had asked his Dad what they were going to do after the devastation of the islands.

His father told him that their piece of land in the Keys was all they had, so even if all their possessions were gone, they were going to stay and rebuild because this was home. And, as of the time the film was made, they were all still here.

Walking out of the theater severely sobered by what we'd seen, it took a while to regain our emotional footing. This sunny place that we've been reveling in since last weekend is a testament to the strength of spirit of people who loved it long before we got here.

But never mind that. Now that I've fed my brain, we can go back to our debaucherous vacation lifestyle.

Can I get a Rumrunner over here?

Bait and Sip

Good thing we're staying right on the Atlantic because finding places to eat on the ocean isn't as easy as it sounds.

You can't swing a dead cat on the bay side without hitting a place offering fabulous views and island cuisine, but, man, if you want a water view that ends at Africa, you have to work at finding it.

Which we did, naturally.

Wahoo's Bar and Grill was situated over Whale Harbor Marina, a place where fishing boats pull in loaded with the day's catch and locals peel shrimp and drink beer at the long bar. Passing up the bar's scenic view because of smokers, we instead took advantage of a waterside table on the (bird poop-stained) covered deck, mere feet from where the big boats docked.

It was a fascinating perch because the ocean in front of the house is so shallow at low tide that you can walk out twice the distance of the nearby dock and the water is only up to your knees, but the harbor allows these big boats to pull in with no problem. Same ocean, wildly different depths.

But you know what? On vacation, I don't need to understand marine science, I just need a cold drink and a long view.

To that end, we perused the drink menu, eventually letting geography make the call. With Nassau a mere 159 miles away, it was a no-brainer to settle on a couple Bahama Mamas, especially now that we've adopted coconut rum as our official local drink. What Mastika was to us in Athens, coconut rum is to us here: readily available and eminently drinkable.

At least, that's how we rationalize that large bottle of Rhumhaven rum in the freezer, scored after a recommendation by the gent at nearby Green Turtle Spirits because it's made with real coconut water and pure cane sugar.

Let's just say it comes as close to tasting like how this place feels as anything we've had in a glass.

It was while we were sipping our drinks that a fishing boat pulled in and three or four guys bolted from their tables to hang over the railing to assess the day's catch. "Half a dozen good-sized ones," one of them told us. "Not much of a catch." When I asked for his best guess as to why they hadn't caught more, he posited that the water was too cold.

I don't doubt his wisdom, but sitting oceanside in an orange sundress, the late afternoon sun shining down on our backs, it wouldn't have been my first guess.

Trying to decide what to start with before dinner, we resorted to our Islamorada default: smoked fish dip. This time, it was wahoo (duh), smoked in-house and served with tortilla chips, cherry tomato halves, red onion, cuke slices and jalapenos.

Truth: no matter what fish gets smoked and made into dip, we're willing to eat it.

I gave Wahoo's points for marina humor with a menu item called "bucket of bait" because technically, that's exactly what it was: snow crab, green mussels, clams and shrimp. Clever, but still bait.

Instead, I went straight for the wahoo club, a behemoth sandwich because the piece of wahoo was as thick as the Texas toast it sat between - luckily, the Key lime/avocado aioli added no height - and there was no way to open my mouth far enough to accommodate its 5-inch height.

You hate to be that person eating a club sandwich with a fork and knife, but sometimes you have no choice.

On the other hand, we had no problem being those people with an ocean view ordering more Bahama Mamas, to the point that dessert became an impossibility, which for me is saying something.

Don't get me wrong, the bay side is great and all, especially with the right company. But happiness comes in waves.

With a Twist

I could get used to eating on a sandy beach.

A short walk in the dark landed us at Morada Bay Beach Café and Bar, a sprawling enclave illuminated on the street side by flaming tiki torches (not the white supremacist kind) and on the restaurant side by more torches and white lights strung high up in palm trees. A row of colorful surfboards were stuck in the sand and a sliver of a moon hung overhead.

Tables were scattered around the sand and the music had a decided bossa nova beat, so you know I was happy. Some of us believe that you can never go wrong with songs dressed up with that beat, especially at night.

We scored a table on the farthest edge of table-land, away from the fray but with a view of the bay at night. Only problem was we were so tucked away it took a while for our server to find us.

But once he did, food and wine arrived lightening fast, as if to make up for the delay in taking our order. A bottle of Maison Legrand Sauvignon Blanc (as Pru is fond of saying, you can never go wrong with the Loire) had barely been opened when conch chowder, crispy fried Brussels sprouts, conch salad and tuna tataki showed up. Boom, instant dinner.

As someone who spends her life hungry, I wasn't complaining.

Our server, a Michigan boy who follows the tourist trade, had hair down to the middle of his back and a laid-back demeanor, but his service skills - thumbs ups aside - were top notch from years spent moving between the Keys and other sunny destinations serving vacationers like us a slice of Key lime pie with an easy attitude.

Because we'd purposely arrived post-sunset to avoid the exuberant crowd, the evening, with its dark, romantic vibe set to lounge music, felt miles away from Lorelei's Cabana Bar even though we were within spitting distance of it.

Just two sides of the island eating coin and I like to think that we're exceling at both.

It took a little getting used to, but after five days, I no longer do double takes every time I see a Key lime green house with a magenta gate or a place like St. James the Fisherman Episcopal Church on the side of the road.

Pshaw, old news by now. That's just our current 'hood these days.

That said, coming back from lunch at Chad's in Tavenier - another solid recommendation from Mr. Wright's Vero Beach buddy - along what's known as the Old Road, we were stopped in our tracks by the sight of a 30' palm tree being moved by a front-end loader, which looked like a toy in comparison to the height of the tree.

Watching the operator try to angle the towering tree to get it in a small, curved driveway with a gatehouse in the center was can't-look-away worthy. Moving palm trees, another Keys novelty.

Just this morning, we ate breakfast at the Midway Café, a brightly colored roadside spot with a patio and multiple cozy rooms, but why would we eat inside in January if we didn't have to? Turns out the name comes from the fact that it's situated at the mid-point between Miami and Key West, but, more importantly, it's conveniently only a half mile saunter from us.

Bob's Bunz was only a few steps further, albeit north, and while the Western omelet, Belgian waffle and fresh-from-the-oven biscuit we had at the bakery café on Tuesday were perfectly delicious breakfast fare, at Bob's you spend as much time reading the walls and t-shirts, all of which play on the buns motif, as chowing down.

That I walked out of there with a black "Bite my bunz" t-shirt can be construed anyway you like. Ditto the lemon yellow Keys ashtray we scored from the Coral Isles Church (and, yes, of course it's coral colored) thrift store, a vintage find complete with images of all the Keys, bright green turtles and assorted colorful fish.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, but we used it as an olive tray during yesterday's happy hour on the deck, during which we watched a great blue heron make its way ever so slowly from the ocean in front of the house three doors north to the ocean four houses south. It took hours for his shadow to stretch longer and longer but with a libation in front of us, we had hours.

With the days stacking up and no agenda beyond the obvious, it's easy to forget there's a government shutdown or snow headed toward Virginia.

In fact, the only jarring note so far was as we strolled the boardwalk around a toney marina where huge fishing charter boats are moored. Many of the boats had brazen pelicans sitting atop them, daring anyone to shoo them away and pooping at will on the boats and boardwalk.

Atop the biggest boat, though, was a red flag snapping in the brisk late afternoon westerly breezes that read, "Trump 2020, Keep America Great." Beyond wondering if the owner wasn't out of his mind didn't lose a lot of business because of it, we didn't let it affect our stroll or mindset.

As long as I'm on vacation with Mr. Wright, eating on the sand, dancing to music on the deck and basking in the sunshine, reality can bite my buns.

Or bunz, take your pick.

