UpStart Crow

I'm back?

2011-11-22T05:52:00.000-08:00

Since Rod's physical decline and eventual death, I have not been able to write on my blog. I know many people find it therapeutic to chronicle illness, and writings about cancer have practically become a genre. I am not of that ilk; indeed, nursing Rod through several months of grueling chemotherapy and then witnessing his horrific death only reinforced my inclination to treat the blog as an old-fashioned journalistic exercise in food and theatre reviewing. Unlike Joan Dideon or Joyce Carol Oates, I have no desire to share morbid details or examine my emotional state, and I cannot draw any larger insight other than the simple observation that life, as wonderful as it can be, is often cruel.

It is difficult to write about theatre and food, however, when one has little appetite for life--thus the long silence. A request from Raven Chelanee, a food blogger, to cross-link our sites has made me realize how much I miss this kind of writing. And perhaps I need to think about embracing life again, however fleeting its pleasures, even those of food and performance.

Random Observations on Greece

2010-06-11T23:32:00.000-07:00

Below I have jotted down, in no particular order, some passing thoughts. This entry is long, the accumulation of two weeks of observing Greek culture.

* * * * * *

First, le crise: one sees its effects everywhere, from diminished attendance at famous ruins to empty tour buses. The ill-fated CHAT tour we took to Mycenae and Epidaurus had a total of 16 people for a bus that normally seats 60. Restauranteurs hustle passerbys, trying vainly to fill tables. Rod noticed several large oil tankers mothballed outside of Piraeus, casualties of lessened demand for energy.

My brother-in-law, like most Greeks, is frantic about his savings. A retired doctor, he is seeing his pensions cut, which is bad enough. If Greece is ejected from the EU for insolvency, then the country will return to the drachma, a move that could potentially reduce life savings by 70-80% as the currency is radically devalued. For the young, this is bad enough; for the old, it is devastating.

The economic meltdown has, not surprisingly, soured some civil servants. Several times I’ve had government employees pretend not to hear me; I’ve also been bullied. I’ve learned—largely by watching Karin and Vassos—to push back, raising my voice if necessary. It isn’t pleasant. Business people, however, cannot afford to indulge whatever resentments they might harbor. Consistently we have found waiters, shopkeepers, and hotel employees to be unfailing courteous and eager to please; indeed, their anxiety is almost palpable. “Is everything alright,” they ask constantly. “Do you want anything else?”

Back in the States, we read articles about profligate, irresponsible Greeks. And, indeed, the professional and moneyed classes appear to have been particular egregious in ripping off the government (although it was reported here recently that nearly 300 tax inspectors, the equivalent of our IRS employees, didn’t pay taxes for thirty years). However, hearing Vassos and Karin talk about the Kafkaesque bureaucracy and the inequities of the taxation system has made me far more sympathetic. If I were living here, I too would probably engage in “fiddling” (to use Vassos’ word) to survive. At the moment, they are expected to supply receipts for 25% of their annual expenditures: can you imagine saving every grocery store or café receipt? Even worse, this law, just passed in April, is retroactive for the entire year. Predictably, an underground industry in fake receipts is emerging.

Property rights in Greece also strain human endurance. An apartment cannot be sold until it conforms to specific government guidelines, such as replacing old, drafty windows with double-glazing, a practical means of energy conservation. The difficulty is that every apartment in the building must do the same. In other words, not only the seller but also every inhabitant in the apartment complex must install double-glazed windows before the government will permit the transaction to go forward. Try talking your neighbors into that one!

* * * * * *

I know my distaste for cruise ships borders on the obsessive, but their environmental impact is frightening. For several years, Rod has complained bitterly about cruise ships illegally dumping sewage in the Caribbean or Alaska or the Mediterranean. Before we sailed on Cunard, he researched their environmental practices, satisfying himself that everything is recycled, filtered, treated, and disposed of properly. Cunard goes so far as to prohibit passengers from tossing cigarette butts overboard. Many companies, though, do not comply with international standards.

Prior to this trip, I had not fully appreciated the negative economic impact of cruise ships. For instance, when we toured the Panathenaic Stadium in Athens, I noticed tour buses from the cruise liners disgorging people in front of the stadium. They jumped out, snapped photos, and took off. Not one person paid the entrance fee—a paltry 3 euros—to enter the stadium. Had they done so, it would have generated much-needed revenue. In this enormous stadium, which seats upwards of 60,000 people, we were the only tourists present until another couple entered towards the end of our visit. This pattern does not bode well for countries dependent on tourism. People on cruise ships spend very little, if anything, on the local economy. They don’t pay entrance fees; they don’t stay in hotels; they don’t buy local goods (other than the odd t-shirt manufactured in China); they don’t spend money in restaurants; they don’t tip for services. They do, however, add considerably to the carbon footprint.

* * * * * *

Greek food is delicious but repetitive, especially in the south. Cuisine in Macedonia uses seasoning and herbs generously, resulting in more varied flavors, perhaps due to Slavic and Turkish influence. In Attica, though, the choices are pretty narrow at restaurants. I’m typically American insofar as I want every cuisine imaginable at my disposal. Greeks, though, have a very conservative culinary palate: they want Greek food.

Consistently we have been impressed by the quality of fresh produce. Tomatoes actually taste like tomatoes. Olives and olive oil, of course, are simply divine. In the south, one sees mainly olive trees and orange groves (and the fresh orange juice is extraordinary here). We were, however, completely unprepared for the variety of crops in Macedonia, which include corn, rice, almonds, hazelnuts, potatoes, peaches, eggplant, and tomatoes. Beautifully maintained farms are everywhere in the plains of Macedonia, and most people here try to buy locally.

Without a doubt, Greeks make the best ice coffees in the world—and they consume prodigious quantities of it. By far, the favorite version is the frappe: one takes Greek coffee, a bit of water, some sugar, and, if desired, a splash of milk. This is whipped until frothy and then served over ice. A fancy variation entails whipping the coffee and milk separately, and then spooning the foamy milk over the coffee. Frappes are delicious, and a great pick-me-up after several hours of braving Athenian heat and smog. Half of Athens seems to sit in cafes knocking back frappes, from early morning to late at night. I think the economy would collapse entirely without them.

* * * * * *

The police presence in Athens is striking, especially by comparison to Macedonia and the islands. We didn’t see a single cop on the island of Santorini in four days. I’m sure they exist, but we never saw them. Only twice did I see police in Thessaloniki. In Athens, the police are everywhere, riding doubled on small motorcycles and patrolling the streets.

A demonstration took place last week while we were at Karin and Vassos’ apartment. We heard gunfire and angry chanting, which seemed mainly directed against the Israelis for their bombing of the aid ship but also included swipes at the government. We stayed in the apartment until the demonstrators had moved well beyond the neighborhood. The firebombing of the bank in Athens has made us uncharacteristically cautious.

* * * * * *

Graffiti is the bane of Greece. Never, ever in my life have I seen so much graffiti. Virtually every building in Thessaloniki is covered in slogans and crude drawings. Athens isn’t quite as bad, but it’s bad enough: the Plaka is utterly defaced. In Paris, graffiti appears on apartments in the projects, as well as some buildings in more transitional neighborhoods such as the Bastille. Here, though, graffiti isn’t confined to poorer areas. Elegant, historical buildings; modern edifices; snazzy new apartments—nothing is spared. One even finds slogans spray-painted on ruins. I suppose Greece simply doesn’t have the resources to cope with it. A few years ago it was fashionable to defend graffiti as a form of serious artistic expression. To anyone still sufficiently benighted to maintain that view, I would suggest spending some time in Athens and Thessaloniki. You will come away never feeling the same way about graffiti again.

* * * * * *

The foolhardiness of my sex sometimes defies credulity: rarely do I see female tourists in sensible shoes, no matter the nationality or age. I watched a well-dressed, middle-aged woman hobble through the Acropolis Museum like a Chinese maiden with bound feet. Eventually she removed her high-heeled sandals and walked barefoot, wincing with every step. Of more concern are the women climbing treacherous precipices in flip-flops or platform sandals. The slippery stones of the Acropolis, worn slick by thousands of years of use, pose an equal threat. Over the past two weeks, I’ve seen women limp, stumble, and fall; fortunately, none were seriously hurt. By far the most idiotic spectacle concerned the teenage girls who made the grueling trek to the acropolis on Thassos. Several were crying as they rubbed blistered and bloodied feet, and none were wearing appropriate shoes for such an arduous climb. Do I like my Ecco walking shoes? As a fashion item, hell no. They have, however, saved my feet and my neck. Come on, ladies: show a little common sense.

* * * * * *

Jackie O sunglasses are everywhere in evidence at the moment. They’re very popular with young Greek women, who sport enormous frames that make them look like starlets from the seventies trying to dodge paparazzi. Gladiator sandals are also a big fashion item in Athens, especially in gold-colored leather, as well as oversized handbags. I haven’t noticed any particular trends for men, most of whom wear the global uniform of jeans and t-shirts.

* * * * * *

Rod drools at the motorcycles that fill the streets of Athens. From hot pink Vespas to Moto Guzzis and BMWs, motorcycles rival the number of cars. They’re a convenient, fuel-efficient way to get around, especially given that Greece now has the most expensive petrol in the EU. Helmets are required by law, but it’s clearly not enforced: I’d guess that no more than half of all motorcyclists wear them. Guys often drive around with helmets dangling from their elbow, a strange phenomenon we can’t quite figure out. Rod thinks it might be a way to comply with the letter of the law; technically, one is wearing a helmet even though it’s covering the wrong appendage.

* * * * * *

We have been largely spared the dreaded Athens smog, although as temperatures rise, both Rod and I have found ourselves rubbing our irritated eyes and coughing a bit. I feel it at night when I breathe. Rod claims the smog is vastly improved over what he remembers from twenty-five years ago. The government is clearly trying to discourage driving by offering various modes of public transport, including buses, trams, suburban trains, and the new underground. We should be half so fortunate in the U.S. Another recent measure entails odd/even driving, which essentially halves the number of days folks can drive in a major city. If your license plate ends in an odd number, then you can drive only on “odd number days”; the same principle, of course, applies to even numbers. In Athens and Thessaloniki this law is strictly enforced, which accounts I think for the heavy use of public transportation.

Speaking of which, public transportation—despite the strikes—works very well indeed. We’ve used buses, trams, and the subway in Athens and liked all of them. I was impressed by the clever way that ruins have been incorporated into some of the subway stations. The trains were a bit surprising: I expected something sleeker. Basically the cars look like an updated version of the London underground, whereas I thought, given the newness of the system, they would resemble the ultra-modern trains we’ve seen in Norway and Sweden.

Public transportation is astonishingly cheap: one euro is good for 90 minutes of unlimited travel on any combination of services. For three euros, you get unlimited travel for 24 hours. Poor African immigrants beg for discarded three-euro passes from tourists such as us, hoping to use whatever time remains on the card.

* * * * * *

Like many European countries, Greece takes alternative medicine seriously. A pharmacist in Santorini told me their use of homeopathic drugs is just second to Germany. Natural and organic goods are everywhere, from cosmetics to wines. That same pharmacist was appalled when I asked for insect repellant with DEET. He steered me toward a natural herbal spray. I was dubious, but it works very well, even staving off the aggressive Macedonian mosquitoes. I’m buying another bottle to take home with me.

* * * * * *

Restoration is not merely an academic question in Greece: as new sites yield unexpected riches, such as the ongoing dig at Akrotira, archaeologists have to decide just how extensively to restore ruins. The archaeologist I spoke with at the Acropolis Museum said that with digital imaging, they now have the means to reconstruct the Parthenon in its entirety. One risks, however, ending up with a Disney-like fantasia, and one period’s imagined reconstruction of the past does not necessarily accord with that of future generations. Evans’ controversial reconstruction of Knossos on Crete is a case in point. The archaeologist said they’re trying to steer a middle course; at the Acropolis, for instance, sites will be restored to the extent that they have extant pieces: they will not manufacture new stones or bits of marble. He guesses it will be another decade or so before the Parthenon, the Theatre of Dionysus, and the Odeum are finished.

* * * * * *

Greek toilets are a puzzle. Signs warn against disposing paper in toilets, but I was never able to get anyone to explain the engineering problem. My sister-in-law Karin reiterated the warning, simply saying, “the pipes can’t handle toilet paper.” Well, why not? Modern toilet paper is designed to dissolve quickly, and human waste certainly poses a great risk of blockage. Irritably, I contemplated violating this edict, but terrifying cartoons of unhappy toilets spewing forth their contents—these are invariably posted on the wall just above the cistern—disabused me of the thought. It remains a mystery.

