You don't go to 13 out of 14 Folk Festivals without learning that Friday's where it's at.
There's a low-key vibe to opening night that is unlike any other point during the festival. Mac, Mr. Wright and I walked down to the river from J-Ward, arriving not long after 6 and heading straight to Gregory's Grill for crabcake sandwiches and eastern Carolina barbecue.
Overheard along the way was, "I didn't expect anyone to be here yet!" although the speaker looked to be about 17, so I'm not sure her frame of reference for past festivals was wide or particularly deep. Then with sandwiches in hand, we made our way to the Altria stage where Cora Harvey Armstrong was already taking people to church with her gospel singing and piano playing backed by a singing quintet of sisters and nieces.
The ground was too soggy after Hurricane Micahel's wind-swept rains to sit on the hill facing the river, though it didn't stop a woman in shorts and flip-flops. Mac stated the obvious - "Why would anyone wear shorts and flip-flops on a night when it's going down to 49 degrees?" - as the sounds of testifying filled the air.
To make things even more spiritual, the sun was setting behind the Lee bridge and the pedestrian bridge to Belle Isle, filling the sky with streaks of red and purple framed like tableaux between sections of the bridges' supports. Overhead, a sliver of a moon hung in the evening sky and the light posts on the bridge stood in for low-hanging stars.
After a few songs, Cora told her back-up singers to take a break and asked the crowd to call out their requests. "And if I know 'em, I'll sing 'em and if I don't you can go home and sing them to yourself," she laughed.
Launching into "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," I was reminded how that it had been in the song books of my elementary school music classes - with a notation that it was a "Negro spiritual" - that we used to sing.
I'd bet my bottom dollar that children in elementary schools today no longer are taught Negro spirituals.
After singing five requests and trying to control the crowd's enthusiasm for suggesting more - "I'm gonna get to that one, just let me sing this one first" - she told the adoring audience that we should donate generously to the bucket brigade and she'd come back again and "play more of your songs."
"Come on, ladies!" she called to her backup singers and went back to her set list after introducing her band and singers and explaining how each one was related to her. Like me, Cora was from a family of all girls and shared a story she said her sisters tell her not to. "Daddy said he turned that bed every which way but he never did get a boy."
I have no doubt my Dad could relate to that.
By the time she got to the closer, a song about loving Jesus, the guy behind me was saying, "She's like going to church two days early!" Obviously he'd missed the part where Cora had told us that she's an ordained Baptist minister.
After scoring some sticky toffee pudding from the fish and chips truck, we slogged through mud behind Tredegar to get to the Community Foundation stage to see the first female kora virtuoso in the history of Gambia.
A friend had warned the Facebook world, "Don't sleep on this one," and he's someone whose musical advice I take. Thanks, Michael, for the best advice of the day.
Sona Jobateh came out in a spectacular Gambian full-length dress of deep reds, greens, gold and black, strapped on the 21-stringed instrument and proceeded to blow the mind of everyone under the tent and probably standing outside it, too.
She immediately became my spirit animal when she announced, "It's good to be here, but it's cold!" Amen, honey, I'm suffering every second with this abrupt switch to fall post-Michael. When Mac showed up in jeans and a top with jacket in hand, I'd detailed my many layers - slip, dress, sweater, scarf, jacket, shawl - and she'd scoffed. "Really, Karen? Really"
Yes, really. By the end of the evening, I was grateful for every single layer.
But Sona made me forget my cold hands and feet with a robust performance of Gambian music, new and traditional, and a fluidity on all those strings that no doubt belied how challenging it was to play. At one point, she brought out her son to play a vibes-like native instrument to accompany the band.
Her guitar player was stellar and his Carlos Santana-like guitar face was every bit as good. During one song, she faced off with each of her musicians - bass, guitar, drums and percussion - matching their rhythms note for note. Other songs, she taught the crowd the words and encouraged us to sing along.
But is was seeing and hearing this beautiful, talented woman play an instrument that for centuries has only been played by men that blew our minds. Mac suggested that it was the phallic nature of how the instrument is worn - it juts out from the pelvis, attached to a heavy leather strap - that had made it off limits to women for so long.
Regardless, sitting under the tent atop that hill, listening to Sona and her band play epitomized everything that is magical and wondrous about the Folk Festival. If not for the organizers, I could have gone my whole life without ever hearing griot played by a master. A female master, so even better.
Oh, and that one out of fourteen festivals that I missed? I was in Italy that year and if anything excuses a Folk Fest absence, it's world travel.
Still, Richmond was where I wanted to be last night.
Saturday, October 13, 2018
Friday, October 12, 2018
Soggy but Stimulated
I am not a weather wimp, nor can I abide time spent obsessing over the Weather Channel.
Of course I knew the wind and rains of Hurricane Michael were headed this way. And, yes, I noticed that schools were closing early and some restaurants weren't opening at all for the evening. But did I assume that meant it was going to affect me?
Of course not.
So when Mr. Wright showed up saying, "The apocalypse is coming!" I suggested we go directly to the balcony to watch it roll in, Anton Bauer Rose in hand. We lasted maybe ten minutes before the rain began pelting us from the north and east. And mind you, the balcony is only a yard or so from the house next door, yet somehow, the rain was managing to fall and turn toward us in that small space.
Leaving the lights off, we took up places in the living room, which faces south, to watch Michael's fury from the front two windows, both open. I've watched many a hurricane and tropical storm from that perch, although the company wasn't always as good. The trees out front whipped in the wind, rain came in from the west-facing bathroom window - but not the front windows - and we talked for a couple of hours about all kinds of things except the weather.
Eventually, we both realized we needed to go eat dinner so we could make an 8:00 curtain at Richmond Triangle Players for "The Laramie Project." We got as far as the front door downstairs before realizing that the reality of being outside in Michael was, to put it mildly, wildly different from observing it from the couch.
Oh, we weren't deterred, just willing to get wet.
Driving toward Scott's Addition, I did notice how few cars were on the road, but that I attributed to the fact that most people are weather wimps. We soldiered on. When we got to Aloi, I bounded out of the car, stepping into a 6" puddle of water at the curb (it was for this reason I'd worn my stylish Croc platform shoes, because no hurricane rain can defeat foam resin), only to discover that Aloi was closed up tight.
A Weather Channel aficionado would have known that, in all likelihood.
Sensing a trend, Mr. Wright called Richmond Triangle Players, where a recording told us the obvious: no performance tonight. On the plus side, I hadn't had to wade through another massive puddle to find that out.
Giving up on all the evening's plans, we headed down Summit Avenue only to see the best of all possible neon signs glowing through Michael's torrents: an "open" sign at Supper.
Hallelujah and pass the towels.
Every table at Supper was occupied and there was a 20-minute wait, but the bar was almost empty, so we had no hesitation about claiming a couple of bar stools for dinner. That said, within 15 minutes, a guy was asking if we'd mind moving down a stool so his companion could sit next to him ("Do you really like her?" Mr. Wright inquired to determine whether we should move) because the bar was full otherwise.
Timing is everything.
When he asked of the bartender what today's soup was ("Seems like a soup evening," he claimed), her response of "pumpkin bisque" was enough to order a bowl and two spoons. Except that what arrived was decidedly un-bisque-like, albeit completely delicious. Only then did the bartender come over to explain that, unbeknownst to her, the bisque had been replaced with a pumpkin/black bean/spinach soup that was fabulous and far more to my taste than any bisque might have been.
Or maybe that was the Prosecco talking.
Eating through my wedge salad with chicken salad and his special of fried shrimp and fried eggplant salad in our damp clothes was as close to a hurricane party as we were going to get tonight. Everyone around us seemed to be of the same mind, eating, drinking and gabbing merrily because we'd all been fortunate enough to find a place open on such a soggy night.
The party came crashing down, though, when the lights began flickering and the manager started explaining to people that they expected the power to go any second now. Pay your checks now, he said, and you can linger until we go dark.
Or we could pay our check, brave Michael one more time and return to Jackson Ward, where I've only lost power once in 9 years and that was for 20 minutes. Talk about your easy decision.
True, we could have checked the Weather Channel before leaving for the evening, but where's the fun in that? The mad dashes through 40 mph winds and the complete uselessness of my giant golf umbrella against Michael's sideways rain led to an exhilaration that only comes when you're out in the elements when you shouldn't be.
Playing it safe is for weather wimps.
Of course I knew the wind and rains of Hurricane Michael were headed this way. And, yes, I noticed that schools were closing early and some restaurants weren't opening at all for the evening. But did I assume that meant it was going to affect me?
Of course not.
So when Mr. Wright showed up saying, "The apocalypse is coming!" I suggested we go directly to the balcony to watch it roll in, Anton Bauer Rose in hand. We lasted maybe ten minutes before the rain began pelting us from the north and east. And mind you, the balcony is only a yard or so from the house next door, yet somehow, the rain was managing to fall and turn toward us in that small space.
Leaving the lights off, we took up places in the living room, which faces south, to watch Michael's fury from the front two windows, both open. I've watched many a hurricane and tropical storm from that perch, although the company wasn't always as good. The trees out front whipped in the wind, rain came in from the west-facing bathroom window - but not the front windows - and we talked for a couple of hours about all kinds of things except the weather.
Eventually, we both realized we needed to go eat dinner so we could make an 8:00 curtain at Richmond Triangle Players for "The Laramie Project." We got as far as the front door downstairs before realizing that the reality of being outside in Michael was, to put it mildly, wildly different from observing it from the couch.
Oh, we weren't deterred, just willing to get wet.
Driving toward Scott's Addition, I did notice how few cars were on the road, but that I attributed to the fact that most people are weather wimps. We soldiered on. When we got to Aloi, I bounded out of the car, stepping into a 6" puddle of water at the curb (it was for this reason I'd worn my stylish Croc platform shoes, because no hurricane rain can defeat foam resin), only to discover that Aloi was closed up tight.
A Weather Channel aficionado would have known that, in all likelihood.
Sensing a trend, Mr. Wright called Richmond Triangle Players, where a recording told us the obvious: no performance tonight. On the plus side, I hadn't had to wade through another massive puddle to find that out.
Giving up on all the evening's plans, we headed down Summit Avenue only to see the best of all possible neon signs glowing through Michael's torrents: an "open" sign at Supper.
Hallelujah and pass the towels.
Every table at Supper was occupied and there was a 20-minute wait, but the bar was almost empty, so we had no hesitation about claiming a couple of bar stools for dinner. That said, within 15 minutes, a guy was asking if we'd mind moving down a stool so his companion could sit next to him ("Do you really like her?" Mr. Wright inquired to determine whether we should move) because the bar was full otherwise.
Timing is everything.
When he asked of the bartender what today's soup was ("Seems like a soup evening," he claimed), her response of "pumpkin bisque" was enough to order a bowl and two spoons. Except that what arrived was decidedly un-bisque-like, albeit completely delicious. Only then did the bartender come over to explain that, unbeknownst to her, the bisque had been replaced with a pumpkin/black bean/spinach soup that was fabulous and far more to my taste than any bisque might have been.
Or maybe that was the Prosecco talking.
Eating through my wedge salad with chicken salad and his special of fried shrimp and fried eggplant salad in our damp clothes was as close to a hurricane party as we were going to get tonight. Everyone around us seemed to be of the same mind, eating, drinking and gabbing merrily because we'd all been fortunate enough to find a place open on such a soggy night.
The party came crashing down, though, when the lights began flickering and the manager started explaining to people that they expected the power to go any second now. Pay your checks now, he said, and you can linger until we go dark.
Or we could pay our check, brave Michael one more time and return to Jackson Ward, where I've only lost power once in 9 years and that was for 20 minutes. Talk about your easy decision.
True, we could have checked the Weather Channel before leaving for the evening, but where's the fun in that? The mad dashes through 40 mph winds and the complete uselessness of my giant golf umbrella against Michael's sideways rain led to an exhilaration that only comes when you're out in the elements when you shouldn't be.
Playing it safe is for weather wimps.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
Thursday in the Park with Michael
A day after I left the country, Monroe Park finally reopened.
This morning was my first opportunity to see what the city and VCU had wrought after nearly two years ofendless renovation inconveniencing me. Yes, me.
While everyone was (deservedly) harping on all the big, old trees that were cut down and bemoaning the displacement of the homeless in the park (also justified), absolutely no one was talking about how having the park closed affected my walking life.
When I want to go to Dinamo or 821 Cafe, I cut through the park. Or, more accurately, I used to. When I'm coming back from Texas Beach, hot, tired and sweaty, the park offered a short cut for the last half mile stretch. When I wanted to stop at my favorite thrift store to score a $3 dress, cutting through the park shaved off some time. I've seen art exhibits, been to festivals and taken in InLight installations in that park.
But then you add in the overlapping ICA construction (finally finished) on the nearby corner and that whole area has been off-limits to locals like me for what felt like forever.
So when I set out for the Boulevard this morning, I intended to see what the new and improved Monroe Park was all about because driving by is no substitute for determining the quality of a renovated park.
Immediate conclusion? I miss the tree cover of those old growth trees that were uprooted, but I can accept that the sight lines are cleaner and more open now. The extensive flower plantings along Belvidere are well-intentioned, but could they have picked more ubiquitous or uninspiring flowers? No, they couldn't have. And where the hell are the array of park benches that would provide momentary respite to a weary walker?
But then, under a canopy on the Laurel Street side, I saw the brightly-painted piano and heard the sound of ivories being tickled as I got closer. A student, his black backpack tossed atop the piano, was dazzling my ears with something classical I didn't recognize as I walked toward Floyd Avenue.
It was the most beautifully unexpected addition to my walk and I'm not too proud to say I noticeably slowed my pace so I could hear it for a while longer.
And although I don't usually take the same route coming and going on my daily constitutional, you can be sure I returned along Floyd in hopes someone would serenade me again. Sure enough, I spotted a man in a cap, his bike lying on the ground next to the piano, plucking away. Again, I slowed my roll to get maximum ear time.
Just as I came abreast of the piano, the pianist looked up and smiled. "Hi, Karen," he called. Sure enough, it was someone I knew, an author and DJ, a teacher and musicologist with a social justice bent and a killer smile.
Hi, Michael. I only hope my face conveyed my pleasure at his music-making.
A few minutes ago, I saw he'd posted video of a snippet of his playing, saying that he was back in Monroe Park, "Blazing that chronic like it's 2001," and I couldn't resist commenting on how much I'd enjoyed hearing him play earlier.
"Ha! You caught me in the act! Good to see you..." he wrote back.
Okay, maybe I am okay with this whole Monroe Park renovation thing. All it took was a colorful public piano in a city full of musicians and artists to make me realize how wonderful it is to have the park open and available to all again.
Here's to catching anyone I can - friend or stranger - in the act.
This morning was my first opportunity to see what the city and VCU had wrought after nearly two years of
While everyone was (deservedly) harping on all the big, old trees that were cut down and bemoaning the displacement of the homeless in the park (also justified), absolutely no one was talking about how having the park closed affected my walking life.
When I want to go to Dinamo or 821 Cafe, I cut through the park. Or, more accurately, I used to. When I'm coming back from Texas Beach, hot, tired and sweaty, the park offered a short cut for the last half mile stretch. When I wanted to stop at my favorite thrift store to score a $3 dress, cutting through the park shaved off some time. I've seen art exhibits, been to festivals and taken in InLight installations in that park.
But then you add in the overlapping ICA construction (finally finished) on the nearby corner and that whole area has been off-limits to locals like me for what felt like forever.
So when I set out for the Boulevard this morning, I intended to see what the new and improved Monroe Park was all about because driving by is no substitute for determining the quality of a renovated park.
Immediate conclusion? I miss the tree cover of those old growth trees that were uprooted, but I can accept that the sight lines are cleaner and more open now. The extensive flower plantings along Belvidere are well-intentioned, but could they have picked more ubiquitous or uninspiring flowers? No, they couldn't have. And where the hell are the array of park benches that would provide momentary respite to a weary walker?
But then, under a canopy on the Laurel Street side, I saw the brightly-painted piano and heard the sound of ivories being tickled as I got closer. A student, his black backpack tossed atop the piano, was dazzling my ears with something classical I didn't recognize as I walked toward Floyd Avenue.
It was the most beautifully unexpected addition to my walk and I'm not too proud to say I noticeably slowed my pace so I could hear it for a while longer.
And although I don't usually take the same route coming and going on my daily constitutional, you can be sure I returned along Floyd in hopes someone would serenade me again. Sure enough, I spotted a man in a cap, his bike lying on the ground next to the piano, plucking away. Again, I slowed my roll to get maximum ear time.
Just as I came abreast of the piano, the pianist looked up and smiled. "Hi, Karen," he called. Sure enough, it was someone I knew, an author and DJ, a teacher and musicologist with a social justice bent and a killer smile.
Hi, Michael. I only hope my face conveyed my pleasure at his music-making.
A few minutes ago, I saw he'd posted video of a snippet of his playing, saying that he was back in Monroe Park, "Blazing that chronic like it's 2001," and I couldn't resist commenting on how much I'd enjoyed hearing him play earlier.
"Ha! You caught me in the act! Good to see you..." he wrote back.
Okay, maybe I am okay with this whole Monroe Park renovation thing. All it took was a colorful public piano in a city full of musicians and artists to make me realize how wonderful it is to have the park open and available to all again.
Here's to catching anyone I can - friend or stranger - in the act.
Off With Their Heads
When things don't go as planned, there's always cake.
Mac and I had a date to eat dinner in service of my hired mouth and then get our culture fix with a play. Simple enough.
Except that when we got to the restaurant I was supposed to be reviewing, it wasn't open. Oh, sure, the sign on the door said they were open daily until 10 but it was only 6:30 and the place was locked, closed up tight. The open sign hung dark and unlighted.
Could it have come and gone already?
Rather than ponder what was up, we got right back in the car and made a beeline for old faithful, My Noodle & Bar, and the front treehouse booth, where we both pretended to look at the menu when really, we both knew we'd be ordering the exact same thing we get every time we go. My same old broccoli and chicken and her same old chicken noodle soup.
Mind you, we do it only to make ourselves feel like we're not the creatures of habit that we clearly are. But then, didn't I read somewhere that most people order the exact same thing from their neighborhood Asian restaurant every single time they go?
Perhaps we are not so pathetic as I thought.
When my food arrived, it seemed somehow more meager a portion than it typically is, a fact confirmed when Mac looked across the table and asked, "Isn't that a smaller serving than usual?"
I know, I know, size shouldn't matter, but when you're hungry, it does. And it wasn't just me because once Mac got busy with her meal, she looked up with disappointment. "There's only one fish ball instead of two," she complained and as the resident chicken noodle soup expert, I didn't doubt she was correct.
Rather than focus on the failings of our favorite dishes, I suggested we adjourn to Garnett's to share a piece of cake and make everything better again, an easy sell considering even my sweet tooth takes a backseat to Mac's.
The funny part was, after that she told me that in one of the blogs she follows (besides mine, of course), the woman shared that she she avoids sweets. "And she has the most beautiful skin, I guess from not eating sugar," Mac concluded.
Well, we'll just have to make peace with the skin we have because there's no way either of us could be that disciplined. Or even want to, no matter how magnificent our complexions might get. Next topic.
Naming the dessert choices once we got to Garnett's, our server got only as far as "coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache" before we both gave her the look and she asked if she should stop right there. Ladies and germs, we have a winner.
Sharing a massive slice, I told Mac that the only way it could have been better was if it had been chocolate coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache. She rolled her eyes, so I'm not sure she agreed with me.
From there, it was back to J-Ward to leave the car and hoof it over to the Basement to see 5th Wall's production of "Lizzie, the Musical." Because nothing makes for good show tunes like the tale of a 19th century axe murderer.
Conceived of as a punk rock opera, the play got high marks from both of us for its all female cast (well, if you don't count the band led by the fabulous Starlet Knight, which allowed a couple of men in) and a lesbian love story subplot.
