THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES (THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE FUNNY)
Here we'll review events beyond our normal (boring some might say) schedule of: exercise programs, (our personal training sessions 3 times a week [weights, primarily, with inestimable guru Rocco] , hour daily walks [usually to Balboa Park], daily 1 mile swim [Reuel], paying bills, lunching 3 or 4 days a week at: Park Manor (3 blocks up--views to die), San Fillipo [Saturday with their fabulous liter carafe the lovely waiter brings to us without our asking], Jimmy Carters [up-the-block Mexican "cuisine"],
Senior take-out bag at Mandarin House
Mandarin House [you guessed it, Chinese--apparently not only Jews like it], Terra [Sunday brunch--all-you-can-drink Champagne. (So they caught us--hey, it costs them $2 a bottle; this we know as "former" retauranteurs who once hosted the most popular brunch in Palm springs with "free Champagne"], the lovely server Kathryn brings to us without our asking ["it's #@* 'Them' again"]) and occasionally The Red Fox and Bully's (steak and dark paneled walls the way we remember it from our youthful indiscretions in eighteenth century England), City Deli for the occasional chicken soup with matzo ball, Gulf Coast Grill for New Orleans-style dishes and, back in the nabe, Ave. 5--classy atmosphere. Terrific Sangria (not the cloying kind but nicely tart and then there's all that alcohol soaked fruit to plunder) and Chris Shaw's very successful restaurants in Hillcrest, Urban Mo's and Baja Betty's when our hair is combed and we don't feel so old.
And then there's reading 2 novels a week each, working on writing unpalatable musicals like "Queer Lincoln" (Reuel), planning trips, studying languages in advance of trips (currently Italian on Rosetta stone--Reuel), watching/shouting at MSNBC, playing the (gasp) stock market, and attending and being eminence gris at local Boards and Commitees [Bob]--his entirely non-remunerative albeit full-time job. Ah semi-retirement were paradise anow. "Semi" implies overseeing our 10-year old Hillcrest wine bar, The Wine Lover, collecting rents and filling apartment vacancies with young people starting out as, I suppose, we repeatedly do. Oof.
Palm Springs condo garden Our Bankers Hill apt. community
The Wine Lover (2010)--our Winetenders, Elanita, Jamie & George
Pool at Reuel's club downtown Pool in Palm Springs--same size; only pic is larger. Reuel swims 74 lengths of the 75 foot pools--1 hour, 1 mile--daily (except some Sundays).
Planning Stages 2010:
April 14-24, 2010. Delaware (Arthur's unveiling) , NYC (Theatre). Apt on 47th St.
Mid-June 17-28. Puerto Vallarta (Oceanfront condo)
August, 2010. San Francisco. (Joseph and Jasmine's wedding August 22 (1 week)
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April 14-17. Delaware/Lakewood, NJ. April 17-24 NYC. (Pics at Flickr. reuel@att.net p. rko92103)
Subject: My trip to the east coast
Happy cocktail hour,
Just six on the west coast, so I'm on my first glass of cheap white wine. I knew a restaurateur, now deceased, who had his staff wear t-shirts the said "Life is too short to drink cheap wine." He's right, but I still drink my Two Buck Chuck. So much for connoisseurship from He Who Owns a Wine Bar.
I enjoyed the east coast foray. We flew to Philadelphia on a red eye, got there about 7 a.m., picked up a car and I drove (with Reuel) to Newark, DE. By the way, that's pronounced New-Ark, not New-Erke; the natives are quite particular about the pronunciation.. We found our motel, an inexpensive Ramada with free breakfast AND room service. We love room service.
After a rest and a conversation with Reuel's sister-in-law, we drove to Winterthur, the DuPont mansion chock full of early American antiques. Winterthur has one of the great Americana collections and is regarded by AmerStuds as a holy place. I worshiped at the splendor of the period rooms, lovingly constructed by the last owner, Francis DuPont, God and Mammon. They have a graduate program in museum-ology (or artifactmanship) that's one of the best in the country. Our guide was a charming graduate student (of the female variety, not that we held it against her). The rooms we saw on the general admission ticket were extraordinary. The grounds, also lovingly designed by Mr. DuPont, were magnificent, just coming into early spring bloom. Had a lovely lunch in the cafe and explored the Campbell (Soup) tureen collection. A whole wing, no less. (DuPont sired at least one child, but he had a gay sensibility.)
That evening we had dinner with Dorothy and her 98-year-old father at IHOP, as the old guy currently refuses to eat much more than pancakes when he goes out. Reuel tried to order an alcoholic drink and the trailer-trash waitress blanched and giggled. So much for civilization. The old guy is quite sweet and, though feeble, has most of his marbles, so dinner was okay. Once they dropped us off, we walked to the local mall and bought vodka (Reuel) and wine (me) and spent the rest of the evening in front of the tv. Lovely.
Next day, sister-in-law Dorothy picked us up early for the two-hour drive to Lakewood, New Jersey, and the unveiling. Seven of us in a pitiful cemetery desperately needing attention. We stood around and once Dorothy took off the cloth that covered the tombstone, we put stones on it (a custom indicating we'd visited) and reminisced about Arthur, the deceased. The day was appropriately gray and off-putting. Next off to lunch at Charley Brown's, an east coast chain, for its salad bar, etcetera. I had a burger and fries AND a glass of cheap wine, as I wasn't driving. It rained on the way back to Newark, an unhappy occurrence as we were on the road during drive time. Back at the Ramada, we ordered room service, ordering a bottle of wine. Since they're a simple people, the kitchen sent us a bottle but no corkscrew. The problem soon resolved, we drank, drank, drank.
The next day Dorothy was able to find day care for her dad, so she took us to another DuPont house at Hagley Mills on Brandywine creek. Here the DuPonts manufactured gunpowder during the 19th century. A fast-flowing stream, trees in bloom, magnificent grounds. I'd forgotten what Spring is like on the east coast.You feel like you've earned it after winter. Of course, the same thing is true in MN. There's also an 18th century house lived in by the DuPont family that, though modest, was charming, filled of course with 18th and 19th century stuff. So much stuff.
Then back to Newark, a college town, for lunch at a pleasant restaurant recommended by Dorothy. When we finished, Dorothy drove us to the Amtrak station where we caught the train the NYC, about a two hour trip. I LIKE trains. The little engine that could....
We got to NYC, taxied to our abode, met the landlord's girlfriend, unpacked, and ran out to the 1/2 price ticket booth and bought tickets for our first Broadway show, Enron, a play about Enron. Interesting play, innovatively staged with good acting--but finally an rxtended economics lesson. I don't regret having seen it, but I wouldn't recommend it either. We saw it just before it opened, so we agreed with the critics who found it interesting but wanting.
We saw nine shows, not a record, but okay. A person can do better in London, which has matinees on curious days and shows around 5. Not that
play-going is a marathon (though it might be for the obsessed Reuel).
We also saw: Promises, Promises, a new revival of the Bachrach show of 40 years ago; the newest revival of La Cage aux Folles with Kelsey Grammer (really good); Collected Stories (a play about a writer and her thieving protege), only moderately interesting; two gay plays Next Fall (death and religion: yuck) and The Tempermentals, about the creation of the Mattachine Society, an early gay group (excellent play), Sondheim on Sondheim, the newest tribute to an American master (great singing paired with documentary film: an unhappy wedding of genres); Red, a play about Mark Rothko and his interaction with his assistant (Brilliant), and Next to Normal, the Pulitzer-prize-winning rock musical (neither of us liked it much; so there Pulitzer Prize committee). And that's how we spent out time.
Though, since I've already spoken of sacred places, I admit we made a pilgrimage to the newly-reopened American wing at the Metropolitan. It's great, but so was our boozey lunch in the Sculpture Court. Scholarship and booze mesh nicely.
We also walked in Central Park and explored the streets of Hells Kitchen (aka Clinton) where we rented a tiny but pleasant apartment, the cheapest way of staying in NY.
We also spent an afternoon in Jersey City, not because I wanted to visit St. Peter's but because Reuel lusted for his old neighborhood. In case you've forgotten, the apartment building in which he grew up over-looked St. Peter's and, when I was there, had become a SPC office building. I felt little, but he was moved by the old nabe and how it had changed. He documented it all with his point-and-shoot. The college is now locked up like a safe, which suggests something about this part of JC.
OMG, time for dinner.
Bye,
Bob
Just six on the west coast, so I'm on my first glass of cheap white wine. I knew a restaurateur, now deceased, who had his staff wear t-shirts the said "Life is too short to drink cheap wine." He's right, but I still drink my Two Buck Chuck. So much for connoisseurship from He Who Owns a Wine Bar.
I enjoyed the east coast foray. We flew to Philadelphia on a red eye, got there about 7 a.m., picked up a car and I drove (with Reuel) to Newark, DE. By the way, that's pronounced New-Ark, not New-Erke; the natives are quite particular about the pronunciation.. We found our motel, an inexpensive Ramada with free breakfast AND room service. We love room service.
After a rest and a conversation with Reuel's sister-in-law, we drove to Winterthur, the DuPont mansion chock full of early American antiques. Winterthur has one of the great Americana collections and is regarded by AmerStuds as a holy place. I worshiped at the splendor of the period rooms, lovingly constructed by the last owner, Francis DuPont, God and Mammon. They have a graduate program in museum-ology (or artifactmanship) that's one of the best in the country. Our guide was a charming graduate student (of the female variety, not that we held it against her). The rooms we saw on the general admission ticket were extraordinary. The grounds, also lovingly designed by Mr. DuPont, were magnificent, just coming into early spring bloom. Had a lovely lunch in the cafe and explored the Campbell (Soup) tureen collection. A whole wing, no less. (DuPont sired at least one child, but he had a gay sensibility.)
That evening we had dinner with Dorothy and her 98-year-old father at IHOP, as the old guy currently refuses to eat much more than pancakes when he goes out. Reuel tried to order an alcoholic drink and the trailer-trash waitress blanched and giggled. So much for civilization. The old guy is quite sweet and, though feeble, has most of his marbles, so dinner was okay. Once they dropped us off, we walked to the local mall and bought vodka (Reuel) and wine (me) and spent the rest of the evening in front of the tv. Lovely.
Next day, sister-in-law Dorothy picked us up early for the two-hour drive to Lakewood, New Jersey, and the unveiling. Seven of us in a pitiful cemetery desperately needing attention. We stood around and once Dorothy took off the cloth that covered the tombstone, we put stones on it (a custom indicating we'd visited) and reminisced about Arthur, the deceased. The day was appropriately gray and off-putting. Next off to lunch at Charley Brown's, an east coast chain, for its salad bar, etcetera. I had a burger and fries AND a glass of cheap wine, as I wasn't driving. It rained on the way back to Newark, an unhappy occurrence as we were on the road during drive time. Back at the Ramada, we ordered room service, ordering a bottle of wine. Since they're a simple people, the kitchen sent us a bottle but no corkscrew. The problem soon resolved, we drank, drank, drank.
The next day Dorothy was able to find day care for her dad, so she took us to another DuPont house at Hagley Mills on Brandywine creek. Here the DuPonts manufactured gunpowder during the 19th century. A fast-flowing stream, trees in bloom, magnificent grounds. I'd forgotten what Spring is like on the east coast.You feel like you've earned it after winter. Of course, the same thing is true in MN. There's also an 18th century house lived in by the DuPont family that, though modest, was charming, filled of course with 18th and 19th century stuff. So much stuff.
Then back to Newark, a college town, for lunch at a pleasant restaurant recommended by Dorothy. When we finished, Dorothy drove us to the Amtrak station where we caught the train the NYC, about a two hour trip. I LIKE trains. The little engine that could....
We got to NYC, taxied to our abode, met the landlord's girlfriend, unpacked, and ran out to the 1/2 price ticket booth and bought tickets for our first Broadway show, Enron, a play about Enron. Interesting play, innovatively staged with good acting--but finally an rxtended economics lesson. I don't regret having seen it, but I wouldn't recommend it either. We saw it just before it opened, so we agreed with the critics who found it interesting but wanting.
We saw nine shows, not a record, but okay. A person can do better in London, which has matinees on curious days and shows around 5. Not that
play-going is a marathon (though it might be for the obsessed Reuel).
We also saw: Promises, Promises, a new revival of the Bachrach show of 40 years ago; the newest revival of La Cage aux Folles with Kelsey Grammer (really good); Collected Stories (a play about a writer and her thieving protege), only moderately interesting; two gay plays Next Fall (death and religion: yuck) and The Tempermentals, about the creation of the Mattachine Society, an early gay group (excellent play), Sondheim on Sondheim, the newest tribute to an American master (great singing paired with documentary film: an unhappy wedding of genres); Red, a play about Mark Rothko and his interaction with his assistant (Brilliant), and Next to Normal, the Pulitzer-prize-winning rock musical (neither of us liked it much; so there Pulitzer Prize committee). And that's how we spent out time.
Though, since I've already spoken of sacred places, I admit we made a pilgrimage to the newly-reopened American wing at the Metropolitan. It's great, but so was our boozey lunch in the Sculpture Court. Scholarship and booze mesh nicely.
We also walked in Central Park and explored the streets of Hells Kitchen (aka Clinton) where we rented a tiny but pleasant apartment, the cheapest way of staying in NY.
We also spent an afternoon in Jersey City, not because I wanted to visit St. Peter's but because Reuel lusted for his old neighborhood. In case you've forgotten, the apartment building in which he grew up over-looked St. Peter's and, when I was there, had become a SPC office building. I felt little, but he was moved by the old nabe and how it had changed. He documented it all with his point-and-shoot. The college is now locked up like a safe, which suggests something about this part of JC.