* * * * * *

One still sees middle-aged and old men clutching worry beads. I have yet to see any men under the age of 30 holding them, but perhaps they have not yet accumulated sufficient woes. I’ve also been struck by people of all ages crossing themselves—usually three times—when passing a church. Most impressive are the motorcyclists who manage to observe this custom while navigating through crazy Greek traffic. Even my brother-in-law, who is not especially religious and openly critical of the Greek Orthodox Church, crosses himself when passing churches, albeit only once. I’ve wondered if he eliminated the other two gestures as a mild protest against their perceived avarice.

* * * * * *

I have loved every minute of this trip, but I haven’t had the same reaction to Greece that I’ve had to other countries, such as France and South Africa. I could imagine teaching here for a semester; I could also imagine sailing around the islands for a couple of months. I couldn’t live here, though, nor am I inspired to fantasize about purchasing property. There is something about Greece, perhaps the weight of history, that makes me melancholy: all those civilizations; all that destruction. It’s too burdensome. Even the sun wears one down after a while. And while Greeks are delightfully hospitable, their intensity can be exhausting. Perhaps it’s the entire package—history, climate, landscape, national character—but this is not a country in which I could dwell for long. At some future date, though, I would like to visit again.

The Last Day in Athens

2010-06-11T23:28:00.000-07:00

We moved slowly this morning. Rod and I knew this would be an arduous trip, but the last couple of days I have felt especially tired. I don’t awaken refreshed but groggy, with heavy legs and sore feet. Two weeks of non-stop hiking in the Greek sun (and now smog) have finally caught up with me.

We spent the afternoon at the Benaki Museum, considered the best private collection in Athens. The antiquities on the ground floor don’t come close to rivaling the new Acropolis Museum or the Archaeological Museum, but the other floors were an unexpected surprise. Antonis Benakis acquired objects over the course of a long lifetime, and he had the foresight to purchase items that weren’t especially valued at the turn of the century, such as Cypriot costumes or needlework from the islands. He even bought interiors of mansions about to be razed: the first floor has an extraordinary Macedonian living room, replete with stone fireplace and elaborate plaster walls. The second floor focuses on objects and paintings related to Greek independence, a motley but fascinating collection ranging from Bryon’s pistols to images of Turks bayoneting hapless women and children. Like most Americans, I am woefully ignorant of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Greek history, but now I want to know more.

The collection is housed in the Benakis paternal home, a gorgeous neoclassical building near the Parliament and various embassies. The museum café is very nice and appears to be popular with the ladies who lunch, mainly well preserved and coiffed Athenian matrons clutching shopping bags from Dolce and Gabbana. Clearly, the economic crisis has not affected the very privileged.

Afterwards we walked through the National Botanical Gardens, which are lovely. It’s hot today but breezy with low humidity. The pathways in the gardens are largely shaded, making for a comfortable stroll. We will rest for a while and then head off for a farewell meal at Daphne’s, supposedly the best restaurant in the Plaka.

The National Archaeological Museum

2010-06-11T01:10:00.000-07:00

On Thursday we ventured over to the National Archaeological Museum. I wanted to see the finds from Akrotira (especially since we had visited Santorini); I also wanted to see the famed objects from Mycenae as well as figurines of actors. The nineteenth-century building housing the collection has been renovated nicely, although the overall effect pales in comparison to the new Acropolis Museum. The objects from Mycenae are truly spectacular and these alone justify an excursion. There’s much more to see, however: an amazing collection of Attic vases; exquisite jewelry; interesting household items. The sculptures are fairly lackluster, but then one realizes how much was looted by foreign countries or purchased on the illegal antiquities market. I think the collection has also suffered from the rise of regional museums since WWII. There have been a lot of recent discoveries, and excavation is ongoing, but various regions now want to keep their own objects, not send them to Athens.

My one deep disappointment had to do with theatrical masks and figurines. I was permitted to snap photos (sans flash) of vases with scenes from plays, but the new exhibit of clay figurines of actors is off-limits for reasons of international copyright. The exhibit opened in 2009, and the museum has not yet registered photographs of the objects. I desperately wanted images for my seminar this fall. I will contact the museum, but I have little hope of getting through the famed Greek bureaucracy.

Tired of museums, we decided to jump one of the trams going to the coast. The ticket taker seemed horrified that two well-heeled Americans would resort to this means of transport: “Do you understand that it’s very slow,” she repeated several times. We were, I noticed, the only foreigners using the system both there and back. Yes, the trams are slow, but we didn’t mind; indeed, we enjoyed the chance to take in additional neighborhoods.

We went to the end of the line and found ourselves in the Stadio Irinis area, which was eerily deserted. We noticed the police presence; we also watched several young Greek males size up a parked Mercedes. I don’t know if they were about to spray it with graffiti or attempt a break-in, but whatever their motives, we clearly needed to move on. We returned to the tram and reversed our course, stopping at Flisvos Marina. This locale, pretty and well maintained, overflowed with people. Parents pushed babies in strollers; lovers strolled hand-in-hand; middle-aged men displayed their young wives and mistresses. Here at least we would not be robbed.

Tired and hungry, we looked for a restaurant and settled on Brasserie Sud. I expected mediocre food, as is often the case with marina restaurants, but we were both so hot and tired that we didn’t care. It was 6.30 p.m., and we hadn’t eaten since the morning. We actually ended up having the best meal of our trip. Brasserie Sud serves Mediterranean food, a loose mixture of French, Italian, and Greek cuisines. Rod and I shared a plate of grilled vegetables topped with goat cheese for a starter, which was excellent. Then we proceeded to our main courses. I had a risotto with spinach and salmon that was absolutely delicious, infused with lemon and fresh dill; Rod had a terrific seafood linguine. Sated, we wandered around the marina, staring wide-eyed at very expensive yachts. Powerboats dominate, and we both noticed the high percentage of foreign flags. A lot of Brits seem to keep yachts in Athenian harbors and why not? Does the Irish Sea really seem very inviting after the Aegean? I think not.

On the tram ride back to our hotel, I realized for the first time that I am homesick. I’ve loved this trip, and I’ve learned a lot, but I’m tired of hotel rooms and tired of living out of a suitcase. I miss my dogs and my horses, not to mention my friends. I’m ready to go home.

The New Acropolis Museum

2010-06-09T12:56:00.000-07:00

While it was still cool this morning, we crossed the street to look more closely at the Temple of Olympian Zeus. We see it from our hotel balcony—we have a fabulous view—but we had not yet walked around the grounds. Only 15 out of the original 104 columns remain, but it’s still impressive as hell. Afterwards we walked over to the Panathenaic Stadium, site of the 1896 Olympic games—the first since ancient times. The stadium had over the centuries fallen into disuse, but was restored at the end of the nineteenth century. It was completely deserted, sadly so. The stadium is magnificent, and the modest admission fee includes a very good audio guide explaining the history of the site.

We sat down at the stadium cafe to have some fresh orange juice, and, as often happens, ended up chatting with a staff member, a young woman in her twenties. She said that most of her friends were unemployed or working minimal jobs, even those with M.A.’s and Ph.D.’s. Nonetheless, she was concerned that we were having a good time and was eager to supply us with suggestions.

As the day warmed up, we retreated to the air-conditioned environs of the Acropolis Museum. We stayed over six hours, an indication of how smitten we were with the collection and the building. Architecturally, the museum isn’t especially striking from the outside; certainly, it pales in comparison to the Getty or Bilbao museums designed by Frank Gehry. Inside, though, it’s just brilliant. Natural light bathes the sculptures, and the interior space somehow captures the feeling of walking through the Parthenon. The top floor, where one views the friezes and metopes, parallels the Acropolis; the lower floors line up with the street. Most remarkable of all, the entire building stands suspended over an active archaeological dig. Glass panels built into the floor just outside the museum entrance reveal ongoing excavation, showing the layers of civilization upon which modern Athens is built.

Until my afternoon in this museum, I had not realized the extent to which the southernmost part of the Acropolis has yielded a treasure trove of everyday artifacts. Here, one doesn’t see the precious treasures of Vergina but the objects used everyday by artisans and priests, cavalry and slaves. I learned a lot. Equally informative were the floors containing friezes from the Parthenon and statuary from the grounds. Commentary is excellent, something not necessarily true at the older museums, and augmented by a very good video on this history of the Acropolis.

The Acropolis Museum clearly wants to be accessible. Entrance fees are laughably cheap by American standards—5 euros for adults and 3 for “special category”—and even the café and restaurant are reasonable. We had an excellent lunch comprised of three dishes (tomato salad, grilled eggplant, and Santorini-style fava beans with capers and olive oil), bread, and white wine to the tune of 21 euros. The portions, in typical Greek style, were substantial. The last time we ate at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, we paid nearly twice that amount for far less. The museum also provides free lectures. We stayed until 6.15 p.m. to hear one of the archaeologists talk about horses in ancient art; he stayed and chatted with us afterwards, generously giving me the names of several colleagues who specialize in classical theatre.

When I was in graduate school, I went through a heavy Latin phase. I needed to learn Latin for my studies, but my curiosity took me well beyond basic competence. I became good enough to sight read Virgil, Catullus, Ovid, and, of course, Cicero. Seeing my facility with the language, my Latin professors urged me to learn Greek; they also tried to woo me over to the doctoral program in classics. I’m too old to become a classicist, but I am thinking about Greek once again . . .

The Ghastliness of Organized Tours

2010-06-09T12:50:00.000-07:00

I have yet another item to add to my list of “things I will never, ever do again—in this lifetime or the next.” Against my better judgment, I agreed to try a bus tour to Mycenae and Epidaurus. Originally I wanted to rent a car for the day, but Rod worried about navigating the notoriously tricky Athenian traffic (now much diminished because of the economic crisis) in exiting the city.

We booked with CHAT, a company reputed to be very good, supposedly with well-trained, knowledgeable guides. Initially we were impressed: we were fetched on time and the Mercedes bus—I didn’t know such a thing existed—was quite comfortable. My heart began sinking as the guide, a very overweight woman, intoned her commentary with a lassitude just this side of boredom. I mention weight not out of prejudice but pragmatics: the guide’s considerable bulk and poor condition prevented her from actually accompanying us around sites. She wheezed her way to the entrance of Mycenae, lectured a bit about the famous lion gate, and then turned us loose for all of twenty-five minutes while she went back to the air-conditioned bus and collapsed.

Twenty-five minutes? To explore the famous seat of the House of Atreus? Frantic, I raced around as quickly as the heat would permit, desperately trying to see everything. This, I thought, is what cruise ships do to their passengers, setting them down in Venice or Barcelona for half-a-day with a mandate to “explore the city.” We were similarly shortchanged at Epidaurus. It is not an exaggeration to say that I have waited thirty-five years to see this theatre. Pissed does not even begin to describe my mood by the afternoon.

I’m not sure whether it’s the fools at CHAT or our particular guide, but we spent more time stopping for coffees and eating lunch (mediocre) than we did exploring the ruins. I missed nearly everything at Epidaurus, a large, historically rich site, other than the theatre, for which we were allotted 30 minutes. I did learn that the famed acoustics are somewhat overstated. Yes, one can from the upper seats hear a coin drop in the orchestra—but just barely. Actors delivering lines in a normal speaking voice would have strained the listening capacity of their auditors. During the dramatic festivals, audiences attended three tragedies and a satyr play over the course of the day. The actors would have needed to project considerably to maintain attention, especially as the cumulative effects of wine and sun took their toll.

I’m not sure how these myths arise or why they’re repeated as received opinion. Ever the skeptic, I tested acoustics and sight lines in every theatre we’ve explored (six on this trip alone). Epidaurus is no better than several others; indeed, I think the theatre at Thassos, a smaller space, has superior acoustics.

I was downcast on the long bus ride home, but I reminded myself that the occasional off day in an otherwise splendid trip is to be expected. I am, however, contacting CHAT tomorrow . . .

The Glories of the Acropolis

2010-06-09T12:46:00.000-07:00

On Monday, our full first day in Athens, we were blessed with lovely mild weather, sunny but breezy. We decided to take advantage of the temperate conditions and spend the day outside, hiking around the Acropolis. We caught a little tram near our hotel that runs all day: for 5 euros, one can jump on and off until 7.00 p.m. It felt a bit Disneyland, but we were grateful for the ride, knowing the hours of arduous trekking that awaited us.

I didn’t know if seeing the iconic buildings of the Parthenon, the Theatre of Dionysus, or the Odeum of Herodes would move me. They did. Even the hordes from the Princess Cruise liner—I am truly beginning to hate these vessels—couldn’t destroy the moment. The Parthenon is simply stunning. I pretty much had the Theatre of Dionysus to myself. Folks would glance around and then exit quickly, clearly unimpressed by the rubble. The Parthenon is fairly self-evident as a building, as is the Temple of Athena Nike; the Theatre of Dionysus, however, doesn’t make sense (aside from the seats) if you don’t know what you’re looking at.