So. Much. Girlpower.
As for what drives Lizzie, that would be Daddy who visits her bedroom and takes what she shouldn't have to give. As if that isn't awful enough, he also kills her beloved birds and leaves them in a bloody sack. Meanwhile her sister is all riled up by their stepmother who has replaced the daughters in her new husband's will.
Knowing all that helps explain a lot when both parents wind up bloodied and dead like the pigeons.
Using mic stands as props they could throw, kick, flip and, yes, even sing into, the four characters - Lizzie Borden, her sister Emma, her lover Alice and the show's highlight, Bridget the Irish maid - pump their fists, flip their hair and generally convey full-on '80s riot grrrl style.
In fact, when Lizzie comes onstage in a red satin bustier and skirt after wielding her axe, intending to destroy evidence by burning her bloody clothes, the feeling is just this side of a #MeToo moment. Here is a woman who has zero shits to give.
That she's ultimately acquitted of the crime felt particularly satisfying given the years she'd had to suffer in silence. Because the more things change, the more they stay the same. Kudos, 5th Wall, for choosing such a timely topic.
Murder, girls kissing and coconut cake. What more can you ask of a Wednesday night girl date?
Mac and I had a date to eat dinner in service of my hired mouth and then get our culture fix with a play. Simple enough.
Except that when we got to the restaurant I was supposed to be reviewing, it wasn't open. Oh, sure, the sign on the door said they were open daily until 10 but it was only 6:30 and the place was locked, closed up tight. The open sign hung dark and unlighted.
Could it have come and gone already?
Rather than ponder what was up, we got right back in the car and made a beeline for old faithful, My Noodle & Bar, and the front treehouse booth, where we both pretended to look at the menu when really, we both knew we'd be ordering the exact same thing we get every time we go. My same old broccoli and chicken and her same old chicken noodle soup.
Mind you, we do it only to make ourselves feel like we're not the creatures of habit that we clearly are. But then, didn't I read somewhere that most people order the exact same thing from their neighborhood Asian restaurant every single time they go?
Perhaps we are not so pathetic as I thought.
When my food arrived, it seemed somehow more meager a portion than it typically is, a fact confirmed when Mac looked across the table and asked, "Isn't that a smaller serving than usual?"
I know, I know, size shouldn't matter, but when you're hungry, it does. And it wasn't just me because once Mac got busy with her meal, she looked up with disappointment. "There's only one fish ball instead of two," she complained and as the resident chicken noodle soup expert, I didn't doubt she was correct.
Rather than focus on the failings of our favorite dishes, I suggested we adjourn to Garnett's to share a piece of cake and make everything better again, an easy sell considering even my sweet tooth takes a backseat to Mac's.
The funny part was, after that she told me that in one of the blogs she follows (besides mine, of course), the woman shared that she she avoids sweets. "And she has the most beautiful skin, I guess from not eating sugar," Mac concluded.
Well, we'll just have to make peace with the skin we have because there's no way either of us could be that disciplined. Or even want to, no matter how magnificent our complexions might get. Next topic.
Naming the dessert choices once we got to Garnett's, our server got only as far as "coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache" before we both gave her the look and she asked if she should stop right there. Ladies and germs, we have a winner.
Sharing a massive slice, I told Mac that the only way it could have been better was if it had been chocolate coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache. She rolled her eyes, so I'm not sure she agreed with me.
From there, it was back to J-Ward to leave the car and hoof it over to the Basement to see 5th Wall's production of "Lizzie, the Musical." Because nothing makes for good show tunes like the tale of a 19th century axe murderer.
Conceived of as a punk rock opera, the play got high marks from both of us for its all female cast (well, if you don't count the band led by the fabulous Starlet Knight, which allowed a couple of men in) and a lesbian love story subplot.
So. Much. Girlpower.
As for what drives Lizzie, that would be Daddy who visits her bedroom and takes what she shouldn't have to give. As if that isn't awful enough, he also kills her beloved birds and leaves them in a bloody sack. Meanwhile her sister is all riled up by their stepmother who has replaced the daughters in her new husband's will.
Knowing all that helps explain a lot when both parents wind up bloodied and dead like the pigeons.
Using mic stands as props they could throw, kick, flip and, yes, even sing into, the four characters - Lizzie Borden, her sister Emma, her lover Alice and the show's highlight, Bridget the Irish maid - pump their fists, flip their hair and generally convey full-on '80s riot grrrl style.
In fact, when Lizzie comes onstage in a red satin bustier and skirt after wielding her axe, intending to destroy evidence by burning her bloody clothes, the feeling is just this side of a #MeToo moment. Here is a woman who has zero shits to give.
That she's ultimately acquitted of the crime felt particularly satisfying given the years she'd had to suffer in silence. Because the more things change, the more they stay the same. Kudos, 5th Wall, for choosing such a timely topic.
Murder, girls kissing and coconut cake. What more can you ask of a Wednesday night girl date?
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
Age is What You Make It
When I'm 94, I want to be as cool as Willie Anne Wright.
Back before I left for Dubrovnik, I'd been invited to a Candela Gallery luncheon for the painter-turned-photographer and even though I knew this week would be crazy busy getting back into the work flow, I'd accepted for fear I may not get another invitation to meet a talented, working nonagenarian.
I'd seen her new exhibit as part of the group show "Channels" at September's First Friday opening and been wildly impressed with her photograms combining a vintage set of tarot cards (it didn't hurt that I'd been to a tarot card reading in May) and Brugmansia flowers from her garden.
Although I was among the first to arrive, a fact attributable to Candela being a five-block walk while most people had to find parking, the galleries soon filled up with a who's who of local gallerists and curators, including Seth Feman, curator of exhibitions at the Chrysler Museum in Norfolk.
When I spotted the manager of Quirk Gallery, my first question was where he'd been at the Artsies, since I hadn't seen him but knew he had to be there since his actress wife was not only up for an award, but a presenter. "Up in the balcony, away from it all," he joked before we began reminiscing about how much saner the awards program has become compared to its early years as an alcohol-fueled four-hour extravaganza.
Where gallery people gather, there's always talk of installing and de-installing shows.The director of 1708 was lamenting how short she and her staff are - all under 5'5" - when it comes to mounting and taking down exhibits, leading to a discussion of how short people manage at music shows. I shared that my favorite place at the National is at the apex of the floor, directly in front of the sound board.
"I'm so short, I just find a tall person and stand directly in front of them," one woman said. Another admitted to passive-aggressively giving tall people who stood in front of her "the look" until they got the hint and moved.
Eventually, Candela's owner Gordon herded us to the tables for lunch - sandwiches, a green salad and fruit salad from Lift Cafe next door - so we could hear what Willie Anne had to share about her latest work. I made sure to take a seat facing where she sat, eager to learn from my elder.
"Willie Anne and I have known each other for 25 or 30 years," Gordon began before Willie Anne piped up, saying, "I'm only 35!" And while it was a joke, everyone agreed she looked and acted far younger than her years.
He told us how she'd begun as a painter and only taken a photography class so she could document her paintings. "She's going to talk as long as she likes and I'll sit here happily," Gordon concluded. He wasn't the only one.
Explaining that she'd been given the deck of Pamela Coleman Smith-designed tarot cards in 1970, she gestured to the man on her right, saying that he'd been the one to give them to her. "1966," he corrected her and she smiled, looking surprised.
"My kids were into being hippies and I rolled my eyes and said, far out!" she recalled, before admitting that it wasn't until she was given Brugmansia plants, which are known for their mystic qualities, that the mystic Art Deco-inspired tarot cards from 1909 inspired her to combine the 22 major arcana of the deck with the blooms.
Holding up several plastic sleeves of pressed Brugmansia flowers, she explained that she exposed them directly to the sun using conventional darkroom paper. "So they should be black and white images," Gordon interjected, but as anyone could see by the images on the wall, they were instead rendered in shades of pumpkin and raisin.
"Okay, that's the way I did it!" she announced cheerfully, before going on to explain that she intentionally arranged the pendulous flowers the way they grew, trumpets down. This she pointed out on one of the prints where a figure with a horn mirrored the angle of the flower next to it, pointing down.
Looking around at her finished pieces framed and hanging on the walls, Willie Anne observed, "I'd never seen these arranged in sequence. Looking at them I saw that it works. Maybe I got something here!"
Never was self-deprecation so charming.
Someone asked her how long it took to get the images and she said it ranged from half an hour to three hours, depending on how strong and constant the sun was, admitting that she often went on to do something else while they sat on her front porch. "It's not the most efficient way to work, but it works for me."
Who doesn't have their own peculiar way of doing things?
Her enthusiasm for her work was evident and her self-effacing demeanor made her even more of an artistic champion. "I wish you could all come to my backyard and see my Brugmansia. They're all in bloom!"
You better believe I'll still be crowing about my moonflowers when I'm 94. Now whether or not I'll still be cranking out blog posts remains to be seen, but I expect I'll still have plenty to say.
The challenge may be finding people who'll sit happily while I talk as long as I want. Willie Anne is my hero.
Back before I left for Dubrovnik, I'd been invited to a Candela Gallery luncheon for the painter-turned-photographer and even though I knew this week would be crazy busy getting back into the work flow, I'd accepted for fear I may not get another invitation to meet a talented, working nonagenarian.
I'd seen her new exhibit as part of the group show "Channels" at September's First Friday opening and been wildly impressed with her photograms combining a vintage set of tarot cards (it didn't hurt that I'd been to a tarot card reading in May) and Brugmansia flowers from her garden.
Although I was among the first to arrive, a fact attributable to Candela being a five-block walk while most people had to find parking, the galleries soon filled up with a who's who of local gallerists and curators, including Seth Feman, curator of exhibitions at the Chrysler Museum in Norfolk.
When I spotted the manager of Quirk Gallery, my first question was where he'd been at the Artsies, since I hadn't seen him but knew he had to be there since his actress wife was not only up for an award, but a presenter. "Up in the balcony, away from it all," he joked before we began reminiscing about how much saner the awards program has become compared to its early years as an alcohol-fueled four-hour extravaganza.
Where gallery people gather, there's always talk of installing and de-installing shows.The director of 1708 was lamenting how short she and her staff are - all under 5'5" - when it comes to mounting and taking down exhibits, leading to a discussion of how short people manage at music shows. I shared that my favorite place at the National is at the apex of the floor, directly in front of the sound board.
"I'm so short, I just find a tall person and stand directly in front of them," one woman said. Another admitted to passive-aggressively giving tall people who stood in front of her "the look" until they got the hint and moved.
Eventually, Candela's owner Gordon herded us to the tables for lunch - sandwiches, a green salad and fruit salad from Lift Cafe next door - so we could hear what Willie Anne had to share about her latest work. I made sure to take a seat facing where she sat, eager to learn from my elder.
"Willie Anne and I have known each other for 25 or 30 years," Gordon began before Willie Anne piped up, saying, "I'm only 35!" And while it was a joke, everyone agreed she looked and acted far younger than her years.
He told us how she'd begun as a painter and only taken a photography class so she could document her paintings. "She's going to talk as long as she likes and I'll sit here happily," Gordon concluded. He wasn't the only one.
Explaining that she'd been given the deck of Pamela Coleman Smith-designed tarot cards in 1970, she gestured to the man on her right, saying that he'd been the one to give them to her. "1966," he corrected her and she smiled, looking surprised.
"My kids were into being hippies and I rolled my eyes and said, far out!" she recalled, before admitting that it wasn't until she was given Brugmansia plants, which are known for their mystic qualities, that the mystic Art Deco-inspired tarot cards from 1909 inspired her to combine the 22 major arcana of the deck with the blooms.
Holding up several plastic sleeves of pressed Brugmansia flowers, she explained that she exposed them directly to the sun using conventional darkroom paper. "So they should be black and white images," Gordon interjected, but as anyone could see by the images on the wall, they were instead rendered in shades of pumpkin and raisin.
"Okay, that's the way I did it!" she announced cheerfully, before going on to explain that she intentionally arranged the pendulous flowers the way they grew, trumpets down. This she pointed out on one of the prints where a figure with a horn mirrored the angle of the flower next to it, pointing down.
Looking around at her finished pieces framed and hanging on the walls, Willie Anne observed, "I'd never seen these arranged in sequence. Looking at them I saw that it works. Maybe I got something here!"
Never was self-deprecation so charming.
Someone asked her how long it took to get the images and she said it ranged from half an hour to three hours, depending on how strong and constant the sun was, admitting that she often went on to do something else while they sat on her front porch. "It's not the most efficient way to work, but it works for me."
Who doesn't have their own peculiar way of doing things?
Her enthusiasm for her work was evident and her self-effacing demeanor made her even more of an artistic champion. "I wish you could all come to my backyard and see my Brugmansia. They're all in bloom!"
You better believe I'll still be crowing about my moonflowers when I'm 94. Now whether or not I'll still be cranking out blog posts remains to be seen, but I expect I'll still have plenty to say.
The challenge may be finding people who'll sit happily while I talk as long as I want. Willie Anne is my hero.
Gone, But Not Forgotten
Go away for 16 of the past 21 days and it apparently gets noticed.
When I walked into the Byrd Theatre last night to see "Out of Africa," I only got as far as the concession stand before I heard a voice from above call out, "Hey, stranger, nice to see you!" Looking up to the balcony concourse, I saw it was manager Todd giving me a hard time with a smile.
And while I allowed that it had been a solid three weeks since I'd last seen a movie there - "Smokey and the Bandit" as part of a RIP tribute to Burt - the fact is, it had only been two weeks since he'd seen my smiling face when I mistakenly showed up only to find that "L'Avventura" had screened two days earlier.
Either way, it hadn't been all that long.
Tonight, I was in my usual seat at the Grace Street Theatre for VCU Cinematheque's screening of "La Notte" promptly at 6:50, when, as usual, right at 6:59 the Frenchman slid into his usual seat one away from mine, immediately launching into chatter. "Haven't seen you in a while here. Supposed to rain for the Folk Fest this weekend. How're you doing?"
Just fine. Eager to get my Italian film fix on. Now be quiet so we can hear Dr. T. talk about the film. And please don't snore once you fall asleep like you always do.
One person who didn't give me a hard time was Mac when we got together this morning to walk for the first time in two weeks, but since she's the one who'd taken me to Dulles when I flew out, she'd known exactly where I was. Seems she'd been avidly following the blog in the interim, since she mentioned how much she'd laughed reading about the lunch at Lady Pipi's and the food tour with the mildly crazy guide.
"Out of Africa" turned out to be an ideal movie to ease me back into the Richmond scene with its unhurried pacing, spectacular photography and unconventional love story. Since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1985, I'd forgotten how long it was (2 hours, 50 minutes), not that it mattered because I reveled in the sheer eye candy of it, never mind Meryl Streep's superb performance and how much poetry was recited by the lovers.
And what woman of my age doesn't swoon seeing Robert Redford wash her hair or hear him pitching woo?
You ruined it for me.
What?
Being alone.
Oh, sure, there was also humor - "I'd curtsy, but I'm drunk" - and I was caught up enough that by the final scenes, my eyes were welling up and as the lights came up, people all around me were wiping their eyes or sniffling from crying. That includes the guy sitting alone two seats down in my row.
Tonight's piece of classic Italian cinema from 1961 was introduced when Dr. T. said, "Welcome once again to an event of your life: seeing a Michelangelo Antonioni film on 35 mm!" For years now, I've admired his passion for whatever film he's chosen to show his film students and the rest of us film lovers.
Of course, attending a Cinematheque event also means having to listen to the blather of today's youth before the movie begins. Sample: "I think Jim Carrey is a colossal asshole because he thinks he's talented." And don't get me started on some kid's cellphone ringing loudly during Dr. T's introduction.
Seriously? You're a digital native, you should know how to control your devices, son.
"La Notte" was the polar opposite of "Out of Africa:" shot in black and white, the antithesis of Hollywood and full of underlying commentary about the ennui and dissatisfaction of Italy's upper classes as Italy modernized in the post-war era. The film doesn't start in the elevator of a skyscraper for nothing, you know.
What's always weird at these Cinematheque screenings is how kids today react to certain scenes. When a clearly mentally challenged woman in a hospital tries to seduce Marcello Mastroianni, several nurses rush in to restrain her and begin slapping her face. Students tittered and then giggled at that. A brutal street fight between young men in an empty lot also elicited laughter, as did a love scene.
Then there was the student behind me who during a dramatically composed scene said overly loudly to her companion, "I don't understand what's going on, but that's a beautiful shot." So while human interaction may baffle them, at least they get some of the finer points of filmmaking.
Walking home from Grace Street, there was no question that the nights have gotten cooler in my absence, with the only consolation being that out on my balcony, I had eleven moonflowers blooming tonight. That's a record so far this year, so I'm consoling myself with that.
Well, that and the fact that I saw that my neighborhood crab guys still have crustaceans available.
Don't mind me, I'm just over here trying to hang on to Summer with every fiber of my being. The only downside of being away is finding out that time marches on, even in my absence.
Drat the luck.
When I walked into the Byrd Theatre last night to see "Out of Africa," I only got as far as the concession stand before I heard a voice from above call out, "Hey, stranger, nice to see you!" Looking up to the balcony concourse, I saw it was manager Todd giving me a hard time with a smile.
And while I allowed that it had been a solid three weeks since I'd last seen a movie there - "Smokey and the Bandit" as part of a RIP tribute to Burt - the fact is, it had only been two weeks since he'd seen my smiling face when I mistakenly showed up only to find that "L'Avventura" had screened two days earlier.
Either way, it hadn't been all that long.
Tonight, I was in my usual seat at the Grace Street Theatre for VCU Cinematheque's screening of "La Notte" promptly at 6:50, when, as usual, right at 6:59 the Frenchman slid into his usual seat one away from mine, immediately launching into chatter. "Haven't seen you in a while here. Supposed to rain for the Folk Fest this weekend. How're you doing?"
Just fine. Eager to get my Italian film fix on. Now be quiet so we can hear Dr. T. talk about the film. And please don't snore once you fall asleep like you always do.
One person who didn't give me a hard time was Mac when we got together this morning to walk for the first time in two weeks, but since she's the one who'd taken me to Dulles when I flew out, she'd known exactly where I was. Seems she'd been avidly following the blog in the interim, since she mentioned how much she'd laughed reading about the lunch at Lady Pipi's and the food tour with the mildly crazy guide.
"Out of Africa" turned out to be an ideal movie to ease me back into the Richmond scene with its unhurried pacing, spectacular photography and unconventional love story. Since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1985, I'd forgotten how long it was (2 hours, 50 minutes), not that it mattered because I reveled in the sheer eye candy of it, never mind Meryl Streep's superb performance and how much poetry was recited by the lovers.
And what woman of my age doesn't swoon seeing Robert Redford wash her hair or hear him pitching woo?
You ruined it for me.
What?
Being alone.
Oh, sure, there was also humor - "I'd curtsy, but I'm drunk" - and I was caught up enough that by the final scenes, my eyes were welling up and as the lights came up, people all around me were wiping their eyes or sniffling from crying. That includes the guy sitting alone two seats down in my row.
Tonight's piece of classic Italian cinema from 1961 was introduced when Dr. T. said, "Welcome once again to an event of your life: seeing a Michelangelo Antonioni film on 35 mm!" For years now, I've admired his passion for whatever film he's chosen to show his film students and the rest of us film lovers.
Of course, attending a Cinematheque event also means having to listen to the blather of today's youth before the movie begins. Sample: "I think Jim Carrey is a colossal asshole because he thinks he's talented." And don't get me started on some kid's cellphone ringing loudly during Dr. T's introduction.
Seriously? You're a digital native, you should know how to control your devices, son.
"La Notte" was the polar opposite of "Out of Africa:" shot in black and white, the antithesis of Hollywood and full of underlying commentary about the ennui and dissatisfaction of Italy's upper classes as Italy modernized in the post-war era. The film doesn't start in the elevator of a skyscraper for nothing, you know.