OMG, time for dinner.
Bye,
Bob
March 27 weekend. Our first tennis lesson with Chris Phelan "Pro-to-Go". Friday 9 AM after RKO's swim. Chris is gentle with us. We survive. Friday evening drinks at our place with our condo neighbors Bob and Don (and their friend from Bloomington, IL--Phil--looking for a condo here. Saturday "Greenberg" the Noah baumbach directed Ben Stiller film. Bob enjoys more than Reuel who thinks it tediously self-conscious. That evening at Trio with Gary presided over by our fravorite former Villa waiter Travis who flirts as always and gets a big tip.
Gettin g used to our condo bedroom--map w. pins shows all places we've travelled
Bob looking Hot and building shelves for new pantry in San Diego townhouse (garage)
On the way to PS, gorgeous bridge
New Year's Weekend (2010!), Palm springs. Highlights. Eve. Ed, the irrepressible Association prexy refuses to leave us alone until we make an appearance at the NYE party. He introduces us--halting all conversation of the 40 or so assembled--as the new "Fun Police"--homage to our predecessors--former owners of our condo--who hated anyone having any fun apparently--as various other owners--and snowbird repeat Canadian renters--attest. All very amiable and pleasant but we sneak out after sampling a little of the picked over pot luck to enjoy our own pizza--easy to fall asleep after the ball falls at 9 pm western.
Then with Danny and Brian we greatly enjoy the revolutionary--Bob less than enchanted however--3 D Avatar, blue giants and a very New Zealand-like paradise; turns out much of it filmed there. Then the new Argentinian restaurant nearby (this all takes place in the much and justifiably reviled Cathedral City) with "gauchos" serving vats of meat and kuchi kuchi girls, BA variety, gyrating--campy and dee-licious.
Decembver 27, Sunday. It's one of those Mark Taper LA favorites, Palestine Now--a hodge podge, but gets us off the streets--of San Diego. Excuse to have a pre-theatre lunch at one of our favorite restaurants in the arts complex and roam the post xmas gift shop at the Philamonic.
December 26. We're terra firma, San Diego. Doing usual things to make this real. A Single Man, Tom ford's reworking movie of Isherwood's seminal novel, very good indeed. Then our Saturday Pizza place is closed--we do the Mexican at the local up the block--not bad wirh a bottle of Chard--and then revisiting Home--fire in the fireplace, drinks, some edgy TV and appreciating what we have.
Saturday, December 26. San Diego. Piles of mail--bills--to ponder. Early bird showing (no point in asking for the senior discount) of A Single Man at the Landmark, Tom Ford's (yes that Tom Ford) interpretation of Christopher Isherwood's novel, required reading for homosexuals--at least when we were young. Excellent. We expect lunch--pizza--at San Fillipo's on the way home only to discover that it is closed--and later to discover that it will close forever after 30 years. Settle for a bottle of chard and mexican dishes at the local. No need for dinner--cocktails suffice. Back in the swing in San Diego.
December, 2009 Sydney and Auckland stayovers. Cruise Australia, Tasmania, New Zealand (1st time Down Under) (3 weeks)
Problems with internet (v e r y s l o w) on board Princess Diamond--and a certain lethargy--prevents daily blogging so Reuel determines to display some representative photos when downloading is opportune.
Princess diamond Itinerary.
December 22, Aukland NZ
December 21, Tauranga NZ.
December 20, At Sea
December 19, Lyttleton (Christchurch) NZ
December 18 Port Chalmers (Dunedin) NZ
December 17, Fjordland (Cruising)
December 16 At Sea
December 15 (At Sea)
December 14 Hobart (Tasmania) AUS
December 13 (At Sea)
Special Pub lunch. Bangers and Mash for Reuel and Ploughman's supper for Bob at The Savoy for lunch--accompanied by Guiness of course. We're beginning to think that the food and service on board is really quite fine--so unlike our memory of the Princess Regal cruise around Asia. Much to do onboard--we pass up Ceramics at Sea but catch a little of the Special Interest lecture presumably about Aussie culture--but as far as we're concerned about the ineptitude of the speaker; we're there for laughs--Where did they find her? is on everyne's lips--a travel agent and motivational speaker who knows nothing about Australia but a lot about her daughters--or so we l;earned on an earlie "lecture". Reuel catches some of the cocktauil demo--anything to sell sell sell, but then these cruises are largely about abetting the consumeristic impulses of the passengers and we can plead Guilty with Pleasure. Bob catcjes a snatch of a bad movie--Angerls and Demons--then off to a wine tasting and another seesion of meeting the LGBT'ers aboard.
December 10. Sydney/Princess diamond. It's time to l;eave Sydney. We purchase our liquor for in-suite cocktails from ou now familiar and chatty wine merchant--who tells us we won't be treated as criminals for doing so on the Princess line. Wheel our luggage from the hotel past the Aboriginals and their mournful, spooky diggery do melodyizing's on the harbour to the Overseas Passenger Terminal a few blocks away. And everything--lo and behold--passes smoothly. Beautiful--huge ship, 2600 passemgers--great mini-suite with a separate sitting room and large balcony. Our steward Briccio--an 18 yearveteran of theseas from the Phillipines of course--greets us as Doctors (Reuel indicated we were on the forms and so we will be fior the duration though we will fail to attend the Doctors and Nurses get together later on. We tpou opur ew home--this confusing behemoth--note that the staff are putting up Christmas decorations--more Christmas than we found in sydney, much motre focussed on NYE (New year's eve). We note many wonderful places to drink and have our martini's (to filch the glasses for our in room libations--a trick we learned from that\e veteran of cruises Brian--the server, Francisco, performs magic tricks and balances our glasses on his forehead--more than we expectyed with our simple order. this will be fun. We say bywe to the Opera house--now looking magnificent and iconic in the evening and plunge into the world of the ship by attending the Welcome Aboard show, cruise director simon--rolly poly comic introducing hios crew--snippets from the singer dancers, a very hetero/slick comedian--that will be the challenge, dealing with that set of expectations--where's the wife?--and finding our own good time--(we will as it turns out)--and then g'night.
December 9, Sydney. At the Opera--dressed up--Reuel gets to inaugurate his new lime green jacket--a nice cocktail at the very busy opera cafe, the place apparently for all youn Sydney to meet. There are dozens of these restaurants along the harbour--all expensive. But it's neat having drinks and gazing out over the harbour at sunset. We see a roue feeling up the leg of the older woman he's with. HJow louche. To the sublime: We see/hear Haydn's Creation. Follow the libretto. Adam and eve still happy in this famous version. Very well done--pleasure in having seats (planned months in advance) over the orchestra--and chorus. Afterwards a cafe band playing Let's Get Phydical without much enthusiasm.
December 9.Wednesday. Sydney. Reuel swims again 6-ish. Breakfast again (we're natives) at Brew. Waiter remembers Reuel gets Chai andBob "flat" coffee. Reuel's Muesli and fruit and yogurt is exceptional (really). We foot it to the Contemporary Museum--small collection--some modern Aboriginal art. Next: Royal Botanic gardens--exotic (at least to us) birds just wandering aroundlots of viney fig-type trees. Next stop: Art gallery of NSW. Very big--impressive collections ranging from19th Century Aussie to contemporary to Asian. We decide to lunch--Japanese--andbottleofwine--at the Victoria arcade--indoor mall, actually incredible 19th c. edifice renovated at 70million--comparable and more ornate than Moscow's famous GUM department store (name dropper). Not much Xmas in this city--a few displays. The big thing seems to be NYE (New Year's Eve)preparations. Note of Sydney. Very much like Seattle--sorry--a city of similar age--at least from point of view of the white man.
December 8, Sydney. Reuel gets to swim in hotel's outdoor pool--warm jacuzzi. After breakfast at Brew--excellent and decent value--comparably--recomended by Princess cruises lady at the hotel. Although we're "independent"as sheputs it, thishotelisbeing used by Princess passengers--she claims she'slonely, few cruisers--hmm. Timefor our hop-on, hop-off. Quite a good tour, lasting all day, ofSydney and Bondi Beach, the high point. We get to walk cliffside. One American girlstops usto say it's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. Quite. An old Aus. man stops to tell me about a grafitti memorialI'm photographing. Everywhere Ausisare friendly and open. Lunch at a rest/bar we on the window adjacent to gorgeous bay watching the passing--young--scene. Evening scopeout the iconic opera house (never realized the facade is tile) and bustling waterfront area. Martinis in the now-familiar hotel bar.
December 5-7 . San Diegoto Sydney, Aus. Thank goodness it's an evening flight. Time to prepare--last minute bills, business memos, etc. Commuter flight to LA. Seemingly endless corridors to our gate. Then jumbo (United)jet to Sydney.Luck out with exit aisle seats. Loads of legroom. Bob-a radiologist-sits next to Reuel, whois one of few on the plane who cannot sleepand must endure mediocre films--although one --a cartoon about an oldman (voice of Ed Asner)and a boy is touching aboutold age, depndency, expectations, the usual important stuff.Reuel sniffles as Bobsnores. Coversations with the old doctor--a RickWarren fundamentalist--about health care. He ofcourse thinks doctors are underpaid. Everyone has a dog in this fight.
Four Seasons Sydney is 70'sluxe with those 4 Season's details to satisfy rich people (wish we were, especially considering that Aus prices are high and the USdollar is low--oh Wormwood,wormwood). WeDrink while our room is being prepared--not huge but nifty view out over the Opera/harbourwhich is theidea of course. We wander the neighborhood--absolutely central to harbour and the Rocks area.Take the ferry to Manly--great weather--lovely lunch at Hugo's, chatty, friendlymaitre d'--overlooking bay. pizza margherita--they claim it's world's best. Later andwiches, wine in our room.Ambien helps correct wacky sleep patterns.
November 27-29, Palm Springs. Discover the joy of painting those terrible Southwestern lamps chartreuse (the gallon of paint purchased at HomeDepot for$5). Sunday brunch at Leo's (I think) football field sized mausoleum for 100'sof 60+gaymen.
November 26, Thursday. Thanksgiving at Beth's house.
November 25, Wednesday. Nicholas Cage's new movie is playing at our local art theatre (Hillcrest) I suppose that is because the director is Werner Herzog even though it's a fairly big-picture glitzy affair. Cage outdoes himself playing a drug addicted and eventually adled policeman, a role not unlike his other addict tour de force in Leaving Los Vegas. We'd had our usual at Urban Mo's earlier and post-movie stopped into the now evolving (to a more-retail presence) Wine Lover to chat with Brandy about strategies going forward. Love that expression, Going Forward!
November 19-22 Second weekend in a row getting comfortable with the fact of our new /old alternate universe--Palm springs. No longer the "estate" in Little Tuscany but a perfectly acceptable condominium in a condominium community in Palm Springs. Expunging the bad memories, trying to retain the good, the wonderful ones. Shopping helps. Adding to the contents of the condo--delivered turnkey to us--down to the tissue paper, the shampoo, the southwestern art--which we store away in the storage closet off the patio. We place our "household god" the Chinese warrior statue last residing in Bankers Hill, before that overseeing the Casa Grande dining room-- in the hallway, a step toward resisting the return of the spirit of the Riotts (former owners--for 32 years) whoever they were and forcing our spirit in--whatever that might be--isn't the understanding of that "spirit" the point of these musings?
Quesadias at Aqua Cucina in The River center after our trip to the management company in Palm Desert for a key to the tennis courts (we Will Play!). Friday night we meet Danny and Brian at Trio, a new restaurant virtually a "gentlemen's club" full of gay men--most of whom no doubt were patrons at our Sunday brunches; Travis, now at Trio, one of our favorite waiters from The Villa, embraces us and flatters us in his flirty way. As Bob puts it, we're "getting back on the horse" [that threw us], the week earlier Travis having greeted us with an embarassing keen of sympathy. In that vein, the next day, we allow Craig, the gossipy and annoying salesman at True Value hardware--a former habitue of our desert bar--to spew his disdain of the new owners of The Villa who have apparently knocked it down completely only to leave it there--ruined, ruins, those 100 date palms left to die. We let him know that they are now well-known Ponzi Schemers and we are happily aware that soon all of Palm Springs will be absorbing that nugget. Suddenly Craig's not so bad after all. We leave True Value without the welcome mat we had intended to buy there but a little more welcomed back all the same.
Sunday morning Reuel swims for 30 lengths rather than the usual 74, the mile (or so he supposes that it is). His back is painful. The neighbor lady next door (the one who was wary when they came to complain--albeit gently they thought--of the noise) comes out as he's alighting (?) from the pool and says "You must be ready to catch a plane out." He is confused. "What?" until she says, "Oh I thought you were someone else. He swims before he flies out." I could be that person he thinks. Yet I swim always. Always ready to fly out.
And we do--drive to San Diego that morning, in time to buy her birthday cake and prepare for the arrival of Beth and her boys. Drinks on the patio. Hamburgers. A walk across the Spruce Street bridge--Jordy loses his sandal in the canyon below and needs to fetch it. He is told the story of the Greek hero who arrives in a village with only one sandal and is thus known to be annointed. What will his future be? Reuel foolishly confides that he shouldn't automatically go to college if he doesn't want to (he does), be an entrepreneur or do what Leslie Fiedler's imagined son must do--read mountains of the best books and then taste of life in Paris. Fortunately Jordy will go to college.
In San Diego, Reuel dreams--an unspecific place in his recall. He asks a number of people, people he thought he knew, "Is money important to you?" He declares--assertively--that it is to him. They all say as if it is natural to do so that, no, it is not important. However by saying that it is very important, he is somehow asserting that he has it, is rich. One woman--they are mostly women--now suspicious, not knowing his circumstances asks, Where do you live? He replies San Diego . . . and (more quietly) Palm Springs. He fears he has given them the wrong idea.