Come Tuesday

Day four of vacation and endless lazing aside, two valuable lessons learned already.

Seashell collecting in Islamorada is not like seashell collecting on the Outer Banks, a lesson learned the hard way. After yesterday's lunch on the downstairs patio, mere feet from the ocean, we decided to check out the ocean temperature.

It was warm, which wasn't surprising given how low the water is along this stretch, which is referred to as "ocean flats," which seems to be code for "ridiculously shallow water that laps at the shore with no whitecaps." The beauty of that depth is the variety of colors that result from the slightest change in depth, so at any given moment, there can be bands of four different shades of green and just as many variations of blue.

As we're wading through the crystal clear water, we make our way around seaweed, sea sponges and the like when I spot a 3-inch whelk shell and scoop it up, then another and a couple more. All are striking in their markings so they're scooped up, brought back to the house and put in a bowl.

Mid-afternoon, we hear clinking in the bowl and by evening, we realize the biggest one still has an animal in it. He's returned to the sea with best wishes, but the others remain bowl-bound because there's no sign of animals in them.

Except that when we wake up today, only two of the three remain. Oops. We start looking for the escapee, but it's a big house, two levels with an open center staircase and he's a little guy with a shell the color of the floor. So not easy to spot.

Finally, Mr. Wright spots him lurking near the refrigerator.

Before breakfast, we're wishing bon voyage to all three, tossing them back to the mother land ocean and wishing them godspeed.

Okay, so no more shell collecting.

Then there's the music challenge. Sure, we could resort to music off of Mr. Wright's iPad, but where's the fun in that when Leila's house comes equipped with such 20th century accouterments as a CD player and a cache of CDS?

No, we're going to see what the house has to offer in terms of music, besides classical, which it seems to have plenty of.

After requisite Buffet (no doubt a mainstay in every Keys home), we hit pay dirt with a 2007 Paul McCartney album I've never even heard of: "Kisses on the Bottom." Like one of my favorite Paul Weller albums ("Studio 150"), it's Sir Paul doing classic songs from his youth, with arrangements using upright bass, vibes, children's choirs and even the London Symphony Orchestra. Diana Krall plays piano on most songs, if that tells you anything.

Then there are the songs, such as "It's Only a Paper Moon" and "Get Yourself Another Fool," Granted, anything would sound wonderful when listened to in big, cushioned chairs on the deck overlooking the ocean, but he also did a masterful job with the material.

Ditto Miles Davis' "Cookin' at the Plugged Nickel," which felt like we were in some smoky basement dive listening to Miles blow. Yves Montand's two disc "Montand" - the cover photo shows only his head, a match inexplicably clenched between his teeth - put us in a smoky Parisian club after hours.

Both, we have decided, are music for evenings, not sunny afternoon tunes.

The John Scofield Quartet gave us "Meant to Be," while Little Feat's "Waiting for Columbus" took me back to 1978 and Yes' "Fragile" to 1972. I picked "Sommer Smash Hots '92" expecting grunge or alternative and instead we heard a succession of bass-heavy club mixes of songs like K.C. and the Sunshine Band's "Please Don't Go" and Bread's "Make It With You."

And while I'm no fan of the milquetoast Bread, hearing that song with a thumping bass certainly improved it considerably.

After seeing a VW van with a Led Zeppelin bumper sticker on my walk earlier, it was only appropriate to get home and have Mr. Wright put on Robert Plant's "Now and Zen." And, frankly, Hendrix's "Axis: Bold as Love" was meant to be played loudly to ocean breezes.

And if it's not, too bad because we've learned that we're choosing the soundtrack to this vacation, with a little help from an Islamorada music lover and endless blue skies.

Bold as love, indeed.

A Time to Every Purpose

You could say we came 1,016 miles to hear a Rickenbacker guitar, but that might be overstating things just a bit.

As it happens, we did hear the distinctive sounds of a Rickenbacker last night, not because we set out to, but because we went to Lorelei's Restaurant and Cabana Bar, ostensibly to drink and watch the sun set over Florida Bay.

It seems to be a Keys rite of passage to settle in at a tiki bar to ogle the setting sun - to a person, everyone we've asked for eating recommendations has instructed us to catch a sunset, especially since we're staying on the ocean side - but Lorelei's had the added advantage of having tables directly on the sand.

That's immersion and we're all about the immersion.

Add in that the sunset doesn't happen until almost 6:00, nearly an hour later than in the Capital of the Confederacy, plus it was an easy walk and I was more than happy to give over three plus hours to lounging with tourists and locals.

The latter were especially easy to spot because, like the couple at the table next to us,  they asked their server questions like, "Do you still have smoked fish dip today?' a surefire clue that the dip must be good to run out of it regularly.

Not so sound smug, but fortunately for us, we'd already ordered ours. That it arrived with Captain's Wafers rather than basic Saltines would be my only critique, but then I'm partial to the old school ways.

Another way to spot locals was when one or the other of the two guys who made up Webb and Davidson, the duo performing at Lorelei's last night, spotted a local in the crowd and called out, "Hey, Pam and Saul! Nice to see that the snowbirds are coming back!"

Mr. Wright identified the duo's sound as pure Florida Keys and we found out how right he was when one said he'd been performing at Lorelei's for 29 years and for the other  guy, it had been 20 years.

Later, pointing to the pink glow on the water just after the sunset, he gestured and announced, "This is why we live here, folks. It never gets boring!"

Tiki bar pontoon boats floated by, music blaring, as we sat there sipping rum punches and taking it all in. On a trip to the loo, I spotted a pink Cadillac which had been converted to a sea-going vessel (and, naturally, was available for rental)  floating at the dock. Hanging from palm trees along the way were bird sculptures made of palm leaves, almost invisible in the greenery unless you were paying attention.

Webb and Davidson, with their years of playing experience, were just the right accompaniment to the late afternoon vibe. From the Beatles and the Marshall Tucker Band to songs like "Wooden Ships," they made their allegiance to the '60s and '70s clear with guitars and the occasional fiddle.

"This next song is the reason I bought this $2,000 Rickenbacker guitar," one of the guys said. "When I first heard that guitar, it sounded like god to me. It's the guitar Roger McGuinn of the Byrds and Tom Petty played."

Even a non-musician like me knew what he meant as they launched into "Turn, Turn, Turn." One of the first albums I ever asked my parents for at Christmas was "The Byrds Greatest Hits" and it was because when I heard that guitar, it sounded like, well, not god because I'm a  heathen, but certainly it resonated on an emotional level I responded to.

And hearing a Rickenbacker live? Yes, please.

After the mass selfie and photo-taking explosion that happened with the sunset was over, many people around us headed for the doors. Not us. Sensing the potential for a fish fiesta, we stayed on to sup and sip more rum drinks, as befits the best kind of post-sunset tiki evening.

While you can bring your catch to Lorelei's for cooking, we'd been too busy exploring the island to fish (ha! as if), so we went with menu offerings instead. The piece of fish on my grilled mahi mahi sandwich was almost twice the size of the bun, while Mr. Wright's mahi tacos were obscenely fat because of all the local fish stuffed in them. It's looking like we're both good candidates for island cuisine.

Not to mention that hearing that gorgeous Rickenbacker tone on a beach with my main squeeze while watching the sun slide behind mangroves made it plain why the locals had insisted we do the requisite sunset visit.

 And if that's the rum punches talking, we'll take another round.

Conch Fritter Life

Let the R & R begin.

The good news is, when you wake up on a Saturday morning at the Miami airport hotel, you can be at the "Welcome to the Keys" sign by 11 a.m., even if you take a less traveled route than the obvious Route 1.

Our arrival time meant we slid into Alabama Jack's before the lunch crowds, scoring a waterside high table with no effort. One of Mr. Wright's Vero Beach buddies had suggested the vintage dive bar as essential road eating, mainly for the conch fritters.