What's always weird at these Cinematheque screenings is how kids today react to certain scenes. When a clearly mentally challenged woman in a hospital tries to seduce Marcello Mastroianni, several nurses rush in to restrain her and begin slapping her face. Students tittered and then giggled at that. A brutal street fight between young men in an empty lot also elicited laughter, as did a love scene.
Then there was the student behind me who during a dramatically composed scene said overly loudly to her companion, "I don't understand what's going on, but that's a beautiful shot." So while human interaction may baffle them, at least they get some of the finer points of filmmaking.
Walking home from Grace Street, there was no question that the nights have gotten cooler in my absence, with the only consolation being that out on my balcony, I had eleven moonflowers blooming tonight. That's a record so far this year, so I'm consoling myself with that.
Well, that and the fact that I saw that my neighborhood crab guys still have crustaceans available.
Don't mind me, I'm just over here trying to hang on to Summer with every fiber of my being. The only downside of being away is finding out that time marches on, even in my absence.
Drat the luck.
Monday, October 8, 2018
Gratitude and Tequila
The sole reason I'm back in the U.S. today is the Artsies.
So if our return from Athens was decided based on the Richmond Theatre Critics Circle Awards, it damn sure better be an entertaining evening. That's all I'm saying. After all, as a member of the Theatre Alliance Panel, I helped decide who would win what awards, so it's not like I was attending for the surprise of the winners.
Although, if I'm honest, I really didn't recall at least half of the winners until they were announced onstage. Fortunately for my self-esteem, it wasn't just me, either. Two other panelists and one theater critic admitted the same thing before the night was over.
After a day spent trying to get my Richmond groove back, I cleaned up, put on a new thrift store cocktail dress and set out on foot (and in cute, black platform shoes) to cover the five blocks to the November Theater. Before I'd even gone a half a block, a car approaching me slowed down and the window was rolled down.
"You sure do look beautiful," my next door neighbor observed from his car. "You sure do." Imagine how impressed he'd have been if I'd told him the dress cost me $7.50.
This year's Artsie's theme was "Location, Location, Location," incidentally, a name yours truly had come up with when the critics and panelists were trying to come up with a way to pay tribute to all the unique locations of Richmond theaters: a fire house, a tavern and gristmill, a Tudor mansion, a former radiator shop.
Even a building actually built to be a theater, namely the one we were sitting in tonight.
And if anyone knows how to dress up for an awards show, it's the theater crowd. So many sequins of every color, and then there were the women. Strapless, backless, low-cut and skin-tight, there were a whole lot of bodies on display.
As is always the case, there was a lot of poking fun at every part of the theater scene, from old queens to boring plays and everything in between. There was also much commentary, both political and personal, from the winners.
When Lee Meerovich won Best supporting actor in a musical for "Preludes," he concluded his thanks with, "Believe women! Believe survivors!" and got a roaring applause for it in these bruised post-Kavanaugh days.
Frequently, it was the winner's partner who got the grateful words, as when Happy Mahaney won best supporting actor in a play for "Appropriate" and immediately thanked his boyfriend. "You met me in a time of transition." Very sweet.
Humor abounded, sometimes intentional and sometimes not. When the cast of "Alice, A New Musical" did a couple of numbers, the screen over their heads read, "Alice, A New Musical" presents "Sweet Child o' Mine." Somewhere, Axl Rose was smiling.
Another time, presenter and perpetual wisecracker Maggie Bavolack cracked wise about Deborah Wagoner breaking her foot during the run of "Mary Poppins," quipping, "But I'm pretty sure she broke it carrying that whole show." Ouch.
When it was John Mincks and Jamar Jones' turn to present, they began by doing a dance to a Jamiroquai song, to hilarious results.
After an earlier joke about how Virginia Rep can afford to bring in expensive, out of town talent, when Nathaniel Shaw, Va Rep's artistic director accepted the award for special achievement in dance for Matthew Couvillon's work adhering to Jerome Robbins's choreography in"West Side Story," he acknowledged that Matthew was "one of those expensive, out of town people we got."
Fair enough because the dancing had been superb.
The evening's first full-on cryer was Donna Marie Miller when she won best actress in a supporting role for a play in "Food, Clothing and Shelter." Still wiping away mascara, she soldiered on. "Holy crap!" she exclaimed. "I wanna be funny and cute, but I can't."
It was a genuinely touching moment when Elizabeth Wyld won best supporting actress in a musical for "Fun Home," as she said, "Thank you for casting me because I'm an openly gay women." Now you know the crowd screamed and clapped for that.
Intermission was long, allowing more time to get drinks (the evening is a fundraiser, after all, for the Theatre Artists Fund of Greater Richmond, a noble cause) and mingle. I ran into a woman I knew from years ago who was kind enough to share that every time she reads one of my articles in Style Weekly, she's struck by my take on the subject.
Music to a writer's ears, in other words.
Sometimes, it was when the presenters went off script that the applause was loudest, as when Maggie Roop pointed out that Tennessee Dixon was the sole woman nominated for Outstanding Achievement in set design for a musical. She didn't win, but the crowd exploded at the observation.
It was almost as good as when she praised friend and co-presenter Audra Honaker by saying how impressed she was that Audra had put on a bra and left her house. Hey, don't judge.
Taking the stage to accept best actress in a leading role in a musical for "Wings," Bianca Bryan joked, "Sixth time is the charm!" and thanked her parents for paying for singing lessons. Susan Sanford, accepting her best actress in a leading role in a play for "Appropriate," announced, "All I can think of is the title of my future autobiography: Gratitude and Bourbon," before reminding those in the crowd who had sons that they "had to be raised to be amazing men."
As women, we will remind until it's standard operating procedure and probably even for a while after that. You got a problem with that?
Boisterous snapping and clapping were the order of the evening as the audience got rowdier with more drinks and fewer reasons to hold back. The Artsies are meant to be a celebration and this crowd knows something about celebrating itself.
Oh, sure, the critics and panelists were forced to stand and identify ourselves when our names were called, but no one was there to look at us.
Fact is, we put on bras and left the house to celebrate what a stellar theater town this is. I don't want to gush about how lucky we audience members are, but I just can't help it.
So if our return from Athens was decided based on the Richmond Theatre Critics Circle Awards, it damn sure better be an entertaining evening. That's all I'm saying. After all, as a member of the Theatre Alliance Panel, I helped decide who would win what awards, so it's not like I was attending for the surprise of the winners.
Although, if I'm honest, I really didn't recall at least half of the winners until they were announced onstage. Fortunately for my self-esteem, it wasn't just me, either. Two other panelists and one theater critic admitted the same thing before the night was over.
After a day spent trying to get my Richmond groove back, I cleaned up, put on a new thrift store cocktail dress and set out on foot (and in cute, black platform shoes) to cover the five blocks to the November Theater. Before I'd even gone a half a block, a car approaching me slowed down and the window was rolled down.
"You sure do look beautiful," my next door neighbor observed from his car. "You sure do." Imagine how impressed he'd have been if I'd told him the dress cost me $7.50.
This year's Artsie's theme was "Location, Location, Location," incidentally, a name yours truly had come up with when the critics and panelists were trying to come up with a way to pay tribute to all the unique locations of Richmond theaters: a fire house, a tavern and gristmill, a Tudor mansion, a former radiator shop.
Even a building actually built to be a theater, namely the one we were sitting in tonight.
And if anyone knows how to dress up for an awards show, it's the theater crowd. So many sequins of every color, and then there were the women. Strapless, backless, low-cut and skin-tight, there were a whole lot of bodies on display.
As is always the case, there was a lot of poking fun at every part of the theater scene, from old queens to boring plays and everything in between. There was also much commentary, both political and personal, from the winners.
When Lee Meerovich won Best supporting actor in a musical for "Preludes," he concluded his thanks with, "Believe women! Believe survivors!" and got a roaring applause for it in these bruised post-Kavanaugh days.
Frequently, it was the winner's partner who got the grateful words, as when Happy Mahaney won best supporting actor in a play for "Appropriate" and immediately thanked his boyfriend. "You met me in a time of transition." Very sweet.
Humor abounded, sometimes intentional and sometimes not. When the cast of "Alice, A New Musical" did a couple of numbers, the screen over their heads read, "Alice, A New Musical" presents "Sweet Child o' Mine." Somewhere, Axl Rose was smiling.
Another time, presenter and perpetual wisecracker Maggie Bavolack cracked wise about Deborah Wagoner breaking her foot during the run of "Mary Poppins," quipping, "But I'm pretty sure she broke it carrying that whole show." Ouch.
When it was John Mincks and Jamar Jones' turn to present, they began by doing a dance to a Jamiroquai song, to hilarious results.
After an earlier joke about how Virginia Rep can afford to bring in expensive, out of town talent, when Nathaniel Shaw, Va Rep's artistic director accepted the award for special achievement in dance for Matthew Couvillon's work adhering to Jerome Robbins's choreography in"West Side Story," he acknowledged that Matthew was "one of those expensive, out of town people we got."
Fair enough because the dancing had been superb.
The evening's first full-on cryer was Donna Marie Miller when she won best actress in a supporting role for a play in "Food, Clothing and Shelter." Still wiping away mascara, she soldiered on. "Holy crap!" she exclaimed. "I wanna be funny and cute, but I can't."
It was a genuinely touching moment when Elizabeth Wyld won best supporting actress in a musical for "Fun Home," as she said, "Thank you for casting me because I'm an openly gay women." Now you know the crowd screamed and clapped for that.
Intermission was long, allowing more time to get drinks (the evening is a fundraiser, after all, for the Theatre Artists Fund of Greater Richmond, a noble cause) and mingle. I ran into a woman I knew from years ago who was kind enough to share that every time she reads one of my articles in Style Weekly, she's struck by my take on the subject.
Music to a writer's ears, in other words.
Sometimes, it was when the presenters went off script that the applause was loudest, as when Maggie Roop pointed out that Tennessee Dixon was the sole woman nominated for Outstanding Achievement in set design for a musical. She didn't win, but the crowd exploded at the observation.
It was almost as good as when she praised friend and co-presenter Audra Honaker by saying how impressed she was that Audra had put on a bra and left her house. Hey, don't judge.
Taking the stage to accept best actress in a leading role in a musical for "Wings," Bianca Bryan joked, "Sixth time is the charm!" and thanked her parents for paying for singing lessons. Susan Sanford, accepting her best actress in a leading role in a play for "Appropriate," announced, "All I can think of is the title of my future autobiography: Gratitude and Bourbon," before reminding those in the crowd who had sons that they "had to be raised to be amazing men."
As women, we will remind until it's standard operating procedure and probably even for a while after that. You got a problem with that?
Boisterous snapping and clapping were the order of the evening as the audience got rowdier with more drinks and fewer reasons to hold back. The Artsies are meant to be a celebration and this crowd knows something about celebrating itself.
Oh, sure, the critics and panelists were forced to stand and identify ourselves when our names were called, but no one was there to look at us.
Fact is, we put on bras and left the house to celebrate what a stellar theater town this is. I don't want to gush about how lucky we audience members are, but I just can't help it.
Sunday, October 7, 2018
A Day in the Clouds
We said goodbye to Athens under a sliver of (ungodly) early morning moon.
The only compensation once we got to the airport was having a final wedge of spanikopita with my morning cereal because if not here, where?
Before officially leaving Greece, I got interrogated by an airport employee at the Aegean Airlines line, an encounter that began innocently enough. Where had I been? Athens, Dubrovnik and the U.S. before that. Who was I traveling with? I pointed to Mr. Wright in the ticket line, answering his own set of questions.
What's your relationship with him? Um, boyfriend? For how long? Sharing the date of our first date, that's when things got seriously personal.
Has he proposed, he wants to know. What the...? No (and what business is it of yours?).
What do you do? I'm a writer. What do you write? Restaurant reviews, art pieces, feature stories. He says this is interesting, then tells me to have a good trip. Leaning in as he hands back my passport and boarding pass, this man I've never laid eyes on before assures me that he will propose and points at his own wedding ring.
Since when do airport employees forecast the relationship future of travelers? All I can think is, it's way too early for this kind of stranger interaction.
The flight from Athens to Geneva allowed me to finish my second book of this trip, Anais Nin's "Delta of Venus" (because where better to read '40s erotica than Greece?) and leave it at the airport for another reader to discover (Inscribed with my name, Richmond, Virginia and the date I finished it, natch) and enjoy.
Members of the international reading community unite.
Coming into Geneva provided a gorgeous view of Lake Geneva, a blue-green beauty so still that the trees ringing it were reflected all around the shore and a white boat cutting through the water left a picture-perfect V-shaped trail behind it.
The 8-hour flight from Geneva to Dulles afforded me the opportunity to read Jerzy Kosinski's 1977 semi-autobiographical "Blind Date." Imagine my surprise when I was only on page 10 before discovering that it was set in Switzerland, the country I'd just set foot in for the first time.
I ask you, what are the chances?
Mind you, because I was reading a 1978 paperback copy that's been on my bookshelf for goodness knows how long, the pages were yellowed and brittle and by page 8, the front cover came off, although it took all the way until page 50 for the back cover to disassociate itself from the book.
But what could I expect from a 40-year old paperback, after all?
The book was full of references that could only have come out of the '70s - a woman in a Foxy Lady t-shirt and a man described as stylish "in a well-cut suit with a wide tie." You couldn't very well live through that era and not recall how wide the ties were.
Although I really had no memory of the book or author, it was clear from the pages of accolades about him and his other books (he also wrote "The Painted Bird" and "Being There," another important film I've never seen) that Kosinski - a Russian/Polish Jew whose family had survived the Holocaust before he immigrated to the U.S. in 1957 - had been a very big deal back then
One of the most surprising anecdotes involved an invitation for the author to visit his friend in Los Angeles, but his luggage was mistakenly sent to New York City, so his trip got delayed by a day. Praise be to the inefficiency of airlines because he was headed to Sharon Tate's house and that night was the one when Charles Manson's "family" showed up and slaughtered everyone there.
With an 8-hour flight, finishing the book between meals was a snap and I still had time on my hands. Determined to get my body back on local time, I refused to take a nap and at one point, I was the only person in the front cabin awake.
I might have started to flag a little on the quickie flight from Dulles to Richmond, but the angle of the sun made the reflection on the clouds so brilliant inside the tiny plane that shutting my eyes was more a matter of self-preservation than anything.
And, just like that, we were back in my adopted home town and I could escape the overly cold air-conditioned air of three planes and three airports. Greece was lovely for many reasons, not the least of which was the temperate climate.
The Moroccan taxi driver ("Nine years here and we can't find a reason to leave!" he crowed) taking me home to J-Ward was none too happy to get off I-64 and find streets closed due to the Second Street Festival. Worse still were the hordes of people trying to cross streets everywhere but at the corners and the inevitable Broad Street accidents slowing down traffic at every turn.
Listening to him go from pleasant and chatty to cursing and furious at the delays would not have been my first choice for re-entering the 'hood, but I've learned that not everyone has the equilibrium I do.
Back in my apartment, the plants were well watered, the windows still open and ten days of Washington Posts neatly stacked on my desk for perusal once life settles down. The only unfortunate event greeting me was that I had no internet or phone service and goodness only knows how long it had been out.
I can leave the country without a second thought, but I do not want to return and feel cut off from the world, which is exactly what happened. How's a girl supposed to earn a living, much less make plans and respond to correspondence if she's got no internet connection? I was way too tired to deal with such a dilemma after traveling for 16 hours.
The phone I can live without, but even after 12 hours of sleep last night, I'm at a loss without being connected to the virtual world. How desperate am I? I took my iPod with me en route to the pipeline so I could avail myself of the internet (to summon help) while on Brown's Island, that's how desperate. So desperate I'm at Lift Coffee Shop, a few blocks from home, eating lunch and answering emails, invoicing my editor and writing this post.
And, if I'm honest, missing the carefree time I was having with Mr. Right before reality settled back in. Ah, but the memories...
The only compensation once we got to the airport was having a final wedge of spanikopita with my morning cereal because if not here, where?
Before officially leaving Greece, I got interrogated by an airport employee at the Aegean Airlines line, an encounter that began innocently enough. Where had I been? Athens, Dubrovnik and the U.S. before that. Who was I traveling with? I pointed to Mr. Wright in the ticket line, answering his own set of questions.
What's your relationship with him? Um, boyfriend? For how long? Sharing the date of our first date, that's when things got seriously personal.
Has he proposed, he wants to know. What the...? No (and what business is it of yours?).
What do you do? I'm a writer. What do you write? Restaurant reviews, art pieces, feature stories. He says this is interesting, then tells me to have a good trip. Leaning in as he hands back my passport and boarding pass, this man I've never laid eyes on before assures me that he will propose and points at his own wedding ring.
Since when do airport employees forecast the relationship future of travelers? All I can think is, it's way too early for this kind of stranger interaction.
The flight from Athens to Geneva allowed me to finish my second book of this trip, Anais Nin's "Delta of Venus" (because where better to read '40s erotica than Greece?) and leave it at the airport for another reader to discover (Inscribed with my name, Richmond, Virginia and the date I finished it, natch) and enjoy.
Members of the international reading community unite.
Coming into Geneva provided a gorgeous view of Lake Geneva, a blue-green beauty so still that the trees ringing it were reflected all around the shore and a white boat cutting through the water left a picture-perfect V-shaped trail behind it.
The 8-hour flight from Geneva to Dulles afforded me the opportunity to read Jerzy Kosinski's 1977 semi-autobiographical "Blind Date." Imagine my surprise when I was only on page 10 before discovering that it was set in Switzerland, the country I'd just set foot in for the first time.
I ask you, what are the chances?
Mind you, because I was reading a 1978 paperback copy that's been on my bookshelf for goodness knows how long, the pages were yellowed and brittle and by page 8, the front cover came off, although it took all the way until page 50 for the back cover to disassociate itself from the book.
But what could I expect from a 40-year old paperback, after all?
The book was full of references that could only have come out of the '70s - a woman in a Foxy Lady t-shirt and a man described as stylish "in a well-cut suit with a wide tie." You couldn't very well live through that era and not recall how wide the ties were.
Although I really had no memory of the book or author, it was clear from the pages of accolades about him and his other books (he also wrote "The Painted Bird" and "Being There," another important film I've never seen) that Kosinski - a Russian/Polish Jew whose family had survived the Holocaust before he immigrated to the U.S. in 1957 - had been a very big deal back then
One of the most surprising anecdotes involved an invitation for the author to visit his friend in Los Angeles, but his luggage was mistakenly sent to New York City, so his trip got delayed by a day. Praise be to the inefficiency of airlines because he was headed to Sharon Tate's house and that night was the one when Charles Manson's "family" showed up and slaughtered everyone there.
With an 8-hour flight, finishing the book between meals was a snap and I still had time on my hands. Determined to get my body back on local time, I refused to take a nap and at one point, I was the only person in the front cabin awake.
I might have started to flag a little on the quickie flight from Dulles to Richmond, but the angle of the sun made the reflection on the clouds so brilliant inside the tiny plane that shutting my eyes was more a matter of self-preservation than anything.
And, just like that, we were back in my adopted home town and I could escape the overly cold air-conditioned air of three planes and three airports. Greece was lovely for many reasons, not the least of which was the temperate climate.
The Moroccan taxi driver ("Nine years here and we can't find a reason to leave!" he crowed) taking me home to J-Ward was none too happy to get off I-64 and find streets closed due to the Second Street Festival. Worse still were the hordes of people trying to cross streets everywhere but at the corners and the inevitable Broad Street accidents slowing down traffic at every turn.
Listening to him go from pleasant and chatty to cursing and furious at the delays would not have been my first choice for re-entering the 'hood, but I've learned that not everyone has the equilibrium I do.
Back in my apartment, the plants were well watered, the windows still open and ten days of Washington Posts neatly stacked on my desk for perusal once life settles down. The only unfortunate event greeting me was that I had no internet or phone service and goodness only knows how long it had been out.