November 6-8. Palm Springs. Packing for our first trip to our new condo in Palm Springs, which, let's face it, we've seen for a total of 6 minutes before buying it and running off to Italy. Hmm. Wonder what it's really like?After picking up the keys from a 103 temperature Danny Friend/Realtor who will understandably not accompany us to see the new condo--which we discover is absolutely "turn key" down to the shampoo . . . and conditioner, we toss the pastel southwest paintings on the wall into the storage closet and rush off to our favorite consignment store--no coffee table
yet--and Bed Bath and Beyond for a few (un)necessaries. Lunch at what was the old Cedar Creek Inn--$4.50 for a cheeseburger--we oldsters are in heaven. Cover the southwest couch in black fabric. Then there's the joy of having an upscale Ralphs supermarket across the street. Pizza in our microwave in the evening. It's home! Reuel swimming in the huge pool at 7 am. Explore the grounds. Lunch at the nearby deli, Manhattan--don't try downtown on Pride weekend.
We'll need to 
learn to play tennis.
The short hop (ok 2 hours) to LA to see Parade (which is the best production we've seen at The Mark Taper--next to the fabulous Gherry Walt Disney Hall-- in our 10 years as subscribers. A Sondheimesque musical [who'd believe] based on the scapegoating of the eastern Jew Boby Frank, accused of murdering a girl in his Southern factory. Spectacular staging and performances--led by T.J. Knight--as Frank--of Grey's Anatomy fame.) We needed to change our tickets to Saturday night rather than Sunday matinee (hip vs. old fogey audience) because of the Italy trip so absolutely needed to stay overnight--how fortuitous--at the gorgeous old Hollywood Queen of hotels, the Biltmore. View of the downtown park. A pre-show "dinner" of chips in our comfortable room with wine that bob thoughtfully imports from Palm Springs. After show stopping in for a drink in the rococo bar--robust live jazz.All in all, a great weekend topped by a terrific Sunday brunch in the Biltmore lobby restaurant and once in San Diego kicking back with Ann and Nancy, newly arrived from Maui, with whom we talk condo talk--a language of its own--and [Bob] local politics and who get to ooh and ahh (a courtesy) over our new living room ceiling. Little by little the Boyz are getting back into comfortable domiciling.
__________
Friday, October 30. Venezia.
We know the routine now--relax in the AM around the casa, big breakfast, and then off to an adventure in this most beautiful of destinations (and wehave had wonderful weather here). For this, our last full day of the trip, it's the Lido, which we remember from our tour--the ever-resourceful Francesc getting us into that hotel where Thomas Mann's protagonist Aushenbach fixated on young Tadzio.
From Bob's recollection: We walk to St. Marks, lo and behold the Chiesa St. Moise is open for us--notice a hunky bodybuilder decorating the altar--and also noticed the altar--stop at a bookstore nearby and discover a whole series of Donna Leone books, no books by our contessa, Maria Novela Papafava, who Google tells us is a novelist, as well as one called Brunetti's Venice, which we'll purchase in the States where it's cheaper. Then walked to the ticket booth to buy our passes to get to the airport from St. Angelo. That's a relief. Next the #1 to the Lido--outside in the back, sweeping views of the city and the lagoon--German lesbians out there with us smile conspiratorily.
At Lido, walk up the main drag--Via Martia Elizabeta--along the shore drive along the beach with it's closed-off cabanas--clearly the season is over--across from that infamous hotel Des Bains--up to the jetty--returnd to the street and press into the heart of town famished as always and as always can't find the recommended restaurants so settle for a Pizzeria with fresh and surprisingly good fare. Add to that a liter of casa vini and the boyz are happy. Then hop on the #1 vaporetto, takek it to the Salute stop--retrace last night's wonderful walk and amble to the Fundamente, stopping for Compare and soda at a cafe on the water.
Then back to home over the Academmenia bridge thru Campo St. Stephano-- a revisit of the Chiesa St. Stephano--and home to St. angelo. There to pack and await the contessa with what might be left of our deposit.
She arrives breathless, charming. Heat turns out to be 11 euro a day. We are free to continue drinking, blogging, cooking, reading, packing.
Thursday (Giovani), October 29. Venezia.
It is a long morning before we set forth, soldiers in the travel war. Facciamo l'amore. Non la guerra (cri de cour from the sixties). Reuel gets up at 4:30 AM with the garbagemen, to check emails. It appears our wire has been sent to the Investment after back and forth between our attorney, the preesident of ACG and our escrow company. A good thing? We'll see.
Reuel finishes the Maeve Binchley novel Heart and Soul, a perfect antidote to the anxiety (underneath our wonderful forays in this magical city) about our aforementioned financial dilemmas. As Ms. Binchley would have it, good things happen to good people. We recall that on a recent trip, a friend apparently acquainted with our financial disaster atThe Villa, said of us that bad things things happen to good people; we're to accept that clearly unprovable generalization? Are we good? Anyway, the novel was pinched from our Roman flat (aren't these temporary homes international lending libraries?) Bob has finished the latest Donna Leone set in Venice which Reuel will then read; he is now working on Iain Pears' The Raphael Affair--about art theft and set partly inRome--which Reuel has finished having "borrowed" it from the Rome flat. Our reading abroad tends to be site specific.
After watching the passing scene in "our" campo--the parents walking their schoolchildren, the inevitable lady (taking over the ask from her husband apparently) with the intransigent fluffy dog, the purposeful workers, the tourists dragging the luggage behind them, we prepare for the day's adventures with a huge home breakfast of ham and cheese and peach jam on bread.
First, we "vapoetto" to San Giorgio Maggiore--fabulous Titians--gorgeous choir, the setting not the singers, up the campanile on a rickety elevator--better than stairs however for the claustraphobic and agoraphobic--he's a mess--Reuel--with great panoramic views of Venice. Then finding seats in the open stern (best for sightseeing) of the #2 we take the lovely 35 minute ride to the Train Station in Canereggio. There ensues 20 minutes of map and guidebook consultation, trying to pinpoint locations of restaurants. Our pinpointing takes us through the streets of Carnareggio, through the old Jewish ghetto--where we see some Jews--actually very interesting. After determining that our chosen restaurant is troppo cara (too expensive) as well as empty (a bad sign) we discover a charming steria canalside (although we sit inside under a ceiling and inside walls of murals of birds (?). The owner-chef, in floppy tote, provides us with a nice Venetian merlot, good contorni plates of vedura, vegetables, and spahetti with meat sauce and black inked spaghetti with cuttlefish for Reuel. Satisfying after our long walk.
Walk back. Stop at supermarcato. Home we nap and read, intending to attend a concert only to discover that we are a day late. Better as it turns out, we promenade the evening streets of Doserduro, to Santa Maria della Salute and along the almost empty and incredibly romantic fundamenti of the waterfront. We, Italians now, dine at, gasp, 9 pm on Bob's mushroom-filled tortellini and cooked spinich--Bob's a chef--and we finished up our cakes with glee.
Wednesday (Mercoledi), October 28. Venezia.
We are fortunate that we are here during the Bienniale--the bi-yearly grand art event in Venice that represents the best cutting-edge art internationally. We've already popped into a few buildings near the historic center (what isn't historic though?) and seen some examples--installations built around single artists or a collection of artists from a given country. Sometimes it appears to us that the setting overshadows the works--we're getting a"twofer" at least--as is sometimes the case today when we venture forth to the epicenter of the Bienniale. At first it's the Giardini-Palazzo della Espozitioni. After our vaporetto ride (Taxi!) to the Guardini stop we pass through the park overlooking the grand canal and looking at the Lido that we picniced at 10 or 12 years ago on our first tour (as opposed to a visit) of Italy (with the inimitable Francesca as tour guide who purchased our sandwiches). Lovely spot. Nice memory.
The exhibition--if it can be called that--is huge. It is a kind of world's fair. Each country has its own pavilion. Many installations favor video, scupture, multi-media, black boxes, and shock effect and reflect the flavor of the particular country and the perspective of the artist as outsider looking sardonically or angrily in. There's not much art here that you can put on your wall, unless your wall is the size of a football field and you are not inviting your straighlaced neighbors in for cocktails.
Reuel snaps away. Alice is in wonderland. The boyz are now international art sophisticates--no flies on us.
Some particularly impressive installations favor the "visit the house" approach--you need to intuit what happened at the house and who lives there from the evidence of furnishings. Usually bad things have happened. Finland's house has homo-erotic themes. A man's body is floating in the pool outside. Inside--we see his collection of male erotic underwear--trophies. A video shows his interviews with straight boys next to a wall of Tom of Finland (famed homo-erotic artist) framed artwork. Aha! At another house, for sale, evidence shows that the formerly happy couple have parted ways.
After the cafeteria (replete with school children) and taking our quite good ham and cheese paninis with wine out onto the waterside terrace, we see the last of the 28 exhibitions at the Guidecca and we head for the nearby Arsenale--a collection of enormous buildings--where the remainder of the Bienielle installations reside. Amazing. More wine. It's almost evening and we walk back home to a dinner of ravioli and greens which Bob prepares. We nervously scout the emails for news of our investment. It is inconclusive. There is much jockeying and games of "chicken" between our attorney and the president of ACG (the real estate company that is playing with the bulk of our remaining fortune).
Tuesday (marcedi), October 27. Venezia.
The bells are ringing all over town we suppose because its 7:30 AM. Anxieties about a financial matter (our Sacramento TIC--don't ask) have wafted over the seas and have now--after a flurry of 8 hour (time change occured in Italy Saturday night) delayed emails is looking less provoking having also been suffused by and in 7 hours of sleep. Every day presents a question mark. Ain't that how it is?
We watch the Campo awakening. What to do today we mutter over breakfast of bread and peach jam and bread and salami--coffee and roibos tea. Some thoughts of the Accademia and island hopping and the Baroque opera. We'll see. Discovery is all.
First to the Accademia--a shortish walk to the Desodoro sesstiare. The line for tickets is not long, and although admission is announced at 8.5 euros, Reuel proclaims that he wants due anciane bilietti to the skeptical clerk who then offers free admission. O frabjous day, caloo calay! Packed into this-building museum, repository of Napoleopn's plunder of masterpieces from local churches are such highlights as Titian's Presentation of The Virgin--lots of virgins around in those days, one we liked shows a whole bunch of them being initiated into heaven (a terrorist's delight, if one's meaning's not too obscure), the Tempest by Giorgoni. Reuel, bad bad boy, sneaks a few photos in, as he will consistently no matter what prohibitions might be posted.
We take the vaporetto #2 to our next stop the Rialto--this one is relatively empty--offering some neat unobstructed waterside views along the way--because it is an
express boat. The Rialto Bridge--dead center in the city--reminds one a little of Firenze's Ponte Vecchio since it is devoted to commerce--lots of little shops and it leads to the big market, things and fruits vegetables and a whole armory of sorts for fresh fish. The map doesn't help us find any of the guidebook's favorite restaurants (again) though later, after lunch, we do find one that is closed--our good luck in not wasting shoeleather--and another water side one that seems too expensive--troppo cara. What we do happen upon is a delightful little wine bar--which has a sort of English pub feel. We enjoy a decent local bardolino and excellent pizza--sharing a margherita and a 4 stazione (ham, artichokes, mushrooms and cheese). With water (con gas) it comes to 40 euro. Not bad, but we do wish the exchange rate were flat, one-to-one, rather than 50% more.
On the way to purchase tickets for tonight's baroque concert, we stop off at the magnificent Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari-Titians here and there. It's the tops and well worth the 3 euro each. (We simply peek into other churches along the way that require tariffs and find them worthy but further inspection at a price is unnecessary.)
Now, homeward, we shop for some bread, cheese and vodka at the supermarcato--well not really a supermarket by American mega-standards but stocked well enough for our purposes--find some gelato at the gelataria in Campo San stephano for a gelato-craving Reuel--not as fabulous as the one in Rome, but what bad an be said of such a creation as gelato.
In the back--& sometimes in the forefront--of our brains has been anxiety about our West Sacramento investment so we check emails back at the flat and come up with inconclusive results. Ah well, we can only do what we--and our "high floor" attorney--can do, essentially see if the master tenant's delveraging loan escrow fully funds (shorthand for complicated business) and go on to continue to enjoy our trip; we are too old not to understand that you must make life go on with the best brio. A waiting game this is.
After naptime (we sound like kindergarteners) we judge that we will need to leave 45 minutes before entrance time for the baroque opera concert since we need to catch the vaporetto to the Rialto. As it turns out, the travel time is only abpout ten minutes--time to wander around the area. When we return before 8pm, we find a long line--possibly a tour group, stretched ahead of us. Fortunately we booked front seats and the group takes the rear. This concert is in the wonderful old (what else?) grand hall of Scuola Grande de San Teodoro adorned with paintings from the 17th and 18th century. It's a gas! The orchestra members--all are dressed in period costumes with ill fitting white wigs--look testy and sound like a mediocre high school group, "spielers" my father would have called them. Singing the popular arias Puccini, Donizetti, Verdi, Mozart--the "top ten"--the tenor and the baritone are actually quitegood; the dumpling soprano, however, is off-voice and doesn't really open up until the last 2 areas when it turns out she really has a nice quality. All in all a charming event.
We walk back home past the lighted windows of fancy shops--Gucci, Pucci, Prada, the usual suspects--onto Piazza San Marco to listen to the dueling orchestras--actually they wait their turns--of the old coffee houses there.
Monday (lunedi), October 26. Venezia.