No one needed to tell us twice to stop at a place with a cut-out metal sign reading, "Harley parking only" and with two milkcrates inexplicably sitting on the roof.

Although we also ordered perfectly delicious spiced shrimp, Hugh had been right and it was the fritters that needed to be experienced. Instead of a basket of neat little balls of fried bread and conch, what arrived was an enormous fritter that overflowed the sides of the basket and had the shape of a tentacled blob. I mean that in the best way.

Two plastic knives were impaled in the fritter, the better to carve out bites of the monster while gleaning the history of the joint from our friendly server. Seems Alabama Jack's started life as a fishing camp across the water from a mangrove forest. It wasn't hard to imagine salty fishermen traveling dirt roads to get there.

Open to the elements on all sides, the railings were covered in Sharpie-scribbled declarations of love, the ancient fans mounted on the weathered walls were covered in rust and when food fell off a plate to the floor, the staff just kicked it into the water. Old license plates hung everywhere, from a  Florida plate reading "NO TAX" to a Maryland plate that had expired 3-31-70.

Every time the bartender got a tip, he rang a rusty old bell. That kind of place.

The first time I saw how food removal happened, it was a chicken bone the server jettisoned into the water. Immediately, a school of what I learned was needle fish - long, skinny, almost translucent green needle-nosed creatures - descended on it voraciously.

When I commented to our server about the feeding frenzy, she told us to wait until the mango snappers showed up, which was anytime a piece of conch fritter hit the water. Naturally, I immediately pulled off a piece of ours and tossed it overboard, only to see 30 or so fish shoot out from the wooden slats under our table and fight over it.

And by fight, I mean, out of the water, tails slapping each other and the water, and fish bumping into each other. Kind of like what I imagined eating at an orphanage was like in Dickensian times.

Shrimp shells had a similar, if not quite as frenetic, effect on the needle fish, but the mango snappers clearly wanted their lunch fried. Some rube tossed out lettuce and onion and the fish and I looked at him incredulously. These fish wanted the good stuff off our plates.

Surely this goes against every law of nature, right? What ecosystem supports cannibalism anyway?

But it wasn't all ugly competition. Boats passed by slowly, many of the occupants waving hello because the distance from us to them was so close. Meanwhile, across the water we saw a great blue heron standing calmly by the mangroves, his back to us.

Or maybe he was just disgusted with his fellow water dwellers.

By the time we left, new arrivals were having to sit far from the water and were happy to get that. We may have been ungodly early at Alabama Jack's, but our timing was impeccable.

Our next stop was as unlikely as it was charming. Tucked behind a Holiday Inn and hard to locate, we stopped to see the original African Queen. That's right, the boat used in the Hepburn/Bogart movie, which now docks behind a glass bottom boat in Key Largo.

Since it hasn't been all that long since I saw "The African Queen" at the Byrd, it was instantly recognizable.

Even more surprising was how small it looked. There was the boiler (recently replaced) in the center and the canopy that kept the rain off Hepburn as she slept. On the back was a wooden crate of gin like the one Bogart emptied in the movie. The smell of old water-saturated wood rose from the old girl.

A guy standing on the dock told us that the 1912 boat had been bought in 1982 and moved to Florida. Both an American and British flag were mounted on it and you could actually go out on a dinner cruise on it despite its petite size.

And while that would have been lovely, we had other places to be, namely Islamorada.

The digs for our winter getaway is called Leila's house and sits on the most placid Atlantic I've ever seen. When it's low tide, there's a little beach and when it's high tide, there's an ocean that ends near the downstairs patio and pool. From the main deck, about all we see is water that ranges from turquoise to bottle green to pale blue and palm trees constantly rustling in the breeze.

Best of all, it was 82 when we arrived, although the woman at the Visitors' Center warned us of an impending cold front, so it would be dropping to 75. Don't make us laugh.

Suddenly the past few weeks of non-stop deadlines are forgotten. Hello, warm days and nights. How I've missed you.

If It Hadn't Been for Books

"Running for home" stitches, that's what I've been doing. But that's about to change.

Whenever my Mom saw really long stitches on a hem, she'd tsk-tsk and say that her mother always called those "running for home" stitches because it was clear that the seamstress was just trying to finish.

I've been trying to finish up countless things since before the holidays blazed through, giving up nights out to write and squeezing in interviews any day or time. Finally this afternoon, my hired mouth and I (with the able and willing assistance of Lady G) made our final visit to the restaurant for a review lunch so I could finish writing it up.

It's hard for me to believe but I have only to push "send" and my work to-do list is history. For the time being anyway.

Now comes the fun part: deciding what books and clothes need to be packed for the adventure ahead. I've been making lists and piles intermittently for a week now, but without much of an inclination to edit myself. That's all well and good during the pre-packing phase, but once you're down to the final countdown, decisions have to be made.

I was pretty much committed to the books I'd selected from my pile, all ferreted out at the main library's big book sale a couple months ago. In making my  selections for the trip, I'd tried to keep it to a reasonable number.

I mean, if I have a reason to read it, it should come, right?

After having reread Marilyn French's iconic feminist treatise "The Women's Room" a couple years ago, I'm eager to dive into her 1996 novel, "My Summer with George." Knowing how different I was in 1996 from my 1977 self, I expect we'll have some life discoveries in common.

What sucked me into choosing "Kafka was the Rage: A Greenwich Village Memoir" by Anatole Broyard was the back cover blurb saying it was about life in the late 1940s, a time when "if it hadn't been for books, we would have been completely at the mercy of sex." Lack of birth control aside, you can't tell me that's not a vacation read.

But I'm not completely shallow, so when I need obscure cultural history (as I am inclined to when I have days to read), I'll pick up "A Great Idea at the Time: The Rise, Fall and Curious Afterlife of the Great Books" and learn something. Surely no one's really surprised I'm a fan of publishing sagas.

Once I knock off a novel, a memoir and a history, I just might allow myself to simply wallow in more self-penned tomes, like "The Tender Bar: A Memoir," not because it was a New York Times bestseller but because it piqued my interest when it came out 13 years ago. Then, just in case, I'm bringing along Sting's "Broken Music" from 2003, because, let's be honest, Sting was the thinking woman's crumpet long before Benedict Cumberbatch was a gleam in his Daddy's eye.

Adding to the book's charm is that it's inscribed to Michael from Shirley & Don: "No matter how far away you are, our best thoughts and wishes are for you. Merry Christmas."

I know, I know, it's a lot of books. But how to decide how much is plenty without being unrealistic and toting heavy non-necessities in my suitcase? Mind you, the half-read, worn book with the full Playboy interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono from 1980 is already in my laptop bag, but that could be polished off on the plane, like a bag of those tiny pretzels they give you.

On top of all that, only this afternoon Lady G had handed me Hilary Mantel's "Wolf Hall" a novelization of the Henry VIII/Thomas Cromwell tug-of-war, but also winner of the 2009 Man Booker Prize. Dare I bring anything else to read?

Choosing clothes requires less agonizing because I take the stance that it's better to bring too much than want for something I left at home. Dresses, shorts and t-shirts get rolled up and squirreled away into any available space. My hat, some wraps, cute shoes and walking shoes. It's tedious, but progress is obvious as piles disappear and the suitcase sits nearly full.

As for why I'm packing in the first place, well, that goes back to an innocuous conversation at a NOLA-themed evening at Metzger's bar last July. Don't talk to me about wanting to get away to some place warm when it's cold in Richmond if you don't want to get my complete and utter support of the idea.

And, no, that wasn't the absinthe frappe talking. Fact is, I have enthusiasm to spare when it comes to brilliant travel ideas. So, lucky me, I'm off.