I can leave the country without a second thought, but I do not want to return and feel cut off from the world, which is exactly what happened. How's a girl supposed to earn a living, much less make plans and respond to correspondence if she's got no internet connection? I was way too tired to deal with such a dilemma after traveling for 16 hours.
The phone I can live without, but even after 12 hours of sleep last night, I'm at a loss without being connected to the virtual world. How desperate am I? I took my iPod with me en route to the pipeline so I could avail myself of the internet (to summon help) while on Brown's Island, that's how desperate. So desperate I'm at Lift Coffee Shop, a few blocks from home, eating lunch and answering emails, invoicing my editor and writing this post.
And, if I'm honest, missing the carefree time I was having with Mr. Right before reality settled back in. Ah, but the memories...
Friday, October 5, 2018
Know Thyself
Happiness depends on ourselves. -Aristotle
The beauty of not making a plan in Athens is what you discover along the way. Starting out in the evening to find a cozy spot to have dinner, we made turn after turn, winding our way past shops and eateries - the creamery adjacent to the pie shop was an especially appealing duo - crowded with humanity.
All my needs in one convenient location.
Like Goldilocks, it was a matter of finding just the right place to dine, but the pleasure was in what we found along the way. Passing a dancewear store, I glanced in to see a strapping man in jeans and t-shirt trying on a stiff, white tutu, the kind that comes straight out from the body at the waist. A solicitous-looking saleswoman was checking the fit and speaking to him.
Let's put it this way, he did not have a dancer's body, yet he appeared intent on making sure he had the right tutu. Random, yes, but oddly satisfying also.
Further on, we came upon what looked like a small stone church in the middle of a square surrounded by retail and construction and vowed to return in daylight to learn its story.
After checking out menus at several different places and rejecting each one for various reasons - too American, too loud, too similar to places we'd been - our "this one is just right" moment arrived when we came to Kouzina Kouzina, as much for its modern Greek cuisine as for the look of the place. Located next to a hair salon complete with barber pole, it had tables framed by wide doors open to the night and tables out front on the sidewalk. Inside, a curved staircase went up and down while pots and pans hung over a small counter inside.
Our first thought was that the feel of the place was a decidedly family vibe.
After moving from an outside table dramatically slanted because of the uneven street it was resting on, we settled in at the adjacent table just inside the open door with a picaresque view of the arches of a pale yellow church across the way. Before long, an Asian couple sat down at that same table, looked at each other, got up to find another and became our new best friends upon learning we'd done the same.
It was easy to decide on Vogiatzi Winery's PGI Velvento, a well-balanced blend of Chardonnay, Malvasi and Asyrtiko, as we talked through the many-paged menu with our handsome young server.
Little did we realize just how much cheese was in our future.
His recommendations and our appetites combined to bring plate after plate to the table, beginning with a winning salad of spinach and arugula,, sun-dried tomatoes, dried figs and Galomizithra cheese in a grape molasses dressing. The round of the soft, fresh sheep's milk cheese, which tasted like a second cousin to Ricotta, was almost as wide as the plate and a good half inch thick. Obscene.
Sweet peppers stuffed with Cretan goat cheese were an interesting combination of spicy and sweet, leaving me to wonder why only sweet got billing on the menu. The six little peppers were not only stuffed with cheese, but resting on a bed of, you guessed it, a half inch of goat cheese.
The handmade pie of the day turned out to be chicken and as I worked it down to mere shards of flaky, buttery crust, it occurred to me what a (savory) pie hound I've been this week. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Mr. Wright was all about Manti, traditional Greek ravioli stuffed with spiced beef and served with yogurt sauce (but then again, what isn't served with some form of yogurt here?) that our server had assured us were lighter than the Cyprian meatballs. Considering there were 15 ravioli, light is a relative term.
But to give the manti credit, there was no cheese involved, so there was that. With notes of cinnamon, nutmeg, rosemary and the usual savory spices, they were so good that even Mr. Wright couldn't resist an observation. "This tastes like Greece." And this from the man who considers food fuel.
The French women nearest to us (at the lopsided table twice rejected) had also ordered manti and we watched as they swooned over the aromas of what we knew was fabulous.
Love is a serious mental disease. - Plato
I'll be the first to admit that I haven't done my duty sampling Greek desserts, but not being a fan of honey severely restricts the Venn diagram of what they do and what I like. At least, that was my rationalization for ordering a dark chocolate mousse with a blackberry jam topping to accompany a small bottle of Matapeaah Ouzo from the menu of six Ouzo choices.
Made on the island of Lesbos, it was our server's favorite and who am I to override a local?
Besides, everyone knows that ouzo is just absinthe without the wormwood and it's no secret that I love my absinthe. With the bottle and two slender liqueur glasses came a small silver ice bucket and tongues because who wants to drink Ouzo without making it louche?
Absinthe (and Ouzo) pros know it's all about the cloudiness setting in because that's when the green fairy arrives. And let me assure you, the Ouzo fairy showed up with bells on.
All I know is that I know nothing. - Socrates
Today was devoted to retracing our steps to last night's architectural discoveries, taking us past the dancewear store (tutus still hanging, but closed, so no men trying them on inside) where the little stone church stood in the middle of the square, uncomfortably close (for me, anyway) to the mercantile madness of the nearby H & M.
The Holy Church of Kapnikarea had been built in the 11th century on the site of an ancient temple to Athena and was dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It's always about worshiping women, isn't it? What was fascinating to me was that the murals inside hadn't been painted until the early 20th century and then touched up in 1955 by a famous Greek artist.
Standing outside next to a Brit reading the signage about the church, I was captured by the poetic explanation of the deterioration of the murals: "When decay is unavoidable, melancholy is drifted into oblivion," only to hear him turn to his wife seated a few feet away on the low stone wall and read her the same line.
Never have I read such poetry on American signage.
Walking toward the Tower of the Winds, a clocktower in the Roman Agora, a man greeted us, saying, "Hello, Romeo and Juliet!" and smiling broadly before pointing to a nearby place and saying there would be a reggae dance party there tonight and we should come if we liked to dance.
Busting a quick move, he concluded I liked to dance. "Come!" he implored. "African music!"
We'll see. For now, it was on to admire what can only be called the first weather station- constructed in the second century - with sundials, a wind vane and a water clock inside that used water coming down from the Acropolis.
Okay, okay, enough with the science.
What captured me was not only the eight friezes showing various wind deities such as the north wind (an old man blowing a conch shell) and the east wind (holding a basket filled with fruit), but the various states of decay caused by the weather coming from those directions. Who wouldn't expect that the northeasterly wind frieze is in far worse shape than the southeasterly?
C'mon, any daily walker could have guessed that.
The other antiquities taking up the large, irregular area - the Gate of Athena, a line of ancient columns where people posed for selfies - gave a sense of what a bustling place the Agora had been in its time.
After walking the perimeter from outside the fence as well so I could see all the friezes from an elevated point, we moseyed down to Hadrian's Library, which after the Agora seemed fairly simple. Most impressive was a mostly complete wall with Corinthian columns that somehow still stood intact.
Walking about today, we couldn't help but notice that the streets were a bit less crowded than they've been all week, which seems strange for a Friday but suited us just fine. Coming on a whitewashed restaurant patio on a prime corner not all that far from our apartment, we scored a table next to an Aussie family with a toddler eagerly digging into a platter of fries.
Kosmikoni had been on that spot since 1966 when the owners had opened using the wife's recipes and was now in the hands of their children, although the older gentleman walking around the patio checking on every table could have easily been Pops. If a customer needed an answer, he was right there. If they were ready to order, he took it without writing anything down.
A quartet - tambourine, accordion, upright bass and sax - showed up to provide lunching music before passing the tambourine for contributions. People stopped mid-bite to pull out phones and watch through tiny screens. No comment.
My gyro arrived deconstructed and enormous, half the platter covered in shaved meat and the rest offering up wedges of tomato, piles of sliced onions, tzatziki and pita bread. Mr. Wright's kebabs had all the same accouterments minus the tzatziki. It was enough food for an army and we were just two hungry mouths, but we did our best.
All I know is how dubiously our server looked at the mound of chicken still left on my plate when he came to clear, probably thinking that there were starving children in the Agora or something like that.
Life must be lived as a play. - Plato
And Juliet's play is currently running in Athens. Like Aristotle said, it's up to me.
The beauty of not making a plan in Athens is what you discover along the way. Starting out in the evening to find a cozy spot to have dinner, we made turn after turn, winding our way past shops and eateries - the creamery adjacent to the pie shop was an especially appealing duo - crowded with humanity.
All my needs in one convenient location.
Like Goldilocks, it was a matter of finding just the right place to dine, but the pleasure was in what we found along the way. Passing a dancewear store, I glanced in to see a strapping man in jeans and t-shirt trying on a stiff, white tutu, the kind that comes straight out from the body at the waist. A solicitous-looking saleswoman was checking the fit and speaking to him.
Let's put it this way, he did not have a dancer's body, yet he appeared intent on making sure he had the right tutu. Random, yes, but oddly satisfying also.
Further on, we came upon what looked like a small stone church in the middle of a square surrounded by retail and construction and vowed to return in daylight to learn its story.
After checking out menus at several different places and rejecting each one for various reasons - too American, too loud, too similar to places we'd been - our "this one is just right" moment arrived when we came to Kouzina Kouzina, as much for its modern Greek cuisine as for the look of the place. Located next to a hair salon complete with barber pole, it had tables framed by wide doors open to the night and tables out front on the sidewalk. Inside, a curved staircase went up and down while pots and pans hung over a small counter inside.
Our first thought was that the feel of the place was a decidedly family vibe.
After moving from an outside table dramatically slanted because of the uneven street it was resting on, we settled in at the adjacent table just inside the open door with a picaresque view of the arches of a pale yellow church across the way. Before long, an Asian couple sat down at that same table, looked at each other, got up to find another and became our new best friends upon learning we'd done the same.
It was easy to decide on Vogiatzi Winery's PGI Velvento, a well-balanced blend of Chardonnay, Malvasi and Asyrtiko, as we talked through the many-paged menu with our handsome young server.
Little did we realize just how much cheese was in our future.
His recommendations and our appetites combined to bring plate after plate to the table, beginning with a winning salad of spinach and arugula,, sun-dried tomatoes, dried figs and Galomizithra cheese in a grape molasses dressing. The round of the soft, fresh sheep's milk cheese, which tasted like a second cousin to Ricotta, was almost as wide as the plate and a good half inch thick. Obscene.
Sweet peppers stuffed with Cretan goat cheese were an interesting combination of spicy and sweet, leaving me to wonder why only sweet got billing on the menu. The six little peppers were not only stuffed with cheese, but resting on a bed of, you guessed it, a half inch of goat cheese.
The handmade pie of the day turned out to be chicken and as I worked it down to mere shards of flaky, buttery crust, it occurred to me what a (savory) pie hound I've been this week. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Mr. Wright was all about Manti, traditional Greek ravioli stuffed with spiced beef and served with yogurt sauce (but then again, what isn't served with some form of yogurt here?) that our server had assured us were lighter than the Cyprian meatballs. Considering there were 15 ravioli, light is a relative term.
But to give the manti credit, there was no cheese involved, so there was that. With notes of cinnamon, nutmeg, rosemary and the usual savory spices, they were so good that even Mr. Wright couldn't resist an observation. "This tastes like Greece." And this from the man who considers food fuel.
The French women nearest to us (at the lopsided table twice rejected) had also ordered manti and we watched as they swooned over the aromas of what we knew was fabulous.
Love is a serious mental disease. - Plato
I'll be the first to admit that I haven't done my duty sampling Greek desserts, but not being a fan of honey severely restricts the Venn diagram of what they do and what I like. At least, that was my rationalization for ordering a dark chocolate mousse with a blackberry jam topping to accompany a small bottle of Matapeaah Ouzo from the menu of six Ouzo choices.
Made on the island of Lesbos, it was our server's favorite and who am I to override a local?
Besides, everyone knows that ouzo is just absinthe without the wormwood and it's no secret that I love my absinthe. With the bottle and two slender liqueur glasses came a small silver ice bucket and tongues because who wants to drink Ouzo without making it louche?
Absinthe (and Ouzo) pros know it's all about the cloudiness setting in because that's when the green fairy arrives. And let me assure you, the Ouzo fairy showed up with bells on.
All I know is that I know nothing. - Socrates
Today was devoted to retracing our steps to last night's architectural discoveries, taking us past the dancewear store (tutus still hanging, but closed, so no men trying them on inside) where the little stone church stood in the middle of the square, uncomfortably close (for me, anyway) to the mercantile madness of the nearby H & M.
The Holy Church of Kapnikarea had been built in the 11th century on the site of an ancient temple to Athena and was dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It's always about worshiping women, isn't it? What was fascinating to me was that the murals inside hadn't been painted until the early 20th century and then touched up in 1955 by a famous Greek artist.
Standing outside next to a Brit reading the signage about the church, I was captured by the poetic explanation of the deterioration of the murals: "When decay is unavoidable, melancholy is drifted into oblivion," only to hear him turn to his wife seated a few feet away on the low stone wall and read her the same line.
Never have I read such poetry on American signage.
Walking toward the Tower of the Winds, a clocktower in the Roman Agora, a man greeted us, saying, "Hello, Romeo and Juliet!" and smiling broadly before pointing to a nearby place and saying there would be a reggae dance party there tonight and we should come if we liked to dance.
Busting a quick move, he concluded I liked to dance. "Come!" he implored. "African music!"
We'll see. For now, it was on to admire what can only be called the first weather station- constructed in the second century - with sundials, a wind vane and a water clock inside that used water coming down from the Acropolis.
Okay, okay, enough with the science.
What captured me was not only the eight friezes showing various wind deities such as the north wind (an old man blowing a conch shell) and the east wind (holding a basket filled with fruit), but the various states of decay caused by the weather coming from those directions. Who wouldn't expect that the northeasterly wind frieze is in far worse shape than the southeasterly?
C'mon, any daily walker could have guessed that.
The other antiquities taking up the large, irregular area - the Gate of Athena, a line of ancient columns where people posed for selfies - gave a sense of what a bustling place the Agora had been in its time.
After walking the perimeter from outside the fence as well so I could see all the friezes from an elevated point, we moseyed down to Hadrian's Library, which after the Agora seemed fairly simple. Most impressive was a mostly complete wall with Corinthian columns that somehow still stood intact.
Walking about today, we couldn't help but notice that the streets were a bit less crowded than they've been all week, which seems strange for a Friday but suited us just fine. Coming on a whitewashed restaurant patio on a prime corner not all that far from our apartment, we scored a table next to an Aussie family with a toddler eagerly digging into a platter of fries.
Kosmikoni had been on that spot since 1966 when the owners had opened using the wife's recipes and was now in the hands of their children, although the older gentleman walking around the patio checking on every table could have easily been Pops. If a customer needed an answer, he was right there. If they were ready to order, he took it without writing anything down.
A quartet - tambourine, accordion, upright bass and sax - showed up to provide lunching music before passing the tambourine for contributions. People stopped mid-bite to pull out phones and watch through tiny screens. No comment.
My gyro arrived deconstructed and enormous, half the platter covered in shaved meat and the rest offering up wedges of tomato, piles of sliced onions, tzatziki and pita bread. Mr. Wright's kebabs had all the same accouterments minus the tzatziki. It was enough food for an army and we were just two hungry mouths, but we did our best.
All I know is how dubiously our server looked at the mound of chicken still left on my plate when he came to clear, probably thinking that there were starving children in the Agora or something like that.
Life must be lived as a play. - Plato
And Juliet's play is currently running in Athens. Like Aristotle said, it's up to me.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
The Athens Happy Train
Poseidon was the god of earthquakes...and other things I learned over the past two days.
Riding the hop on/hop off bus, we were apprised of the fact that the god of the sea and his trident had other responsibilities beyond water. Disney doesn't tell you that. Also news to me: that New York College has an Athens campus, a fact I can confirm because I saw it with my own two eyes.
Not particularly impressive by Athens standards, I have to say.
Fortunately, we also saw the University of Athens, a far handsomer building, even if it was designed in the neo-classical style and built in the 1830s. I'm realizing that there are far more grand 19th century buildings that I'd expected in such an ancient city.
One thing that makes me smile every time we see it is the Athens Happy Train, which, despite the name, drives on the narrow roads but resembles nothing so much as a bright red locomotive straight out of "Thomas, the Tank Engine." Pulling a string of open-air carts behind it, the train provides entertainment doing nothing more than navigating hairpin turns on busy streets, somehow without swiping pedestrians or cars.
Also gleaned: traipsing around Athens, even when it's only 80 degrees, sometimes necessitates a heat nap. The noises and voices below may not stop, but we do.
It was dark and the Plaka was alive with lights, people strolling and vendors calling to passersby when we finally hit the streets in search of dinner. After considering a variety of menus, we chose a corner table on the shrub-lined patio of a modern-looking restaurant, close to the hustle and bustle of the street, but secluded enough for easy conversation.
Samaropetra Sauvignon Blanc eased us into the night post-nap and a plate of fried pita chips riding shotgun with hummus, melitzanosalata (eggplant dip) and fish dip made up for the hours since lunch.
Dipping and sipping, I regaled Himself with news from home: Beau thinks "Himself" is not nearly descriptive enough a name for my main squeeze, coincidentally, a name he and Pru embraced. When I pointed out it was a bit cumbersome, they shortened it to MS. Meh.
Beau liked "the architect," but it came across a tad dry to me, so Pru came up with Lovin' Spoonful. Please. Finally, one or both of them suggested Mr. Right, which, when presented to Himself, was immediately reworked into Mr. Wright, thus covering two bases and hopefully satisfying everyone, reader and participant alike.
Could it be the blog needs a suggestion box?
My sea bass with tagliatelle, celery veloute and caviar not only spoke to my unladylike appetite but also to how fresh tasting fish is here. Mr. Wright tried to convince me that his grilled salmon over vegetable ratatouille surpassed mine, but it was a hard sell.
Tables around us filled and emptied as we took our time with our meal and watched as the middle-aged tourists milling the street were replaced by younger people and bands playing a block or street away. Our server had assessed us early on as not the dine and dash types and encouraged our lingering, taking her cues from us as she refreshed water and wine.
Big topics were on the table, namely future trips and how to best negotiate them without losing our shared love of new experiences in new places. No formal resolutions were reached by the time dessert arrived, so the conversation was tabled.
After sharing a lidded mason jar full of dark chocolate pudding with sea salt caramel, a crown of heavy cream and croutons (I loved how un-American that was), we were fuller than we'd been since coming to Athens and our brilliant server noticed and reacted. Delivering two glasses of Mastika, a Greek liqueur made from an evergreen called the Mastic tree, she observed that we might need a digestif.
Unlike Underberg with its heavier, more alcoholic taste, Mastika was a breath of fresh air after a lot of food and hours sitting talking. The kind of spirit that, we decided, needs to find its way home with us.
See: dinner as learning experience.
Today's ruins were Hadrian's Gate, built so long ago that it was part of a wall meant to separate the old and new city, complete with inscriptions making sure everyone knew which was which. Behind it stood the Temple of the Olympian Zeus, or at least the remaining fluted columns and their Corinthian capitals. One of the columns came down in a long ago storm and continues to lay where it fell in pieces, offering a unique look at column construction.
All around the perimeter of the site are roped off areas of - surprise! - bits and pieces of antiquity, although none of them are labeled or given any context for the archeologically curious. The little signage that existed was for the Roman baths (and latrine), which was enough to get the attention of an American group of three bros and one babe.
Walking by the ruins, clearly intent on leaving, one of the guys noticed the sign and called out to the others, "Hey, this is where the Romans took a bath!" That was enough for the other three to halt and make a U-turn to admire something they could identify with.
After a cursory look, they continued toward the exit, one of them with his thinking cap on. "What if this is what Cleveland is like in 100 years?"