It's a window on the world, the microcosmic world of Venice, that is--our perch over the Campo St. Angelo (second largest claims one of the contessas--seems everything new in Bobolinkworld is second largest). A different drama (comedy) plays out today than Sunday morning's leisure orienteed spectacle that had us riveted then. Today it's working folks from the scruffy garbage man and construction workers plying their trade below our windows to the well-booted matron scurrying across the piazza to the students "crawling like snail" and to the lovers parting for the day with tender embraces.
Late start (Reuel dealing with his stomach--taste forbids further explanation). We walk over now familiar pontes and uncobbled streets (unlike Rome's less-walking-suitable vias) to Peggy Guggenheim's Collection--housed in the lovely palazzo she bequeathed to the city. Paintings and sculptures from her friends and former husbands abound and young fine arts student interns stand around trying to be helpful in any of a plethora of languages. The sculptures are primarily in the courtyard surrounded by the houses of the palazzo wherein are displayed the paintings. One such casa houses the Maurice Prendergast exhibition--lovely impressionistic watercolors (mostly) of 1889 and 1911 Venice. Otherwise, the usual mod crowd--Calder, Ernst, Rothko, Pollack,et al line the walls of Peggy's salons. Charmed with the place and deciding not to go dispepsically hungry wandering in search of a pizza, we decide to pranza (lunch) in Peggy's solarium overlooking the courtyard. Simple paninis (wraps if truth be told) of pork-mamma mia--cheese and mushrooms accompanied by requisite house vino rosso.
Back over over winding roads to regroup at our comfortale flat in the palace overlooking Campo St. Angelo, we grab some rest and set out for the vaporetto #1 boat around the corner--Reuel is damned if we don't get value out of our $150 week passes--though noone has yet appeared to collect tickets. Next visit to Venezia (& there will be a next), we'll just hop aboard and take our chances? San Marco is the watery stop--visitors' booth to be assured about the vaporetto to the airport and then to the Basillica--never fails to amaze--(though we've been known to enter in flood-time over hastily constructedwooden bridges-encrusted mosaics every where, domes, walls, floors. We pay the 2 euro to gaze once again at the remarkable gold and prescious stone-encrusted altar piece (Pala D'Oro) depiction of the saints being saintly behind the main altar and that extraordinary moorish canopy.
We walk past the hotel on the grand canal we stayed at when on tour--the Gabrielli-Sandwirth--veddy poshy, watch the Kenyans peddling "Gucci" bags hide from thepolicc--and head for the other end of the square where a cafe awaits. Here, just feet from the canal, we watch the crowds bustle by as the sun sets. For our pains we quaff the delicious local fave--"spritz"--a tart compari and fizz concoction for Reuel and an orange compari (with a little paper orange on his straw)--for Bob.
This time we choose land & walk back to the our casa--passing Campos Santa Maria, St. Stephano right through to Sant Angelo--our own campo--after picking up a bottle wine (5 euro). Listen to the c.d purchased in a chiasa housing an excellent exhibit of baroque musical instruments--not sure if it's part of the Bienalle E xhibitions all over Venice now--of the Vivaldi orchestra we heard Sunday night. Cocktails, bread and cheese, a torte, those furious emails and zzz.
Sunday (domenica), October 25. Venezia.
A very leisurely Sunday morning in our new digs. We watch with fascination a man attempting to rouse his big fluffy dog plopped in the center of the campo below us--he plies this futile trade for a half hour--shaking its paws, rubbing its belly--only when some Japanese tourists assemble to take its picture does the
clever bea
st rise to the occasion.
This morning we take the vaporetta to the train station (from whence we arose as it were) This sprawling beast crouching on the canal is in Caneraggio. That's where we first settled in Venice many years ago, so we seek out our old hotel--4 star Amadeus (we swear it added a star--must have been our leaving it) and remember that our room had a squint view of a canal and was near the market square--lovely fruits, veggies and . . . things. It was and is a lovely neighborhood. Then to wend our way back, the idea, though not being able to find the guidebook recommended restarants in Canereggio, we settle on one closer to home, Vino Vino. Charming but unfortunately mediocre food with a decent bottle of Soave (can't get litres of "house wine" at wine bars--we should know). Home. Nap. Tiny sup and off to the Vivaldi 4 Seasons Concert (plus. Chiasa San Vidal with some Corelli and Paganini--two well deserved encores. Hard to keep eyes off the cellist (sort of the leader) who seemed possessed--and played that way. Very well done.
Saturday (sabato), October 24. Roma/Venezia.
An enormous rat runs across the Campo. It's ok--fitting in this city of contrasts and mystery. It's the dead of night (a scary phrase to begin with), the outdoor dining area of the chic restaurant below our living room window which overlooks the Campo St. Angelo has been cleared and the rat is heading for a pile of garbage bags.
It has been a very long, event-filled day which started in the early morning--preparing to leave Rome and head for Venice. Beth's car picks her up at 7:30, Emanuelle arrives to return our deposit just before our driver comes to take us to the train station, just 12 minutes away (and we 30 euros lighter for it). We are filled with apprehension because our last Italian train ride--to Cinque Terre from Rome--was fraught with missteps and confusion. This time however our 1st class tickets admit us to a comfortable lounge to await the Buck Rogers modern Eurostar--this time leaving spot-on on time.
Comfortable window seats as we soar through the countryside only disturbed by the chatter of 2 aging (we should talk) Australian women--not pausing for breath to regale the young American honeymooner couple seated with them about their lives, grandchildren et al , and the stewardess occasionally offering us breakfast bars and cups of murky coffee (Bob). We pass the castleated hill towns perched above lush greenery, every now and then stopping to disgorge and welcome passengers at city stops--Florence, Bologna, Perugia, and then, 4 hour later, Venice.
We stand in line to purchase our week-long vaporetto passes (50 euro each--gasp--Venice is already pricey) and once aboard the famous scenic vaporetto local #1 call the contessa Maria Papafava--google moment; the family are very big cheeses in Venice--(sister of Contessa Francesca, with whom Reuel has been communicating). Maria says "just go straight" when you get to St. Angeles--"can't do anything else". We are delighted her English is good (Emanuelle's wasn't--though far better than Reuel's skimpy Italian) even though her directions leave something to be desired.
She s very contessa-like. Italian women--of a certain class--are very chic. They all seem to be 42-45, even if they are older and bear the slightly ravaged look of women who have had at least one failed marriage and one heartbreaking love affair (not the same); they are world-wise and charming and so is our contessa as she points out essential places on the map and gently disparages Venice as we head out from our flat together to find a plug adapter (ours gave out--how to connect, charge, survive? oh dispair) only to find one back at the flat.
The flat is enormous though rather shabby chic--and we wonder about the countessa's digs above ours which we talk of exchanging some day for our place in San Diego, a town she adores (hmm). On our way to find provisions at the mercato we cross bridges and find ourselves in vast or tiny campos--popping into churches along the way. Back home for cocktails and then out again to stroll and explore with the evening promenaders less the tourists from the ships--one of which passes behind the domes along the canal. Venice is magical. Incredible. What excitement awaits?
Friday (venerdi), October 23. Roma.
Ah, that glorious taste--coconuto--and the crema di nonna--of the gelatti at this lovely little gelateria on the oft-traveled Via Coronari (love it--I suppose if you walked it enough you'd have one, a coronari, that is) as we approach the home away at the end of a glorious day.
It starts out rainy--we even hear some thunder during the night-and wonder about Beth hearing the rainy commotion on her skylights up in her atalier (oops wrong country but right romantic feeling) steps above out flat. However, by the time we are ready for our sojourn, the rain departs and the streets are bright and washed clean. Passing the wonderful antique shops (where are all the rich people who can afford these things?) Stopping to stare at an obolisk created by roman generals and even Egyptian phaorohs--this city has antiquity around every corner--we make certain that no church, bassilica or cathedral (don't ask the difference) goes uninvestigated. Those high fashion boutiques (and yes the Italians know how to dress--men in carefully day old beards, sunglasses, formfitting apparel all in black as are thewomen--don't mess with me written on their faces, in their posture, flowing manes, killer boots. We are suitably in awe of Piazza del Popolo--"Rome's livingroom"--immense and we "discover" thanks to the guidebook the delightful Edy restaurant--appropriately highstyle (awful albeit colorful paintings) for the last day in Roma, at least the other patrons are--highstyle. Reuel adores his risotto con frutti di mare, Beth vegetables with lemon and pasta with artichoke, Bob spaghetti carbonara. Then the trevi fountain--so what if it's swarming with tourists (as if we're not) the fountain is spectacular; on to the Spanish steps--we climb them again but this time along that unrivaled view over Rome to the Borghese gardens--just a taste, Beth wants to see trees. And then the trek home past that gelateria. After the late afternoon nap, we meet for cocktails--Frascati--and review the trip and assess our lives--so what else is new.
Thursday, October 22. Roma.
Rain continues all day. Beth and Reuel nevertheless go out. Campo Fiori. Ancient underground pillars. Bob joins us for Tre Arches--another delightful restaurant nearby (rain after all). Antipasto. Beth spaghetti with clams. Reuel Osso bucco and chunk of cheese for dessert. We buy chips for the cocktails at home. A restful day.
Wednesday (Mercoledi). October21. Roma.
Dragging our feet as usual in the a.m. Our bed in the downstairs flat is quite comfortable; Beth says hers is hard. She's getting the real Italian experience. Some nice cheese on bread with tomato (continental breakfasts by default, we suppose), getting a dose of BBC World--no CNN on the t.v. (Beth claims her cable programming is full of Persian girly shows--each to their own taste. Joke!) and we're off, this time with a plan--Bob managing the map.
At first Campo Fiori--not overrepresented in the guide books--our landlord, Emanuele also toted its virtues--bustling. Those lovely famers market vegetables and other viands--gorgeous colors under tents. Beth, hellbent on being a good shopper in the tradition of Reuel's sister-in-laws, finds something for various relatives (no spoiler alerts in this blog, thank you).
Next, along the Tiber--autumn trees lovely and protecting--we head for the nearby Ghetto (Jewish ghetto, that is)--a bit confusing in that we discover an archaological site side-by-side with the old synagogue--roman columns, peristyles, evidence of the glory that was the upper-class, groups of European union teenagers discovering. And then the guards guarding the temple (Jewish that is)--suggesting evidence of hate/terrorism (nothing changes in Jewland)-- we decide to eschew the wait for a tour and head for Tibeer Island. We pass the closed-for-lunch Sorelli restaurant which Bob and Reuel have passed up over the years (a tour guide on our plane years ago recommended it) because of its expense or unavailability. Tour the gorgeous Church of St. Batolome--actually on any day we see 3 or 4 churches ranging from simple (not really--Italians are very expansive when it comes to houses of god) to the spectacular.
Then, again along the Tiber to Trastevere (how do we ever pronounce it) a lovely village--one could live here, I suppose if one had control of the the idiomatic language or were . . . well, Italian. We find our lunch in the Piazza Maisa--Pucci--lovely day to sit on the patio. We choose no primi course today--like yesterday's fabulous antipasto--the house carafe--thank god for the house litre carafe (from only 5 to 8 euro we have discovered)--wonderful food, Bob Saltimbocca and green salad, Beth, a rigatonni zozzina with sausage and a spinach dish with lemon--which she chooses after a tasting consultation with the server. Reuel goes for the dishes represented as "typical Roman" a (unnamed beef) beef (found the ticket--"pezza di manzo erbe") with herbs--lovely--and a vegetable salad "cossoria". Bob must have desert and orders tiamissou generously with 3 forks. Demolished.
Santa Maria Trestavare is the oldest church in Rome and we want Beth to see it--that's part of the fun, sharing all this. Love garish, splendor. Neat piazza. If you're a church gotta have a piazza.
Gotta have a pizza. Actually, we are in search of gellati==having been thus far deprived of the national staple. We find a little shop just metres from our digs, choose 3 flavors each and indulge. Mangia, mangia.
It's evening, Beth comes down and we now commiserate about the difficulties of travel--how it used to be a pleasure and now is, well, difficult--surrender your shoes, etc. Grill little pizzas on the microwave (don't tell ayone). Wine. ZZZZ.
October 21. Rome.
Tuesday, (Martedi) October 20. Roma
As Bob later put it, that damn bus took all day. Hyperbole accepted. Well this is our 2nd day on the tour bus (you get 2 hop-on-and off days) --we manage to revisit all the stops on the way to (and from) the Coloseum--it just seems longer--it is cool up on the open top and Bob retires to the lower level. Much touring of the impressive Palantine Hill and Forum near the last visited coloseum. Like Pompei some sense of how the Romans lived. Lets face it, it's good to be the king . . . or emperor in this case. They enjoyed--that Flavius family--great views of the city and hills beyond. And for a while we do too. But hunger attacks and we wander down to Piazza Venizia and a terrific restaurant nearby. Kind of classy. Great bathrooms. Reuel gathers up all kinds of goodies from the antipasto bar on behalf of the trio. Leisurely dining. Stagger home. Nap. Revived--stroll with the promenading evening throngs to the Vatican. Sup, converse, sleep. Dreams of invading armies.
Monday, October 19. Roma.
To be awaked at 2 am (cell phone ringing) pleased that it's only Sparkletts warning of an impending delivery of bottled water.
Life can be dificile especially for intrepid tourists. We get started rather late in the morning to begin with, our goal to book a bus tour and head for the Coliseum--a major destination in Beth's book of Rome goals. Unfortunately, her battery gives out and this takes away some of the joy for her (Reuel snaps away with untarnished abandon, neverheless). Purchasing our bus tickets steps from the Vatican achieved easily with the daily trek across the St. Angeles bridge (since our flat is a block from the river)--the one with all the . . . saintly angels watching over the pedestrians.