Unfortunately, one can no longer enter the orchestra; the thrones reserved for the high priest and dignitaries are also cordoned off. As I madly clicked photos and studied every detail, a nice Englishman came up to me, slightly embarrassed but sufficiently desperate to ask a favor of a stranger. He had been robbed of his camera the previous day and wanted to know if I was willing to share my photos with him. He suspected from my intense scrutiny of the site that I might be a theatre specialist but wasn’t certain (thus the embarrassment). It turns out that he teaches movement and historical dance at RADA (Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts) and was in town for a conference. We talked shop at length and exchanged cards. I promised to e-mail him my photos when I return home.

After a late lunch, we explored the Library of Hadrian, which once contained 18,000 precious papyrus and parchment rolls, all lost to invading Goths. We also wandered through the Roman agora. I loved every minute.

We showered back at our hotel and headed out for dinner at a “traditional family style restaurant” in the Plaka (fresh, nicely prepared, if unexciting food). While dining, an incident occurred that revised my notion of Canadians as the most benign people imaginable; indeed, we have run into a number of unpleasant Canadians on this trip. It is a bizarre phenomenon I cannot explain, almost as if the nation suddenly decided to counter their stereotypical reputation for niceness with truly shitty behavior. Alternatively, it could be that we’re consistently running into the only nasty Canadians on the face of the earth, the dozen or so who happen to be traveling in our orbit.

Anyway, the story is this: a Canadian couple at an adjacent table struck up a conversation over dinner at said family-style restaurant. They had done a tour of the Greek islands (another cruise!), spent time in Istanbul, and then wrapped up their trip in Athens. They ordered heartily: appetizers, entrees, wine, and dessert. And then they stiffed the poor waiter (and the waiters here work their guts out during tourist season). We were appalled when we realized what had happened. As someone who has worked in restaurants, I know firsthand how upsetting it is when customers walk out without paying. This instance seemed especially nasty given that the couple in question had just enjoyed a luxurious holiday their waiter will most likely never know. Sometimes I think David Mamet is right: people are swine.

Journey to Athens

2010-06-08T09:22:00.000-07:00

Those old Greek ladies are tough. While we were having lunch in the dining car, an old woman slipped into Rod’s reserved seat. She resolutely refused to move, even though she had a second-class ticket in a first-class car. She didn’t care: she wanted Rod’s seat and that was that. Another woman in the compartment spoke to her sharply and finally threatened to call the conductor, at which point the old woman finally yielded the seat, shooting us the evil eye as she marched away indignantly. Five minutes later Rod heard an uproar in the next compartment—voices raised angrily in Greek—and we realized that she was working her up way down the aisle, trying to bully someone else into giving her a first-class seat. You had to admire the chutzpah, if nothing else.

Our trip down to Athens was otherwise uneventful. Vassos and Karin, ever generous, saw us off at the station. The train is clean, modern, and efficient—we arrived to the minute—and we were fortunate to share our compartment with a delightful woman, oddly an academic like myself. We chatted at length about Greek universities, the Greek economy, and her specialty, which happens to be philosophy or, more precisely, Aristotelian ethics. Pleased with our acquaintance, we exchanged contact information. We may get together for a drink this week.

The scenery throughout Greece is just lovely. The landscape changes quickly as one goes from the plains of Macedonian into mountainous regions and then down towards Lamia before reaching Attica. Each region has its own distinctive look, but to a Californian like myself it seems oddly familiar. The train ride from Thessaloniki to Athens is particularly scenic, a 5-hour journey I highly recommend.

Our hotel, the Athens Gate, is right across from the Temple of Olympian Zeus and Hadrian’s arch. Truly it is spine tingling to stand out on the balcony and look upon these ancient edifices. From the roof garden one also has a panoramic view of the Acropolis. The New Acropolis Museum is just around the corner and the Plaka within easy walking distance. The location is terrific. The hotel itself is very handsome, although the noise from traffic might make sleeping difficult. My first impressions of Athens are mixed. It lacks the sweeping boulevards and stateliness of Thessaloniki but possesses a chaotic charm of its own. I suspect Athens is much like my birthplace of L.A. (to which it is often compared), a city that doesn’t grab visitors at first but, if given half a chance, offers its own seductive charms.

The Sacred and the Profane

2010-06-08T09:09:00.000-07:00

We left Thessaloniki on Friday morning, heading northeast. We stopped in Philippi, another expansive site like Dion that includes the remains of an agora, a theatre, shrines, settlements, and even early churches. Its historical associations also stopped me dead in my tracks, although I am finding that my scholarly penchant for specificity drives the Greek guides a little crazy. Philippi—for those of you who remember Roman history—is where Antony and Octavius defeated Brutus and Cassius. I had read that the battle took place in the fields just outside the ruined city walls, but there are lots of fields and several city walls. The guides pointed vaguely to various locales, but, when pressed, it became clear they really didn’t know. Finally one of the administrators in the spanking new museum (open all of one month) came out to speak to this crazy American woman who was carrying on about the Battle of Philippi. Finally, my curiosity was satisfied, and I could gaze upon a field bounded by trees, imagining the clash of swords. Then again, he probably fabricated the information to get rid of me.

Philippi is also where St. Paul was imprisoned for preaching to the locals (“Letters to the Philippians”). We thought about hiking out to see his prison cell, but we had already spent nearly three hours trudging around the ruins and the impressive Hellenistic theatre. This one, I might add, has superb acoustics.

Vassos snoozed in the car during our peregrinations; he joined us for lunch at the café on the site, where we had surprisingly decent food. A little white dog, miserably abandoned, hovered under our table. I looked at Rod imploringly—there was something about this creature in particular—but he pointed out the many hurdles, legal and practical, that stood in the way of adoption and transport. It was very difficult walking away.

We carried on, driving through the scenic beachfront town of Kavala, until we reached the harbor ferry that would take us to the island of Thassos. I knew something of the island's historical significance. Rich in gold and minerals, Thassos was claimed by successive empires. Thassos is also notable for a landscape that differs dramatically from the arid, rocky topography of the Cycladic islands. It is green, covered with dense fir trees, and very beautiful.

The resort where we spent the night is very attractive, both open and modern while still retaining a Macedonian feeling. The hotel pool is enormous. I immediately changed into my swimming suit and plunged into the cool water, swimming contentedly until Rod hailed me for dinner. The food, unfortunately, was nowhere as nice as the setting: this meal turned out to be the most mediocre and the most expensive of the trip. Far more satisfying than the cuisine were the hotel clients, many of them Yugoslavian, Albanian, or even Russian. Thuggish young men smoked endlessly and talked into their cell phones, while their girlfriends looked bored and pouty in only the way that Slavic women can.

On Saturday we checked out and then drove to the Old Port, a scenic village where old-fashioned fishing boats still bring in the day’s catch. I knew about the theatre at Thassos and wanted to brave the climb, even though I could glimpse its remains high on the hills overlooking the town. Surely, I thought to myself, it can’t be that far. Well, it was. Poor Karin gave up after a while—it was a hot day—but Rod and I ended up on the wrong path and found ourselves halfway up to the acropolis. Foolhardy creatures, we decided to climb to the very top, thinking that we would detour to the theatre on our way down. It turned out to be much more demanding than we expected, with difficult, sometimes treacherous footing and very steep inclines. Drenched in sweat and exhausted, I was feeling glum and middle-aged until espying a group of teenagers on a school outing. The boys looked pissed and several girls were crying from the strain of the climb. I felt much better about my aging body from that point onward.

We were rewarded with a spectacular view of the island and the ocean; on our way down, we found the theatre, which also occupies a beautiful setting. The antiquities on Thassos don’t seem to be accorded the care that we’ve seen at other sites—the island has just fallen through the cracks of the archaeological ministry—and the remains of the theatre need serious attention. Like the theatre on Santorini, this performance space is something of a puzzle: it is extremely hard to access, and one wonders about the performers or even audiences it might have attracted.

We finished our sojourn on Thassos with a delightful lunch by the waterfront in the Old Port. Starved for carbohydrates after my crazy climb, I wolfed down prodigious quantities of pasta with seafood much to the delight of my Greek brother-in-law. Throughout our stay, he has chided me for eating so little, even jokingly accusing me of anorexia (as if!). By Greek standards, I eat like a bird, but I tried to explain to Vassos that I have the metabolism of a slug. He would have none of it. Greeks really like to eat—enormous portions are standard—so he was happy to see me evince for once what he considers a normal appetite.

I nodded off in the car on the way back to Thessaloniki. We showered, packed, had a cup of tea with Karin and Vassos, and then fell into bed, content but drained by our whirlwind tour through Macedonia.

The Most Perfect Day Ever

2010-06-08T09:01:00.000-07:00

Thursday was such pure pleasure that it could not but produce an accompanying sense of sadness; bliss, of course, is transitory. For someone like myself, who loves ancient history, sunshine, Mediterranean landscapes, and theatre, it just doesn’t get any better. Karin and Vassos drove us to Dion, an archaeological site southwest of Thessaloniki. The site is enormous and still under excavation. Karin remarked that it had virtually doubled in scope since her last visit a decade ago. We followed winding paths through a glorious landscape of meadows, streams, and thickets of poplars and London plane trees. We saw shrines to Artemis, a sanctuary partially submerged in water, hints of the agora, and even toilets and the sanitation system. The mosaics, still being recovered, were lovely. Dion has two theatres, a small Roman space that was probably used for lectures and musical performances, and a larger Hellenistic theatre. As has become my wont, I insisted on testing the acoustics, which were surprisingly poor. Most of the original seats are gone and nothing remains of the skene, which might account for the lack of acoustical “bounce.”

Vassos waited patiently in the car. At 72, he can no longer manage rigorous hiking over uneven terrain, but he generously encouraged us to take as long as we wanted. After Dion, we drove to Litohoro, an almost Alpine-looking village at the foot of Mt. Olympus. The village is charm incarnate. Karin and Vassos took us for a sublime lunch at their favorite restaurant, appropriately named Olympus. We sat on the deck, drinking wine, gorging, and gazing out at the cloud-covered peaks where the pantheon of Greek gods reigned. Our superb 3-course lunch cost all of twelve euros, an unbelievable bargain for the enormous Greek-style salads, bread, and braised lamb shanks that we inhaled. For dessert we had ice cream, which is excellent in Greece, doused in sour cherries that are almost candied. I’ve never quite tasted anything like it.

After lunch we drove to Vergina, the burial site of the Macedonian kings. This is where Philip II, father of Alexander the Great, was buried after being assassinated at the wedding of his daughter (in the theatre, no less). Since the mid-nineteenth century, archaeologists have known that Vergina was an important Macedonian site; not until the mid-1970s, however, did they discover the royal tombs. Miraculously, Philip’s tomb survived grave robbers, and the contents, now on display in the museum, are simply breathtaking. Never have I seen ancient artifacts of such unparalleled beauty. Diadems comprised of golden oak leaves are so finely wrought they look as if they should bend in the wind. Purple and gold cloth that enclosed Philip’s cremated remains looks almost painted, so closely woven is the fabric. Etched on the gold larnax containing his bones are bands of lily, along with decorative rosettes. Silver bowls and plates, exquisitely but simply designed, appear eerily modern.

Brilliantly, the tumulus is recreated in its entirety, with the museum housed beneath. The tombs are intact, as well as the objects: one can see, for instance, a wall painting of Philip and the young Alexandria hunting, as well as the individual chambers. I was awe-struck by the artistry and skill everywhere in evidence. I am especially keen on the Hellenistic period: to see the opulence with which Alexander buried his father was, well, almost beyond comprehension.

Equally incomprehensible was the utter desertion of the museum, a phenomenon we’ve experienced throughout our several days in Macedonia. The royal tombs were empty, as were the other museums and archaeological sites we’ve visited. Museum employees, seeing my rapture, have been unfailingly kind in answering my questions and even allowing me into areas normally off-limits to visitors. Clearly, I have benefitted from “the crisis,” as it is called in Greece, and the resulting decline in tourism. Selfishly, having these extraordinary places to myself is part of today’s perfection.

The Unexpected Delights of Thessaloniki

2010-06-06T12:48:00.000-07:00

We arrived after several glorious days in Santorini to Thessaloniki Airport, where we were greeted by Rod’s sister Karin and her Greek husband Vassos. They whisked us to a hotel just two blocks from their flat; we unpacked; walked to their place; and then caught up over tea and biscuits.

Fortified, we set out with Karin and Vassos to explore the open-air markets of Saloniki. They are fascinating, the sort of thing one might have seen in Paris or London before Les Halles and the other old markets were razed. We saw fresh fish, fruits and vegetables, spices, figs, and other local products, all inviting. Old Greek ladies in black haggled with merchants while young, chic housewives pinched the flesh of fish suspiciously. I bought a little copper briki for my first attempts at Greek coffee once I return home.