Safe to say that Athens affects each of us in different ways.
What if Richmond had leek hand pies as good as the ones we snagged on the way home from Zeus' temple? It boggles the mind.
Riding the hop on/hop off bus, we were apprised of the fact that the god of the sea and his trident had other responsibilities beyond water. Disney doesn't tell you that. Also news to me: that New York College has an Athens campus, a fact I can confirm because I saw it with my own two eyes.
Not particularly impressive by Athens standards, I have to say.
Fortunately, we also saw the University of Athens, a far handsomer building, even if it was designed in the neo-classical style and built in the 1830s. I'm realizing that there are far more grand 19th century buildings that I'd expected in such an ancient city.
One thing that makes me smile every time we see it is the Athens Happy Train, which, despite the name, drives on the narrow roads but resembles nothing so much as a bright red locomotive straight out of "Thomas, the Tank Engine." Pulling a string of open-air carts behind it, the train provides entertainment doing nothing more than navigating hairpin turns on busy streets, somehow without swiping pedestrians or cars.
Also gleaned: traipsing around Athens, even when it's only 80 degrees, sometimes necessitates a heat nap. The noises and voices below may not stop, but we do.
It was dark and the Plaka was alive with lights, people strolling and vendors calling to passersby when we finally hit the streets in search of dinner. After considering a variety of menus, we chose a corner table on the shrub-lined patio of a modern-looking restaurant, close to the hustle and bustle of the street, but secluded enough for easy conversation.
Samaropetra Sauvignon Blanc eased us into the night post-nap and a plate of fried pita chips riding shotgun with hummus, melitzanosalata (eggplant dip) and fish dip made up for the hours since lunch.
Dipping and sipping, I regaled Himself with news from home: Beau thinks "Himself" is not nearly descriptive enough a name for my main squeeze, coincidentally, a name he and Pru embraced. When I pointed out it was a bit cumbersome, they shortened it to MS. Meh.
Beau liked "the architect," but it came across a tad dry to me, so Pru came up with Lovin' Spoonful. Please. Finally, one or both of them suggested Mr. Right, which, when presented to Himself, was immediately reworked into Mr. Wright, thus covering two bases and hopefully satisfying everyone, reader and participant alike.
Could it be the blog needs a suggestion box?
My sea bass with tagliatelle, celery veloute and caviar not only spoke to my unladylike appetite but also to how fresh tasting fish is here. Mr. Wright tried to convince me that his grilled salmon over vegetable ratatouille surpassed mine, but it was a hard sell.
Tables around us filled and emptied as we took our time with our meal and watched as the middle-aged tourists milling the street were replaced by younger people and bands playing a block or street away. Our server had assessed us early on as not the dine and dash types and encouraged our lingering, taking her cues from us as she refreshed water and wine.
Big topics were on the table, namely future trips and how to best negotiate them without losing our shared love of new experiences in new places. No formal resolutions were reached by the time dessert arrived, so the conversation was tabled.
After sharing a lidded mason jar full of dark chocolate pudding with sea salt caramel, a crown of heavy cream and croutons (I loved how un-American that was), we were fuller than we'd been since coming to Athens and our brilliant server noticed and reacted. Delivering two glasses of Mastika, a Greek liqueur made from an evergreen called the Mastic tree, she observed that we might need a digestif.
Unlike Underberg with its heavier, more alcoholic taste, Mastika was a breath of fresh air after a lot of food and hours sitting talking. The kind of spirit that, we decided, needs to find its way home with us.
See: dinner as learning experience.
Today's ruins were Hadrian's Gate, built so long ago that it was part of a wall meant to separate the old and new city, complete with inscriptions making sure everyone knew which was which. Behind it stood the Temple of the Olympian Zeus, or at least the remaining fluted columns and their Corinthian capitals. One of the columns came down in a long ago storm and continues to lay where it fell in pieces, offering a unique look at column construction.
All around the perimeter of the site are roped off areas of - surprise! - bits and pieces of antiquity, although none of them are labeled or given any context for the archeologically curious. The little signage that existed was for the Roman baths (and latrine), which was enough to get the attention of an American group of three bros and one babe.
Walking by the ruins, clearly intent on leaving, one of the guys noticed the sign and called out to the others, "Hey, this is where the Romans took a bath!" That was enough for the other three to halt and make a U-turn to admire something they could identify with.
After a cursory look, they continued toward the exit, one of them with his thinking cap on. "What if this is what Cleveland is like in 100 years?"
Safe to say that Athens affects each of us in different ways.
What if Richmond had leek hand pies as good as the ones we snagged on the way home from Zeus' temple? It boggles the mind.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Gyros and Grape Leaves
Athens is big, way bigger than I realized.
The genial Greek man holding the sign with Himself's name who picked us up from the airport Monday morning assured us that the rain and storms that had dominated the weather for days had finally moved on and there was nothing but blue skies ahead.
Exactly what you want to hear when you set foot in Athens for the first time.
And blue skies here means seriously blue, intensely blue, a blue meant to blur the line between sea and sky and provide the backdrop for the wispiest of clouds. A blue that makes all these whitewashed buildings stand out in high relief against it.
The apartment we're staying in is on the main drag of the Plaka, the old historical neighborhood emanating from northern and eastern slopes of the Acropolis. Around here, it's called the "neighborhood of the gods," with ancient, crooked, narrow streets lined with shops, restaurants and, seemingly at every corner, a fence surrounding a ruin, column or cluster of capitals.
It took exactly one afternoon to realize that you can't swing a dead cat without hitting an antiquity. And not to disparage cats, but this place is positively lousy with them, lounging on window ledges, curled up by tavern doors and strolling down cobblestone streets like they own them.
Which is, according to Himself, a good thing because when you don't se them (say, in China), that means they're being served up somewhere. Already, pigeon is showing up on an awful lot of menus we've seen, if you know what I'm saying.
After getting acquainted with the apartment, we headed out to see what the 'hood was about. Earlier, when our driver had motioned and stopped the car to unload us on the one car-wide street, I'd been amazed that the line of cars and motorbikes behind us had waited patiently as we gathered our belongings. Not a honk was heard or angry face seen.
Civility reigns in Athens.
When we set out on foot a couple of hours later, inching along the foot-wide sidewalk (curb was more like it), next to a line of stopped/slow-moving traffic, we paused to look at the map. Like tourists do. An older Greek man in a Mercedes glanced over a time or two as he sat waiting in traffic and when his car had inched forward so he was a foot from where we stood, he smiled and asked if he could assist.
Considering we'd just barely arrived in his country, I felt no shame in handing over the map and asking the way to the market. After turning the map right side up, he graciously explained that it was barely two turns away before handing it back and inching forward, perhaps to aid more wayward souls.
Our driver had been correct: Greek people are friendly.
After leisurely sipping wine at a bar in the tree-covered square, we decided to have dinner on the apartment balcony and set out in search of grub. Although Himself took issue with Eat at Milton (whether for the directive-sounding name or because Milton sounds so decidedly un-Greek, I really can't say), the Greek salad and gyros were solid and probably extra tasty for being enjoyed next to window boxes of geraniums while looking down on the evening promenade below.
I'm not going to lie, yesterday's sightseeing didn't exactly get off to an early start, but nevertheless we were in line to get tickets to view the wonder of the Acropolis by early afternoon anyway.
Hey, this is vacation, so no schedule police, please.
While I don't recall exactly when I first became aware of the Acropolis, it may have been in an architectural history class my second year of college. Translation: a loooong time ago. What I learned yesterday, besides how pushy and bossy a tour guide can be when she wants to get a photo of her group, was that the renovations of the Acropolis began right around that time, after centuries of misguided restoration attempts.
The sheer height of the columns, the few remaining figures of the pediment and the exquisite beauty of the stone against those blue skies was breathtaking. I had no issue with the extended climb up the hill, the rocky, uneven terrain or the slipperiness of the pavers worn down by time, but man, the humanity you see as part of that is eye-opening.
Selfie sticks should be outlawed, that's all I'm saying. Meanwhile, the staff was kept busy blowing their whistles like lifeguards at a pool every time some idiot sat on a wall or ducked under a rope they weren't supposed to. I overheard an American tourist looking down at the grand amphitheater nearby say with surprise, "Look, they're playing music in the stadium!" and bit my tongue to keep from correcting him. That's a theater, son.
As they used to say at the Byrd Theater, some people need parental guidance.
Afterward, we climbed up to where an enormous Greek flag was planted to admire the view of Athens below and the sea beyond, both the flag and panorama a visual symphony of blue and white.
We found seats on the stone wall and watched as people came up long enough to snap a photo and head back down rather than take in the view. Neither of us would have been at all surprised if someone had demanded our spot (as the tour guide had done to a British couple with the audacity to sit down on a bench to contemplate the surrounding history) but I'd been ready to tell anyone who tried to get lost.
Since arriving in Athens, I've been called a confident contrarian, but that could be amended to cocky, confident contrarian, too.
Walking back toward the apartment, we stopped at a crosswalk where a small, paper sign warned pedestrians to pause after the light change because, "Drivers often violate the red light," and then went on to editorialize, "Probably because they're on their cellphones."
You think? I only wish the signs were larger and permanent, not that it would likely make a difference.
Moments after the light changed, we heard a Scottish voice behind us say it was okay to go. "We've been here a week, so we know," said the smiling man as we started across. "Not like in Rome, where you had to protect yourself," said the woman, holding up her scraped elbow. "Rome was tough."
A late lunch was taken at a tree and umbrella-shaded outdoor restaurant where we lingered over two kinds of crusty bread, whipped olive oil with herbs, tzatziki and olives, followed by a house-smoked salmon plate and something labeled "Variety of hot appetizers" that included such things as dolmades, spanakopita, falafel and who knows what else I couldn't identify.
Looking around at the other diners, I spotted the woman behind whom we'd stood in line to get tickets many hours earlier.
How about that? Even in a city of five million people, it's still a small world here. Even smaller when you want it to be.
The right balcony company, it seems, works wherever you go. And, I might add, never more so than in the neighborhood of the gods,
The genial Greek man holding the sign with Himself's name who picked us up from the airport Monday morning assured us that the rain and storms that had dominated the weather for days had finally moved on and there was nothing but blue skies ahead.
Exactly what you want to hear when you set foot in Athens for the first time.
And blue skies here means seriously blue, intensely blue, a blue meant to blur the line between sea and sky and provide the backdrop for the wispiest of clouds. A blue that makes all these whitewashed buildings stand out in high relief against it.
The apartment we're staying in is on the main drag of the Plaka, the old historical neighborhood emanating from northern and eastern slopes of the Acropolis. Around here, it's called the "neighborhood of the gods," with ancient, crooked, narrow streets lined with shops, restaurants and, seemingly at every corner, a fence surrounding a ruin, column or cluster of capitals.
It took exactly one afternoon to realize that you can't swing a dead cat without hitting an antiquity. And not to disparage cats, but this place is positively lousy with them, lounging on window ledges, curled up by tavern doors and strolling down cobblestone streets like they own them.
Which is, according to Himself, a good thing because when you don't se them (say, in China), that means they're being served up somewhere. Already, pigeon is showing up on an awful lot of menus we've seen, if you know what I'm saying.
After getting acquainted with the apartment, we headed out to see what the 'hood was about. Earlier, when our driver had motioned and stopped the car to unload us on the one car-wide street, I'd been amazed that the line of cars and motorbikes behind us had waited patiently as we gathered our belongings. Not a honk was heard or angry face seen.
Civility reigns in Athens.
When we set out on foot a couple of hours later, inching along the foot-wide sidewalk (curb was more like it), next to a line of stopped/slow-moving traffic, we paused to look at the map. Like tourists do. An older Greek man in a Mercedes glanced over a time or two as he sat waiting in traffic and when his car had inched forward so he was a foot from where we stood, he smiled and asked if he could assist.
Considering we'd just barely arrived in his country, I felt no shame in handing over the map and asking the way to the market. After turning the map right side up, he graciously explained that it was barely two turns away before handing it back and inching forward, perhaps to aid more wayward souls.
Our driver had been correct: Greek people are friendly.
After leisurely sipping wine at a bar in the tree-covered square, we decided to have dinner on the apartment balcony and set out in search of grub. Although Himself took issue with Eat at Milton (whether for the directive-sounding name or because Milton sounds so decidedly un-Greek, I really can't say), the Greek salad and gyros were solid and probably extra tasty for being enjoyed next to window boxes of geraniums while looking down on the evening promenade below.
I'm not going to lie, yesterday's sightseeing didn't exactly get off to an early start, but nevertheless we were in line to get tickets to view the wonder of the Acropolis by early afternoon anyway.
Hey, this is vacation, so no schedule police, please.
While I don't recall exactly when I first became aware of the Acropolis, it may have been in an architectural history class my second year of college. Translation: a loooong time ago. What I learned yesterday, besides how pushy and bossy a tour guide can be when she wants to get a photo of her group, was that the renovations of the Acropolis began right around that time, after centuries of misguided restoration attempts.
The sheer height of the columns, the few remaining figures of the pediment and the exquisite beauty of the stone against those blue skies was breathtaking. I had no issue with the extended climb up the hill, the rocky, uneven terrain or the slipperiness of the pavers worn down by time, but man, the humanity you see as part of that is eye-opening.
Selfie sticks should be outlawed, that's all I'm saying. Meanwhile, the staff was kept busy blowing their whistles like lifeguards at a pool every time some idiot sat on a wall or ducked under a rope they weren't supposed to. I overheard an American tourist looking down at the grand amphitheater nearby say with surprise, "Look, they're playing music in the stadium!" and bit my tongue to keep from correcting him. That's a theater, son.
As they used to say at the Byrd Theater, some people need parental guidance.
Afterward, we climbed up to where an enormous Greek flag was planted to admire the view of Athens below and the sea beyond, both the flag and panorama a visual symphony of blue and white.
We found seats on the stone wall and watched as people came up long enough to snap a photo and head back down rather than take in the view. Neither of us would have been at all surprised if someone had demanded our spot (as the tour guide had done to a British couple with the audacity to sit down on a bench to contemplate the surrounding history) but I'd been ready to tell anyone who tried to get lost.
Since arriving in Athens, I've been called a confident contrarian, but that could be amended to cocky, confident contrarian, too.
Walking back toward the apartment, we stopped at a crosswalk where a small, paper sign warned pedestrians to pause after the light change because, "Drivers often violate the red light," and then went on to editorialize, "Probably because they're on their cellphones."
You think? I only wish the signs were larger and permanent, not that it would likely make a difference.
Moments after the light changed, we heard a Scottish voice behind us say it was okay to go. "We've been here a week, so we know," said the smiling man as we started across. "Not like in Rome, where you had to protect yourself," said the woman, holding up her scraped elbow. "Rome was tough."
A late lunch was taken at a tree and umbrella-shaded outdoor restaurant where we lingered over two kinds of crusty bread, whipped olive oil with herbs, tzatziki and olives, followed by a house-smoked salmon plate and something labeled "Variety of hot appetizers" that included such things as dolmades, spanakopita, falafel and who knows what else I couldn't identify.
Looking around at the other diners, I spotted the woman behind whom we'd stood in line to get tickets many hours earlier.
How about that? Even in a city of five million people, it's still a small world here. Even smaller when you want it to be.
The right balcony company, it seems, works wherever you go. And, I might add, never more so than in the neighborhood of the gods,
Monday, October 1, 2018
The Lady is a Tramp
To be honest, Lady PiPi is grotesque.
Head thrown back like her throat's been cut, face frozen in a grimace, breasts pointed disjointedly at the sky, the seated figure's hands encircle her, uh, girl parts, from which a metal tube provides the flow of water. Lady Pipi, you see, is a sculpture.
And just to be clear, that's pronounced lady Pee-pee.
I'm not sure I'd have ever known about her or her namesake restaurant if I hadn't seen that the owner of Note Bene had been in Dubrovnik over the summer. Knowing I'd be en route myself in a couple months, the next time I'd been in for dinner, I'd made sure to pick her brain about must-dos.
The first words out of her mouth after, "You're going to have a ball in Dubrovnik," was, "Lady Pipi, you have to go! Fabulous food, amazing views." And no question about it, she's someone I'd trust completely when it comes to food recommendations.
And no surprise about that because the outdoor restaurant has the feel of a treehouse perched above the city, with a grapevine-draped pergola overhead and plants for "walls." On the street level is a small area with a few tables, while upstairs is an open air grill (ah, now I se the Note Bene connection) with wooden tables and a postcard-worthy view.
And while some visitors might be put off by a restaurant all the way at the top of the walled city or by their no reservation policy, we had issues with neither. So after a couple hours spent walking the side of the city we hadn't walked the day before, we came to Lady Pipi's.
Funny part was, we didn't even notice the sculpture out front, despite that I knew enough from my research online to have looked for it. That may have been because when we inquired about a table for two, the server pointed to the young Japanese woman standing nearby and informed her she'd be eating with us.
Lady Pipi is apparently too desirable a place to eat to waste a table on single diners.
But it worked out well for us because Shiho, our third, turned out to be delightful company whose English far surpassed our Japanese. Turns out she was on a two week solo holiday from her job with a film company and had come to Lady Pipi solely because her hotel concierge had recommended it.
Without, by the way, mentioning the Lady's namesake sculpture or its bared body parts.
The views were astonishing, covering the entire walled city and beyond to the Adriatic, and the couple behind us shared that they'd waited half an hour for their prime table. We were three feet away and had done nothing more than walk up and luck into our table.
To quote Rod Stewart, some guys have all the luck.
It was interesting, Himself and I naturally ordered seafood (hello, blue-green sea and its bounty), but the representative from Japan went straight for sausages and potatoes. I guess when sushi is a mainstay, it's animal parts that seem exotic on vacation.
My Buza shrimps (no menu here uses the plural without an "s") were actually head-on prawns in a creamy tomato sauce perfect for sopping with crusty bread. But opening and eating them was one step removed from eating crabs, with the added challenge of being immersed in a hot sauce. I cut my thumb on a claw and bled a little on one bite, but who's keeping track? Himself made do with a large plate of onion-filled octopus salad, a staple in these parts except breakfast.
At least so far, but the trip's far from over.
Because she was wearing a black baseball cap from "The Met," we asked how she'd liked New York City. But she'd never been and the hat was a gift from a friend who had. "And it looks very good," she insisted with a smile.
Chatting about our respective vacations as we ate, Himself, ever the planner, inquired of Shiho - mind you, she was only on day four of her trip - what her next vacation was going to be. When she looked surprised at the question, I couldn't resist explaining that this is a man who already has vacations planned through Fall 2019.
And that's just what I know of.
Shiho's mouth dropped open and her eyes crinkled as she laid her head on her hand atop the table to laugh. "Next year?" she asked, amazed and perhaps making generalizations about Americans in her head, but never spoken aloud.
Yup, you heard right. And that's only the stuff that's been nailed down.
She told us how difficult it was to find someone to travel with now that her friends are all married and knocking out kids, but also that few of her peers got two weeks vacation yet. And when you're talking about a trip that took her 30 hours to get here (and I thought South Africa was bad at 20-some), a fair amount of commitment is involved.
When I found out that Shiho knew nothing of Lady Pipi or her exhibitionist tendencies, I insisted the three of us lay eyes upon her together. I didn't give anything away, just led her and Himself downstairs and made an abrupt U-turn.
If you've never seen a young Japanese woman agog, allow me to tell you abut it. Her eyes bugged out, her face went a little pale and her mouth dropped open. Shocked as she was, she obligingly took a photo of Lady Pipi, Himself and me when he handed her his phone and asked her to. In fact, she was gracious enough to snap several.
He went on to insist on taking her picture with the Lady, fully aware that no one back in Japan was going to fully comprehend the glory of Pipi without a picture to prove it. She promptly insisted that I be in the photo with her, because what makes more sense than a crass sculpture paired with an American and a Japanese in a Met hat?