But never fear, Richmond, because no matter how far away you are, my best thoughts and wishes are for you.

P.S. I'll be sure to send a postcard.

Dodging the Angora Bullet

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. ~ Emerson

Will do, Ralph, but some some evenings even exceed "best." That I spent said evening in a $6 thrift store dress I bought last May with no event in mind only served to make me feel both virtuous and celebratory.

Surely the best New Year's Eve blowouts begin in late afternoon because it's one holiday that is a marathon, not a sprint. Ours kicked off on Clay Street with Mr. Wright supplying a bottle of Clos Lentiscus Blanc de Noirs Brut Nature - chosen as a nod to 2019 agenda items - to set an appropriately festive mood.

That the bubbles were from a groovy, bio-dynamically-farmed single vineyard planted just south of Barcelona in the 1930s only added to the wine's romance, while the second fermentation being helped along courtesy of rosemary honey from the estate's beehives - picaresque much? - made for heady, pastoral sipping.

To you, Espana.

Three-hours were disappeared in the name of traditional NYE rituals involving Shakespeare, a unicorn and the best kind of crunch before our Uber driver appeared and whisked us to Aloi.

There we lounged in near darkness until Pru and Beau showed up. Both were a tad under the weather, but had nonetheless donned festive attire - Beau's textured, burgundy blazer, a Christmas gift from Pru, and pink shirt were swingin' '70s cool (a fact I know because I made my college boyfriend a blazer exactly that color), while Pru's teal velvet leggings and shoulder-dusting earrings conveyed the usual subtle sophistication - and gathered their forces for the big night.

Seated at a central table, everyone agreed that the recessed lighting above the table was too direct, too bright while the table beside ours sat in near darkness. That aside, consensus was how un-Richmond the vibe felt with the added oomph of NYE. The time Mr. Wright and I had been there, our perch was two stools on the far end of the bar, so a much different experience.

The menu for the evening involved an amuse bouche, a bubbly intermezzo and four choices. so I got to taste everything. Best in class goes to a couple of goodies I cadged off Mr. Wright's plate: wild mushrooms lightly fried up over peppedew romesco with a killer topping of sauteed sweet onions and endive escabeche (the contrasting textures! the balanced flavors!) and then Morrocan-spiced lamb over toasted fergola (golden raisin gastrique, mmm).

Every bit as welcome as the tasty chow was how well served we were, never rushed, Montand Blanc de Blancs flutes and water glasses never fully empty, as our hospitable server aided our cause unobtrusively with grace and stealth. I call that good service, especially on a busy night.

When the subject of hoe cakes came up - as it inevitably does at smart dinner parties - Beau shared that his only experience with them involved Bisquick and water griddled until near-charred blackness was achieved. He was quickly brought up to speed: "That's hardtack."

"That's why you like war," Pru deadpanned.

Although we'd allowed two and a half hours for dinner, before I knew it I was polishing off my dark chocolate mousse bar and accepting bites of sticky date cake with grilled pineapple (a swanky take on pineapple upside down cake without the vertigo) so we could walk around the block to Richmond Triangle Players.

Our objective was a 10:30 cabaret called "Scott Wichmann: A Very Good Year," a plan hatched by Mr. Wright and Beau, albeit independently of each other.

With a three-piece combo backing him, Scott dazzled the sold-out crowd with gems like "Strangers in the Night," the "Love Boat Theme" and, perhaps most charmingly of all, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" a 1947 song that takes me back to my parents' Christmas records. Invoking a 21st century Rat Pack feel, complete with e-cigarette, Scott demonstrated how effortlessly he can fill a theater twice in one night.

So. Much. Talent.

Even more adorable were the parts of the show that included his talented wife Eva DeVirgilis because of how unabashed they are in their over-the-moon happiness at having found each other.

Talk about people mooning over each other.

It was only after the show ended and we were heading out of the theater that Pru's first rule of picture-taking was blatantly ignored. (see Chapter 5, section 7, sub-article 3.92)

1. Pictures are always taken at the beginning of the evening, never at the end. No one looks fresher or more attractive after eight hours of revelry than they did just after getting doodied up. [paraphrased]

The woman's not wrong.

Even so, pictures of loopy people surfaced today, proof that having fun makes up for a lot of late night sins in terms of photographic documentation. I was only sorry I had on my coat, thus despriving my $6 dress of its shot at immortality.

So that was yesterday's best day of the year.

Today's best day of the year got a late start when Mac returned from her NYE revelry in Charlottesville so we could do our First Day Walk mid-afternoon. Since it's been months since we could get on the pipeline from the western end, we resolved for New Year's Day to climb down on the eastern end and walk it to the flooded part and back.

Upside of this decision? It had been far too long since we'd made our favorite local walk. Downside: Fair weather/newly resolved weekend warriors, meaning the pipeline was lousy with first-timers and families, one of whom carried a scooter, a decision that can only be called imbecilic on a narrow walkway over a raging river.

And raging it was, so much so that Mac and I, regular pipeline walkers that we've been for years, felt strongly that James River Parks should have had the chained off sign at the end of the walkway to prevent people unused to walking it from attempting to given how high and fast the water was.

"Especially the kind of people we saw on here today," Mac, the most tolerant person on the planet, pointed out.

But they didn't, so we took advantage and walked to the edge of where the river was covering the pipeline and promptly made a U-turn. The way back was our usual direction, which afforded us a comparison of what we would normally see in terms of the river's flow and ferocity and what we were seeing today.

Two of the usual crazy kayak types were bobbing up and down on Class IV rapids that probably qualify for Class V right now. A couple was scavenging for old railroad spikes, amassing their rusty collection on the walkway itself.

I feel sure we got some kind of science lesson as we walked, shivering to the cold dampness of the air between the supports of the railroad track above us and then feeling the temperature rise when we had river on both sides of us. Every now and then, we'd walk through an especially warm pocket of air and had no idea where it came from. When the river hit the pipeline just right, we got splashed by water that felt very January-like on my bare legs.

On the north bank where it's rocky, I spotted a Great Blue Heron, wet and hunkered down, putting off an I'm-not-happy vibe about having to still deal with whitewater when all you want is dinner. But even miserable, the heron was striking, the white feathers around its eyes in marked contrast to the blue feather tips huddled around its chest.

Pipeline fix aside, any day that has me opening all my windows before breakfast definitely qualifies as best day of the year.

2019, maybe it's much too early in the game, but if you're half as dazzling as last year, please send more of same.

In the pantheon of very good years, 2018 took my breath away.

Portrait a Deux with U.S. Capital

Let's call it an Art Tasting Menu that lasted a weekend.

Amuse bouche
"One Year: 1968, an American Odyssey" at the National Portrait Gallery
This delightful starter, a small, one-room exhibition, whetted our appetite for what was ahead by featuring a psychedelic anti-war poster, a photo of RFK sharing a crust of bread with Cesar Chavez after his hunger strike ended, plus Hendrix, the Dead and Joan Didion in bell-bottoms leaning nonchalantly against a Corvette. So much happened that year.
Bonus: Learning that Mr. Wright once had a crush on Peggy Fleming.

Soup course
Despite lines at both, the portraits of Barrack and Michelle Obama were must-sees. The magnificence of Michelle's skin tones in Amy Sherald's portrait were as striking as the meaning-laden fanciful flower background of Kehinde Wiley's image of her husband.

Downside: Most people seemed to be there for the selfie, with little time spent looking at the portraits.

First course
"Eye to I: Self Portraits from 1900 to Today" at the National Portrait Gallery
With 75 pieces, this was a meaty look at how American artists chose to portray themselves. Forget selfies, these were drawings, photographs and even a life-size bronze tomb sculpture of artists such as Elaine de Kooning, Edward Hopper and Diego Rivera. I have no doubt that a young Andy Warhol adored the way he looked in his staged photograph.