Then we hopped a local bus for the White Tower, a famous Turkish-Venetian landmark. We dutifully climbed the 500-plus steps to the top and were rewarded with a spectacular view of the harbor and the city. Lunch followed at a café near the lovely waterfront—recently renovated and expanded—where I indulged in yet more roasted eggplant. Gypsy women wandered through the outdoor seating area, aggressively thrusting their crying, dirty babies at the customers in a largely vain attempt to beg money. I have tangled with gypsies in other European countries, and I had an especially frightening experience in St. Petersburg when a Russian girlfriend and I were attacked while caught in downtown traffic. I will make a politically incorrect statement here: I do not like their lifestyle. Undoubtedly this sounds horribly bourgeois, but there is much to be said for getting a job and not dragging one’s unwashed progeny around the streets and subjecting them to a life of penury. Lest I appear prejudiced against ethnic gypsies, I will point out that I felt the same way about the stoner hippies, relics from the sixties and seventies, who until fairly recently panhandled in Berkeley, miserable-looking children in tow.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the Archaeological Museum, which, like many museums in Greece, is small and manageable. The building is modern, light, and airy; the displays are well done, and we especially enjoyed a special exhibit on gold work in ancient Greek society.

Exhausted, we returned to our hotel for a rest and shower. Later that night we went with Vassos and Karin to a seafood restaurant where we met Christina, their youngest daughter, her husband Petros, and their darling daughter Yvonni (who I might steal and take back with me to the States). It was a relaxed, slightly chaotic, family evening that seemed so Mediterranean, with the toddler lurching around the table while the adults ate, drank, and talked over each other. People dine late in Greece, and I am having to adjust to dinners that begin no earlier than 9.00 p.m. and stretch on until midnight.

I like Thessaloniki far more than I expected; indeed, I’m not quite sure what I expected. Many of the buildings date from the nineteenth century, and the city has the look more of a Slavic city, such as Bucharest, than a Mediterranean one. Some of the boulevards are wide and lined with trees. Ruins abound. Casually scattered throughout the city, they are part of its everyday texture, not something to be seen as tourist sites. There is a north/south divide in Greece, with Thessalonikians looking down on their Athenian brethren, in much the same way that the denizens of St. Petersburg pity Muscovites or Florentines sniff at Romans. After some time in Athens, I’ll have a better sense of whether the Thessalonikian sense of superiority is justified.

Snapshots from Santorini

2010-06-06T12:40:00.001-07:00

The Swedish woman--resident on the island for 18 years--who explained in painstaking terms how to make Greek coffee (to which I am now addicted)
The tourist sporting a t-shirt that declared, "I'm not a gigolo; I'm just a fucker"
The hairpin turns on the road to ancient Thira
The strings of donkeys trudging up the steep winding path from the Old Port to Fira; some looked thin and bedraggled
The easy music wafting through bars in town, ranging from Bob Marley to Pink Martini, hardly the strains of bazouki one expects
The sad spectacle of abandoned and semi-feral dogs everywhere, many of them lame from car accidents
The exhausting climb along the caldera from Fira to Firastefani, a journey we seemed to make several times a day
The young female shopkeepers who conduct business with teacup dogs on their laps
The Greek orthodox priests wearing very cool, very expensive, designer shades
The ghastly disgorging of tourists from the monster cruise ships: imagine 3,000 people overwhelming a small island town for 3-4 hours, truly the invasion of the barbarian hordes

The Last Day in Paradise

2010-06-01T11:18:00.000-07:00

Fig ice cream.

This delectable concoction alone makes Santorini worthwhile, but the island has many pleasures to offer, from spectacular views to volcanic beaches. The fig ice cream, though, is pretty damn terrific.

This morning through a complicated series of maneuvers (i.e. local bus transfers) we made our way to the small business that runs mini-vans up the mountain to ancient Thira. The road twists around hairpin turns, which our driver attacked with alacrity. At points, I closed my eyes and breathed slowly and deeply, telling myself that he had managed to make it into his forties and would most likely survive this journey as well. I tried to forget that Greece has the highest number of traffic fatalities in the EU, information one should put far from mind when careening around 1,000 foot precipices.

The site itself is probably worth the journey for a classical history geek like myself; I'm not sure about the average Joe. The ruins are pretty, well, ruined, and it's difficult sometimes to reconstruct their original function. Commentary is pretty sparse, and the sour-faced guards were of little help. I did enjoy seeing the theatre, however, which is quite small by Hellenistic or Roman standards. Built in the second century A.D., it seated fewer than 1,500 people. Did road shows come through? Revivals of Athenian classics? Hellenistic comedy? Or the pantomimes popular with Roman audiences? It's hard to imagine a troupe of players bothering with a settlement this remote.

We braved the return journey down the mountain, eventually making our way back to our favorite patch of beach in Parissa, just in front of Meteora Cafe. Our hostess greeted us with open arms and a glass of wine: what is not to love about a woman who greets you as "my princess"? Fortified by good food (fatouche for Rod; eggplant stuffed with vegetables for me), we staggered back to the beach for several hours of sun and snoozing. The winds whipped up the water, making it a bit rough for serious swimming. I also forgot my prescription goggles and was nervous about accidentally swimming too far out (yes, I am truly that blind) into the wicked undertow. So I had to content myself with bobbing around close to shore.

Our journey home on the local bus from Parissa to Fira seemed so typically Santorini: a happy, tired jumble of humanity, from giggling local teenagers to sunburnt Germans, while the bus driver blasted Nine Inch Nails and Metallica.

Santorini Sublimity

2010-05-31T12:46:00.000-07:00

I have succumbed utterly and entirely to the charms of Santorini on this, our third day of bliss. Initially I wasn't entirely convinced. Having just come from lush, verdant Maryland (all the more so because of abnormal winter snows and a long wet spring), it took my eye a couple of days to adjust to the stark, rugged beauty of this Cycladic island. Now I understand why people go slightly berserk after several days and give up their native land to settle here. We have met people from all over the world who have set up businesses or work in local shops and restaurants. Not surprisingly those from cold climates seem the most gobsmacked: the bronzed Czech girl who waited on us last night at Ginger Sushi Cafe (which, incidentally, lived up to its reputation) couldn't stop smiling. She's been here one month and still talks non-stop about the climate and laid-back ease of the island.

This morning we returned to Cafe Mylos, which has become our go to joint for breakfast. They serve absolutely the best Greek yoghurt topped with fresh fruit and drizzled with Cretan honey. That and a double Greek coffee sets me up for much of the day. We hiked down to Thira around noon and took the bus to Parissa, a black sand beach that is just spectacular. The beaches are all private, with each cafe or taverna claiming the patch fronting its business. The system actually works very well: one is welcome to stake out a chaise lounge, a little table, and umbrella in exchange for ordering something. Even a coffee will do, but most people end up ordering drinks or light snacks over the course of the afternoon. Hustled by an enterprising Greek businesswoman, we settled on her perfect bit of beach. We ordered cold Mythos beer and, later, some mezzes to nimble. The service was perfect. Never did one feel pressured to buy additional food, but the service was available if one wished.

Never having swum in the Aegean before, I didn't know what to expect, but the water was cool (not cold) and absolutely refreshing. It's clean and intensely salty, rather like the Caribbean, which makes for especially buoyant water. Unhindered by waves or undertow, I swam fairly far out in the calm seas, ecstatically happy by the combination of sun and water. For an erstwhile California girl who grew up on the beach, well, it just doesn't get any better than this.

Rod dragged me away in time to make the 6.30 bus back to Fira (I would have stayed until 9.00 p.m). We hiked back to our town, showered, and then had a light supper at a little traditional taverna recommended by our landlady here at Hotel Galini. We tried fava beans with fresh capers, a Santorini specialty; grilled eggplant with sun dried tomatoes; and a slice of spinach pie, all of them "small plates." The first two were just superb; the spinach pie was good, not brilliant. The climate and volcanic soil here lend themselves to several crops, which include fava beans, capers, cherry tomatoes, pistachios, black sesame seeds, and the clean, light white wine for which Santorini is known. All are very good indeed.

I am also feeling better disposed toward Hotel Galini. Yesterday we mentioned to our landlady that our room was a bit cramped, and she immediately offered us a much nicer accommodation, for which we are both grateful. She is a hard-working, kind woman who really does try in earnest, something I have found to be the case with most of the people on the island. We can now stow our clothes in drawers and move around more easily. The view from this balcony is prettier--one sees a wider expanse of the caldera and neighboring islands. Tonight we watched the sun set into the Aegean, a moment I have now witnessed three times but still find indescribably moving. It is not just the aching beauty of the sunset itself but the sense of history, sitting in my balcony and wondering if the early Thirans also paused in the course of their day to gaze upon this blaze of fire sinking into the vast sea, its light throwing into silhouette all of the islands, for as far as one can see.

Tomorrow morning we intend to rouse ourselves at a decent hour, hike down to Thira, jump the bus to Kamari, and then find the mini-bus that will drop us within a 20-minute hike of ancient Thira, the ruins I want to see. We have an hour-and-a-half to explore the site before meeting the van that will return us to Kamari. If the weather is nice again, I want to take the water taxi from Kamari back to Parissa Beach, where I fully intend to plant myself for another serious afternoon of sun and surf. Then back to the hotel, alas, to pack for Thessalonki, the next leg of our journey.

Cycladic and Culinary Delights

2010-05-30T08:20:00.000-07:00

We overslept woefully this morning, felled by the previous day of heat and hiking. We roused ourselves mid-morning and walked up the road to Cafe Mylos in Firostefani, the village where we're staying. We were not disappointed. The cafe blends traditional Greek architecture with a very hip, very contemporary look (and blasts great house music to boot). They have a nice internet cafe; overall, Cafe Mylos exudes an inviting vibe.

The food was excellent: fresh and handsomely prepared. Indeed, I have been pleasantly surprised so far. After years of hearing Rod recount horror stories of greasy moussaka, I expected the worst. Rod (albeit somewhat grudgingly) admits that what we have experienced so far bears little resemblance to his memories from twenty-five years ago. Food is very good and, by European standards, reasonable. Yesterday we lunched at Nikolas Cafe in Thira, and again had absolutely fresh, tasty food: Rod ordered stuffed cabbage, and I had stuffed zucchini with a light lemon sauce. We shared a killer appetizer of beets, which included the sauteed greens. Santorini wine has also been a revelation. I had been warned off Greek wine, but the local white is absolutely delicious and light, perfect for this climate. At lunch yesterday we paid all of 2 euros for a small carafe, which seemed crazy cheap; all told, our substantial, very good lunch totaled 21 euros for the two of us, certainly a bargain by any standards.

Tonight we're dining across the street at Ginger Sushi Cafe, which is reputed to be fantastic. Web sites say it's the best sushi outside of Japan and California. Tomorrow we will probably succumb and try Naoussa or Mama's cafe, both Santorini institutions. In short, good food is to be had easily and relatively inexpensively.

After brunch we ambled down the cobblestone path that follows the cliffs overlooking the caldera, around a 20-minute hike. Once in town, we headed for the Museum of Prehistoric Thira, another unexpected delight. I've decided that Rod and I are incorrigible geeks. Inevitably we find ourselves in places like this museum, enchanted beyond expression only to realize that we're two of perhaps ten people in the entire place. Everyone else is buying curios or drinking in bars. The museum has an impressive collection of pottery and objects from the 17th - 20th centuries (BCE, mind you). I especially loved seeing the implements and wall paintings from the recent excavations in Akrotira. Alas, the site itself is still closed, but the collection gives a good sense of the advanced civilization--certainly rivaling Minos--that flourished before the great volcanic eruption of around 1450 BCE.

Tomorrow we might take a cruise to the volcanic center of the caldera, where one can swim, if so inclined, in sulfuric waters. On Tuesday we will attempt the trip to the ruins of ancient Thira. We finally discovered (through one of dozens of travel agencies dotting the island) a fairly straightforward route. Mini-vans make the trip several times in the morning, but they only depart from Kamari and--this being Greece--one cannot depend on the published schedule. The agent, though, offered to call the company on our behalf, so I am hoping we won't stand for hours in the sun waiting in vain for our transportation.

Santorini Sunset

2010-05-29T13:54:00.000-07:00

We arrived last night in Santorini after a long day of travel: disembarked from the QMII at 7.00 a.m. in Southampton; met our (very good, very efficient) driver at 7.45; and then arrived at Heathrow by 9.00. Strangely we ran into little traffic. Our late morning flight to Athens left right on time and Aegean Airlines did a nice job: the new Airbus was immaculate, and we were served a tasty lunch and wine on the 3-hour flight to Athens. Always I am shocked when I fly in Europe. To be given lunch is sufficiently impressive but lunch and wine? I'm lucky if I get a bag of pretzels flying coast to coast in the U.S. Our connection to Santorini also went smoothly, although we were both very tired by the time we got to our hotel.