My work in Dubrovnik is finished now. I can move on, knowing my legacy here will live on in Tokyo. Godspeed, Lady Pipi.
Head thrown back like her throat's been cut, face frozen in a grimace, breasts pointed disjointedly at the sky, the seated figure's hands encircle her, uh, girl parts, from which a metal tube provides the flow of water. Lady Pipi, you see, is a sculpture.
And just to be clear, that's pronounced lady Pee-pee.
I'm not sure I'd have ever known about her or her namesake restaurant if I hadn't seen that the owner of Note Bene had been in Dubrovnik over the summer. Knowing I'd be en route myself in a couple months, the next time I'd been in for dinner, I'd made sure to pick her brain about must-dos.
The first words out of her mouth after, "You're going to have a ball in Dubrovnik," was, "Lady Pipi, you have to go! Fabulous food, amazing views." And no question about it, she's someone I'd trust completely when it comes to food recommendations.
And no surprise about that because the outdoor restaurant has the feel of a treehouse perched above the city, with a grapevine-draped pergola overhead and plants for "walls." On the street level is a small area with a few tables, while upstairs is an open air grill (ah, now I se the Note Bene connection) with wooden tables and a postcard-worthy view.
And while some visitors might be put off by a restaurant all the way at the top of the walled city or by their no reservation policy, we had issues with neither. So after a couple hours spent walking the side of the city we hadn't walked the day before, we came to Lady Pipi's.
Funny part was, we didn't even notice the sculpture out front, despite that I knew enough from my research online to have looked for it. That may have been because when we inquired about a table for two, the server pointed to the young Japanese woman standing nearby and informed her she'd be eating with us.
Lady Pipi is apparently too desirable a place to eat to waste a table on single diners.
But it worked out well for us because Shiho, our third, turned out to be delightful company whose English far surpassed our Japanese. Turns out she was on a two week solo holiday from her job with a film company and had come to Lady Pipi solely because her hotel concierge had recommended it.
Without, by the way, mentioning the Lady's namesake sculpture or its bared body parts.
The views were astonishing, covering the entire walled city and beyond to the Adriatic, and the couple behind us shared that they'd waited half an hour for their prime table. We were three feet away and had done nothing more than walk up and luck into our table.
To quote Rod Stewart, some guys have all the luck.
It was interesting, Himself and I naturally ordered seafood (hello, blue-green sea and its bounty), but the representative from Japan went straight for sausages and potatoes. I guess when sushi is a mainstay, it's animal parts that seem exotic on vacation.
My Buza shrimps (no menu here uses the plural without an "s") were actually head-on prawns in a creamy tomato sauce perfect for sopping with crusty bread. But opening and eating them was one step removed from eating crabs, with the added challenge of being immersed in a hot sauce. I cut my thumb on a claw and bled a little on one bite, but who's keeping track? Himself made do with a large plate of onion-filled octopus salad, a staple in these parts except breakfast.
At least so far, but the trip's far from over.
Because she was wearing a black baseball cap from "The Met," we asked how she'd liked New York City. But she'd never been and the hat was a gift from a friend who had. "And it looks very good," she insisted with a smile.
Chatting about our respective vacations as we ate, Himself, ever the planner, inquired of Shiho - mind you, she was only on day four of her trip - what her next vacation was going to be. When she looked surprised at the question, I couldn't resist explaining that this is a man who already has vacations planned through Fall 2019.
And that's just what I know of.
Shiho's mouth dropped open and her eyes crinkled as she laid her head on her hand atop the table to laugh. "Next year?" she asked, amazed and perhaps making generalizations about Americans in her head, but never spoken aloud.
Yup, you heard right. And that's only the stuff that's been nailed down.
She told us how difficult it was to find someone to travel with now that her friends are all married and knocking out kids, but also that few of her peers got two weeks vacation yet. And when you're talking about a trip that took her 30 hours to get here (and I thought South Africa was bad at 20-some), a fair amount of commitment is involved.
When I found out that Shiho knew nothing of Lady Pipi or her exhibitionist tendencies, I insisted the three of us lay eyes upon her together. I didn't give anything away, just led her and Himself downstairs and made an abrupt U-turn.
If you've never seen a young Japanese woman agog, allow me to tell you abut it. Her eyes bugged out, her face went a little pale and her mouth dropped open. Shocked as she was, she obligingly took a photo of Lady Pipi, Himself and me when he handed her his phone and asked her to. In fact, she was gracious enough to snap several.
He went on to insist on taking her picture with the Lady, fully aware that no one back in Japan was going to fully comprehend the glory of Pipi without a picture to prove it. She promptly insisted that I be in the photo with her, because what makes more sense than a crass sculpture paired with an American and a Japanese in a Met hat?
My work in Dubrovnik is finished now. I can move on, knowing my legacy here will live on in Tokyo. Godspeed, Lady Pipi.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Eat Me, Drink Me
The way to a man's this woman's heart is through her stomach.
Knowing that, Himself had booked a Dubrovnik food tour for late Saturday afternoon, requiring us to be at the bell tower promptly at 4 to meet our guide, Tea. A native Croatian full of facts, lore and high dramatic ability, she was not the original guide slated to lead the two Americans and two Aussies, but a last minute fill-in.
Lucky us.
Her first order of business was asking each of our professions - banker, counselor, writer, architect - so she could work pertinent information into her spiel whether it related to food or not. And this was after she delivered the entire military and political history of Croatia to us (to the complete and utter boredom of the banker who rolled his eyes repeatedly) before we even moved from the under the tower.
If she brought up Tito one more time, I think the counselor would have choked her.
At our first stop for antipasto (local goat, sheep and cow cheeses, Dalmatian ham, octopus salad, olives, crusty bread) and wine, she regaled us with viticulture facts and her life history as the music from a nearby wedding blasted through the streets. Seems she lived a few blocks away, so the fact that multiple weddings are held every Saturday was a terrible inconvenience to her.
"That's why I need these," she said with disdain, lifting up the pair of ear plugs that hung around her neck. Not long after, she pointed out the wedding party, visible at the end of the street, making their way toward the church.
When I asked if she was going to eat and drink with us, she pooh-poohed the idea, saying that she couldn't possibly because she was on duty. Please, Tea is a professional.
Explaining what a Roman Catholic country she and Croatia are, she inquired about our religion, or, more accurately, she asked about the religion of the banker - Anglican, resulting in a discussion of her thoughts on the Anglican church - and the architect.
For the record, absolutely no inquiries whatsoever were made about the religion of either woman.
Even better, when the architect mentioned he was a Polish Jew, she looked right at him and announced with a coy smile, "That's why you are so beautiful." Her charm offensive was only beginning at that point.
When music began for the second time, we were just finishing up our starters and barely beginning to feel the wine.
"Let's go see the bride and groom," she instructed and we were off. Walking between buildings, she pointed to a ledge on the wall about three feet off the ground. "You see these thick legs of mine?" she asked, pointing our her cankles. "When we were children, we walked along this ledge and you couldn't fall off, so we got sturdy legs."
I didn't have the heart to tell her those ankles were pure Croatian DNA.
Once at the end of the street, she had nothing but disdain upon realizing that it was a Zumba competition, not the nuptials of soul mates that was responsible for the blaring music and her pace picked up noticeably.
At the miniscule restaurant tucked away on a side street that was destination #2, we settled into a long table with Tea holding court at the end. Everyone crowded into the far end of the table, leaving me to sit next to our voluble guide.
Wine was delivered just before the open kitchen began delivering course after course of food. Tuna tartare, fish pate, squid risotto made black with squid ink and a local specialty involving pasta and long-braised beef that showed clear ties to nearby Italy quickly covered the table top.
The difference with our second stop was that when I offered Tea some of our leftover tartare, she smiled demurely and said, "Well, I can have just one bite" and proceeded to polish it off. When I suggested she try the fish pate, again her "just one bite" became multiples. Pretty soon she was demolishing the rest of our risotto and pecking at the pasta.
Stuffed already and it was only stop two, she announced that our next stop was at La Dolce Vita for the best gelato in Dubrovnik. But rather than ramble on about gelato, she took a tangent about Anita Eckberg's breasts spilling out of her white bathing suit in the Fellini film by that name.
No one gets to derail Tea when she's on a tear,
Walking down the cobblestone streets behind her like we were playing Follow the Leader, she heard music playing and began swaying her hips suggestively, looking coyly over her shoulder to see if anyone noticed.
The banker was aghast, but the two glasses of red wine at stop #2 had mellowed him enough not to grab his wife and make a break for their hotel. It was about at this point that I began to wonder if Tea wasn't taking a nip in between stops.
After we'd each gotten our gelato, she looked at us and said, "Let's go somewhere forbidden!" and led us into an adjacent coral workshop where the shopkeeper explained Croatia's long history with coral. Seems there are only 12 coral diver positions available in Croatia and when someone dies or tires of plunging to the depths of the Adriatic, their position is passed on to a family member.
That said, there were some incredibly beautiful pieces of coral fashioned into jewelry, including those set into Star Wars-related pieces. No kidding, the storekeeper had a coral light saber pinned to his lapel. A Storm Trooper figure modeled a magnificent necklace.
Clearly the Croatians are still reveling in "The Last Jedi" having been filmed here.
Next came Tea's art gallery, a narrow space filled with sculpture and paintings, where her assistant proceeded to pour us shot glasses of Orahovac, a green walnut liqueur of the deepest brown. Never one to miss an opportunity, she delayed our departure by explaining first how it was made and then about the two artists being shown on the gallery walls.
Needless to say, Tea had no problem sipping Orahovac with us.
On the way to the next stop, we lost track of Tea, who showed up in time to lead us through the kitchen of a bustling restaurant during dinner service, to the obvious amazement of seated guests outside.
I could only imagine how much the kitchen staff hated us.
The only problem was that as she went sashaying through the kitchen, a server carrying a tray came through the door to the patio, resulting in a collision, broken plates and a whole lot of noise.
"It wasn't my fault!" Tea proclaimed to her followers as we walked around shards of broken china into the warm night air. Again, her walking became dancing and I was convinced she was nipping every chance she got, regardless of her claims to refrain while on duty.
Hey, no judgment here. Drink away, honey, and we'll all get along better.
As we made our way to a pastry shop to savor a dessert of four kinds of cake - orange (my favorite), carrot, almond (proclaimed by Tea as "This one is the best!") and chocolate, the subject of YouTube came up and how difficult it was for her to find specific videos. The Aussies mentioned their YouTube videos, but it was when the architect mentioned he had videos that she lit up. "I want to find you!" she enthused.
Clearly, someone needed to hose Tea down.
When the proprietor asked what we wanted to drink with our pastries, I had the unmitigated gall to ask for water, further arousing Tea's disdain. The architect tried to save me by ordering the local plum brandy (45 proof, leading to a discussion of, yuck, vodka) for me, although no one else could stomach it. At least it got me back in Tea's tolerant graces.
I tell you, it wasn't easy being a woman on Tea's tour.
Our final stop took us to Wine Bar Matusko, located in one of the many caves built into the basements of Dubrovnik houses that she'd told us about. Down below was the wine cellar. Settling into couches in the back of the dimly lit bar, generous pours of their best white and red wines showed up on the tables in front of us.
And, just like that, Tea cut bait. This woman who'd overshared that her husband wants her to stop working and stay home (granted, she had to be of a retirement age), who'd told us about her second home on a nearby island where she goes to escape the hustle and bustle of Dubrovnik, who'd ranted about the cruise ships charging no fare for children and thus inundating Dubrovnik with squalling children, now had places to be. Immediately.
And like a ship in the night, Tea walked out of our lives, leaving us stuffed and loopy.
We lingered with the Aussies, sipping wine and reliving all the hilarious and inappropriate things Tea had said over the course of four hours. When they decided to call it a day, we were left to finish their untouched second glasses and talk to our heart's content.
Occasionally a couple or small group would take over one of the couches, glasses in hand, but we barely looked up and outlasted them all. Only servers remained when we said goodnight.
And somewhere, Tea the tour guide was probably breaking dishes and dancing at the silent disco. You know, like native Croatian woman with thick ankles do on a Saturday night.
Me, I was enjoying walking Dubrovnik's main drag full and happy in the moonlight. You know, like women who travel on their stomachs do.
Knowing that, Himself had booked a Dubrovnik food tour for late Saturday afternoon, requiring us to be at the bell tower promptly at 4 to meet our guide, Tea. A native Croatian full of facts, lore and high dramatic ability, she was not the original guide slated to lead the two Americans and two Aussies, but a last minute fill-in.
Lucky us.
Her first order of business was asking each of our professions - banker, counselor, writer, architect - so she could work pertinent information into her spiel whether it related to food or not. And this was after she delivered the entire military and political history of Croatia to us (to the complete and utter boredom of the banker who rolled his eyes repeatedly) before we even moved from the under the tower.
If she brought up Tito one more time, I think the counselor would have choked her.
At our first stop for antipasto (local goat, sheep and cow cheeses, Dalmatian ham, octopus salad, olives, crusty bread) and wine, she regaled us with viticulture facts and her life history as the music from a nearby wedding blasted through the streets. Seems she lived a few blocks away, so the fact that multiple weddings are held every Saturday was a terrible inconvenience to her.
"That's why I need these," she said with disdain, lifting up the pair of ear plugs that hung around her neck. Not long after, she pointed out the wedding party, visible at the end of the street, making their way toward the church.
When I asked if she was going to eat and drink with us, she pooh-poohed the idea, saying that she couldn't possibly because she was on duty. Please, Tea is a professional.
Explaining what a Roman Catholic country she and Croatia are, she inquired about our religion, or, more accurately, she asked about the religion of the banker - Anglican, resulting in a discussion of her thoughts on the Anglican church - and the architect.
For the record, absolutely no inquiries whatsoever were made about the religion of either woman.
Even better, when the architect mentioned he was a Polish Jew, she looked right at him and announced with a coy smile, "That's why you are so beautiful." Her charm offensive was only beginning at that point.
When music began for the second time, we were just finishing up our starters and barely beginning to feel the wine.
"Let's go see the bride and groom," she instructed and we were off. Walking between buildings, she pointed to a ledge on the wall about three feet off the ground. "You see these thick legs of mine?" she asked, pointing our her cankles. "When we were children, we walked along this ledge and you couldn't fall off, so we got sturdy legs."
I didn't have the heart to tell her those ankles were pure Croatian DNA.
Once at the end of the street, she had nothing but disdain upon realizing that it was a Zumba competition, not the nuptials of soul mates that was responsible for the blaring music and her pace picked up noticeably.
At the miniscule restaurant tucked away on a side street that was destination #2, we settled into a long table with Tea holding court at the end. Everyone crowded into the far end of the table, leaving me to sit next to our voluble guide.
Wine was delivered just before the open kitchen began delivering course after course of food. Tuna tartare, fish pate, squid risotto made black with squid ink and a local specialty involving pasta and long-braised beef that showed clear ties to nearby Italy quickly covered the table top.
The difference with our second stop was that when I offered Tea some of our leftover tartare, she smiled demurely and said, "Well, I can have just one bite" and proceeded to polish it off. When I suggested she try the fish pate, again her "just one bite" became multiples. Pretty soon she was demolishing the rest of our risotto and pecking at the pasta.
Stuffed already and it was only stop two, she announced that our next stop was at La Dolce Vita for the best gelato in Dubrovnik. But rather than ramble on about gelato, she took a tangent about Anita Eckberg's breasts spilling out of her white bathing suit in the Fellini film by that name.
No one gets to derail Tea when she's on a tear,
Walking down the cobblestone streets behind her like we were playing Follow the Leader, she heard music playing and began swaying her hips suggestively, looking coyly over her shoulder to see if anyone noticed.
The banker was aghast, but the two glasses of red wine at stop #2 had mellowed him enough not to grab his wife and make a break for their hotel. It was about at this point that I began to wonder if Tea wasn't taking a nip in between stops.
After we'd each gotten our gelato, she looked at us and said, "Let's go somewhere forbidden!" and led us into an adjacent coral workshop where the shopkeeper explained Croatia's long history with coral. Seems there are only 12 coral diver positions available in Croatia and when someone dies or tires of plunging to the depths of the Adriatic, their position is passed on to a family member.
That said, there were some incredibly beautiful pieces of coral fashioned into jewelry, including those set into Star Wars-related pieces. No kidding, the storekeeper had a coral light saber pinned to his lapel. A Storm Trooper figure modeled a magnificent necklace.
Clearly the Croatians are still reveling in "The Last Jedi" having been filmed here.
Next came Tea's art gallery, a narrow space filled with sculpture and paintings, where her assistant proceeded to pour us shot glasses of Orahovac, a green walnut liqueur of the deepest brown. Never one to miss an opportunity, she delayed our departure by explaining first how it was made and then about the two artists being shown on the gallery walls.
Needless to say, Tea had no problem sipping Orahovac with us.
On the way to the next stop, we lost track of Tea, who showed up in time to lead us through the kitchen of a bustling restaurant during dinner service, to the obvious amazement of seated guests outside.
I could only imagine how much the kitchen staff hated us.
The only problem was that as she went sashaying through the kitchen, a server carrying a tray came through the door to the patio, resulting in a collision, broken plates and a whole lot of noise.
"It wasn't my fault!" Tea proclaimed to her followers as we walked around shards of broken china into the warm night air. Again, her walking became dancing and I was convinced she was nipping every chance she got, regardless of her claims to refrain while on duty.
Hey, no judgment here. Drink away, honey, and we'll all get along better.
As we made our way to a pastry shop to savor a dessert of four kinds of cake - orange (my favorite), carrot, almond (proclaimed by Tea as "This one is the best!") and chocolate, the subject of YouTube came up and how difficult it was for her to find specific videos. The Aussies mentioned their YouTube videos, but it was when the architect mentioned he had videos that she lit up. "I want to find you!" she enthused.
Clearly, someone needed to hose Tea down.
When the proprietor asked what we wanted to drink with our pastries, I had the unmitigated gall to ask for water, further arousing Tea's disdain. The architect tried to save me by ordering the local plum brandy (45 proof, leading to a discussion of, yuck, vodka) for me, although no one else could stomach it. At least it got me back in Tea's tolerant graces.
I tell you, it wasn't easy being a woman on Tea's tour.
Our final stop took us to Wine Bar Matusko, located in one of the many caves built into the basements of Dubrovnik houses that she'd told us about. Down below was the wine cellar. Settling into couches in the back of the dimly lit bar, generous pours of their best white and red wines showed up on the tables in front of us.
And, just like that, Tea cut bait. This woman who'd overshared that her husband wants her to stop working and stay home (granted, she had to be of a retirement age), who'd told us about her second home on a nearby island where she goes to escape the hustle and bustle of Dubrovnik, who'd ranted about the cruise ships charging no fare for children and thus inundating Dubrovnik with squalling children, now had places to be. Immediately.
And like a ship in the night, Tea walked out of our lives, leaving us stuffed and loopy.
We lingered with the Aussies, sipping wine and reliving all the hilarious and inappropriate things Tea had said over the course of four hours. When they decided to call it a day, we were left to finish their untouched second glasses and talk to our heart's content.
Occasionally a couple or small group would take over one of the couches, glasses in hand, but we barely looked up and outlasted them all. Only servers remained when we said goodnight.
And somewhere, Tea the tour guide was probably breaking dishes and dancing at the silent disco. You know, like native Croatian woman with thick ankles do on a Saturday night.
Me, I was enjoying walking Dubrovnik's main drag full and happy in the moonlight. You know, like women who travel on their stomachs do.
Saturday, September 29, 2018
Lost in Dubrovnik
Yes, sir, I will happily travel 4,000 miles to eat fried chicken with the right person.
And if that means a two hour delay at Dulles (after Mac delivered me with her usual sunny kindness) while waiting for thunderstorms to move through, so be it. If it means my 2 1/2 hour layover in Dublin (the mother country, finally!) is reduced to a power walk from gate to gate, that's fine, too.