Bonus: A chance to see how someone sees him or herself may be the most revealing glimpse possible into their state of mind.

Second course
"Flickering Treasures: Rediscovering Baltimore's Forgotten Movie Theaters" at the National Building Museum
As much time as I spend at the Byrd Theater, how could I not be seduced by an exhibit about a city that, in its heyday, had 240 movie palaces? Vintage photographs of theaters such as the Apollo, the State and the Schanze - the latter a white theater in a black neighborhood, known for hosting Yiddish performers - accompanied photographer Amy Davis' images of the boarded up, renovated and demolished buildings today. As much an architectural exhibit as an oral history project, it also documented social segregation.

Bonus: Mr. Wright giving me the building's origins as the U.S. Pension Building, right down to the worn, sloped stairs built to be hosed down easily from any blood spilled by pensioners there on business.

Third course
"Gordon Parks: The New Tide, Early Work 1940-50" at the National Gallery of Art
Although Lady G and I had sort of seen the Parks exhibit at the end of November, we'd been so enthralled with "Corot: Women" that we hadn't allowed enough time to fully take in the 150 pieces in this exhibit. For the second time, I left the National Gallery marveling at how adept Parks was right out of the gate. The man had no learning curve when it came to photography. Talk about born ready.

Bonus: After a stop for bagels, we arrived 10 minutes before the museum opened at 11 to find a line forming. But once inside, the lack of crowds was startling. Had people been scared away by the government shutdown? Dunno, but it sure made for spacious gallery walking.

Dessert
"Japan Modern: Prints in the Age of Photography" at the Freer Sackler Galleries
After a stroll through the Enid Haupt Garden, we made our way downstairs to see the strikingly beautiful series of colored woodblock prints that looked nothing like woodblock prints. Most used ink and watercolor to transform the often heavy lines of a woodblock into something soft and colorful depicting the changing face - or remembered past - of late 19th to mid-20th century Japan. Like the shift from savory to sweet, the series of images was a welcome finale to a feast of art.

Bonus: The prints from the 1960s showed the influence of the cultural revolution taking place in the Western world, more abstract and definitely less traditional.

With so much art to dine on, meals had to be fitted in around gallery time, but we managed a four hour session at Cuba Libre's bar - killer black bean soup, crab guacamole with plantain chips, jardin salad and crab fritters - when we arrived in late afternoon, sipped through multiple glasses of a Portuguese white blend and left long after dark.

Even better was an extended late brunch at Jaleo where the hostess, unbidden, led us to the back-most table and shared that it was the best seat in the house. Next to a window with a view of bustling F Street and away from the masses, we'd landed in our own little private corner where our server confirmed that the crowds had dropped off precipitously in the past few days.

Every time I go to Jaleo, I discover a new favorite and today's was the flauta de tortilla de patatas, a long, crusty roll spread with chopped fresh tomato and a Spanish omelet with potatoes and onion as its centerpiece. Yum.

How did I not know that omelets belonged on sandwiches before now?

Anyone who thinks they don't like spinach needs to try Jaleo's version done with raisins, apples and pine nuts and get back to me on that. Dragon breath ensued after downing spicy garlic shrimp while ensuring that no one else was getting anywhere near us, but as long as you have two garlic breaths, the rest don't matter.

Of note this weekend was that there had been no dessert, but that was corrected this afternoon with chocolate custard rolled in chocolate cookie crumbs. It sat under a crown of the thinnest of bread slices, which had been caramelized, and near a scoop of brioche ice cream resting on more cookie crumbs. Divine and much appreciated.

In dessert, as in life, sometimes you do without until you find exactly what you need. Or want. Cookie crumbs? They're just a bonus.

Stick a Candle In It

Is it just me or has everyone else lost track of what day of the week it is?

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day felt like a weekend, except that the following day, Wednesday, felt nothing like a Monday. Meaning we had responsibilities.

The plan was to drive to the Northern Neck for some seasonal fam time, in this case with the parental units plus Sister #4 and her posse. My contribution to the evening meal was cookies and a Viennese torte which I'd wisely made before going to dinner the night before and a salad for which I needed to stop and get the ingredients.

Don't judge. Of all the things I needed to accomplish before the official holiday, somehow buying salad ingredients - a task neither sexy nor festive - had fallen through the cracks. At Ellwood Thompson, Mr. Wright demonstrated his superior planning skills yet again by suggesting we snag some lunch makings to tide me over for the long journey from J-Ward to the Rivah.

Car snacks, never leave home without them.

Except that I didn't want to eat in the car. A woman en route to spend the afternoon and evening with eight family members needs a more civilized way to fuel up than gobbling at 60 mph. Since he'd suggested lunch, I suggested the roadside table on Route 3 for the setting.

In 33 years of driving to my parents' house, I never fail to notice the small blue sign near a creek with a picture of a picnic table on it. Finally the day had come when I could see where that table was. Turns out it was multiple well-weathered tables scattered over a fenced-in grassy knoll overlooking the water. Although Route 3 wasn't far away, it felt like it was.

The picnic tables were splinter factories, old and rough, so I laid down my scarf on the bench rather than risk a hole in my cute tights. Our coats stayed buttoned to the top, but the turkey wraps and chickpea, herb and feta salad tasted wonderful in the crisp air. Sitting there munching on the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (Dad's favorite version of the cookie) I'd baked to take to Mom's with a view of pale blue water felt a picnic the holidays forgot.

It was also the peaceful interlude before the family holiday storm.

Don't get me wrong, visiting my parents when only one of my sisters and her family are there is infinitely preferable to going when multiple families convene. Still, their house is so much warmer than what I'm used to and currently so full of Christmas decor that sometimes to cool down and breathe easily, I just went out on the Ledo Deck. That's the  affectionate family name for the glassed-in porch, as opposed to the sleeping porch upstairs or the little porch off Mom and Dad's bedroom.

One of the most charming things about this house is its abundance of porches.

Non-stop conversation and gift unwrapping dominated the afternoon, but it was my brother-in-law I pitied because he'd been up at 4:30 a.m. making his red sauce for tonight's penne with sausage and meatballs.

And while I believe that everyone should have an Italian in the family willing to make such a sacrifice, he did seem to nod off a few times over the afternoon as a result. Or maybe, like me, he felt like he was in a sauna.

The big family meal went off without a hitch, the Greatest Generation and Baby Boomers occupying the dining room while the millennials took up their positions around the breakfast nook table. We toasted each other with Chateau d'Aqueria Tavel Rose and my Dad's sentimental words.

Abstaining from Rose was the cook, who admitted to a preference for Chianti. That was Dad's cue to begin telling the saga of the Chianti bottle that has somehow made it 50-some years as part of their household.

As he explained it for those who didn't know - and, mind you, that's not me - he and Mom drank Chianti in the '60s and '70s because it was cheap. But one straw-covered bottle had been promoted to decor after the first time they stuck a taper in it and let it burn down during one of their dinner parties. After that, they made a point to change candle colors every time they burnt it so that the wax drippings would be multi-colored.

I don't want to brag, but in the early '70s, my resourceful father had even found candles made of various colors of wax so they dripped multicolored from one candle. As kids, this was nothing short of otherworldly to us.

To Mom, it was ridiculous to spend that kind of money on crazy candles.

As he's sharing this old chestnut, I quietly leave the table and return with the waxy bottle in question, which I happened to know now resides in Dad's bathroom. The oohs and aahs as everyone admired 50 years of waxy buildup was enough to melt even the toughest Grinch heart.

That or inspire that "Hoarders" show to try to track him down.

I'm not as sentimental as my Dad, so I have no comparable souvenir of my youth with which to dazzle others after the holiday meal ends. Fortunately for me, it looks like my parents will live forever, so there'll be no shortage of bon mots and youthful memories.