Our accommodations aren't quite what we hoped for: I suppose the best that can be said is that the Hotel Galini is clean. The bed is rock hard and the room cramped and charmless. We don't even have a chest of drawers for clothes, most of which remain in our suitcases. When we booked, we did not realize that most hotels on Santorini have swimming pools, a luxury we would have appreciated on this unseasonably hot Saturday after hours of tramping around in the Greek sun. Ah well.

I like Santorini very much, but the photos one sees of the famous caldera, with white-washed houses perched on the hillside, are somewhat misleading. Yes, the view from our balcony is spectacular, and seeing the sun sink into the sea tonight from Oia was just as breathtaking as everyone says. The cliffs around the rim of the caldera secure Santorini's claim to fame; the rest of the island, though, is scrubby, arid, and visually uninteresting. We booked four days here; two would probably have been enough.

We took a bus tour today, which turned out to be longer (nearly six hours!) and more challenging physically than we expected. The buses are very modern and well maintained; the driver was a solid citizen, a far cry from the stories one hears, and our guide, a young man in his twenties, was solicitous if not terribly well informed. He tried hard, though. We made several stops, which included a traditional Greek village, a Venetian fortress, and the oldest church on the island. All were interesting but entailed long hikes up many, many hills and stairs. I prided myself on sprinting up the first two destinations; by the fourth, I was dragging, a victim of the unforgiving Greek sun and swelling feet. Still, I fared better than most. Two Ecuadorian women groaned with each step up the fortress, stopping frequently to mop their brows and confirm the temperature ("treinte-tres grados?!"), as if this repetitive exclamation would somehow alter the stifling reality. We ended up at Oia, turned loose for two hours to find water and/or sustenance before claiming a spot to watch the famous sunset. Then, at 8.30 p.m., we all staggered back to the bus for the ride home.

We had thought about attempting the ruins of ancient Thera tomorrow, but after reading about the difficulty in accessing them, we are considering a lazier option, perhaps a morning at the beach and an afternoon at one of the local museums.

Goodbye to All That

2010-05-27T02:50:00.000-07:00

Our final day on the QMII will no doubt resemble the preceding ones. Quickly we fell into a pattern of lethargy punctuated by occasional bouts of activity. Like the famed nineteenth-century Russian character Oblomov, our greatest decisions revolve around food, drink, and leisure: what will we have today? What will we do with ourselves? Oh, the monumental decisions that await!

Yesterday was particular shocking: we slept in, had a bit of breakfast, read, lunched, and then napped. Our evening was equally sybaritic: dinner and then an hour musical revue (surprisingly decent), followed by a nightcap and jazz at one of the onboard bars.

I love people watching on the QMII. Last night at the bar, I watched amused as one of the leggy girls from the revue, a gorgeous blonde hailing from the Ukraine, made an undulating entrance, well-heeled man in tow. He looked like he had been hit by a 2 x 4, which in some sense is probably true. A handsome young American couple, scrubbed and shiny as new pennies, gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes, most likely celebrating their honeymoon. A bankruptcy judge we had met at lunch sat with his partner, the two of them exchanging confidences and knowing looks as they too gauged the spectrum of humanity. A rich English dowager, bejeweled and expensively coiffed, entertained her much younger guests with stories from her youth. It was like being in an Evelyn Waugh novel or on Agatha Christie’s Orient Express.

The last two days we have been blessed with interesting dining companions. At dinner we are seated with a very nice couple from Savannah, Georgia. Warm, homey, and kind, they embody a kind of American character all too infrequently seen—or at least represented in the media—these days. They are fiscally conservative but socially moderate (certainly liberal by Sarah Palin standards), the sort of Republicans I remember from my youth. Two nights ago we had drinks with another couple we liked. He’s a retired French engineer; she’s an American editor. They own an apartment on the French coastline near the Spanish border that we might consider for a future rental.

While both Rod and I have enjoyed ourselves immensely, the thought of a conventional cruise makes me want to jump overboard. We’ve met an extraordinary number of people who are cruise junkies (that ghastly woman I blogged about previously is hardly unique in this regard). It is not uncommon to find folks who have done 30 or 40 cruises, a phenomenon that crosses ethnicities and nationalities. Yesterday in the laundry room, for instance, I chatted with an older white woman, recently widowed, who does a yearly round-trip Atlantic crossing on the QMII in addition to other Cunard voyages; an Asian woman who cruises with her husband 2-3 times a year; and a middle-aged African-American man who has taken 35 cruises (“I have to do something with my time now that I’m retired”).

Admittedly, the QMII is a great way to get to Europe: one arrives relaxed, Circadian rhythms adjusted, rather than stumbling half-dead off a plane at Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle, or Frankfurt at 6.00 a.m. I will do it again if prices remain affordable. But living on a cruise ship for 10, 17, or even 22 days (as many of these passengers do) while disembarking for a few hours at some port of call, well, that would drive me nuts. Maybe when I’m 80, I’ll feel differently, but for now, donning a good pair of walking shoes and exploring on my own is how I want to see the world.

The Cruising Life

2010-05-25T10:27:00.000-07:00

“The natives.”

I blinked in incredulity: had I heard correctly? Does anyone still use that kind of abhorrent language? Evidently one of our tablemates does, the sort of woman who unfortunately makes the phrase “ugly American” all too real. She and her companion, both overweight, badly dressed women in their late sixties, stuffed themselves with high-fat, caloric foods throughout the meal while enumerating cruises taken in recent years. Like boys collecting baseball cards, they seemed more intent on acquisition than experience. They could not recall ports of call, nor could they remember the contours of various cruises. Neither seemed to take particular pleasure in anything other than eating and onboard gambling. One woman dismissed most European cities with a wave of the hand: “after a while, everything blends together.” She never visits museums abroad, explaining that, “if you have the Met in New York, why do you need to see anything else?” Why indeed.

Instead they were intent on racking up nautical miles on various cruise lines, which I suppose gives them bragging rights back home. These women might not have been able to remember the difference between Morocco and Monte Carlo, but they could tell you the fine nuances of service on the Oceania liner. One announced proudly that she was “diamond class” on Cunard, which means that she’s made countless voyages, most of which she cannot remember.

The inveterate gambler of the two jumped up halfway through the meal, announcing “Bingo!” to no one in particular. She scurried off to make her game while her remaining companion proceeded to hold forth on the state of the world. She brought out the worst in us. Rod made an acid remark about Sarah Palin; I followed with equally sharp comments about Dick Cheney and Haliburton. The set of the woman’s jaw only egged us on. All the usual fault lines were drawn, from Obama’s health care reform to the federal response to the BP spill. Upon hearing her dismiss national health care, I was tempted to point out that grossly overweight people making poor lifestyle choices—as she clearly was—would be largely responsible for future spikes in costs to taxpayers. The woman did not want to spend a public dime on anyone else, but she was more than willing to cash in her social security check and add to our ever-growing Medicare bill.

In brief, the four of us, all Americans (Rod, of course, a naturalized citizen), enacted for our polite but understandably appalled Dutch dining companions the polarities that fissure America these days. Blue versus red, Democrat versus Republican, liberal versus conservative. Our mutual detestation was all too apparent.

I left feeling angry and yet somewhat ashamed. We should be better than this, I thought, able to reach across the divide that Obama urges Congress to traverse. If, as an everyday citizen, I cannot be civil to someone with opposing political views, then how can I expect otherwise from my politicians? Then again, I don’t know how to respond politely to someone who advocates involuntary birth control for prisoners or who wonders aloud why “the natives” in Africa didn’t learn “civilization” from their English masters? The problem is this: how does one tolerate intolerance? How does one enlighten stupidity of the very worst sort?

Monday Morning on the QMII

2010-05-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

One of the pleasures of dining shipboard is the chance to meet new people. Unlike our trip last year, when we were assigned to the same table for lunch and dinner, we are now in a class of service—somewhat lower—that allows for “open seating” at lunch. And, due to some confusion over our table assignment for dinner, we have had various dining companions in the evening as well.

As might be expected, they have been an international bunch: Canadians, Brits, Europeans, Americans, and South Americans. So far, my favorite is a Venezuelan named Rafael, a gregarious and charming screenwriter who divides his time between Montreal and Paris. He works largely in the Francophone film industry, with a self-professed interest in “drama and comedy—no thrillers and certainly no action movies.” Last night we chatted with a Canadian couple from Victoria, British Columbia, who regaled us with stories of trips into the Indian desert.

Then, too, there is the occasional annoyance, no doubt to be expected when dwelling among three thousand people. As I write this entry, a pushy Canadian woman asked for my desk in the library. She likes the spot and claims that the power cord to her laptop won’t extend to the nearest outlet (not the case). I politely refused.

Then there are the loud, obnoxious folks. On our first night of dining, at a lovely table near a window, we were accosted by the braying laugh and piercing timbre of an extraordinary American woman nearby. She held my fascination throughout the meal. Like something out of Auntie Mame, she was larger than life: too loud, too effusive, and far too painted. In tow was a mummified man she referred to as “my fiancé.” Not once did he utter a word. She spoke for him throughout the meal, while Rod and I, horrified and entertained, stole looks at his frozen, glassy-eyed demeanor. Was he drugged? Suffering from dementia? Or simply overwhelmed? His dress and appearance were equally compelling. The cut of his suit suggested money, but he wore a ring in his ear—perhaps somewhat strange in a man well into his seventies—and a very bad toupee (is there any other kind?). As the meal progressed, our bemusement turned to irritation as madam’s stream of commentary intensified in volume and frequency. After 24 hours in her presence, I would have resorted to arsenic.

This morning I am working on publication projects, putting the finishing touches on an article and fleshing out a book chapter. I am sitting in my favorite spot on the QMII, the wood-paneled library. Dotted with windows, it offers a wonderful view over the bow of the ship, where one can look beyond the railings to the Atlantic. Window-side seats abound, as do desks and even some sofas. It is a very popular spot. Passengers like to curl up and read or, like me, write at their laptops.

Speaking of reading, I expected to see lots of Kindles and iPads on this voyage, but so far, I have espied only one person using a Kindle and nary an iPad in sight. I wonder in part if the paucity of e-readers is generational: Cunard cruises tend to attract an older crowd, many of whom seem tech-challenged, if not phobic. Several times while working on Rod’s laptop—we brought along his new 13” MacBook Pro, a snappy, energetic little machine—I’ve been approached by folks who are having trouble signing on to the ship’s very good WiFi. Cunard provides good support—a tech specialist is available around the clock in one of the computer labs—but I suspect some of the older passengers are too intimidated to approach a young, obviously tech-savvy, younger male in his twenties. As a middle-aged woman, I probably appear a bit safer, closer to them in age and presumably more sympathetic to their technology woes.

As for me, I would have loved an iPad for this trip. I am tired of lugging around bulky books while traveling, but, as advised by Al3x, I will wait until the next generation appears.

People Watching on the QMII

2010-05-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

If anything, this passage on the Queen Mary II is even better than our voyage last year. Blessed by mild weather and calm seas, we have made steady progress toward Southampton, averaging 23 knots. I think Rod would prefer a bit more nautical excitement (translation: a goodly storm), but I am very happy with the current conditions.

The passengers seem a bit more colorful this time through: two 60-something hippies, with graying waist-long hair and wildly inappropriate gypsy garb caught our eye, as did a young man in psychedelic pants. On our first evening we saw a woman in a burgundy colored velour tracksuit—indescribably awful—wearing a hat with bunny ears. The contrast between the madcap garb and her hatchet-faced expression was, um, compelling. Perhaps the bunny ears were supposed to cheer her up?

I don’t know if it’s the current economic climate or political tensions or even the volcanic ash, but more people seem to be gorging on food this year. We went for herbal tea last night in the King’s Court, a central cafeteria area that stays open until nearly midnight. While we sipped our hot drinks, I watched a succession of people attack various desserts with grim determination—and this after having dined on a 3-course meal two hours earlier. One man in particular caught my attention, a trim bearded fellow, perhaps in his early sixties, who returned five times—no, I am not making this up—to the desserts, each time heaping his tray with two or three items. He didn’t appear to be enjoying the sweets; indeed, he seemed generally unhappy, and it made me sad to think that all those bowls of pudding and slices of cake would never sate his emptiness. Then there were the usual overweight people (as many Europeans as Americans, I might add) who had no business indulging midnight snacks but nonetheless stuffed themselves with empty carbohydrates.

One can very easily eat well on the QMII: fresh fruit is available around the clock for snacking, while salads, grilled vegetables, and lean proteins abound at every meal. Lunch and dinner choices include Canyon Ranch specialties, all relatively low in calories and sodium. Yesterday for lunch I had a superb vegetarian meal of grilled vegetables atop toasted risotto and a fresh tomato soup. It can be done.