And, horrors, even if it means I get up from lunch on the first day and completely forget my purse - passport and all - and don't discover my stupidity or recover it for five hours, well, that's just the way it goes.
Let's just say I couldn't help but spontaneously hug the guy at the restaurant when he brought it to me that night, a big smile on his face. For that matter, I hugged him again the next morning when I ran into after breakfast. It took until today to just smile and greet him without wantonly showing my gratitude.
Because now that I've been here three days and come out of my jet lag coma, I'm here to say that Dubrovnik is a pretty spectacular place any way you look at it. And I'm looking at it every way I can, from the centuries-old limestone walls to the red tiled rooves of the walled city, from the narrow winding streets overlooking the Adriatic to the view from our hotel room through green shutters overlooking the café-filled cobblestone streets.
Every day begins with breakfast at Alcove 5, the hotel's rooftop restaurant with a view of the impossibly blue sea, a weather vane-topped bell tower and scores of red rooves, the car-less streets not even visible from on high.
Breakfast itself is just as delightful. So far, I haven't been able to tear myself away from a thick round of housemade brioche topped with avocado chunks, radishes, sundried tomatoes, fresh radishes and cherry tomatoes under a flurry of Feta accompanied by fresh-squeezed orange juice, loving how decidedly un-American a breakfast it is. Himself has moved between an equally unusual bowl of salmon, avocado, quinoa, soft boiled egg and arugula and a more standard yogurt and fruit bowl, but he doesn't turn down bites of my brioche, either.
Part of the breakfast view is the line of tourists walking the wall, but we assume those must be people from the cruise ships anchored at the port, because who else is out and about at 10:30 when we're just having our first meal of the day? German tourist with black socks and brown shoes, that's who. Ahem.
I'm charmed by the everyday here. Even something as simple as lines of laundry - we've seen everything from white sheets to a black bra - hanging outside so many houses in the September sunlight catches my eye. Laundry never looked so charming in our country.
Walking along the waterfront, we're amazed at how clear the water is and how tiny some of the boats are. Young men in the tightest and briefest of swim trunks (or maybe it's their underwear, I couldn't really say) jump off the edge of the point near the fort and then stretch out spread eagle to dry off in the sun, while Japanese tourists snap their picture.
Dinner last night meant meeting the Australian couple I've been hearing about for a while now and they were not only as delightful as I'd heard, but funnier than I could have hoped for. Seeing a part of the world that's completely new to me is wonderful, but the satisfaction of dishing with people who've known Himself longer than I have and chose to share some riotous stories involving red wine fountains and gin-soaked nights? Priceless.
I know many of the visitors to Dubrovnik were attracted to it because it's where "Game of Thrones" is filmed, but it turns out that "The Last Jedi" was also made here and there are enough Star Wars t-shirts walking around to prove it.
We, of course, care about neither.
After hours of walking around, past hostels and apartments, into a museum devoted to olive oil, inside dark churches smelling of incense and old wood, we paused for a snack at Ding Dong for one main reason: the three slender wooden tables for two that rested on the narrow, steep steps between streets.
As if by plan, the front one vacated just as we arrived and we sat down without knowing what we were getting. Turns out there was one thing and one thing only on the menu - Korean fried chicken in a variety of sauces from mildly hot to maddeningly hot - and that was just fine by us.
After taking our order, our server Pavo looked at Himself quizzically and asked, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like...?" and we both knew what was coming. Picture-taking ensued (it always does because no one believes he really isn't Richard Gere), as did Pavo's recommendation that we eat with our fingers, not utensils.
Not to worry, I assured Pavo that if we were going to have our first meal on tables bolted to cobblestone steps, he could be damn sure we were going to do it finger-lickin' good-style.
I may be in Dubrovnik for the first time and I may have been brain dead for a while, but no one needs to tell this girl how to eat fried chicken.
Much less how to enjoy every bit of this with the right person. The right person.
And if that means a two hour delay at Dulles (after Mac delivered me with her usual sunny kindness) while waiting for thunderstorms to move through, so be it. If it means my 2 1/2 hour layover in Dublin (the mother country, finally!) is reduced to a power walk from gate to gate, that's fine, too.
And, horrors, even if it means I get up from lunch on the first day and completely forget my purse - passport and all - and don't discover my stupidity or recover it for five hours, well, that's just the way it goes.
Let's just say I couldn't help but spontaneously hug the guy at the restaurant when he brought it to me that night, a big smile on his face. For that matter, I hugged him again the next morning when I ran into after breakfast. It took until today to just smile and greet him without wantonly showing my gratitude.
Because now that I've been here three days and come out of my jet lag coma, I'm here to say that Dubrovnik is a pretty spectacular place any way you look at it. And I'm looking at it every way I can, from the centuries-old limestone walls to the red tiled rooves of the walled city, from the narrow winding streets overlooking the Adriatic to the view from our hotel room through green shutters overlooking the café-filled cobblestone streets.
Every day begins with breakfast at Alcove 5, the hotel's rooftop restaurant with a view of the impossibly blue sea, a weather vane-topped bell tower and scores of red rooves, the car-less streets not even visible from on high.
Breakfast itself is just as delightful. So far, I haven't been able to tear myself away from a thick round of housemade brioche topped with avocado chunks, radishes, sundried tomatoes, fresh radishes and cherry tomatoes under a flurry of Feta accompanied by fresh-squeezed orange juice, loving how decidedly un-American a breakfast it is. Himself has moved between an equally unusual bowl of salmon, avocado, quinoa, soft boiled egg and arugula and a more standard yogurt and fruit bowl, but he doesn't turn down bites of my brioche, either.
Part of the breakfast view is the line of tourists walking the wall, but we assume those must be people from the cruise ships anchored at the port, because who else is out and about at 10:30 when we're just having our first meal of the day? German tourist with black socks and brown shoes, that's who. Ahem.
I'm charmed by the everyday here. Even something as simple as lines of laundry - we've seen everything from white sheets to a black bra - hanging outside so many houses in the September sunlight catches my eye. Laundry never looked so charming in our country.
Walking along the waterfront, we're amazed at how clear the water is and how tiny some of the boats are. Young men in the tightest and briefest of swim trunks (or maybe it's their underwear, I couldn't really say) jump off the edge of the point near the fort and then stretch out spread eagle to dry off in the sun, while Japanese tourists snap their picture.
Dinner last night meant meeting the Australian couple I've been hearing about for a while now and they were not only as delightful as I'd heard, but funnier than I could have hoped for. Seeing a part of the world that's completely new to me is wonderful, but the satisfaction of dishing with people who've known Himself longer than I have and chose to share some riotous stories involving red wine fountains and gin-soaked nights? Priceless.
I know many of the visitors to Dubrovnik were attracted to it because it's where "Game of Thrones" is filmed, but it turns out that "The Last Jedi" was also made here and there are enough Star Wars t-shirts walking around to prove it.
We, of course, care about neither.
After hours of walking around, past hostels and apartments, into a museum devoted to olive oil, inside dark churches smelling of incense and old wood, we paused for a snack at Ding Dong for one main reason: the three slender wooden tables for two that rested on the narrow, steep steps between streets.
As if by plan, the front one vacated just as we arrived and we sat down without knowing what we were getting. Turns out there was one thing and one thing only on the menu - Korean fried chicken in a variety of sauces from mildly hot to maddeningly hot - and that was just fine by us.
After taking our order, our server Pavo looked at Himself quizzically and asked, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like...?" and we both knew what was coming. Picture-taking ensued (it always does because no one believes he really isn't Richard Gere), as did Pavo's recommendation that we eat with our fingers, not utensils.
Not to worry, I assured Pavo that if we were going to have our first meal on tables bolted to cobblestone steps, he could be damn sure we were going to do it finger-lickin' good-style.
I may be in Dubrovnik for the first time and I may have been brain dead for a while, but no one needs to tell this girl how to eat fried chicken.
Much less how to enjoy every bit of this with the right person. The right person.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
On Not Paying Attention
You have to be awfully distracted to get the date of a movie wrong.
I could defend myself by saying that after years of attending regularly, I know that VCU Cinematheque is usually held on Tuesdays. But that doesn't tke into account that I checked online earlier today to verify that the Byrd, not the usual Grace Street Theater, was the venue.
It was, but somehow I missed the date.
So after accomplishing everything on my to-do list - walking, writing, editing, shopping, interviewing, handing off - I hi-tailed it to the Byrd, only to find an empty box office and closed doors because a private event was in progress.
(sound of record scratching)
Out comes manager Todd, saying how nice it was to see me. What about VCU Cinematheque? He looked at me, asking, "L'Avventura?" Yes, yes, the Michelangelo Antonioni film I was so eager to see.
"That was Sunday at 1:30," he said, trying to make it sound like an error anyone could make. Oops. And just to make sure I didn't pull the same bonehead mistake next month, he reminded me of another Cinematheque Sunday screening in October.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so while I'd really been looking forward to a 1960 Italian cinema classic, I punted.
That meant going back home, doing some more writing, some hemming and finding a small, arthouse movie at Criterion for later. Ciao, Italy, and hello Britain.
But just to keep my streak going, I bought my ticket for "The Bookshop" and promptly walked into the wrong theater, sat there for ten minutes and finally figured out that if no previews were showing, I must be in the wrong place. Because theater 4 and theater 3 are apparently not interchangeable. So I moved to the correct theater where I find I am the sole occupant. Probably best.
"When we read a book, we inhabit it," the film begins. "And the story keeps playing in your head." Tell me about it. I couldn't stop replaying "Loving Frank" after my girl crush began it and recommended it to me last month. After reading it, I was so caught up in the story that I peppered her with my thoughts for weeks, at least until she finally suggested we have a book dinner, the better to discuss it in depth.
Meanwhile, this sweet, little film involved smelling books (c'mon, who doesn't?), discovering Ray Bradbury and books delivered in brown paper packages tied up with string. There were multiple long takes of the sea, grasses blowing in the wind on the point and rain on cobblestones.
And you know what? Bill Nighy made it all worthwhile, never more so than when he kissed our heroine's hand. It was just the thing after a couple of ridiculously busy days.
Now that everything's done, I can finally take a deep breath and relax. I'm good to go.
I could defend myself by saying that after years of attending regularly, I know that VCU Cinematheque is usually held on Tuesdays. But that doesn't tke into account that I checked online earlier today to verify that the Byrd, not the usual Grace Street Theater, was the venue.
It was, but somehow I missed the date.
So after accomplishing everything on my to-do list - walking, writing, editing, shopping, interviewing, handing off - I hi-tailed it to the Byrd, only to find an empty box office and closed doors because a private event was in progress.
(sound of record scratching)
Out comes manager Todd, saying how nice it was to see me. What about VCU Cinematheque? He looked at me, asking, "L'Avventura?" Yes, yes, the Michelangelo Antonioni film I was so eager to see.
"That was Sunday at 1:30," he said, trying to make it sound like an error anyone could make. Oops. And just to make sure I didn't pull the same bonehead mistake next month, he reminded me of another Cinematheque Sunday screening in October.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so while I'd really been looking forward to a 1960 Italian cinema classic, I punted.
That meant going back home, doing some more writing, some hemming and finding a small, arthouse movie at Criterion for later. Ciao, Italy, and hello Britain.
But just to keep my streak going, I bought my ticket for "The Bookshop" and promptly walked into the wrong theater, sat there for ten minutes and finally figured out that if no previews were showing, I must be in the wrong place. Because theater 4 and theater 3 are apparently not interchangeable. So I moved to the correct theater where I find I am the sole occupant. Probably best.
"When we read a book, we inhabit it," the film begins. "And the story keeps playing in your head." Tell me about it. I couldn't stop replaying "Loving Frank" after my girl crush began it and recommended it to me last month. After reading it, I was so caught up in the story that I peppered her with my thoughts for weeks, at least until she finally suggested we have a book dinner, the better to discuss it in depth.
Meanwhile, this sweet, little film involved smelling books (c'mon, who doesn't?), discovering Ray Bradbury and books delivered in brown paper packages tied up with string. There were multiple long takes of the sea, grasses blowing in the wind on the point and rain on cobblestones.
And you know what? Bill Nighy made it all worthwhile, never more so than when he kissed our heroine's hand. It was just the thing after a couple of ridiculously busy days.
Now that everything's done, I can finally take a deep breath and relax. I'm good to go.
Monday, September 24, 2018
Don't Wanna Live as an Unsung Melody
I know, I know, I'm living the dream. Today, at least.
First there was the interview done on the terrace (bigger than my entire apartment) of a S1.6 million penthouse. That was followed by the sublime pleasures of a foot massage, which is something akin to orgasmic for a daily walker.
But wait, there's more. The really big deal was going from waking up not knowing who the Struts were (English glam rock band) to seeing them play live shortly after lunch. And loving it.
Credit goes not to XL 102, the radio station sponsoring today's afternoon set, but to Facebook, which listed the appearance as an event. My brain went into overdrive: hmm, I never heard of these guys, but they have several things going for them: they're English, they're glammy and they're playing a mile away during a time of day I won't be working.
I'm so easy.
When I mentioned the band to Mac on our walk to the river this morning (swollen and overflowing the banks of Brown's Island, the pipeline nowhere in sight under so much rushing water), she immediately knew who they were. Too bad she had to be at work right about the time they were taking the stage at Capital Ale House.
Eager beaver that I am, I arrived before they'd even opened the doors, although I could hear them sound-checking as I walked by in the rain. The hostess said the band had had a flat tire on the way, so the set might be delayed.
A few minutes later, they allowed us in and a curious crew of glam rock fans followed, only to be told we weren't allowed to stand by the stage, but had to sit. Mild grumbling ensued as people found chairs.
I tend to think there's something in the glam rock bylaws that states differently, but I found a table to sit and people watch from. There was the Clark Kent-looking guy in a suit, tie and glasses and a blond woman dressed Stevie Nicks style and teetering on ridiculously high platform shoes.
The woman who sat at my table explained that she no longer had the wherewithal to stand for shows ("It's not that I'm old, I just don't have the drive anymore"), although she had a ticket for the Struts' show at the National tonight so I feel sure there'll be standing in her future.
Sitting in a darkened music hall, surrounded by the detritus of Oktoberfest (banners for Lowenbrau and Weihenstephaner hanging on the walls) waiting for the XL Session to begin, it occurred to me how random it was that I was even there.
We had to get through some XL 102 DJ introducing the Struts, reminding the crowd that the band had opened for the Foo Fighters in D.C. last year and were on tour in support of their upcoming album, "Young and Dangerous."
Then the Struts came out and everyone rose to their feet, causing lead singer Luke (with a strong resemblance to a millennial Freddy Mercury, sporting a killer grin and wearing an over-sized newsboy cap) to begin his charm offensive with, "Good morning!" Pause. "You may be seated."
Never mind that it was just after 1:00. Perhaps they were still on Derbyshire time.
The guys playing the two guitars and a drum box sat in bar stools while Luke stood at the mic and announced that the earworm "Body Talks" would be the first song. "Snap your fingers!" he instructed the room and we obeyed. "In time, please!" he called out immediately.
So right away, he got points for humor.
After the song, he asked, "Anyone here going to the show tonight?" and most everyone hooted their affirmation. "I hope tonight's audience is as loud as you are!"
The band slowed it down for "Somebody New," a sweet song about not being ready to love again that not only showed off how strong Luke's vocal chops were, but also how charismatic he could be. My only regret was that he was dressed in traveling clothes rather than the glammy Zandra Rhodes outfits he's known for.
Even so, he had major stage presence.
Between songs, a fan called out a request and then another. "We're not taking requests right now, but I applaud your enthusiasm!" Luke joked before taking off his cap and letting loose a mane of dark hair. So rock star-like.
"Could Have Been Me" followed, an anthem for living without regrets if ever there was one, and then, just like that, it was over. The woman sitting with me had guessed that their set would last 90 minutes and I hadn't had the heart to tell her we'd be lucky if we got 5 songs.
Three, we got three, but they were all strong. What do you expect for free, anyway?
The trade-off was that the band was willing to pose for photos with anyone wanting to line up, so there was a rush to where the DJ stood as everyone who'd skipped out of work or was spending their lunch hour getting their glam rock fix beat feet to have a picture taken to prove it happened.
Not me. I headed straight for the door, my glam rock memories already etched in my head. Fact is, if I hadn't already had plans, I'd have bought a ticket to their show at the National tonight.
I wanna live better days
Never look back and say
Could have been me
Not bloody likely living the glam rock life. Regrets, it seems, are for those who let their drive die.
Don't look at me. Every day's a better day.
First there was the interview done on the terrace (bigger than my entire apartment) of a S1.6 million penthouse. That was followed by the sublime pleasures of a foot massage, which is something akin to orgasmic for a daily walker.
But wait, there's more. The really big deal was going from waking up not knowing who the Struts were (English glam rock band) to seeing them play live shortly after lunch. And loving it.
Credit goes not to XL 102, the radio station sponsoring today's afternoon set, but to Facebook, which listed the appearance as an event. My brain went into overdrive: hmm, I never heard of these guys, but they have several things going for them: they're English, they're glammy and they're playing a mile away during a time of day I won't be working.
I'm so easy.
When I mentioned the band to Mac on our walk to the river this morning (swollen and overflowing the banks of Brown's Island, the pipeline nowhere in sight under so much rushing water), she immediately knew who they were. Too bad she had to be at work right about the time they were taking the stage at Capital Ale House.
Eager beaver that I am, I arrived before they'd even opened the doors, although I could hear them sound-checking as I walked by in the rain. The hostess said the band had had a flat tire on the way, so the set might be delayed.
A few minutes later, they allowed us in and a curious crew of glam rock fans followed, only to be told we weren't allowed to stand by the stage, but had to sit. Mild grumbling ensued as people found chairs.
I tend to think there's something in the glam rock bylaws that states differently, but I found a table to sit and people watch from. There was the Clark Kent-looking guy in a suit, tie and glasses and a blond woman dressed Stevie Nicks style and teetering on ridiculously high platform shoes.
The woman who sat at my table explained that she no longer had the wherewithal to stand for shows ("It's not that I'm old, I just don't have the drive anymore"), although she had a ticket for the Struts' show at the National tonight so I feel sure there'll be standing in her future.
Sitting in a darkened music hall, surrounded by the detritus of Oktoberfest (banners for Lowenbrau and Weihenstephaner hanging on the walls) waiting for the XL Session to begin, it occurred to me how random it was that I was even there.
We had to get through some XL 102 DJ introducing the Struts, reminding the crowd that the band had opened for the Foo Fighters in D.C. last year and were on tour in support of their upcoming album, "Young and Dangerous."
Then the Struts came out and everyone rose to their feet, causing lead singer Luke (with a strong resemblance to a millennial Freddy Mercury, sporting a killer grin and wearing an over-sized newsboy cap) to begin his charm offensive with, "Good morning!" Pause. "You may be seated."
Never mind that it was just after 1:00. Perhaps they were still on Derbyshire time.
The guys playing the two guitars and a drum box sat in bar stools while Luke stood at the mic and announced that the earworm "Body Talks" would be the first song. "Snap your fingers!" he instructed the room and we obeyed. "In time, please!" he called out immediately.
So right away, he got points for humor.
After the song, he asked, "Anyone here going to the show tonight?" and most everyone hooted their affirmation. "I hope tonight's audience is as loud as you are!"
The band slowed it down for "Somebody New," a sweet song about not being ready to love again that not only showed off how strong Luke's vocal chops were, but also how charismatic he could be. My only regret was that he was dressed in traveling clothes rather than the glammy Zandra Rhodes outfits he's known for.
Even so, he had major stage presence.
Between songs, a fan called out a request and then another. "We're not taking requests right now, but I applaud your enthusiasm!" Luke joked before taking off his cap and letting loose a mane of dark hair. So rock star-like.