Meanwhile, by the time we returned to civilization, I was surprised to discover that we hadn't even turned the page on Thursday yet.

When we first began going down, my sisters and I used to marvel at how slowly time seemed to move on the Northern Neck. Mom's explanation was always that the "day was lasting nicely." It was code for interminable.

This week is lasting nicely.

The Eggnog Chronicles

Where does a heathen even begin to find comfort and joy this time of year?

Eating and drinking, of course.

I'm not going to pretend that my many deadlines haven't made this holiday season a tad more frenetic than usual, but once the holiday known as Official U.S. Work Stoppage Days begins - as it did Monday for me and probably the previous Thursday or Friday for many people - I took full advantage.

Slept in. No writing allowed. Read Sunday's paper with Mr. Wright while regretting not having pre-ordered Nate's bagels for Christmas Eve afternoon munching. Only after a walk over there left me staring at a "SOLD OUT!!! Happy holidays!" sign did I begin regretting my lack of foresight.

But the real celebrating began with a 3:00 reservation at Can Can that carried us right through until it was time to get in line at the Byrd Theater for my annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life."

And just for the record, in the quarter century I've been going to watch Jimmy Stewart regain his hope, this year was the very first time I only had to wait in one line. The master planner in my life had procured online tickets (granted, they weren't always available), allowing us to go directly to the "have tickets" line, bypassing the even longer box office line and resulting in far less shivering on Cary Street waiting time for me.

In what could only be called a Christmas Coincidence, upon arrival at Can Can the hostess led us directly to the same discreet table where we'd had our first date. Later in the meal, our server referred to the table by saying, "If you don't want to rush, this is the table for you," a fact we'd discerned on that marathon first date.

There couldn't be enough La Galope Rose to celebrate such an unlikely happenstance, though we enjoyed ourselves hugely trying, pairing it with butternut squash soup with maple creme fraiche - a marriage made in heaven, by the way - bacon and chives. A baguette as long as my forearm loaded with smoked salmon, Boursin, capers, spinach and red onion, along with a generous plate of dressed greens kept me happy while Mr. Wright tucked into Thai shrimp salad and we marveled at our holiday luck.

After two hours eating and sipping, our affable server (who was working  a 15-hour shift at the Jefferson on Christmas day) explained that we'd have to either move or leave because they had a six-top coming in. The Rose had made me bold enough to pipe up and tell him that we'd move, but we weren't leaving.

When Mr. Wright stated that we'd like to stay at that particular table, I clarified that we'd had our first date at that table.

"Oh, please stay," he said, putting one hand against his heart, grinning sweetly and scurrying off to set up the six-top to the right of us. He was still beaming at us when he returned to explain that he was getting off, but wishing us all the best.

With more La Galope awaiting us in the chilling bucket, I ordered the dessert special he'd recommended, an eggnog sorbet sprinkled with grated nutmeg and the most Christmasy dessert imaginable (sorry, buche de Noel).

Let's just say that I wasn't the only one who regretted that I'd only gotten one scoop instead of two.

Just as we finished the last of the Rose, our replacement server breezed by and we explained our predicament: we needed more pink to finish our celebration. He returned with half a bottle of La Galope and a smirk. "Another table ordered this and didn't finish it, so it's all yours."

Thanking him for the gratis wine, I shared why it made our return visit to this table even better. "Ohhh!" he said, also putting his hand over his heart.

We were unintentionally charming millennials left and right with our first date saga. It only occurred to us later that they probably thought we'd been together much longer than is actually the case.

Other than the online ticket masterstroke, the only other surprise at the Byrd was that organist Bob Gulledge was injured and out of action. Ever vigilant, manager Todd insisted we all join in for a collective get well video he shot, before substitute John DeMajo saved the day by playing the mighty Wurlitzer for the Byrd's annual Christmas singalong.

Although Todd had announced that all 1200 seats were occupied, I happen to know that the one in front of me and two beside me weren't, but still it was a near full house, meaning the balcony was opened. Turns out that's where Mac and her Mom landed, not that we knew that until after Jimmy Stewart had had his epiphany and she called my name as we exited the theater.

Start to finish, that was a Christmas eve.

Christmas day was almost as unambitious - minus the attempt at Nate's bagels and Frank Capra classic - but the real fun began when we got to Peter Chang's shortly after 4:00. The media had been clear that Chang's had been booked solid for both Eve and Day, but a phone call told us the real story: slide in between meals and you'll have no problem.

Done and done.

Can Mr. Wright and I take up residence on bar stools mid-afternoon and wile away Christmas Day with no regrets? Yes, we can.

With a Portuguese Rose stashed behind the bar, we proceeded to settle in for a leisurely meal with an ever-changing array of people on either side of us. While we nibbled on steamed vegetable dumplings (easily the most flavorful vegetable filling a dumpling has ever delivered to my mouth), we had two sets of stool mates, but by the time our entrees showed up, it was completely different people on either side.

My side even changed a third time. It's like people were stopping at a filling station, not out to savor a holiday meal.

Oddly enough, several of them wanted to order off the lunch menu, further complicating things for the bartenders, who had their hands full making libations for all the people stuck with family obligations and toddlers jumping on the banquette at their tables.

Midway through my Kung Pao chicken, mercifully downgraded from two pepper spicy to one pepper spicy after our thoughtful barkeep asked if I was really wanting it that hot (uh, no), I realized that our scallion bubble pancake hadn't yet arrived. You see, it's not just the sublime pleasure of having bread with Chinese food that I was missing, but the essential means of cooling my mouth when multiple bites of Kung Pao sauce left lingering heat there.

Our bartender looked abashed when I asked about it and returned from the kitchen assuring us it was in progress. Ten minutes later when I asked again, it was still nowhere to be found. The irony was that once it did, a second pancake arrived shortly after and I was foolhardy enough to send it away.

What did you learn this Christmas, Karen? Never pass up a chance to enjoy a bonus scallion bubble pancake when it arrives unbidden.

The only problem with Peter Chang's is that there are no dessert offerings, but the moment I overheard the bartender mention eggnog to the couple to Mr. Wright's left, my dessert radar went on high alert. When he got a second, we asked about it and his face got a devilish grin.

"Oh, it's good," he assured us, ticking off the whiskey, rum and liqueurs battling for dominance in a glass of cream and nutmeg, all in the name of holiday overindulgence. Mr. Wright immediately ordered two and Christmas got a little brighter in Scott's Addition.

It was around then that I spotted a curator/fellow music lover and his wife seated at a high table behind us and called out a greeting, leading to a quick catch-up session hindered by the hordes of wannabe diners lining the space behind the bar stools. Finally, he suggested I email him soon instead.

By then it was after 7 and every available inch of space in the restaurant was taken over by people foolish enough to show up at prime eating time at one of the mere ten restaurants open on Christmas Day. Not to sound Scrooge-like, but we had zero empathy for them.

As I sucked the final swallow of creamy eggnog up the straw, I commented to Mr. Wright what a sad sound it was to hear. As he quickly pointed out, that was an easily solved problem. No one looked more surprised than the barkeep when we asked for two more.

C'mon, everyone knows that one counts as dessert and one counts as an after-dinner drink. And on a day that mattered not one little bit to a heathen and one of the Chosen People, we were only too happy to extend our stay for the sake of more nog.

But we're also not animals, so after the second round, we decided to abdicate our stools to a latecomer who seemed willing to trade his right arm for a place to sit and eat. When we told him that we'd arrived at 4 to score the prime real estate we were now ceding to him, he realized he was in the presence of pros and thanked us appropriately.

There may be a more perfect way to observe the official U.S. Work Stoppage Days, but if it doesn't involve first date redux, an abundance of Rose and obscene amounts of eggnog, I don't see how it could have suited us better.