Once perched on the second level of the bus, we discover 1. it's kind of nice to be wafted along beingd informed 2. the canned information doesn't seem to co-ordinate with the objects of the dissertation 3. the "hop on and off" feature in this instance requires that we "hop-off" for 45 minutes at the Termini before proceeding to the Coliseum.
There, not much of a wait--and we eschew the various guided tours. A lot consequently is left to the imagination--where were the gladiators housed exactly? Did the emporor sit there? How did all those tiny people navigate these steep stairs--how do we? But all-in-all quite a place.
A lesson that our behavior consistently enforces: Don't skip meals--which we do because our tour leaves us off quite late in the afternoon. We each express our blood-sugarless testiness in different ways and set out ravished into the neighborhood. Our landlord recomended a small nearby place--fabulous food--everyone gets the same dish. However, when we step inside the door, the proprietor ignores us--everyone in the brightly lighted place is aware of this drama. He continues to serve his patrons; we are invisible. We are mortified, angry. And leave to find a nearby tratoria. There seem to be several on every street and this one (Danish-Italian) too is teeming and bustlin--a great mix of languages. For a 2nd time, the food is fairly abysmal: Reuel's "typical Roman meal" of veal saltambocca, Bob's spaghetti with basil and ricola and some sort of meat, and Beth something withvegetables. Thank God for the pitcher of wine. We all appear to require the lemoncello and cookies back at the flat and to put a cap on woes, Beth accidently erases her photos thus far taken. Oy vay.
Sunday (Domenica), October 18. Rome, Italy.
Much studying of guidebooks this time--after greatly sleeping thanks to Signor Ambien--this time we'll be prepared. Those winding streets leading to little almost recognizable piazzas with their own almost recognizable chiasas some with helta skelta parked cars and vespas--they will not thwart us not this time. (Ahem) 1 pm ish we head forth. To Pizza Espagna. Fewer ragazzi (kids) than we remember last time. Though the bistro atop the steps is closed the second we attempt to find seats, we discover an enoteca on Via Delle Croce--"a find, it was fun" says Beth--bustling, this time we love our food (bruscetta--a trio, Beth raviolla in funghi sauce, Bob enoteca pizza, Reuel Spaghetti Carbonara, and by 4pm we are finished and ready to promenade, popping into churches, joining the throngs--more provisions--and a casual evening at home with yet more bread and cheese and . . . vino--sharing slurry stories of hopes and desires.
At Spanish steps
Columns of the PantheonTiber View
Saturday, October 17. Roma.
The 3 of us will have ended the day draining wine to the lees and becoming noticably mellower as has been our wont when we've vacated together. This day indeed demanded that coda. 17 hours give or take traveling--mostly in "the human mailing tube" known as Coach. At least the vino is free and we have a lovely elderly lady as companion on the first leg on her way to sisters or grown children with their own grandchildren--traveling is all attitude--hers was upbeat, ebulient, curious, accepting--good prelude. Second leg big hunk sat in the old lady seat uncommunicative--that's okay. Decoration is its own reward.
Though Giovanni is waiting for us in the airport--where we join Beth at thr Delta baggage and long lines to present passaporti-- she who had her own airplane adventures--no movies, we in their absense discover the interractive Trivia Game. Anyway, turns out that we are deposited luggage and all in front of a Bar near the flat to await Emanuele (woman/man? Reuel who has just begun to discover the great tragic disparity between faithfully studying Italian throughRosetta Stone and actually making any headway in locus--has little success in determining from Giovanni--a man and a nice looking one at that--what Emanuelle's gender is. After 1/2 hour awaiting him in the cold, the young man himself shows up and takes us up the inevi table winding steps--landing upon landing we trudge--to the yet unprepared quarters--takes his euros, greets the maid and leaves us to wander--at least now unluggaged at first up to the Vatican across the St. Angelus bridge over the Tiber and then back to find lunch--a disappointing bistro near the Piazza Navona--despite guidebook guidance to avoid tourist menus, the dishes di giorno were unflavorful to unpalatable (Reuel's gristled liver and onions--recommended by the server--Beths rigatoni pommerdoro too al-dente and Bob's inevitable pizza marguerita (though only 5 euro) had "canned" tomato sauce--the carafe of vino rosso helped though.
Back at the almost-ready flat, we decide to head to Piazza Navarone and the Pantheon and after much napping determine that our promenade should lead to a supermarcato for provisions. After at very long last finding the wondrous place we trudge back with our three bags--in widening circles, hearing contradictory directions -- some from the polizia--to the now-familiar landmarks and to Via delle Coronari (aptly named) where we more or less live, cosulting uncomprehendingly our maps, we finally arrive home (up the 52 steps to our flats) cross and tired, each having expressed frustration inimitably. The hastily prepared plate of cheese and bread, tomatoe and salami and, thank Dionysius, vino, helps to placate.
Emanuelle explains the
unexplainable stove in the
new flat
Friday, October 16.
We're off again or, rather, on. Cab picks up two anxious travelers--we'll never learn to take it absolutely easy in preparation for an adventure, but then it might be impossible to do that anyway. On the plane at 7:25 am, sharpening our teeth for 17 hours before we're to reach Rome.
Very Early AM. We're prepared for the trip and . . . the ceiling renovation while we're away.
Saturday, October 10.
What a neat day. An upper. Reuel has a date for lunch with niece Beth at Avenue 5 after her weight watchers and calastenics and his mile pool-swim. Such athleticism in one somewhat overweight family. Beth only one bloody Mary--seems nevertheless to satisfy. Reuel--only one Belvedere martini verry dry--well, it will have to do. Every member of the family is discussed, the point of the meeting as always plus discussion of the upcoming mutual Italy trip next week--logistics. Why isn't Bob here? Reuel is suffering husband withdrawal. Reason: very obligatory, very unloved Uptown Partnership all-day workshop--bereft of the usual touchy-feely he is later pleased to report. Loves his free lunch (is it ever free?) however and brings home a leftover cookie to prove its plenitude.
Before their lunch Beth had picked up Reuel at the bank. Why? He is wiring money to a Palm Springs escrow company. Why? Bob and Reuel are buying a condo there! Neat one-bedroom, fully furnished (not to our taste, but a convenience--we'll replace eventually with tres elegant mid-century) at Smoke Tree Racquet (dig the spelling) Club. Second biggest private pool in PS. And we'll need to take tennis instructions. Beth happy for us--there's a big flowery sleep couch that has her name on it. "Bethcouch".
Sunday, October 4.
The days draw down and we are unknowing as to whether we will close escrow (latin for to take possession of) on our Palm Springs condo. It's up to the seller to screw it up at this point. Today the inevitable film to see is Coco Before Channel so we do. Reuel truly enjoys it--especially the lushness of the images. Bob, although somewhat grudgingly confessing to taking pleasure in the exercise, demurs that he wasn't sure why he was watching it. "I haven't had to read that fast since god knows when" of the subtitles (it's a French film as it should be given the subject matter--the young Coco Chanel making her way in the world--one lover to another--whilst rather incidentally sewing a hat or two). To Reuel's praise, Bob retorts, "You like it because you taught at FIT (Fashion Institute of Technology to some). "But so did you! I guess 'it took' with me," Reuel replies. And so they banter all the way to Terra Restaurant and its champagne brunch and then less sharply on the way home to read unrewarding novels, nap and then consume even more (and better) champagne upon the early evening awakening. Ah Sundays.
Wednesday, September 30. We walk to the Old Globe and see The Savannah Disputation in the smaller theatre. It's a feeble play, four characters talking about religion--Catholicism--not enough jokes and not sure if it wants to be sit-com funny, a character study or a play of ideas--doesn't work successfully on any level though well acted. Also the play doesn't work "in the round", a director's nightmare. So far the Globe hasn't hit many home runs--playing safe. But it's always a pleasant evening--gamboling through the park in the evening with the other perambulators--not unlike promenading along the Ramblas in Spain or joining the evening promenade in an Italian city (coming soon).
Monday, September 28. Yom Kippur. The question for Reuel is how to be a Jew today--his own particular Jew. He will fast. He will light a yortzeit candle and think of his mother father brother sister-in-law gone before. He will think how he has screwed up and offended and in short feel generally guilty. He will not shave and will not eradicate his bad breath with mouthwash. He will write (obviously) and look at the Dow average (up now) and try unsuccessfully not to be obsessed by his other obsessions. He will go to Rocco and lift weights but do so almost imperceptively somberly and with more (again) almost imperceptable dignity and will go to swimming (though whether he will swim a mile is yet undecided). He will svitz in the jacuzzi and steam and sauna but in doing so will try to think somber thoughts and succeed at that and later in the day he will hum mambo italiano in his head and maybe kupeze bublichi goryatze rublichi--give me money in return for my bagels--which is a pretty Jewish thought his mother sang to him and will make him remember what he dreams about nightly anyway--the days of long ago as if they were today. He will try. That's all he can do.
The reality--Reuel faints on Rocco's ab apparatus the Roman chair while doing leg hyperextensions--no breakfast--and gives everyone a big scare as they rescue him from under the collapsed equipment. Then, on the way to the downtown swimming pool Bob successfully prevails upon him to forego his usual torture. Otherwise just a plain old high holy fast day to be broken by steak and martinis. But nothing's simple.
Sunday, September 27.
What an absolutely lovely day. We depart a bit from the usual film- brunch-walk in the neighborhood. Instead, we have tickets to the Ukranian National dance company--I suppose a slightly off-skew nostalgia in both our cases for pseudo-memories of the old countries--whatever they might be. Anyway, we decide to walk downtown to downtown--easy since it's down the town--and wind up at the venerable US Grant Hotel--ok one of the great hotels of the world--we weren't there to sleep but rather to eat in the Grant Grill. What a transformation (the hotel itself was renovated at a cost of 60 mill--the owners Sicuam Indians don't care the cost of reclaiming this fabulous thing on the land that the in-person U.S. Grant proferred them many moons ago--well before slot machines beguiled whitey). Reuel remembers this space of the hotel when he first arrived in San Diego--a downtrodden immigrant from New York--lets embellish this story--as a haven, the bar, for sailors--Now the Grill is exquisite. We're the only patrons in this lavish emporium. After the obligatory pinot noir and pomegranite martini--guess who gets what--we try--how adventurous--the kobe beefburgers--although Reuel has the mock-turtle soup (apparently they catch the mock turtles in the bay) which Bob insists is "world famous"--deservedly so, it's special--the server pours sherry on it and makes it more special.
After brunch we wander the lobby and Clifford finds us. He's the "hotel historian" (apparently he sued the Indians when they fired everyone, won his job and defined it in this novel way). He tells us tales, shows us the banquet rooms that were former speakeasies--a half hour later we are possessed with rich detail and a unique experience. Then on to Symphony Hall, a modern skyscraper which has encased the old and very beautiful Fox Theatre, home to the San Diego Symphony, this day to Ukranian dancers. And they defy any expectations. Reuel thought there'd be lots of flirting with handkerchiefs. No. Pyrotechnics. Gravity defying leaps and twirls. This young, remarkably disciplined company produces. Bravo! Memorable. And we are so filled with enthusiasm that we walk--uphill--back home. Once safely ensconced Bob discovers and is enthralled by Home alone 2. God help us. Masterpiece Theatre needs step aside for the gifted McCauley Culkin.
Saturday, September 26.
Bright Star at the LaJolla Landmark
Having rented the last of our apartments (for a while), we treat ourselves to a Jane Campion film (she of those English costume dramas). It is ...an English costume drama! concerning the love affair between John Keats and Fanny Brawne. Notable for the recitation of many of his poems, the luscious images, and some top-tier performances. Much heavy breathing and good kissing, nothing notorious here--but an entirely pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Friday, September 25.
After our evening walk, we head up the block to the Friday evening gathering of gay men at the Park Manor--double Stolis for eight bucks, incomparable views of the park, the city and the bay at sunset--what can be wrong?
Wednesday, September 23.
Of Sammy, the musical mainly by Leslie Bricuse of Stop The world fame and The Old Globe's next Broadway hopeful, Bob said, "That's the dumbest thing I've ever seen". He was exaggerating but the thing was essentially a Tribute play (pretend you are the living star and titillate old Palm Springs or Vegas audiences with the ruse) and had no special coherence or driving force. Oh, it was expensively produced, had some beautiful girls who Sammy flirts with and vice versa, a passably talented star (but we knew Sammy and you're no Sammy), and some passable tunes which were popped in even if they didn't make sense or described the character or moved the plot along. We thought The Globe's First Wives Club could be snipped and cut for Broadway but we don't see how this one can. It's the paint-by-numbers version. Sammy's a child prodigy, wins fame with the rat pack, hugs Nixon, loses an eye, lives life too richly, and doesn't know what his true identity is. Then again, when we saw Annie in previews in New york lo many years ago, we couldn't understand why this children's play got a standing ovation that night (and would go on to break records).
Sunday, September 20.
Anna Wintour in September Issue. Bob found this documentary about Anna Wintour putting out the September issue of Vogue magazine "intriguing" because it offered him more insight into the actual personalities behind that publication than did The Devil Wears Prada (Streep as Wintour). Reuel was only somewhat less enchanted because he found it a bit "light" (but then it's about Fashion), also repetitious and he was disappointed that the emphasis was exclusively about the photo spreads rather than any on the editorial. Both thought that the personality of the Creative Director and her "story"--disappointment with Wintour's decisions--the most interesting part of the documentary. Overall well worth seeing.
Saturday-September 19.