"Could Have Been Me" followed, an anthem for living without regrets if ever there was one, and then, just like that, it was over. The woman sitting with me had guessed that their set would last 90 minutes and I hadn't had the heart to tell her we'd be lucky if we got 5 songs.
Three, we got three, but they were all strong. What do you expect for free, anyway?
The trade-off was that the band was willing to pose for photos with anyone wanting to line up, so there was a rush to where the DJ stood as everyone who'd skipped out of work or was spending their lunch hour getting their glam rock fix beat feet to have a picture taken to prove it happened.
Not me. I headed straight for the door, my glam rock memories already etched in my head. Fact is, if I hadn't already had plans, I'd have bought a ticket to their show at the National tonight.
I wanna live better days
Never look back and say
Could have been me
Not bloody likely living the glam rock life. Regrets, it seems, are for those who let their drive die.
Don't look at me. Every day's a better day.
Sunday, September 23, 2018
The Death of Summer and Other Sob Stories
Dream it
Do it
Repeat
~ sign seen on my walk in the rain this morning
Yesterday was such a busy day that I didn't even realize Fall had arrived. No, that realization came when it was time to go to bed and I had to get out a cotton blanket for the bed. I know, I know, some people would have just closed the windows, but I'm not one of them.
Knowing how much I had to accomplish today, I woke up at 6:45 and tried, to no avail, to go back to sleep. Finally, at 7:45, I gave up and got up despite having had nowhere near my usual nine hours of sleep. Now that I think about it, that could have had something to do with the 10 1/2 hours I'd gotten the night before, but I'll never know.
Still, I'd like it added into the record that I was awake before sunrise today. My reward was stopping by Nate's for a bagel on my walk, but the price I paid was having to listen to - wait for it - "Eye of the Tiger," "Uptown Girl" and "I'm So Excited," some of the worst '80s pablum I can recall, in succession while I waited for it.
Some sacrifices are worth it for a really good everything bagel with scallion cream cheese served to me by Nate himself in an Obama t-shirt. Suddenly, the cooler weather was tolerable, even if I did have to resort to a hoodie over my t-shirt. Mind you, still worn with shorts.
The day was a blur of writing, laundry, grocery shopping, bill paying, reading the stack of a week's worth of the Washington Post and, saddest of all, moving the beach chairs and umbrellas from the car to the basement for another year.
And, yes, there was a nap, although unfortunately it was a rain nap rather than a heat nap, but it did the trick. Thus fortified, I was ready for some culture: a one day screening of "Rebel Without a Cause" at Movieland.
And don't tell Pru, but no, I'd never seen it. Oh, the cultural gaps I still possess.
Buying my ticket, the girl behind the counter expressed incredulity. "What I wanna know is how you people even knew we were showing this movie. We didn't advertise it. It's from, like, 1955!"
You're right, honey, that is old, a fact I feel secure in saying since it came out before even I was around. As for my intel, it was Facebook that had alerted me to the TCM Classics event - in CinemaScope! and Warner Color! - and I'd promptly marked it down on my calendar.
As you might expect for a rainy, cool Sunday evening show, everyone in the theater tonight was of an age. The balding guy in front of me showed up with a David Baldacci book in one hand and a beer in the other. The couple to my left each held boxes filled with chicken fingers and fries on their lap, making for their own little Cinebistro.
Footage of TCM's Ben Mankiewicz explaining how significant the film was came first and then we were transported back to the days when high school students who got arrested at night (you know, kids who are in the pre-juvenile delinquent stage) were wearing suits, or, at the very least, slacks, vest and button down shirt and tie.
That's definitely a world I never knew.
But as every cultured person on the planet except me apparently is aware, the film takes place on the first day of school and it's not exactly picture-perfect. Knife fights, playing chicken with cars, tires being slit, a kid meeting his death driving over a seaside cliff, did all '50s high schools have a first day of school like that or was that just in California?
And don't get me started about a 2:00 field trip to the Planetarium on the first day of school, either. Impossible! When did the kids bring home the permission slips? Hello, was anyone working continuity on this film?
The seriously '50s details included our hero drinking milk from a quart glass bottle, Mom serving a fish souffle for dinner, little brother's noisy atomic ray gun and the kind of aprons that covered a homemaker's entire dress front, with an enormous bow tied in the back. The Dad, played by Jim Backus aka Mr. Magoo and Thurston Howell III, had a particularly emotive moment wearing said apron in an attempt to clean up a fallen plate of food before his shrewish wife saw the spill and berated him.
And if you think that's quaint, how about a cop responding to a kid with a gun by saying, "Come here, son," and approaching him slowly and calmly? Fiction or just plain dated, you make the call.
But I have emerged with a new appreciation for James Dean'sface and physique Method acting, especially since Ben informed us that he improvised a lot of his dialog and directed many of the scenes, including that opening one where Dean was drunk in the street and playing with the monkey toy.
Back in the days when a kid like him would be brought in to the station on "plain drunkenness." Ah, the good old days.
But what matters today isn't that I've finally seen a movie the Library of Congress deemed culturally, historically and aesthetically significant. It's that it's Fall and I'm already resorting to blankets and additional layers.
If I dream of summer, can I get a do-over and then repeat it for the rest of the year? I have it on the best authority that's how it works.
Do it
Repeat
~ sign seen on my walk in the rain this morning
Yesterday was such a busy day that I didn't even realize Fall had arrived. No, that realization came when it was time to go to bed and I had to get out a cotton blanket for the bed. I know, I know, some people would have just closed the windows, but I'm not one of them.
Knowing how much I had to accomplish today, I woke up at 6:45 and tried, to no avail, to go back to sleep. Finally, at 7:45, I gave up and got up despite having had nowhere near my usual nine hours of sleep. Now that I think about it, that could have had something to do with the 10 1/2 hours I'd gotten the night before, but I'll never know.
Still, I'd like it added into the record that I was awake before sunrise today. My reward was stopping by Nate's for a bagel on my walk, but the price I paid was having to listen to - wait for it - "Eye of the Tiger," "Uptown Girl" and "I'm So Excited," some of the worst '80s pablum I can recall, in succession while I waited for it.
Some sacrifices are worth it for a really good everything bagel with scallion cream cheese served to me by Nate himself in an Obama t-shirt. Suddenly, the cooler weather was tolerable, even if I did have to resort to a hoodie over my t-shirt. Mind you, still worn with shorts.
The day was a blur of writing, laundry, grocery shopping, bill paying, reading the stack of a week's worth of the Washington Post and, saddest of all, moving the beach chairs and umbrellas from the car to the basement for another year.
And, yes, there was a nap, although unfortunately it was a rain nap rather than a heat nap, but it did the trick. Thus fortified, I was ready for some culture: a one day screening of "Rebel Without a Cause" at Movieland.
And don't tell Pru, but no, I'd never seen it. Oh, the cultural gaps I still possess.
Buying my ticket, the girl behind the counter expressed incredulity. "What I wanna know is how you people even knew we were showing this movie. We didn't advertise it. It's from, like, 1955!"
You're right, honey, that is old, a fact I feel secure in saying since it came out before even I was around. As for my intel, it was Facebook that had alerted me to the TCM Classics event - in CinemaScope! and Warner Color! - and I'd promptly marked it down on my calendar.
As you might expect for a rainy, cool Sunday evening show, everyone in the theater tonight was of an age. The balding guy in front of me showed up with a David Baldacci book in one hand and a beer in the other. The couple to my left each held boxes filled with chicken fingers and fries on their lap, making for their own little Cinebistro.
Footage of TCM's Ben Mankiewicz explaining how significant the film was came first and then we were transported back to the days when high school students who got arrested at night (you know, kids who are in the pre-juvenile delinquent stage) were wearing suits, or, at the very least, slacks, vest and button down shirt and tie.
That's definitely a world I never knew.
But as every cultured person on the planet except me apparently is aware, the film takes place on the first day of school and it's not exactly picture-perfect. Knife fights, playing chicken with cars, tires being slit, a kid meeting his death driving over a seaside cliff, did all '50s high schools have a first day of school like that or was that just in California?
And don't get me started about a 2:00 field trip to the Planetarium on the first day of school, either. Impossible! When did the kids bring home the permission slips? Hello, was anyone working continuity on this film?
The seriously '50s details included our hero drinking milk from a quart glass bottle, Mom serving a fish souffle for dinner, little brother's noisy atomic ray gun and the kind of aprons that covered a homemaker's entire dress front, with an enormous bow tied in the back. The Dad, played by Jim Backus aka Mr. Magoo and Thurston Howell III, had a particularly emotive moment wearing said apron in an attempt to clean up a fallen plate of food before his shrewish wife saw the spill and berated him.
And if you think that's quaint, how about a cop responding to a kid with a gun by saying, "Come here, son," and approaching him slowly and calmly? Fiction or just plain dated, you make the call.
But I have emerged with a new appreciation for James Dean's
Back in the days when a kid like him would be brought in to the station on "plain drunkenness." Ah, the good old days.
But what matters today isn't that I've finally seen a movie the Library of Congress deemed culturally, historically and aesthetically significant. It's that it's Fall and I'm already resorting to blankets and additional layers.
If I dream of summer, can I get a do-over and then repeat it for the rest of the year? I have it on the best authority that's how it works.
But the World Goes Round
It's hard to leave the beach on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon.
Beau and I did our final beach walk, spotting more than a few sandpipers in search of their fling. If we have accomplished nothing else this week while lounging about, it was researching and learning the plural names for birds. Sandpipers are what started it and someone guessed their group name would a be a "flute," which isn't all that far from a "fling."
At various times, we learned about a scurry of squirrels, an unkindness of ravens and a stand of flamingos, but my favorite remains the fling. For obvious reasons.
I took the longest possible outdoor shower I could manage, knowing I won't be soaping up outside with a view of the sky and the sound of the waves for some time to come.
After bidding goodbye to Pru, Beau and Queen B, I made my way up the beach road toward home. "Prayers for down south," read a heartfelt sign on the Nags Head pier. Another hurricane reminder was the sign on the Quality Inn in Kill Devil Hills, proclaiming, "Very open."
Further up Route 158, I passed a sign advertising an upcoming event: "Boggin' for Boobies." Talk about knowing your audience.
Around the time I crossed the Virginia state line, the beautiful sunny day I'd left behind on the beach gave way to a gray and cloudy sky that made it a lot easier to keep driving north. No one wants to leave the beach during prime time, least of all me.
Driving past the Disputanta Baptist Church, I saw their sign calling to my people; "Women's Empowerment Seminar 9/29" and wondered what kinds of things would be taught at such a thing and if I didn't already know them all anyway.
And then I was back in the city again. And much as I'm a city person, it's always a tough transition away from the constant sound of the surf and the mesmerizing attraction of watching the ocean. In J-Ward, it was business as usual.
For me, that meant a change of clothes and a walk over to the Basement to see TheatreLAB's production of "Significant Other." As you might imagine, the subject called to me.
My seat was in the front row, next to the theater critic I seem to run into just about every time I see a play. I laughed when he asked if I'd ever acted - there were a couple of amateur films made by a friend in college, but all they did was prove I have no acting talent - but was surprised when he said he had. Apparently he'd only given it up to study journalism in college. The things you learn when you're elbow to elbow.
Grownups live alone.
I keep forgetting we're grown up now.
The play told the story of a group of friends, one guy and three women, as they navigate adulthood and find mates.
At the center of the action is Jordan, played by Deejay Gray, who is not having nearly the good luck at finding his forever person as his girlfriends are. He's about to turn 30 and is convinced it's not going to happen to him ever.
You know, because he's so old.
And if ever anyone was born to play this role, it was Deejay, who managed to convey the frustration of being supportive because your friends are happy while beginning to give up on your own possibilities and fearing a life alone. Because if anyone can play sweet, earnest and sad, it's him.
Life is finding someone to go through it with.
What struck me about the story was how premature Jordan's reaction was. I'd say a person is incredibly lucky if they manage to find their life partner as early as 30. Realistically, many of us aren't even formed enough to know who we are at that age, much less be ready to take on the responsibilities of a live-in relationship.
He's also Jewish, so we can talk about our Moms and it's not weird.
Al three of the female leads nailed their characters. Always impressive no matter what the role, Kelsey Cordrey as Laura shone as Jordan's best friend and partner in single life. As Vanessa, Jessi Johnson walked the line between being a negative Nancy and reveling in finding an adoring partner. Mallory Keene as Kiki embodied the ditzy, "it's all about me" persona, always in a tight dress and the highest of heels.
You know I'm not a happy person. I like foreign films.
Matt Polson and Dan Cimo (his way of saying "Hey, girl!" every time he saw Jordan was a guaranteed laugh) each managed to make their three different male characters distinct from each other. Honestly, I've never seen Dan without being impressed with how he owns his time on stage every single outing.
If I had to come back from the beach, having such a well-directed production to come home to made my landing a whole lot softer.
Mingling after the show, I overheard a man talking about how sad the play made him with its unresolved ending. I talked to a favorite artistic director who admitted that the Jordan character had been him 4 1/2 years ago, before he met his true love and they had their first dog-child. I reminded him that some of us took far longer to achieve half that.
The final part of my return to city life was right in the same place I'd just enjoyed the play. The Ghostlight Afterparty, recently resurrected after a hiatus of several years, is essentially a piano bar with a roomful of actors and audience members busily drinking and socializing while anyone who wanted to could get up and sing a song to piano accompaniment. And when no one wasdrunk enough ready to sing, he played alone.
When he began playing "All That Jazz" from "Chicago," a woman took to the floor to dance a part she'd probably danced before. Soon after, he began playing "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" and half the room was singing along.
But it was when the incomparable Debra Wagoner approached the mic to sing "And the World Goes Round" that the magic really began. She warned the room that she was doing a slow, bluesy number so they'd have to listen and when many kept talking as she sang, she yelled, "Shut the f*ck up!" and some of them did.
Afterward, someone stood up and scolded the talkers for having the nerve to gab through Debra's singing. telling them nothing they were saying sounded a fraction as good as what was coming out of her mouth. Truth.
You gotta love the Ghostlight Afterparty because no one holds back. Also, there's a whole lot of drinking, so people often forget their manners. But you know when the pianist began playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," it got people's attention.
Some time around midnight, my combination beach and city day was enough to send me home through the streets of Jackson Ward - admiring the Pride flags hanging in J Kogi's window - and to my own bed for the first time in a week.
Flings of sandpipers may be in my rear-view window, but that's okay. At least I've checked "find my significant other" off my to-do list. That it happened decades past 30 should be reassuring to the Jordans of the world.
Don't stop believin', kids. Life really is about finding someone to go through it with. Dog-children optional.
Beau and I did our final beach walk, spotting more than a few sandpipers in search of their fling. If we have accomplished nothing else this week while lounging about, it was researching and learning the plural names for birds. Sandpipers are what started it and someone guessed their group name would a be a "flute," which isn't all that far from a "fling."
At various times, we learned about a scurry of squirrels, an unkindness of ravens and a stand of flamingos, but my favorite remains the fling. For obvious reasons.
I took the longest possible outdoor shower I could manage, knowing I won't be soaping up outside with a view of the sky and the sound of the waves for some time to come.
After bidding goodbye to Pru, Beau and Queen B, I made my way up the beach road toward home. "Prayers for down south," read a heartfelt sign on the Nags Head pier. Another hurricane reminder was the sign on the Quality Inn in Kill Devil Hills, proclaiming, "Very open."
Further up Route 158, I passed a sign advertising an upcoming event: "Boggin' for Boobies." Talk about knowing your audience.
Around the time I crossed the Virginia state line, the beautiful sunny day I'd left behind on the beach gave way to a gray and cloudy sky that made it a lot easier to keep driving north. No one wants to leave the beach during prime time, least of all me.
Driving past the Disputanta Baptist Church, I saw their sign calling to my people; "Women's Empowerment Seminar 9/29" and wondered what kinds of things would be taught at such a thing and if I didn't already know them all anyway.
And then I was back in the city again. And much as I'm a city person, it's always a tough transition away from the constant sound of the surf and the mesmerizing attraction of watching the ocean. In J-Ward, it was business as usual.
For me, that meant a change of clothes and a walk over to the Basement to see TheatreLAB's production of "Significant Other." As you might imagine, the subject called to me.
My seat was in the front row, next to the theater critic I seem to run into just about every time I see a play. I laughed when he asked if I'd ever acted - there were a couple of amateur films made by a friend in college, but all they did was prove I have no acting talent - but was surprised when he said he had. Apparently he'd only given it up to study journalism in college. The things you learn when you're elbow to elbow.
Grownups live alone.
I keep forgetting we're grown up now.
The play told the story of a group of friends, one guy and three women, as they navigate adulthood and find mates.
At the center of the action is Jordan, played by Deejay Gray, who is not having nearly the good luck at finding his forever person as his girlfriends are. He's about to turn 30 and is convinced it's not going to happen to him ever.
You know, because he's so old.
And if ever anyone was born to play this role, it was Deejay, who managed to convey the frustration of being supportive because your friends are happy while beginning to give up on your own possibilities and fearing a life alone. Because if anyone can play sweet, earnest and sad, it's him.
Life is finding someone to go through it with.
What struck me about the story was how premature Jordan's reaction was. I'd say a person is incredibly lucky if they manage to find their life partner as early as 30. Realistically, many of us aren't even formed enough to know who we are at that age, much less be ready to take on the responsibilities of a live-in relationship.
He's also Jewish, so we can talk about our Moms and it's not weird.
Al three of the female leads nailed their characters. Always impressive no matter what the role, Kelsey Cordrey as Laura shone as Jordan's best friend and partner in single life. As Vanessa, Jessi Johnson walked the line between being a negative Nancy and reveling in finding an adoring partner. Mallory Keene as Kiki embodied the ditzy, "it's all about me" persona, always in a tight dress and the highest of heels.
You know I'm not a happy person. I like foreign films.
Matt Polson and Dan Cimo (his way of saying "Hey, girl!" every time he saw Jordan was a guaranteed laugh) each managed to make their three different male characters distinct from each other. Honestly, I've never seen Dan without being impressed with how he owns his time on stage every single outing.
If I had to come back from the beach, having such a well-directed production to come home to made my landing a whole lot softer.
Mingling after the show, I overheard a man talking about how sad the play made him with its unresolved ending. I talked to a favorite artistic director who admitted that the Jordan character had been him 4 1/2 years ago, before he met his true love and they had their first dog-child. I reminded him that some of us took far longer to achieve half that.
The final part of my return to city life was right in the same place I'd just enjoyed the play. The Ghostlight Afterparty, recently resurrected after a hiatus of several years, is essentially a piano bar with a roomful of actors and audience members busily drinking and socializing while anyone who wanted to could get up and sing a song to piano accompaniment. And when no one was
When he began playing "All That Jazz" from "Chicago," a woman took to the floor to dance a part she'd probably danced before. Soon after, he began playing "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" and half the room was singing along.
But it was when the incomparable Debra Wagoner approached the mic to sing "And the World Goes Round" that the magic really began. She warned the room that she was doing a slow, bluesy number so they'd have to listen and when many kept talking as she sang, she yelled, "Shut the f*ck up!" and some of them did.
Afterward, someone stood up and scolded the talkers for having the nerve to gab through Debra's singing. telling them nothing they were saying sounded a fraction as good as what was coming out of her mouth. Truth.
You gotta love the Ghostlight Afterparty because no one holds back. Also, there's a whole lot of drinking, so people often forget their manners. But you know when the pianist began playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," it got people's attention.
Some time around midnight, my combination beach and city day was enough to send me home through the streets of Jackson Ward - admiring the Pride flags hanging in J Kogi's window - and to my own bed for the first time in a week.
Flings of sandpipers may be in my rear-view window, but that's okay. At least I've checked "find my significant other" off my to-do list. That it happened decades past 30 should be reassuring to the Jordans of the world.
Don't stop believin', kids. Life really is about finding someone to go through it with. Dog-children optional.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