You don't have to ask us to please stay twice.

Catch the Wind

'Tis the season to be running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

But it's also a reminder of reason #894 why I love city living. Because when I have a 6:00 pickup and it's 5:35 before I realize my mistake, I can walk a mere two blocks to get the birthday card I forgot to get because Holiday Life.

As an added bonus, a woman checks out my legs at Rite-Aid and observes, "Cute tights, leggings, whatever they are." When I share that they're actually stockings, she's even more impressed.

Meanwhile, when Mr. Wright shows up, I am ready, card in hand, to head to the Tavern and Holmes' birthday dinner. Since I'm not a West End kind of a girl, I am completely unprepared for the hordes occupying nearly every table at the restaurant on a Sunday night. When the hostess asks if we want a table for two, I explain that we're there for Holmes' party.

A look crosses her face and she smiles knowingly. Holmes is a regular at the Tavern and well known by the entire staff. "It's that big table in the back," she tells us and takes off.

After much confusion and pointing at seats, it becomes clear that the pastiche of tables and banquette that has been put together is inadequate for the size of the birthday party and another table is brought in. The table's configuration resembles an amoeba, with odd-shaped offshoots.

When we finally sit down at the corner of the madness, conversation with Holmes' extensive family begins in earnest.

The woman next to me remembers me from one of these dinners a few years ago, even recalling what I do and who I write for. The gregarious brother  and old hippie who'd been down at the beach when I was visiting Holmes last summer waves and says, "Hi, beach buddy!"

But where we score the jackpot is with the woman seated next to Mr. Wright, a spitfire of a woman who lives in Annapolis and had the energy and enthusiasm of a 20-something along with a lifetime of stories to share.

One of the more fascinating facts gleaned over the next couple hours was that Newfoundland is pronounced new-found-land and not new-fund-land, as I've always heard, leading us to the subject of travel.

Turns out her son designs cruises for a cruise ship line and he's frequently designing custom cruises for her, so she's been everywhere, And don't even get her started about her disappointment that her Canadian cruise didn't go as far as the Bay of Fundy.

Besides a love of travel, where we found common ground was our shared distaste for shopping. Her entire wardrobe came from a dying Korean woman she knew who was her exact size and invited her to come peruse her closets and take everything she wanted before the Grim Reaper arrived.

"I had to go buy a big, used suitcase from the thrift store just to bring it all home!" she said. When the woman's aunt died, she got all her clothes, too, including a black velvet gown with lace cuffs and collar that she'd worn to many a gala event.

Truly, this woman was my spirit animal.

She told us about a trip to Florence where she spotted a painting in a shop window and uncharacteristically told her husband (a technological adviser to multiple admirals) she wanted it. After doing some calculations in his head to convert the price to dollars, he asked if she coveted it enough to pay for it out of her grocery money. When she said yes, he asked, "Your grocery money for how many years?"

Nope, not that willing.

Only then did she realize it wasn't a painting but a mosaic, which only made it more beautiful to her, but she was also sensible enough to realize it was just too expensive.

We heard about the 14-mile bike ride she took in Germany after years of not being on a bike. Asking about our plans, she shared how much she liked Portugal and the tapas in Spain. Then there was the time in the '80s when she and the Officers' Wives Club stationed in Heidelberg toured the Gucci factory, each of them leaving with a new Gucci bag and a Gucci belt buckle for their husbands.

Score.

How in China, the wives were served only one beer when drinking at a bar and how every bottled Coke had a different taste, leading the wives to conclude that they were concocting pseudo-Cokes in the back room and pouring them into Coke bottles.

The woman was a font of stories about Greece, Barbados and the bogs of Ireland, a country that appealed to her for its food, music and scenery.

As many trips as Mr. Wright has under his belt, he couldn't begin to compete with a woman who can boast of traveling to Estonia and Newfoundland.

As for her souvenir advice? "Refrigerator magnets! They don't take up room and they look great on your fridge." Spoken like a woman who's learned that memories are the best reminders of life adventures.

Her company was so charming and her enthusiasm for life so engaging, it wouldn't have mattered if the food had been bad, but it wasn't.

My crabcakes got high points for the lack of filler and that they were griddled, not fried, while the toothsome vegetable melange of carrots, green beans and onions accompanying the crab was perfectly cooked and seasoned. A special of grilled lemon pepper rockfish  got high marks from Mr. Wright and several others who'd chosen it.

It is bigger rockfish season, after all.

Come dessert time, Holmes' family was as different from mine as could be, meaning that only 2 of 16 ordered it, while I didn't hesitate to ask for a slice of chocolate pecan pie and offer to share.

What's a birthday celebration without sweets anyway?

By the time we got home, photos of the fun had already been posted to Facebook and there we were, smiling with the most well-traveled woman I've ever met. That she only wears dead women's clothing makes her even more of a role model to me.

Where we differ is I might've promised away my grocery money indefinitely for the chance to have an Italian mosaic and worried about the details only once I was back in the kitchen.

I'm going with the theory that no adoring man would have let such a charming woman starve to death. Not when great travel partners are so hard to find.

The Rolling Sober Crowd

Because nothing says Christmas quite like men in women's clothes.

The holiday drag brunch at Laura Lee's was as good an excuse as any to assemble the manse crew to drink Christmas libations, gorge on a southern-fried brunch menu and watch grown men cavort in skirts.

Settling into our curved soft blue banquette at Laura Lee's with a fine view of the "runway," Pru noted that the vibe was pure Copa. All we needed was one of those little lamps that used to provide appropriately flattering low light to finish the effect.

Unlike the others who immediately determined their poison of choice - Pru's eggnog, Beau and Queen B's brunch punches - I was distracted when a writer friend dropped by the table to say hello. After she warned me to stay until the end so I could catch her in performance as Elvis, we talked about how the brunch was going.

"The earlier crowd was pure sit and quit," she shared. "We expected people to stay and get drunk, but it's been more of a rolling sober crowd." The problem for her was that she'd only signed on to play Elvis because she presumed the crowd would be trashed.

Looking around at tables of women clutching dollar bills, I felt safe reassuring her that they'd get there.

By the time I sat down, it was to finally order a Poinsettia to sip on and catch up with my tablemates. Meanwhile, fat, sweet blueberry muffins with vanilla buttercream had arrived and my posse was digging in like it was their first meal of the day. Not so for me.

That said, it was a bit like starting with dessert and that's not a complaint.

Miss Magnolia Jackson Pickett Burnside kicked things off with a lecture on drugs - "Stay away from the Booger Sugar" - but also didn't hesitate to toss out packets of pseudo-cocaine to the eager crowd.

I saw one guy pocket his, just in case.

The second performer arrived in a red sequined dress and Liza (with a "Z") haircut, belting out that holiday classic, "Christmas in Rehab" and leaving a generous lip print on one of the sole men in the room's ample forehead. Not long after, Beau, the drag brunch virgin, noted that the guy had already wiped it off, a rookie mistake if ever there was one.

Like the occupants of the other tables, we kept folded dollar bills at the ready to gift our entertainers, though Beau took some time learning the right methods to get his bills noticed. At one point, it felt almost like the performers were intentionally avoiding him, but eventually even his money was good enough (along with a comment about the panties he was presumed to be wearing).

Trying to defend himself as okay with being weird, Pru piped up, saying, "If we are together, I am not okay with weird." No need to mince words during mince pie season.

Today's host was Michael, the manager and organizer of today's frivolities. He also has a bushy red beard worthy of Yukon Cornelius, a fact he knew. Turns out he'd considered coming in today dressed as Yukon, "Lickin' the pick and everything!" he boasted, a remark meaningful only to fans of that classic "Rudolph" special.