It's Rosh Hashona and the start of a new year. "Next year in Jerusalem" is one of those phrases full of optimism that you are supposed to utter today--if of the Jewish persuasion, that is. (Bob gets to say it, though, by dint of connubiality.) In fact it is our intention to visit Israel this year. And if God is our witness (or if Dow Jones looks on benignly), it will be a better year. Another phrase is "the phoenix will rise", but goyim can say that too.
We get to toast the New Year with Beth and with Bob's famous Kir Royale's before toasting again at the new restaurant sensation (formerly Laurel's--where Reuel was feted in a truly memorable 60th anniversary party oh, 8 years ago, but that's the past) Cucina Urbana (Urban Kitchen I guess). Place is full. Noisy--but that's what new restaurant sensations are supposed to be. Seated 25 minutes after our 7:30 reservation (prenotazione per favore).
Wednesday--September 16. Some nasty financial news. Not in the cards to acquire the condo, at least now. Winds of change and all that.
Friday-Sunday, September 11-13. Palm Springs. On our way to our hosts Danny and Brian, we stop off like programmed robots at the Estate Sale consignment store--which over the years has enjoyed molto business from us. No acrylic art pieces in evidence (it's not plastic damnit, especially considering we've a significant collection of the almost invisible stuff) so we go on to the nearby and almost completely defunct Villa Resort which the guys who bought it from us have succeeded in knocking down, bulldozing, obliterating--how to describe the sad wreck of what was once our beautiful, expensive dream. Next. Gotta shop!--the everlovely and cheap Steinmart where Bob buys several pairs of chinos at below the wages of the 4th-world factory workers who fashioned them and Reuel a green linen sports jacket that would be the hit on one of the hundreds of Palm Springs golf courses although entirely unlikely to make said appearance considering the new wearer's specific athletic preferences--but how can you pass it up at $24.95, he asks the bemused Bob still bemused when Reuel purchases his third Chinese samurai robe at The Alley--how can you pass up such extravagant gloriousness at $29.95-- repository of all things imported, strange and the requisite CHEAP.
We are greeted at D&B's home by a newly acquired somnolent dog and the always-demurely sly Squeak, the cat, as well as the ever-hospitable D&B (their guest bedroom complete with amenities from every 4-star-and above-resort in the world) who over the course of our visit ply us with vodka, meaty meals and deliberately grade B movies. We visit neighbors Matt and partner only to be greeted by their 2 new too-cute yorkies, named Harley and Davidson (what's this about dogs taking over the world), and to see his newest and impressive renovations--this house like Mrs. Winchester's keeps on growing. In between, we find time to look at condos for sale, Danny as agent provocateur, astonishing bargains in this depressing market. And we bite before waving bye bye, and leave Danny with an offer on a one-bedroom in Smoketree Ranch condos. Cute, fixable, first floor--these bones ain't made for climbin'--poolside ("2nd largest pool in Palm Springs!", the blurbs shout. What, though, is the first largest? Is that the one to have?)
Monday, September 7. It's Labor Day so we must labor--well I suppose putting 2 ads on craigslist for a couple of studios in our 1st Ave. property is labor and Rocco/weight training is a kind of labor. But we did enjoy the luxury of seeing Yoo Hoo Molly Goldberg, a delightful documentary at the LaJolla Landmark Theatre. Both Bob and Reuel remember her, actually the multi-talented (she wrote 1200 Goldberg scripts in addition to representing the indomitable Molly) Gertrude Berg, from the early days of TV. She was a first in many ways--graduating from yiddish radio (where Reuel's mom sang) to become the Oprah of her day--next to Eleanor Roosevelt the "most admired" woman then. Molly--maternal, wise, Jewish, chatting with her neighbors from her window and then extolling the virtues of Sanka coffee before getting on with the world's first TV family sitcom complication. A best moment, Ruth Bader Ginsberg recalling that she felt proud not angry when Judge Bryer called her Molly Goldberg on her first days at the high court. After the film, and most appropriately, we had lunch at the Jewish deli next to the theatre--Bob a turkey sandwich (1/2 of which he takes home as a proud Senior), Reuel a tri-salad of chopped liver, tuna and chicken salad to be slavered on challah . . . and far too good to leave unfinished.
Sunday, September 6. Before champagne brunch (If it's Sunday it must be . . . ) we catch District 9 in Mission Valley multi-plex (where are the single screen palaces of yesteryear?--No need to answer). Extraordinary film (though Bob thinks it's a tad long) about aliens (outer space types) sequestered in ghettos (in South Africa--irony intentional) and the average Joe bigot who, accidentally infected with their DNA, becomes a hunted hero.
After this and the first 15 minutes of coming attractions all of which exist to arouse the easily fanned violent impulses of the public, Reuel feels repulsed with an inchoate rage at American imperialism (although this film's themes are universal).
Friday. September 4. Ah, the last of our summer Pops series with Beth. The evening is delightful after one of our heat wave days, the concert selections unsurprising, the 1812 overture's canons are eare-splittingly loud, and the trio determines to meet again for this special brand of kitschy pleasure next summer.
Sunday, August 30. Seattle, Washington. And easy transfer home.
Saturday, August 29. Victoria, Canada. Highlights. Political workshop in the AM. Discussion of gay rights with folks at the forefront of the movement--like Howard Wolfson, whom Reuel met years ago when he was chair of The LGBT Center--still beating the drum for the right to marry. We did, marry that is, in CA but it is not enough! This is a dramatic civil rights issue.
Lunch with Danny & Brian and the travel guys from Cincinatti--then the newlywed game at which Danny is wonderfully funny--lots of embarrasing stuff about the sex lives of the participants--poor bastards.
We share the last of our contraband vodka in the D&B suite--much merriment ensues. Cheek to cheek dancing to Brian's music. "Look outside, it's pretty" says Bob--as we near Victoria. We will not go ashore--What? A half mile ride into town and then immediately back? No tea at the Empress hotel (been there done that) this time. Instead cheesy of cheesiest shows--the ships singers and dancers. (Actually Reuel loves it--"C'mon A My House" is Italy, etc. The others are disparaging--can't please them all.) And the obligatory piling onstage of all the crew/staff. Ah then to the delight of packing bags for the return home in the next morning.
Friday, August, 28. Ketchican, Alaska.
Look, who doesn't like to pose with cuddly animals indigenous to strange places--like shopping centers?
We remember some of this place from that 10-years ago trip--the totem poles especially--"sale" shops selling souvenirs (imagine a sale specially created for our group) stuffed bears of all sizes to take photos in front of--Dolly's House (Ketchikanians are enormously proud of this little shack of a whore house--as we suppose are all frontier towns built on the gold rush--our own San Diego for example.) We don't take the funicular to nowhere as it starts to rain (surprise!) No recourse but to return to the ship for some homemade martinis--ah decadence--and lunch.
Danny is hysterically funny at his Dating Game hour--pretends to want one of the contestants (vying for the attentions of the "bachelor") for himself--sits on his lap--answers for him ("I have warts").
We walk around the ship for 45 minutes (funny that James Mellon and his lover--former collaborative producers at The Villa Resort with whom we had a falling-out--are walking in the opposite direction, so we are forced to ignore one another with each revolution. The walk, however, represents a small dent on the corpus--hmm--of excess (Hey we're paying for it, we'll eat it!) of the week.
Cocktails and dinner with friends of D&B--Dan & Ed. Dan is a travel agent--says that Hermes (which does an Egypt tour that we have our eye on) is reliable. Their friends are Rick and Michael--MD & architect--the latter of whom tells Reuel at great enthusiastic length how he provides value-added uses for mortuaries around the country--adds leasing aisles of urns--a win-win no doubt for the cemetary owners and the . . . dead. Just dinner conversation.
Leslie Jordan, the headliner, is a gas (trying out new material about his life since appearing in sordid Lives and winning an emmy for will and Grace. This is an updated monologue from the one he did at The Villa--that fateful Memorial Day weekend there when we decided that entertainment on a big scale would work. Hmm. We apparently can't get away from our famously disastrous former enterprise on this trip.
Later we watch the leathermen's party/dance from the theatre balcony and discern that men over 50 should not leave their derrieres uncovered. Bad fashion decision for all concerned. We sip cognac which we take back to our cabin.
Thursday, August 27. Sitka, Alaska.
What happened at the disco party is a blur. (Oh Bob dances up a storm.)
Sitka? We wake up (7:45--how luxurious) to the beautiful scene of our ship passing little tufts of densely forested islands alongside Sitka. Anticipation. Then the announcement that we will not land here because "gale force 60 knot" winds (we actually don't know what a knot is but clearly it's a nasty sort of thing) and that would mercilessly buffet (not to be confused with buffet--the omnipresent overladened table) the tenders prepared to take passengers ashore. Then the promise of quickly devised onboard activities to appease these passenger beasts. Hear us roar. Actually we are not devastated, having visited Sitka in our first Alaska voyage 10 years ago--the very model of a model Russian village--and having since visited the actually Russia and its St. Petersberg potempkin village styled slyly by then prime minister Putin celebrating his birthplace and its anniversary--but one digresses.
As we Enter the inside passage at 3 pm, Reuel meets Mack (a genuine techie) at the tech center for a further photo editing workshop and decides he needs more--much more--photo editing instruction yet. Soon thereafter much mid-afternoon napping ensues--could it be all that rock and rolling helping? Bob reads Straight Man by Richard Russo--he likes it greatly--an academic novel which reminds him of people he knew who toiled away at places of no distinction. Up in time for disco dancing in the Vista Lounge lured by free drinks--thimblefuls of alcohol as it eventuates--a half hour of gyrating exhausts us and requires showering before dinner at Pinnacle--the fee-extra restaurant. Good (and excessively large) steaks and desserts but the service is sloppy and slow (2 1/2 hours for dinner?).
We glide into rain-soaked Ketchikan at 11 pm, but who will go ashore into that good night?
Wednesday, August 26. Juneau Alaska.
Grin & Bear it.
High tea fit for a Queen . . . oh those crumpets. And the ever-campy "Broadway" show.
Goodbye to Juneau.
We take breakfast in the dining room--breakfast burrito--strange to be having that in Alaska. Reuel has learned to bring along his Rooibos teabags and simply order hot water, which occasionally confuses the --without exception--Indonesian servers (the stewards are all Philpinos). It's like ethnic gangs segregating in prisons--except here the white men are not threatened with shivs but offered fine and servile service. Another Potemkin Village cradled by pine-treed mountain forests. The D,B, B &R group heads downtown and finds Danny's favorite greasy spoon--"but the locals love it"--apparently a mark of distinction--no alcohol--how disciplined of us--but plenty of sushi (teriyaki for the fish-phobic Bob) with fresh fish. Then some wandering along the hayseedy streets of Juneau--Alaska's capital, hopping into the one semi-gay bar (now totally gay with the influx of RSVP-ers). Later aboard Reuel takes a digital lecture on the upcoming Windows 7 and bravely traverses the Deck 3 walkathon whilst Bob reads and relaxes in the cabin. Nap too, our typical afternoon pleasure.
Broadway-style show is produced within an inch of . . . and the young attractive singer/dancers have apparent fun altering the cookie-cutter production numbers to suit their special audience which shows its appreciation for every boy-boy girl-girl song/dance substitution. After piano-bar treatment in one of the lounges with the young (recurring motif as one ages) very talented and very gay performer. (How come these piano bar singers are oh so gay and yet play the straight cruises?) Hmmm. Reuel opens the door to our balcony and there's a little bird flying therein. A good omen? Closing the door so that it doesn't fly in--that would be a bad omen indeed.
Tues, august 25. Glacier Bay Scenic Cruising.
The gay US Ranger plays the flute and reveals how lonely he is in the Alaska wilderness and how he longs for love. Entirely satisfying if strange. Oh occasional mention of the history and geography.
Bob and Reuel walk several miles (45 minutes) around Deck 3. Lunch with just Mack and Jim--good getting to know them better. Congenial.
Great time watching the glaciers at Glacial Bay slowly flowing into the icy placid waters, glasslike and so unlike yesterday's turbulent seas --"fierce" says the captain. Clouds like smoke wisps--a faeryland--cold. Abetted by lots of cocktails in Brian and Danny's suite--lots of laughs before dinner and Danny's show which is the costume contest. Reuel paints "Ms. Bering Strait" on Danny's banner--his costume, glittery dress and coat, red pumps is a hoot. "He looks like Louis the 14th," says Bob. D is ribsplittingly funny in his ad libs. . . .After one fit contestant passes by, Danny quips, "I have abs like that . . . surrouded by a kegger." When one obstreperous contestant dressed as Marlyn Monroe acts up--"She's dead". To another couple, "That costume seemed like a good idea when you were home with a bottle of wine." Then more cocktails in the suite with wide-ranging conversations including the nature of comedy.
Monday, August 24. At Sea.
Rocky seas--40-50 foot waves. Many passengers retire to their cabins green.
Tour of the kitchen--precursor of the yummies that evening. You gotta have "surf n turf" on these things. Note self-referential chef tote on the torte.
Days at sea you gotta frolic. Some, like Reuel, frolic at computer class.
The posse cleans up and gathers for drinks and dinner.
Amy, raucous and butter-voiced cabaret babe from Chicago, takes the mainstage and Bob finds a new friend on his bed (everyday a new one courtesy our steward).
Sunday, August 23. To Seattle.
Alaska Air. Cold in cabin. Think they are transporting salmon, not people. My fingers don't work. It's not the incipient rheumatism--I think.Seeing huge numbers of hetero couples in the waiting room. Bob says RSVP must have made its outreach to PFLAG. Turns out they were just boarding the Princess Star. Guess this will be our
lot on the next cruise--Australia on the Princess Star.