Another Transatlantic Crossing

2010-05-18T09:44:00.000-07:00

I guess I'm resuming blogging after a long hiatus: a full teaching load, committee work, endless meetings, and publication deadlines don't leave one much time for random musings.

This Friday we are about to embark on another adventure crossing the Atlantic; once we land in Southampton, we make our way to Heathrow, where we will catch a flight to Santorini. Thus begins our two-week sojourn in Greece.

For me, this is the culmination of a 30-year-old fantasy. As an undergraduate at LMU, I was privileged to study theatre history with Katherine Free, a woman who proved enormously influential on my subsequent career. She was especially knowledgeable about ancient Greek theatre (in addition to Sanskrit drama, another specialty), and I have vivid memories of sitting in class and staring dreamy-eyed at slides of Epidaurus. Now, after all of this time, I too get to clamber around the stone seats and wander through the orchestra, imagining the performance of the choric passages of Aeschylus or the descent of Medea in the deus ex machina. I am beyond thrilled.

As for the QMII, we were sufficiently pleased to repeat the experiment: once again, we sail over and fly back. If our pocketbook (and frequent flyer miles) hold out, this may become an annual ritual. I have learned a few simple rules from our first voyage:

Order from the menu as though it's 1955: forget nouvelle anything
Work out or swim every single day (to offset said menu)
Skip some meals or just have a bit of fresh fruit and plain yoghurt
Get to the library fairly early in the morning to find a nice seat by one of the port holes
Take seasickness medicine at the first sign of distress: stoicism does not pay off in this instance
Be more open to attending seminars and talks: they might sound goofy, but often prove surprisingly good

More to come on Friday!

The Unscheduled Dismount

2009-11-10T14:31:00.001-08:00

It was bound to happen. I hadn't taken a tumble in over a year, and circumstances (or the gods) plotted my demise. Take a still fairly new horse, a sleep-deprived rider fighting a sinus infection, and a trial saddle; put them together; and voilà: the unscheduled dismount.

As tumbles go, it wasn't the worst I've had, but a sore right hip and several bruised ribs testify to the momentum with which I hit the ground. Sometimes, though, life impresses on one forcibly what should be learned in theory. I knew that Flynn, a highly-trained, former show horse, was sensitive to seat and posture; that is, I knew this in the abstract. Yesterday I learned the hard way that if you want to canter 20-meter circles, then you need to look in the direction of the circle, not the trotting poles and jumps on the other side of the arena. I looked at the jumps, and Flynn reacted with his usual quicksilver speed. Beau, by contrast, would have done a cost-benefit analysis of the situation and then decided whether it was worth his while to change direction at a leisurely, kick-along, pace. Sometimes I feel as though I've gone from a secondhand Toyota Corolla to a BMW roadster.

Ouch.

Three days later, at the behest of my husband, I dragged my sorry self to the doctor where an X-ray brought my fears to light. I've cracked the sixth rib on my right side. The doctor and radiologist were both incredulous that I wasn't in the ER immediately after the fall, howling with pain. Honestly, I'm a bit sore but hardly in agonizing discomfort. Mainly I'm pissed that I can't ride for 4 - 6 weeks, although I'm tempted to test the waters after 3 - 4 weeks. We'll see.

Beau's Harem

2009-09-13T15:37:00.001-07:00

My sixteen year-old thoroughbred is going to make a sociobiologist of me yet: what the hell is it about old males and young females?

The story is this: Sheri Thornley, the owner of Southwind Farm, agreed with me that Beau seemed sullen, if that's not too anthropomorphic an emotion to assign to a horse. Indeed, he has had a tough time of it in gelding herds as of late. At our previous farm, Beau was chased and tormented during an attack of uveitis, and, even worse, badly bloodied before we left for Paris, his back a tapestry of bites and wounds. I had to put him on a full course of antibiotics. Even at Southwind, where the gelding herd is far more benign, Beau came in from the field with bad cuts and wounds. Ostracized, he stood apart, grazing alone day after day. Looking at Beau in his stall one day, head hanging and eyes dulled, my friend Susan remarked, "that is not a happy horse," to which I readily assented.

After much discussion, Sheri and I decided to shift Beau to field board. There are three long rectangular fields at Southwind, all level ground with good run-in sheds and rich grazing. Beau's sight is diminishing, and we thought he might do better in a neatly contained space with no obstructions as his vision worsens. There is also the not inconsiderable consideration of my pocketbook, now that I am supporting two horses. Field board runs about half of stall board, making Beau's retirement more affordable.

Most importantly, we thought Beau would do better with just one or two other horses, removing him from the bullying environment of a herd. Sheri decided to put Beau with mares, much to my surprise. In the past, Beau hasn't seemed terribly keen on mares: he was, after all, a teaser stallion in his younger days, which is not an occupation inclined to make a horse of the male persuasion cozy up to females. Sheri, though, is a consummate horsewoman, and I trust her judgment. So mares it was.

I am told that within fifteen minutes, Beau and the three-year-old filly, Slipper, were touching noses. When I arrived the next day, the two were inseparable, grazing side by side and standing contentedly together in the run-in shed to avoid the mid-day sun. I pulled Beau from the field for grooming; as we walked away, he threw back his head and started screaming for his lady love. He continued protesting all the way into the barn. Finally he quiet down, but once we headed back out to the field, the screaming (highly uncharacteristic, mind you) resumed. To say that I am gob-smacked, to use my husband's British expression, is an understatement. Beau has, quite literally, gone overnight from a tired-looking, withdrawn gelding to a strutting Lothario--and I'm not kidding. It's even worse now that a second mare, Skyy, has joined their little group. Initially he bullied Skyy, attempting to keep her away from Slipper. Now both mares follow him around dutifully. It's like some kind of equine parody of Big Love, with Beau as the satisfied Utah polygamist.

Other boarders have sent me humorous e-mails, remarking that Beau seems ten years younger, which is absolutely true. As one woman put it, there's nothing like a cute young filly to put the swagger back in an old boy's butt.

I half expect the mares to be serving his majesty tea and biscuits when I next arrive.

In Like Flynn

2009-08-31T06:29:00.001-07:00

I am discovering the one drawback of having a nearly perfect horse: if anything goes awry during riding, it is my fault. "The horse is perfect," I am told repeatedly; "You, not so much."

Thus I soldier on, trying to live up to my new Argentine warmblood who is thought to walk on water by pretty much everyone. Yes, Flynn has a couple of unsightly scars, most likely the result of a youth spent amidst barbed-wire fencing, as is customary in South America. Barbed wire and young horses are not a good mix, as any horseman will testify, but it's cheaper than wood fencing and therefore still used in some cultures. He has a wind puff on the right hind ankle, another cosmetic blemish. Flynn can be standoffish with folks, and he can be hard to catch in a field if he doesn't like you.

These imperfections were not enough to deter me from buying a horse that still astonishes me with his training and beauty. He is a handsome chestnut, with a heart-melting face and four fancy socks. All three gaits are lovely, especially the walk and canter. As Susan puts it, "he is a forward-thinking horse," which means that Flynn likes to move out, an enormous relief after years of exhausting myself trying to get Beau to move off my leg. For the first time, I can actually focus on my technique and not having to motivate the horse.

I owe the fact of Flynn to my friend Susan, who had her eye on him from the beginning. He was at a well-known sales barn in Pennsylvania, priced to sell in this depressed economy--only he didn't. Perhaps he wasn't marketed correctly; perhaps his aloofness put off potential buyers. For whatever reason, Flynn remained while other horses left within days of arrival. His price kept dropping. When Susan and I went to this sales barn, I was actually more interested in other horses I had seen on their web site. Flynn seemed too fancy and too expensive for me, but Susan insisted.

This horse that had frozen out other customers over the past two months, turned his head to look at me intently and we locked eyes for the longest time. He sighed, and I stroked his neck, knowing I had passed some mysterious equine test. Accustomed to advanced riders, Flynn nonetheless took care of me, patiently carrying me over cross-rails and cantering in a nice collected gait.

I returned the following weekend, this time with my friend Hope in tow (in addition to faithful Susan). Hope didn't like Flynn initially--he wouldn't look at her, staring stonily ahead--and she frowned at the wind puff and scars. Once I mounted, however, her furrowed brow smoothed and a smile broke out. "You look great on him," she enthused. Again, I did flat work, in addition to an hour trail ride. Flynn nuzzled me affectionately afterward, eating treats and inhaling my human scent. Susan joked that it was like a bad commercial with two people running toward each other in a field of wildflowers, arms opened in an expectant embrace. Truth be told, it was that bad. I don't know if horses and humans are capable of love at first sight, but something like that happened between Flynn and me.

I worried about the wind puff and fretted that the pre-purchase exam would show up some insurmountable problem. Many tests later, my fears were allayed: Flynn was pronounced to be a remarkably hardy horse given his training and show-jumping experience. Especially for a rider at my level, he would give me many years of sound work and pleasure. Both the owner and the agent were eager for the sale to go through. Flynn's owner, now living and training in France, couldn't afford maintaining horses on two continents, and the sales agent had other horses coming in. Flynn's price dropped again, making him affordable. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine being able to own a fancy warmblood with years of training, but I have Susan to thank as well as the agent, who worked very hard to make the deal happen. I know that horse dealers generally have a bad rap; this woman, though, was the consummate professional.

And that, dear reader, is how I came to own a horse from Argentina, an animal who is perfectly behaved with humans but lavishly affectionate with me alone. I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Hell Point Seafood

2009-08-30T17:14:00.000-07:00

The culinary curse of Annapolis continues.

For my birthday on the 17th of July, Rod took me and some friends to Hell Point Restaurant, the new venture by Bob Kinkead. We had particular reason to look forward to this meal. First, we were thrilled at the prospect of a decent restaurant in downtown Annapolis; second, we had our wedding luncheon ten years ago at Kinkead's in Washington, D.C., a memorable meal wonderfully prepared and served by the staff.

We were quite happy with that first visit. The restaurant was perhaps one-third full, and servers hovered attentively, perhaps overly so. The food was fresh and nicely presented. I had a delicious rock fish; Rod ordered a Portuguese fish stew; our friends consumed halibut and crab cakes. The menu, while small, was interesting, and I appreciated the extensive wine list, which includes some moderately priced labels.

Hell Point took over what was originally Phillip's Seafood, a cavernous, touristy venue right near the dock. The look is a bit more contemporary--painting and a few decorative touches have spruced up the interior--but it is not an especially attractive space.

We were, however, sufficiently pleased with the food and service to return in early August with my stepdaughter when she came down to visit from NYC. Alas and alack, nearly everything we liked initially had deteriorated. It was a Friday night, and the restaurant was nearly full, but neither the kitchen nor the staff could cope with the number of diners. We pleaded repeatedly for our bottle of wine; we waited endlessly for food to arrive; and we tried in vain to flag down our waiter. I sent my tepid, unappealing food back to the kitchen, only to wait a half-hour before a new meal arrived. Megan had the seafood stew Rod had tried three weeks earlier, only this time it was woefully overcooked. Rod's pork was, in all fairness, good but hardly stellar. Our waiter apologized, but it will be a long time before I try Hell Point again.

The restaurant should take notice: they are rapidly garnering a bad reputation. My hair salon is staffed by avid foodies, and the lousy service and erratic kitchen at Hell Point was a principal topic of conversation when I last went for a haircut. It seems that not even Bob Kinkead can overcome the culinary curse of Annapolis.

Snapshots of Paris

2009-08-30T17:09:00.001-07:00

◆The small Russian band playing in the Champs-Elysée metro, a fabulous group of musicians reduced to passing a hat. We were furious with two Germans who muttered "Russian swine" as they walked by

◆The rage for chewing gum among adolescents and young adults, a trend I found startling given the social pressure against the same in "polite" American society. I never see middle-class American students chew gum--it just isn't done

◆The smokers huddled miserably outside cafes and shops, victims of the fairly recent ban against smoking. I had read of initial resistance, but everyone in Paris now appears to comply

◆The sales everywhere, evidence of "le crise," as the French call it

◆The wild enthusiasm of French audiences, who gave the Comedie Française a standing ovation and demanded successive encores from Tia Maria, the Brazilian jazz singer

◆The happiness of Parisian pooches on their daily walks, even in the stifling heat

◆The lovely presentation of food

◆The exquisite manners of French children, arguably the best-behaved youngsters in existence

◆The stylishness of older Parisian women, the inverse of what one normally sees in the U.S. Young women are largely unkempt and unfashionable, slopping around in flip-flops and shapeless dresses; women over 40, however, look terrific

◆The daily sanitation service and street cleaning

◆The herd-like mentality of tourists who dutifully visit the Louvre but ignore the many fine collections dotting Paris. Their loss was our gain: we had the smaller musées to ourselves

◆The casual nightlife everywhere in Paris. People poured into cafes to escape the heat of their apartments, but one never saw the kind of loutish drunkenness all too common now in the U.K.