Watching the fun didn't stop us from eating. Pru and Beau both went for the fried oatmeal with bacon and a fried egg under syrup, while Queen B opted for fried chicken with biscuit and hushpuppies, all of which I managed to wrangle bites of. My smoked fish over greens, onions and matchstick carrots was a tad overdressed in cumin lime vinaigrette, but tasty nonetheless, the hunks of fish smokey and meaty.

As more drinks arrived, the repartee got livelier, with Pru telling me that she'd been voted "Wittiest in Class" at age 17, a difficult standard to maintain over a lifetime. It made me glad no one had singled me out young and set a bar I may not have been able to maintain.

Far better to start low.

For Magnolia's next number, she arrived attired in a short Santa suit with cute white knitted tights and a white Afro wig with a giant, glittery poinsettia pinned in it, the ideal togs to lip-sync and dance to a Christmas conga song.

"Who likes Cher?" she asked of the room and the table behind us showed their Cher love. "Oh, just the table of homosexuals right here," Magnolia joked of the five young women. Pru and I had already noted the quintet's shared physical qualities - tall, straight blond hair, vacant look - and sure, they could easily have been pretty boys dressed as young hipster women of a certain ilk.

As she bent over to thank a table for cash, Beau got a glimpse of Cher 's derriere, noting, "She's got a butt like I do, which is to say, not at all." Ba dum bum.

Statements like that are given wide berth to lay on the table without commentary.

Afterward, Magnolia said it was her last song. "That took everything I have to skip," she explained. "Cher does two things - punches the air and skips and I figured if Cher could do it, so could I!"

Not sure I've ever seen Cher quite so beet red or winded, though 'tis not the season to judge.

Next came Cookie Pants, a performer in a gingerbread suit she used as an excuse to do a striptease down to an elf costume complete with striped leggings.

Magnolia's Grandma was in the house and he talked about how accepting she and his family had been of his proclivities. He wanted us to know that she insists there is no Christmas without Elvis, which is why we got a cross-dressing woman as the King, complete with pompadour.

That it was my friend from earlier meant I had plenty of bills folded between my knuckles when she approached our table singing "Blue Christmas."

Between the cash and our long-standing friendship, I was treated to a full-on extended breast nuzzle through her white polyester jumpsuit, enough to elicit cheers from the crowd. And, yes, we could see her black panties underneath, but we liked it.

By the time Elvis got back to Grandma and began hugging/dancing with her, Yukon Cornelius was tearing up, saying, "They're gonna make me cry!" and dabbing at his eyes. And he wasn't the only one.

At the front, Magnolia was in full waterworks mode. "This is making me cry!" she said watching her Grandma, smiling happily and wiping away the heavy makeup running down her face. "Ooh, it burns!"

Said no one ever at the Copa.

Shaking It Like Mary Magdelene

Twas four days before Christmas and all through the Ward
The students had left and I was near bored

It's not that I didn't have plenty of work
But I wanted some fun, 'tho not at the Quirk

So Mac and I went to Rapp to fill up on nog
But the price of one nog left us slightly agog

As fans of Rap Session, we were sad to hear
It's no more, Rappahannock made it disappear

We savored ours slowly, then had to beat feet
Choosing to land at Lucy's on Second Street

Cesar salad, fried oysters and for us to share,
Non-meatballs and spaghetti squash, beyond compare

We licked the plate clean of chocolate mousse pie
Admired vintage decor, then said our goodbye

Next stop: the November to see "Sister Act"
The musical's gotten raves and that's a fact

Lines such as, "This must be how Protestants feel!"
Mocked religion and made us laugh with much zeal

Set in the seventies, so bell bottoms galore
Polyester jumpsuits had me me begging for more

A song like "I Could Be That Guy" made us swoon
But not quite as much as that big solstice moon

For a day that began with river and sun
It led to what Mac likes to call Christmas fun

For heathens, it's just about good company
The nog and the music, that's bonus, you see

Now I head out for more, but not in a sleigh
2019 just means more time for me to say

Happy whatever to all and to all, have a ball!
I know I am.

Tomorrow, More Sun

Winter is on my head, but eternal Spring is in my heart. ~ Victor Hugo

Hello, Winter Solstice. And, may I say, helluva disguise you got there.

When we left for Christmas revelry in NOVA yesterday morning, it was chilly and the sky looked leaden. Driving home last night, it would have been warm enough to open the car windows had the rain not been falling in buckets. Not the transition I expected weather-wise.

Waking up to find that it was already 64 degrees this morning - we should have been suspicious when the heat barely ran all night - meant dressing for my walk with Mac like it was Spring. Or Fall.

But certainly not the Winter Solstice.

I compromised by wearing a thin t-shirt, an even thinner hoodie, my standard athletic skirt/shorts (often referred to by Mr. Wright as my pink tutu) and tights. Mac showed up in leggings, a t-shirt and a jacket, so I immediately began razzing her. A jacket?

For a smart woman, she sure can overdress.

We got two blocks away and I decided to go back for my sun hat because despite a sky full of turbulent and dramatic clouds, it was obvious the sun was trying to come through.

We got four blocks away and paused to tease a friend - the guy who works in the window restoration shop - about not having his garage door rolled up on such a glorious morning. He pointed to the multiple stacks of windows leaning against the door that were preventing opening it, a good reason, if unfortunate for him. I pointed to Mac, overdressed in a jacket, and asked if she could leave it there.

After all, what are friends for?

It was somewhere over on Fourth Street where we spotted the guy in the fur-trimmed, short red skirt (the  kind usually seen on Santa's shapely young elves), black socks and brown shoes, his bald spot a shining circle around which hung limp, gray hair. Very festive.

We got almost to Brown's Island before Mac suggested we walk Belle Isle instead, an idea that had also occurred to me, since we haven't been able to get on the pipeline in what feels like months. Mac said she needed to hear water today and with the James above flood stage, we were guaranteed plenty of roaring river sounds.

Walking across the pedestrian bridge, we got behind a couple of slow-walking guys and Mac asked them how with their much longer legs were they slowing our roll. One claimed he was already short of breath from walking, so just smiled and passed them by. 

On the island, the path was a muddy, puddle-filled mess, but the sounds of a rushing river was just what we wanted after a sweaty walk to get there. I'd long since tied my hoodie around my waist, but if you want to know how hot it was, I stopped in one of the Porta-Potties - holding my breath all the while - and took off my leggings so I'd be cooler.

That's right, I walked bare-legged on this Winter Solstice and I feel fine.

As if we weren't sweaty enough, I caved to Mac and we started home by walking up Brown's island Way, the ridiculously steep hill I usually avoid unless it's night time and I'm at the Folk Fest. But for Mac, I agreed to do it, even if it did mean pit stains to beat the band by the time we made it up to Second Street.

And although we never spotted another fur-trimmed mini-Santa skirt, we passed more than a few people in Santa hats, including one woman we said good morning to who iced us out. As Mac pointed out, if you're going to make the effort to wear a Santa hat, shouldn't you at least return a friendly greeting?

The first thing I did when I got home was open every window in my apartment to let in the sunshine and air far warmer than what my heat pump produces. It's a pain to open storm and regular windows, but there was no way I was going to pass up a chance to air out the place, especially given predicted temperatures in the '40 for the next week.

I know that my least favorite season, Winter, is just starting and there's nothing I can do about that, but I prefer to focus on the fact that starting tomorrow, daylight begins to return. Every day will be a tiny step closer to the weather and seasons that make me happiest.

Truth be told, I feel better already and not just because we're turning the page on losing daylight. Getting to take a sweaty walk bare-legged in shorts today is about the closest thing to a Christmas miracle a heathen like me could hope for.

I've no doubt the guy in the Santa skirt was feeling the same thing. Those of us with Spring in our hearts are so obvious.