First thing the good sailor does is get acquainted with his cabin--actually a bit of a comedown from the sumptuous suite we had last time aboard this very vessel (was it Mexican Riviera or Caribbean?) but its got a balcony--what else does one require? C'est la economie. The horn blows seven times. Drill! We are in hysterics over Bob's attempts to don his emergency gear in anticipation of that required exercise. Afterwards, we create a collage for our door--an RSVP tradition--hastily gathered snippits from our lives as Bobolink Boyz.
The essential champagne salutations with old friends. Ah, our windowside table @dinner. Looks like the food is going to be verry goood.
All aboard the Holland America Lines' Westerdam
en route to Alaska--with 1800 gay men and lesbians. Saints protect us. Friday, August 21. Begining to prepare for the Alaska cruise thingy. How? Well, after our disparate mornings--Reuel the swimming and Bob--um--preparing for the Alaskan thingy, we have lunch at Park Manor and then--after some negotiation on a potential Las Vegas condo--we pass on it--this time. Then theatre in the neighborhood. 49 seats--mini-mall and some macadam parking--though we walk the several blocks--the setup at Compass Theatre is so sweet. (A former tenant of ours at the Casa Grande and then 5th Ave., Charles, created the space many years ago.) The play: Shopping and Fucking (kid you not) by Mark Ravenhill. Caused a sensation in London where it premiered at The Royal Court ten years ago--we were there then and for some reason didn't get a chance to see it. You know, kitchen sink realism, youthful nihilistic angst, plethara of drugs, some Pinteresque menace thrown in for free. The actors worked really hard for the 12 of us in the audience. Wonderfully avoided the nudity and sex acts that so must have marked the original. However worth venturing out to see for the sheer energy of small theatre venturing out.
Wednesday, August 19. Lunch at urban Mo's sitting at a high top watching all the boys go by .Bob's barbecued pork is delish. Chris shaw, owner, stops by to chat and discuss mutual "semi-retirement" (which, in his case, means that there is yet another wildly successful restaurant in his sights). He gives us 50% off so we're even more delighted with the food.
Tuesday, August 18. Lovely weather--we are blessed down here in SoCal--so we walk along the beach of Coronado. It's surprisingly uncrowded given the season though there are a sufficient number of dads and their progeny making sand castles.
Monday, August 17. High point is dinner at chez-Us with Ann and Nancy--Bob prepares the typical--but well-loved feast--hors doeuvres with kir royale, steak (comparatively unburnt by Reuel) baked potato, salad and a scrumptious torte individually served out of its wrapper.
Sunday, August 16. Brunch at Terra of course and Chef's terrific little brugie-like (ah Amsterdam) sandwiches known as sliders doused with 3 glasses of champagne each, but who's counting.
Saturday, August 15.
How delightful. Not only do we rent, that is, sign the lease, do the walk-through and toss the keys, to our last vacant-apartment renter (thus far . . .) but we anticipate the arrival of lovely niece Nancy, who arrives from New Jersey on her way with Beth and the boys to Yosemite the following day, this eve to join us at our next to last Pops Concert on the Bay--a Beatles Tribute group--sounds cheesy but, in the tradition of these summer concerts, actually pretty damned good--much easy nostalgia and the scenery not to mention the company and the viands Beth brought from DZ Akins--corned beef, turkey and chopped liver, and the occasional pickle and olive plus the Very Special 7 Up (hmph hmph) provided by the contemporary duo known as The Enablers. This Magical Mystery Tour--suspension of disbelief--we park in the Preferred Lot--are whisked away by a charming driver to the site of this backward glance--just lovely being with our girls.
Friday, August 14. After having read Julie and Julia and wondering how Nora Ephron would convert it to the screen, we see it at the Fashion Valley multiplex, that is, after having a delightful prime rib lunch at Bully's (see above for our local favorites). Meryl Streep--national treasure--is a wonder as Julia Child, Stanley Tucci as hubby Paul is no slouch either. The film is a bit long but in its flashbacks to 50's Paris it makes one long to visit again (actually the plan is to do just that in the Fall of 2010, granting the Boyz time to brush up on their--at this point very sparce--French). Oh and the burden of the film is about the Julie of the title's blog (insert happy face here) about her re-creation in one year of Child's 504 recipes in Mastering The art Of French cooking. R and B agree on 3 stars.
Thursday, August 13. Tonight's A Toast To Hillcrest--a benefit for Hillcrest History Guild very well run by our friends Ann and Nancy. These girls are a marvel. We are among 40 or so bars and restaurants participating in what, from the participants' point of view, is a veritable orgy of drink and food at the designated Hillcrest establishments. We serve (that is, Brandy, our
manager does) a taste of champagne to the throngs. Bob and Reuel actually wander about and enjoy the plenitude, helping Ann and Nancy to "strike the set"--their ticket booth on a street corner--before we amble boozily home.
Wednesday, August 12.
Bob's favorite thing to do is to buy Xmas lights and put them up . . . everywhere. He's discovered this year-round Xmas place that is Bob Heaven. Reuel was sighted there too living La Vida Loca (La Dolce Vita?) with a fellow spirit, San Diego Santa ($199 plus shipping).
In the evening, it's a trip to La Jolla Playhouse--we tread gingerly outside the neighborhood--which means the designated driver has a smaller cocktail. This time it's the UCSD fabulous theatre complex's experimental "black box" and a one-man musical called Herringbone with B.D. Wong. This property has been around for years--an edgy, ok--strange, tale of an exploited little boy who achieves great vaudeville abilities because his body is taken over-- literally--by a dead vaudevillian. B. D. Wong is a marvel in the role--playing (channeling is more accurate) 11 characters, sometimes simultaneously (ya gotta see it) singing and dancing. Some in the audience were shaking their (usually gray) heads but Wong got a well deserved standing ovation.
Sunday, August 9. It's Citifest! The once-a-year-day good-feel street fair for Hillcrest.
Also a fundraiser for the business association which Bob has chaired
(and, God help us is still a member of) for many years. We volunteer to man the sales booth mid-day.
Oy. The Wine Lover should do such buisiness.Saturday, August 8. Brunch at Ave. 5 in the nabe. Great sangria and hamburgers, which is what we had a yen for. We buy sandwiches at the fabulous neighborhood Royal Market deli for this evenings Pops concert--joined by Beth--a salute to Broadway--sounds cheesy but redeemed by some top notch performances. Bob wanted better musical selections than the likes of Les Miz and Mamma Mia--"Would a little Sondheim hurt?" but Reuel goes with the flow--of wine disguised in that well-used 7-up bottle.
Friday, August 7. Busy day for the boyz. Reuel up half the night writing leases which are putatively to be signed during daylight--but the printer is invaded by an alien being who rewrites them in some sort of galaxial language (not unlike the Rosetta stone Italian he hears daily--and which is equally unrecognizable). Hooray for Mr. bottomline. Kay Harkins, a mature--read senior--former prof--MFA Bryn Mar, we check--needs the apartment to get away from her family in San Diego in order to write a sensitive woman's magnum opus in one of our peaceful canyonside Bankers Hill studios. Whatever chimes your clock m'dear. That's what's known as the perfect tenant.
Later we meet with our wine bar manager, Brandy, who tells us we are at last partnering with the movie theatre across the street and will become rich therefore (ghugh ghughoof--noises from the wine going up the wrong nostril). And then two lovely college girls wish to rent our loft-like studio above the aforementioned The Wine Lover, (confession: that's the Boyz' 10 year old bar in Hillcrest). The lease signing ceremony occurs in the bar's almost pretty terrace garden. After a couple of free glasses the girls sign away their innocent lives, little nits. Ha ha!
Before that event, we attend a free beer and pizza--always lured by that prefatory adjective f-r-e-e--session for Citifest volunteers. (The once-a-year festival Citifest is Sunday and the Boyz will man the beer and t-shirt [a good combo if you don't spill one on the other] ticket booth.) More on that later no doubt.
Sunday, August 2. Settling back into the San Diego routine. Before our typical Sunday brunch at Terra, caught In The Loop, a film at The Hillcrest Cinemas. A British/American political satire. Excellent ensemble acting (with James Gandolfini--the only "name"--as a doveish general) Mimi Kennedy, of Dharma and Greg TV fame as an assistant secretary of state--a standout. Often confusing--British dialect issues in particular--the film is adept at characterizing the prominent overweening self-interest, venality even, of public officials, a send-up in its particular target of the kind of human stupidity that lead to the war with Iraq. Some very funny dialogue. The kind of movie, however, that's better in retrospect than in the actual viewing, but worth seeing (and there was no hint of post-movie- trauma indThursday/Friday July 30/31 Coast Starlight Seattle to San Diego. "On the 20th Century". The music and lyrics of one of our favorite musicals reverberate on this terrific trip. Frankly it was to be the centerpiece--endpiece if you will--of this holiday. Not what we expected but lovely and satisfying in its own right. Not the elegance of the Orient express that we know from the Miss Marple Films but quirky American special in its own way. Positives: some great scenery passing by. Cascades. Americana. Coast. Quirky folks we met at dinner and wine tastings. Being able to get away from said quirky folk. Our wonderfully bizarre sleeping compartment. Reuel climbing into his upper berth. Much laughter over our shower too. A strange experience. But the Americana world--industrial farms, campasinos working in the fields, plains, rivulets, mountains, oceans--passing by is unforgettable--certainly so if there are prods from a Blog.
Yes, we managed to holiday up North in Seattle during record-breaking temperatures (over 100 degrees). The natives were in shock, our air-conditioner broke down and we intrepids chalked it up to the shennanigans of the great god Serendipity.
Tuesday, July 28. SEATTLE.
Today's centerpiece: visiting the Seattle Art Museum (SAM to the cogniscenti). Their big new exhibit focuses on artists and their art during 1947-1979, presumed to be a time of great upheaval. The art questions received perceptions. Some interesting stuff--art that is deliberately undone, surprising, often violent. We took the audio tour but found it hard to find some of the representative pieces being explicated. As to the museum, a great space, but the collection as displayed somewhat diffuse--they got these gifts, they're gonna be displayed. Small but lovely Andrew Wyeth collection.
Our reward for our peregrinations through the byways of the museum, lunch at its cafe, Tastes. A good Willamette Valley pinot (these Washingtoonians are very terroir proud. apparently, judging by the abundance of locals in the selections that we've encountered everywhere). Reuel's steak (hangar seems to be the local favorite), frites, and salad. Bob's miniburgers with those great frites (not up to San Diego's Terra's sliders, he avers). Strolling back to the condo--stopped off to get some Italian dictionaries at Borders (Rosetta Stone on line is terrific--but it's teaching with pictures in lieuof say a guy's personal Italian bantering with him; this leads to a surreal sense that perhaps the word you think the pic represents could be something else entirely. Is that cat (il gatto) really a dog (il cane)?
Sceneria: Table next. Woman 55, husband same. He virtually ignores her as she (big diamod) chatters on. Pause. She orders a glass of wine--not he. She understands there is trouble.
Mother with 2 teenage daughters. She has marriage ring. So why, on a Tuesday, is she alone with her girls. They look like they'd reather be anywhere but here. When older daughter aggresively attacks her mother's fries, mother shoos her away. These are the tensions. Later she shares the fries wit
h her daughters.
Monday, July 27. SEATTLE. Walk to hotsy totsy type urban mall, Pacific Place. It's so air-conditioned. Opportunity to send something very Seattleian (neologism) to a loved one. Centerpiece of the day: Taking the Ferry (clean, uncrowded--well, it's a Monday [Rule #73--avoid crowds]) to Banbridge Island. Charmingly Hamptons or Cape Cod--you know the baskets of flowers cascading from the light poles, shingles (not the disease, but the architecural . . . disease) everywhere. Lunch at Nola's--reccomended by our condo's 2004 guidebook--the fact that it still exists in this "economic environment" makes it a must-go-to. Pleasant porch overlooking street; cute unpretentious waiter; Reuel has Alaskan Grilled Salmon at last--yum; Bob, Rigatonni with chilled chicken breast, he likee; our Seattle local wine, Hogue Genesis--light nice chard; then dessert. Rule to break #83: We Never have desert. Anyway. Bob's ice cream [he describes here] and Reuel's Bread Pudding. What? you say--declasse. Enormous and nice. Not nice enough, too heavy, almost ate it all, but accompanied by house-made whipped cream which Bob (who detests bread pudding) tasted and found especiale. Enjoyed free downtown public transport to our digs despite our Senior Orca Transport cards burning in our pockets. After cocktails, strolling through our supposedly historic neighborhood, First Hill. Lots of hospital facilities, condo buildings, just a very few of the old mansions that were prevalent here. Hotel Sorrento nice blast from the past, however. Beautiful panelled lobby, fireplace.
Sunday, July 26. SEATTLE. Rosebud. Rosebud. Not that line from the classic movie in this case but an eatery in Capitol Hill, just a few blocks from our condo. Brunch. Sitting in open window looking out on . . . the street, facing the BMW dealership (so you know it's a classy neighborhood).