◆The extraordinary efficiency of the metro

◆The politeness of the French. We have never understood the Parisian reputation for rudeness; to the contrary, we find people to be unfailingly helpful and courteous. What gives?

◆The easy (or easing) racial relations among young French people. This is very much a generational phenomenon: one rarely sees middle-aged people dating or visiting across racial lines; teenagers and twenty-somethings, though, are very relaxed, a welcome change

◆The paucity of pregnant women and/or young mothers, which explains why the French government offers so many incentives to reverse the plummeting birth rate

Paris - Day 7

2009-08-30T17:06:00.001-07:00

We spent our last full day outside the city, a wise decision given the heat and humidity. Our newfound Australian friends invited us to lunch at the Palais Royale in Versailles, a posh hotel on the edge of the famous chateau. Lunch was excellent although heavy for the weather. Afterwards we wandered over to a tea salon on the grounds, glimpsing sheep and horses in luxuriant pastures as we sauntered. It all seemed very Marie Antoinette.

A stifling train ride took us back into Paris. We showered, changed, and after a brief rest, went to the Comedie Française to see Alfred Jarry's Ubu Roi, a play credited with inaugurating absurdist drama. Even the brilliant efforts of the company could not persuade me of the script's merits. I understand its historical importance, but I still think the play is essentially stupid. Jarry originally intended it as a satire against a loathed professor, and Ubu Roi still smacks overly of adolescent rage at adults. So much potty-mouthed dialogue! And all the references to excrement! It made me long for Terence Rattigan . . .

That the Comedie Française managed to keep us interested for nearly two hours despite these shortcomings, not to mention the slang-heavy script, is the highest tribute. I've seen black-and-white video from the 60s and 70s of the company performing Molière and Racine, back when they were still doing "museum acting," a superannuated style more suited to the 19th than the 20th century. I read that the company had updated their repertory and approach; if last night was typical, then they have succeeded brilliantly. We adored everything about the production (with the exception of the script): the use of space; the vocal training and enunciation; the clever blocking; and the intelligent staging. The actor who played Ubu Roi, looked like Oliver Hardy from "Laurel and Hardy" fame, even sporting a rotund belly and little mustache. He maneuvered his bulk with the balletic grace one associates with the great actors of the silent film era. The smashing actress who played his evil consort reminded me of a French Marlene Dietrich. The supporting cast were excellent too. I can't wait to go back and see a classical production, perhaps a tragedy by Racine.

As I write, we are trapped in an aluminum capsule, hurtling 550 miles per hour toward Washington, D.C. Today has brought back the horrors of air travel in fulsome detail. While the French do an excellent job of managing their metro and rail systems, they need to do some serious work on their airports. Let me put it this way: Charles de Gaulle makes Washington Dulles look like a model of efficiency--no mean feat. Only one station was open for passport control despite the thousands of travelers departing on a Friday, normally the busiest day for travel. We encountered the same at security, which was also woefully understaffed.

United Airlines added to our woes. We left late; our seats (in business class, mind you) are filthy; our "entertainment centers" are broken; and a stewardess just dumped red wine all over a much-loved white jacket, perhaps ruining it. To say that I'm not happy with United Airlines is an understatement.

Coming on the heels of our recent voyage on the QMII has made this miserable trip, well, all the more miserable since we now know there is a much better way to travel if one has the time. Indeed, I've been puzzling over the economics of the respective voyages. The airlines are supposedly broke, but virtually every seat in this Boeing 777 is filled. United charges passengers in economy class for luggage, in addition to ever-higher prices for seats. In business we get a bit more leg room and a marginally nicer lunch, but these paltry amenities hardly justify the exorbitant rates. On Cunard, we were fed and watered for six days in luxurious surroundings. We had access to pools, a splendid gym, a beautiful library, and countless lounges. We could listen to jazz in the evenings or go dancing. And we could haul along as much luggage as we wanted--for no fee. And yet Cunard is profitable, even though an Atlantic crossing costs far less than a business-class seat. I don't get it.

Paris - Day 6

2009-07-01T12:19:00.001-07:00

We awakened to yet another sultry day in Paris; this time, however, we made certain to leave the hotel while it was still somewhat cool. Today was devoted to the Marais, a district that spans the 3rd and 4th arrondissements. For me, it was love at first sight (I'm not too sure about Rod). I read that the area fell into decline after WWII; in the last fifteen years, though, it has made an extraordinary comeback. The Jewish community is once again thriving; chic shops and restaurants are everywhere; a hip gay scene can be found in the southern portion of the district, while the Chinese have claimed another corner. It has all the energy of the Bastille but without the graffiti and trash. I also think it's much more interesting architecturally.

First we went to the Musée Carnivalet, a terrific institution devoted to the history of Paris from the Middle Ages through the early twentieth century. For someone like myself who is enamored of material history it was bliss. Some of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century paintings are very good, but one doesn't attend this museum for aesthetic quality; rather, the canvases and objects provide an overview of how Paris changed over time. We loved the models of bridges; the shop signs (some dating back to the eighteenth century); the strange bric-a-brac from the French Revolution; even the recreation of Proust's study. Many interiors, including some frescoes, were donated to the museum from old homes that were razed when Baron Haussman set about systematically destroying medieval Paris to make way for his sweeping boulevards and monumental edifices. We were enchanted as we flowed from one domestic interior to another, taking in beautiful furniture and objects. Several well-known paintings and busts of actors and mimes are included in the collection, and I was pleased to see the museum pays particular attention to performers and artists.

We were so entranced by the collection that it was nearly 2.30 when we realized we hadn't eaten since early this morning. Using our intrepid Time Out guide, we hiked over to Breizh Café, a Breton-style crêperie that turned out to be very popular with the fashionistas in the neighborhood. It was just the thing for a hot day: we both ordered galettes, essentially chewy buckwheat crepes topped with various fixings. Mine was a mixture of salad, smoked salmon, and a poached egg. It sounds strange but was actually quite delicious. Rod's galette featured salad and melted roquefort. During lunch, I eavesdropped on the table of hip designers and fashion buyers next to us, an international mix of Europeans and Chinese. I was especially amused by the young Asian women moaning about the "deplorable" state of fashion in Hong Kong.

All that talk of clothing tempted me to hit some of the excellent sales in the Marais. In other parts of Paris, the shops haven't invited; here one sees interesting boutiques featuring striking but affordable clothing. The sales are very good--50% reductions on average--with a further reduction of 17% for non-E.U. citizens such as myself. The stifling heat, however, made the thought of trying on clothing simply unbearable.

I also decided that I wanted pots and pans more than clothing, which says volumes about me. So after lunch, we took the metro to Les Halles to visit E. Dehillerin, the high temple of fancy cookware. It was everything I imagined and more: never have I seen copper pans or stock pots of that quality. Easily I could have bankrupt myself; as it is, I splurged on several pieces, which are being shipped back to the States tomorrow. The staff were unfailingly courteous and helpful. I can see this will be a recurrent vice on future trips to Paris. My only consolation is that the pieces are about half of what one pays in the U.S.

We're back at our hotel, resting and reading. We've fallen into the pattern of having a late lunch, followed by light snacks (fruit, cheese) in the evening. Again, the heat has rendered the prospect of a substantial dinner fairly revolting. And after the week of culinary excess on the QMII, neither one of us wants complicated three-course dinners. At least from the perspective of food, this trip has turned into "Paris light."

Paris - Day 5

2009-06-30T11:10:00.001-07:00

It's been another woefully hot day here; at least we have the consolation of low humidity. On our way to the metro, we saw a group of roughly fifty chefs holding a demonstration, evidently protesting the impending reduction of the VAT on restaurants. Mystified, we asked various people to explain the protest, but no one understood the reason behind it. We thought the chefs would appreciate the extra business--the economic crisis has felled many restaurants here--but they seemed quite pissed off, perhaps at the prospect of extra work.

We spent the day on the Ile de la Citè, the wonderful area around Notre Dame. We saw the cathedral two years ago; this time we wanted to visit Sainte-Chapelle and other sights. The chapel deserves its reputation. Light and airy, it is comprised almost entirely of stained glass windows that take onlookers through the Old and New Testaments. Slender Gothic columns carry the eye upward and across so that one naturally "reads" over a thousand key moments from the Bible. We were enthralled.

Afterwards we went to La Conciergerie, the fortress dating back to the Capetian kings. Despite its historical importance, the edifice was largely devoid of tourists. We found it fascinating, though. We worked our way around the central hall (the Salle des Gardes) and then to the areas associated with the French Revolution. We saw grim cells for the payeux, the poor sods who couldn't pay for a bed or desk, and the slightly nicer (although still depressing) accommodations for the pistoliers. I was unexpectedly moved by the sight of Marie Antoinette's cell. I'm no lover of monarchy, but recent revisionist histories paint a portrait of a well-meaning if somewhat gormless young woman manipulated by court factions. I can't imagine being 28 years old and spending the last two months of your life in a cell alone, awaiting word of your fate as well as that of your family.

Most troubling of all was the room devoted to victims of the French Revolution; a wall listed names and occupations. Only a quarter were nobility. Most, surprisingly, were commoners, including laundresses, bakers, tailors, even several actors. Some might have worked at the palace, but I suspect others were just unlucky, perhaps turned in by vengeful neighbors or avaricious relatives. As with most violent revolutions, the deaths seemed largely senseless and unspeakably cruel.

We wandered the narrow streets for a while before stumbling upon a real find, La Réserve de Quasimodo, a cave à vins and tiny restaurant. It's the oldest bistrot on the Ile, dating back to the thirteenth century. There's a wonderful story associated with the site: in 1223 the roof fell in, trapping a family of doves that had taken up residence. The male escaped but faithfully fed his mate and chicks until they could be freed, thus inspiring la légende de la Colombe. Although it was late--nearly 3.00 p.m.--the chef gladly fed us an excellent lunch. I had a huge salad with thin slices of duck breast and chevre chaud on toast; Rod had the prix fixe lunch, which included a substantial salad (again, with hot goat cheese) and a superb salmon and spinach quiche. Our delightful Polish waitress chatted with us at length. Against our better judgment, we bought several bottles of wine to haul back to the U.S., our seeming fate in life.

We finished our afternoon with another walk around the Ile, stopping at the famed Berthillon shop for ice cream. Alas, it was closed (the same thing happened two years ago), but we found another storefront that purported to sell the same ice cream. We each had a small boule. I thought the ice cream was very good but not deserving of the hype; indeed, I had better in Provence.

We learned today that one can still eat well and reasonably in Paris--but it takes some effort. We were astonished, for instance, at the vast difference in price between today's lunch and yesterday's. Our waitress said that overall the Ile is priced well compared to other parts of the city. I noticed that bistros and brasseries in the Bastille were also competitive, but this little resto gave particular value: for 16 euros (around $21), one could have an entrée, plat, and a third of a bottle of wine-and all very good indeed. Yesterday, near the Louvre, 26 euros ($35) paid for a small omelette, some fries, and a paltry glass of wine. The moral is to shop around.

Tomorrow and Thursday we plan to take day trips, partly to escape the heat of Paris and partly to do something different.

Paris - Day 4

2009-06-29T12:04:00.000-07:00

Our meal last night at Le Souk was excellent--every bit as good as promised in the Time Out guide to Paris. It was nice to have a break from traditional French cuisine. I started with a very good "caviar" of aubergine, followed by a tangine poulet that included dates. Rod began with a duck b'stilla and then had an enormous serving of a tangine agneau laced with artichoke hearts and olives. Everything was subtly spiced and piping hot. Even the wine list was good. Much to our delight, we found a rose from Orange, close to where we stayed with friends in Provence two years ago. It too was excellent. Our waiter, a charming French Algerian, was very concerned that we enjoy our food. Periodically he would come to our table, anxiously inquiring, "good?" Yes, we assured him, "la cuisine est superbe."

I liked too that the restaurant got us out of posh neighborhoods into a more ethnically diverse and youthful environment. Located in the Bastille, Le Souk hardly looks out onto a scenic setting--the restaurant is across from block housing, probably subsidized--but I liked the energy of the streets. The neighborhood is definitely grittier than the area around the Louvre or our sedate bourgeois neighborhood of the 7th. Graffiti adorns (or defaces, depending on one's view) buildings; signs warn of pickpocketing; and trash litters the streets. One can see, though, that the Bastille has become a hip urban outpost for twenty-somethings: it reminded me of the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood in Washington, D.C.

Glutted on North African food, we walked slowly to the metro, eventually disembarking near the Seine, where we spent a half-hour wandering and trying to work off some of the meal.