Saturday, July 25. SEATTLE. After the usual desultory morning--making breakfast (an advantage of having a kitchen and dining room) Reuel discovering to great delight that he could upload his Rosetta Stone Italian lessons (hence jabbering away at his laptop) andBob reading the guidebooks, we set off on an organized march to Seattle Center wherein lies the famed space needle (actually the famed 90 second monorail got us there) deciding that the Saturday lines were too long for the space needle ascent (and we're not all that enthusiastic about it anyway) we head to the Olympic Sculpture Park, certainly worth the visit, especially because we found ourselves at a free decent tour of the remarkable and carefully placed sculptures, including Calders, Tony Smiths, Loise Nevelsons and Richard Serras (his enormous piece--photos to follow). Then we wended our way past the waterfront to the thriving yuppie Belltown neighborhood (looks like nothing older than 2005) wherein the fabulous Delilah's Lounge and Bakery (yet another Seattle landmark restaurant, retro/louche atmosphere) awaited for a late lunch. (That's our trick you may have guessed--have lunch at famous restaurants that charges an arm for dinner but only a coupla fingers for lunch. Wonderful--Bob's chopped salad with hangar steak and Reuel's tender free-range chicken (god forfend the chicken should spend some time in the big house)--verry well prepared. A really neat local Chardonnay, Barnard Griffin, (a bottle of which we were later to buy for din din at the local supermarcato/Whole Foods-like place downtown). Top it all off with swirled cookies and ice cream. To die. One of these days we will, but we'll have experiences like this to show for it. Home by four--turns out the 1/2 price tickets booth at the Pike'sMarket where we headed was closed "because of the economy" the information guy cheerfully announced--so we returned home to nap (is it getting old, a bottle of wine, or all of the above--hint choose item c.) Then a lovely cocktail on the roof viewing deck and then off to view the Seafair Torch Parade, apparently a big deal in Seattle--we noticed the rows of reserved chairs hours before the parade. The usual ingredients, polticians with their spouses waving from fancy cars as did a variety of local military officers, teenagers in marching bands, beauty queens in campy floats sponsored by local businesses. Parade sated we headed back home for sandwiches and wine--almost as if we'd paid for a 1/2 price entertainment.
Friday, July 24. SEATTLE. We finally hiked downhill to the Pioneer Square district (after an en suite breakfast of bread and cheese--as in let them have bread and cheese--oh please. Sniffed and dusted the architecture. Hey, it's sort of old. Has charms. Mostly it's about allowing for people to um expand. Seattle--so very San Francisco--especially good at that. Enough walking. We settled into the Metropolitan, a Seattle institution. Hey, all institution should serve such martinis--"Our martinis have no vermouth" the waiter cautioned. Throw me into that briar patch any day. We've been to this retsaurant in an earlier visit. Reminiscent of say Cuba's 30's emporia--not that we've been to Cuba. You just know the "feel"--it's another time, not ours. Plush booths and Evita (ok same heisphere) crying. Reuel , that martini.
The Rosebud for brunch where a street person attacked the couple next to us. Ah city life.Bob's darling
The super modern and vertiginous Librarychardonnay. Reuel, the Friday special, prime rib (good, not great) , and Bob the special cheeseburger with fries to die. We'll be back if we're back.
Happy B'day to Reuel from Bob Saying g'bye for a week to our housey.
Thursday, July 23. TO SEATTLE, WASHINGTON. Happy Birthday to ... Reuel. And it was.
Started out by being isolated and frisked by the airport security officer (not altogether unpleasant :) Reuel thought it might be his unusually loud Jam's Hawaiian shirt that set off the bells--the kind terrorists have been known to wear, no doubt, but turned out to be his Miami-bimbo-style metal studded sunglasses. You can't even go Hollywood on your damned birthday. Harbingers of tone to come when Bob reminded Reuel that he was traveling too far back on memory lane--might get stuck and not come back. Remembering being four years old--there's a 2-reeler birthday tape somewhere--and saying "I'm a very lucky boy 'cause I have a bicycle, a balloon, and a pair of skates" (piorities) and then singing--ever the showoff in front of a mic--"Yip yip yahoody, I've found a beauty, She wouldn't say yes, say yes, but she wouldn't say no" (very mid-40's big-bandy jazzy--but not, ahem, the idea).
Neat one-bedroom apartment (we do well on this score usually) that we rented midway between Pikes Market, Capitol Hill, well,walking distance to all. City views--some bay--we're on the14th floor of a post deco (40's again--keeping with the theme) condo building.
Highlights of the day. Pikes Market (flying fish and all that kitsch) where we got provisions--gourmet bread and cheese--after terrific lunch at Campagne Cafe (one of those "Best of" Seattle emporiums). Fruity martinis (hey we're on holiday--but we draw the line at little umbrellas) at the Sheraton --where we think we stayed last time in Seattle. An evening stroll into capitol hill--buzzing with youthful life--skies light past 9pm. What's that about?
Received well in advance
(like 10 days) the fabulous Dorothy Olin's fabuloso birthday gift (so Reuel is now--drumroll--68--ya wanna make something of it?). Dorothy knows Reuel drinks exotic herbal tea ever since the "incident" and thus consistently gives him wonderful tea things (we are now second to none in tea things). Actually verra nice indeed. (See pic) By the time you see this, the strudel will be non-existent (consumed by Beth, Bob and Reuel at the last pops concert [see below]). Sufferrr.Wednesday, July 22. Nice prelude to our Seattle/Amtrac trip.
After we indulge in Rocco's weight routine and swim/sauna (the latter Reuel), committee meeting and shopping for the trip (Bob), we had lunch at Inn On the Park and in the evening viewed First Wives Club at the Old Globe previewing and on its way to Broadway. Actually, it's got a chance. Some tweaking, some stronger casting, it might be a hit (possibly to fare better than its soulmate, also a hit women's revenge movie, "Nine To Five"). Good choreography, some catchy musical numbers. Fun being "in" on the inception of a potential Broadway box office biggee (which we won't need to see on our next trip to the Big Apple).
Saturday, July 17. Otherwise known as "Pride" day and certainly event-filled (hence eligible for inclusion). Briefly, this year we choose to be spectators (we have often marched down this street before . . .) at the parade which wended its way up Sixth Ave. to the park--our vantage, for those San Diego literate, now being at the Park (near whe
re we now live in Bankers H
ill) instead of at the origin of the parade at the Casa Grande on Park and University (where we previously lived). This year's theme--Stonewall since 1969 (Reuel marched in the first such parade--Stonewall 1970 
in New York--extraordinary, scary, life-changing, perhaps more a
bout that some day.) This year much of a muchness--marchers with a political 
purpose: primarily the equality theme--defeating 
marriage and military service prohibitions), politicians cozying up or showing solidarity (depending on how you 
see it) like Gavin Newsome, the hero mayor of San Francisco, all the city and county agencies represented. Then there's the general aura of sillininess, and celebration (inebriation?) and tackiness, drag queens, gyrating go-go boys and girls, well, you know . . . some representative pics follow--some of the floats of organizations we've been involved with, etc.
Oh my God. (The End.)And this evening--after lunch at City Deli and a decent nap (it's exhausting watching all those gyrating paradeers after all) we attend with Beth the next of the San Diego Summer Pops concerts--this one, appropriately for this day of looking back to look forward, the 60's sounds of Motown. Beth brings the sandwiches, we the wine. Balmy bay breezes. Magic.
Friday, July 10. What a treat! Our dear friend and person d'estime Gary Holt joined us for din din (we've got this slightly dirty vodka, slightly burnt steak and greatly fattening gooey cake thing going) at Bobolink Bluffs (still rehearsing various off-kilter monikas). A lot to catch up on. We got teary-eyed over the Yiddish CD B&R picked up at the Jewish Museum in San
Francisco--tales (did you know Reuel's mother had her own radio program on the Jewish NYC station as "the Yiddish Nightingale") of families migrating and discovering one another (Gary's remarkable Holtsman family reunions) ensued--plus some pretty flinty-eyed gossip (um, factual news reporting). Oh the joy!
Wednesday, Juy 8. Ann and Nancy invite us
to join them at one of their favorite Hillcrest restaurants, the one with a stutter, Cous Cous (on 4th below Martinis). This charming place serves authentic Morrocan cuisine and is itself a kind of Moraccan oassis in our midst. After several bottle of Zinfindel (we coulda been in Morocco for all we knew) we wandered up Fifth Avenue, stopping to chat with the entrepreneurs (an Ann and Nancy specialty) and stopping into the just- opened [this day] Huepangos Mexican cuisine restaurant. Such optimism they have--luck!Saturday, July 4. We don our 4th of July socks. Brunch at La Vache--verry French; you can color on the butcher paper tablecloth and share a cheap bottle of Chardonnay. Hotdogs later (all we do is eat and drink?) at chez us and watching fireworks from our balcony. [Update a week later, La Vache has closed, yet another victem of the economy. Terribly sad.]
Friday, July 3. Lunch at The Red Fox (beer and steak--time forgotten and/or trapped in the '50's, no daylight allowed--you gotta love it. We've been attendees for 25 years. Same waitresses in mini-skirts [possibly a mistake over a certain age.] And then, our first San Diego Summer Pops concert on the bay (this summer, that is). This time with a surprisingly funny Marvin Hamlish conducting. Lots of patriotic tunes. We shared drinks--disguised in a 7-up bottle, so sue us--and sandwiches with Beth, the Niece, who plans to join us in this summer's series. Incomparab
le location. Fireworks and then a tour of
the new Hilton on the San Diego bay.Wednesday,
July 1. Every other week or so we drive to Coronado to walk (how 21st century) along the beach and then, exhausted,take a cocktail or two at the Del (Del Coronado--home of Some Like It Hot [we sometimes do, like it hot that is] and a premiere property of the world) which is what we did--pretty fabulous , does buoy up notion of San Diego as World's Finest City (but, then, Coronado is another city).
Sunday, June 28. Anne and Nancy over for dinner--actually it was a picnic, a favorite event in the summer--which this now is. Drinks, well they tend to drink John Adams Beer--I guess that qualifies as "drinks" and we--Reuel the Vodka--surprise (ha)--and Bob the Chardonnay, equally unsurprising--much lovely gossip ensued.
(At the Bob'nReuel Bar) (Hey, it's summer--Bob's special baked lima beans--wow.)
Thursday, June 11. La Jolla Playhouse, Terence McNally's Unusual Acts of Devotion with Doris Roberts (you know, the mother on Everybody Loves Raymond) and Richard Thomas (eternally John Boy on The Waltons). Rather too "well made" and bathetic--although a few powerful moments--it's about neighbors in a rent-controlled (gasp!) apartment building in New York gathering for an anniversary party on the roof of the building. Soliloquys, terrible revelations. I don't know whether it was the play so much as the misconceived casting and floundering direction that pushed the event over the edge. For example, Richard Thomas swishing and simpering in his role as a gay man. Oh well, it got us out of the house on a Thursday.)
Friday, June 12. Fundraiser for Toni Adkins--former councilmember--now running for assembly (you gotta have a job) at the home of Rick (RKO's hairdresser whose salon is near our ex, The Casa Grande. House on the east side of the park is gorgeous--wine flowed--Italian spread (that was dinner) terrific--best mousse we had in a long time--wine flowed--speeches mercifully short--ah paradise.
Saturday, June 13. French film at the La Jolla Landmark Cinema (second LaJolla in a week), Sunday Hours. One of those family studies, death, generations. Possessions--wonderful shots in the Musee D'Orsee of the Art Nouveau furniture collection--same one we'd seen years ago and loved. Loss. Familiar themes. Perhaps painfully so. Bob ***1/2; Reuel ***
Sunday, June 14. British Film Easy Virtue. Based on Cole Porter play. Lovely settings. Schizophrenic. Violent shift from arch comedy (self-conscious direction) to messy family soap. Better in recollection than in the viewing. Bob liked it better than Reuel who had trouble reading the subtitles (kidding).
Wednesday, June 17th--our 1st wedding anniversary. We cashed in the gift certificate to a local spa (Spa Velia downtown) Dorothy (sister-in-law) and Arthur (RKO brother, now deceased) gave us when we married. Grea
t Champagne before our 80 minute couples hot wrap and then massage. We've both been creaking lately--back, shoulder pains 'cause of our young ages doubtless and perhaps our 3 day a week personal training (weight lifting) , swimming etc. regimen so the massage was welcome. But the 
revelation was the hot wrap--very relaxing, recommended. Afterwards some steam, a multi-head (whatsamagigy) shower and the mandatory post-massageal Champagne. Later we strolled to the Park Manor--hotel up the block from us--and had their early-bird special cause we're cheap, old, and we were tired from all the expert pummeling.Saturday, June 20. Daniel (grand nephew--Judy's son) graduates from High Tech High, the handsome, young, hip principal of which sports a pony tail. (Last year's young, beautiful principal, at grandnephew Sam's graduation from another High Tech High, wore an audience inhalingly/exhalingly short miniskirt. We attend the ceremony and provide the After Party at our house--a celebratory picnic. Crowning achievements
--Bob's 
baked lima beans (inherited from scores of Wyndish babushka bubbas--no recipes available) and Reuel's surprising unburning of the hotdogs. 
Sunday, June 21 (Father's Day). We drive to LA to see David Mamet's Oleanna at the Mark Taper (Music C
enter's fountain featured below) starring in this searing, controversial play, 2 movie stars of sorts (an advantage LA theatre has), Bill Pullman and Julia Stiles. We remember seeing Oleanna years ago at the Old Globe when it was new and echoed the outrage on both sides during the Anita Hill/Clarence Thomas debacle. The play made us angry then and now. To put it too simply, closed minded feminist versus her college professor whose life, in the course of the play, she ruins. Brilliantly acted. Oh at least we had some good sauvignon Blanc and lunch (Reuel likes the rotisserie chicken, Bob the Kobe burger) to help ameliorate the passions before the play at the nearby Kendall's Grill (run by the ever-reliable Patina Group)--always a good choice for pre-theatre viands. Once we dined there next to the performers after seeing Theatre of the Deaf's Huck Finn (on its way to Broadway). It was fascinating watching them gesticulate ebuliently throughout their post performance meal.DECEMBER 2008, PUERTO VALLARTA