I couldn't face anything other than a cafe creme this morning. We braved the crowds and went to the Louvre for a couple of hours. I've decided the only way to manage the enormity of the Louvre is to tackle one gallery per visit. Last time we did Italian painting; this visit we looked at Greek and Etruscan antiquities. I have to say that the Venus de Milo is every bit as breathtaking as its reputation. So often women in Greek and Roman statuary are static and nondescript (with the exception, perhaps, of Amazons captured in bas-relief on sarcophagi). The Venus de Milo, though, moves with the sort of energy and grace customarily accorded young men: her torso twists and her left knee lifts, giving a sensation of energy. The rounded curves, the sinuous lines of the spine, and the movement of the drapery enhance her irresistable appeal.

I was also smitten by the so-called Borghese Gladiator, an extraordinary sculpture of a young warrior in as he steps forward to challenge his imagined opponent. The sense of three-dimensional space is extraordinary, as is the exaggerated musculature. I marveled too at several of the sarcophagi, in addition to several mosaics that have managed to retain their color.

By the time we finished browsing the Etruscan, Greek, and Roman collections, we were done. I had hoped to see the Egyptian collection as well, but the tour groups, loud children, and haphazard air conditioning (on a very hot day) wore us down. I was tired of people walking into me and irritated by the hordes rushing by beautiful works of art. Barely anyone stops to look, much less savor the experience. Most people go to the big-name objects, such as the Venus de Milo, pose for a snapshot, and then hurry on to the next famous work. Rod made the sarcastic remark that it's the aesthetic equivalent of vulgar tourists in game parks who ignore the extraordinary panoply of birds, insects, and flora for the "big five" (i.e. elephants, rhinos, lions, buffalo, and leopards).

I was additionally troubled to see that parents now arm children (as young as 7 or 8) with digital cameras, a seemingly universal phenomenon: kids of every nationality run amok, madly snapping photos of art works and interiors. Indeed, most youngsters either view art through a camera lens or ignore it entirely, sullenly plodding after parents determined to innoculate their children with high culture. With a few rare exceptions, this parental exercise seems like a waste of time and resources: just take the damn kids to Euro Disney and be done with it!

We left the madding (and maddening) crowds and collapsed at the Cafe Ruc across the street from the Comedie Francaise where we had a decent if woefully expensive lunch. I must admit that prices have knocked us back: costs seem to have spiraled since our last trip to France two years ago. The unfavorable exchange rate hasn't helped. We are eagerly awaiting the new VAT reduction on restaurants that takes effect on July 1st, down from a whopping 19.5% to 5%.

Refreshed, we walked across the Tuileries to L'Orangerie, which recently reopened after extensive remodeling. It was a welcome anodyne to the Louvre. We saw Monet's Les Nympheas, the amazing series of panels arranged around two salles eliptiques. We sat on benches for a long time, thoroughly enthralled. We then proceeded downstairs to the small but excellent collection of Impressionist and Modernist canvases assembled by Paul Guillaume. The museum reproduces in a couple of rooms the interior of his 1930s apartment, giving one a sense of how the paintings were originally juxtaposed against "primitive" artifacts from Africa and Oceana. The collection is superbly displayed and lit. It's small and infinitely manageable, again, a relief after the overwhelming scale of the Louvre.

By 4.30, we were exhausted. It is very hot here right now, and by most afternoons we have clocked hours and hours of walking. We returned to our hotel, showered, and then retreated to the pleasant little courtyard at our hotel. Guests often purchase wine, cheese, and bread at local stores and then sit at the tables outside, eating and drinking. We nibbled at a good Camembert and baguette while visiting with the nice Australian family we've befriended. Then to bed (and blog).

Paris - Day 3

2009-06-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

Last night we went to a jazz club on the Right Bank to hear a terrific Brazilian singer/pianist, Tania Maria. She's 70 and still swings! Maria works in a variety of styles ranging from jazz-inflected sambas to Brazilian-tinged scat singing; a very good bass guitarist and drummer accompanied her. The club, Duc des Lombards, has been around for a while. A small venue, seating no more than 50, it gives patrons a marvelous sense of intimacy. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

I was amused to see that martinis, a huge fad in the U.S., have not made similar inroads here. I ordered a vodka martini, which completely confounded the waitress. The menu listed martinis as being largely comprised of vermouth (horrible!); when I asked for a vodka martini--in decent French, mind you--I got, well, a straight shot of unadulerated Polish vodka.

After the set ended, we wandered around the Right Bank, settling ourselves in a little sidewalk cafe. Rod wanted food; I needed water; and we both wanted to watch the parade of humanity saunter by. Hauntingly, Michael Jackson's songs played everywhere, on car radios and on the street. Groups of young people spontaneously broke into song and dance, some attempting to moon walk. It was moving and strange.

We overslept woefully this morning. After a light breakfast at our hotel--good strong coffee, baguette, and confiture--we took the metro to the Père Lachaise cemetary. I expected hordes of people, but with the exception of one tour group, the cemetary was quiet for a Sunday afternoon.

I found Père Lachaise as compelling as the accounts I've read over the years. Some memorials are haunting. Both Rod and I were especially touched by the statue of a nine-year-old boy with his devoted Irish setter. Other tombs were fascinating in their grotesqueness and sheer bad taste. One faux Aztec temple caught our attention as did a 20-foot high sarcophagus decorated with every manner of gargoyle and flourish. I was dismayed to see that the French also ignore their literary and intellectual greats. Astonishingly, Pierre Augustin-Caron Beaumarchais, one of the monumental figures of the French Enlightenment, doesn't merit special notice in the map of the cemetary, nor does Jean Racine, a major figure in theatre history. We stumbled around for half-an-hour looking for Beaumarchais' grave to no avail. At least Moliere is somewhat venerated. Visitors gravitated, perhaps predictably, to pop icons such as Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf. Apparently no one shares my predilection for Sarah Bernhardt or Pierre Bourdieu, both of whom I saluted. While the authorities have erected a fence around Morrison's monument to prevent vandalism, the same has not been done for Oscar Wilde's tomb, which is covered with graffiti and, weirdly, lipstick kisses. I'm still trying to puzzle out their semiotic significance outside of the usual connotation.

The last time I wandered around a cemetary was during my student years in London. I lived not too far from Highgate Cemetary, home to Karl Marx, and I remember giving directions almost daily to radical German students intent on paying homage to their hero. Today was strangely peaceful. The weather was warm, but a refreshing breeze blew through the cemetary. The site is huge--over 100 acres--and traversed with tree-lined cobblestone avenues that mimic the layout of Paris itself. I can see why people want this bit of real estate for their final resting place.

This afternoon we are resting up before heading out for dinner. Both Rod and I have tired of traditional European cuisine--we ate too many elaborate meals on the QMII--so we are opting for North African food tonight at a restaurant called Souk in the Bastille.

Paris - Day 2

2009-06-27T09:21:00.001-07:00

Saturday morning we hauled ourselves out of bed at a reasonable hour, had our usual quick breakfast, and then walked in the cool air over to the Tuileries. I had never explored the gardens before, and I found myself underwhelmed--I'm not quite sure what I expected. They're pretty but something of a disappointment after the grandeur of Central Park, Golden Gate Park, or even various London parks, such as Kensington or Hyde Park.

We planned originally to spend the morning at the Musée de l'Orangerie but were sidetracked by the prospect of a special exhibition on Mount Athos at the Petit Palais. I'm very glad we took the detour. This is the first time these religious artifacts have left Greece. The exhibit was a surprise in several respects. First, we marveled at the excellent condition of the objects, especially the fine vestments that gleam with undiminished lustre. Perhaps the French government restored the artifacts as part of a deal struck with the monastery; perhaps they have never seen the light of day. Whatever the reason, everything was in fabulous shape. Second, I was struck by the difference between Greek and Russian icons. I have seen numerous icons on my trips to Russia with Rod, but they have neither the color nor complexity of these extraordinary works. The Greek monks seemingly possess an artistry and technique that renders their Eastern European counterparts primitive by comparison. And, finally, I was taken by the aerial photographs of Mount Athos and the sheer expanse of the monasteries, which are larger and more complex than I expected. Of course, being a woman, I will never see them.

Around 2.00 we walked over to Angelina's, a tea room and restaurant recommended to us last night by Australians here at our hotel. I ordered a salad with smoked salmon and vegetables. After all the elaborate food on the QMII, I can't bare to look at anything cooked right now. Rod had a superb cod served over chopped squash. We did on the advice of our acquaintances order dessert, which was unbelievably wonderful--the sort of pastry one simply does not get in the U.S. unless you're lucky enough to find a Michel Richard or a Boucheron. Rod had a flaky, light pastry filled with excellent custard; I ordered a confection that was essentially coffee-flavored brioche filled with coffee custard and topped with a thin crunchy layer of caramel. Neither one was sweet and both were divine. We fully intend to return.

Back in the 7th, we stopped at the Musée National Rodin, which is literally on the way to our hotel. Rodin lived in this building, what the French call a hôtel particulier, during the last years of his life (I believe the poet Rilke lived there too for a while). The building is shabby and rather sad. Rooms are not climate controlled and light beats down on paintings, several already ruined. The collection inside is mixed: a lot of plaster heads and figures by Rodin, basically rough versions of works he would eventually cast in bronze. I must admit to preferring many of the heads by his mistress, Camille Claudel, which are finer and more expressive. Outside in the lovely garden, though, is where one sees the magnificent bronzes and sculptures for which Rodin is known: the Thinker (overrated to my mind); the Gates of Hell (astonishing); and the Burghers of Calais (moving). I like Rodin best when he translates narrative to three-dimensional form: his interpretations of Dante are unsurpassed. I like less the endless nudes melting into stone (or emerging from stone, depending on your perspective), and I tired quickly of the infinite variations on The Kiss. While it's pleasant to gaze upon youthful flesh captured in ardent embrace, one can see it only so many times.

Now we are back at our hotel, resting and relaxing. Tonight we're heading out to a jazz club to hear a French singer who supposedly excels at a variety of genres.

Paris - Day 1

2009-06-27T08:21:00.001-07:00

We slept far too late this morning: I think we were still exhausted from all those late nights on the QMII (too much partying for these old fogies!). We hurriedly threw on clothes and then ambled down the street to our excellent local bakery. Fortified by good strong coffee and buttery rolls, we took a short walk to the Musée de l'Armée and the Tombeau de Napolean, both here in our neighborhood of the 7th arondissement. The collection of arms in the musée was extraordinary, unlike anything I have ever seen under one roof. One goes through room after room piled high with armor, early pistols, such as flint locks, and various implements for skewing victims, some truly terrifying in appearance. We saw early examples of medieval chain mail along with formal jousting armor for horse and rider. By the time we had exhausted the pre-Napoleonic period, we burnt out on implements of destruction.

The sheer breadth of the collection cannot fail to impress. The early weapons derive mainly from the royal collection of Louis XIV; somehow government ministers managed to save 25% from destruction in the French Revolution. The rest of the collection has been added to gradually. Of course, Napoleon did his bit. There's nothing like pillaging to build up one's museums.

By 1.30 we had seen enough evidence of humanity's penchant for destruction. Most disturbing is the artistry of these weapons: their purpose is to kill, but they also function as aesthetic objects. The craftsmanship is oftentimes breathtaking: one almost forgets the diabolical end of an exquisite broad sword decorated with filagree or encrusted with gemstones. Does aestheticizing weapons make them less threatening? Create categorical confusion? Encourage a warrior to imagine himself participating in a higher form of activity, the proverbial "art of war"? I left depressed.

We boarded the metro for the 8th arondissement, alighted near the Boulevard Haussmann and realized we were hungry. We tried a local bistro and had a respectable but not great lunch. It was warm and a bit humid today so neither one of us felt like cooked food. We opted for salades grandes, which were certainly grand in size if not in taste.

The real treat of the day was our trip to the Musée Jacquemart-André, a lovely collection acquired over many years by the nineteenth-century heir to a wealthy banking family, Edouard André. His wife continued building the collection after his death, an impressive array of Rembrandts, Botticellis, and Mantegnas. Frescoes by Tiepolo grace the ceilings, as well as the wall above the stunning curved staircase. I especially liked the portrait of the Comtesse Skavronskaia by Vigée Le Brun, in addition to the achingly beautiful painting of the young Mathilde de Canisy by Nattier.

The museum reminded me a bit of the Frick in New York; indeed, one can see how the great New York families modeled their upper East side mansions on these magnificent nineteenth-century edifices in the elegant 8th arondissement. Best of all, the museum is quite manageable: one can spend a leisurely two hours and have the sense of an individual collection built over a lifetime, hardly the sensation afforded by the Louvre or the Met. As we left, we caught a glimpse of the lovely tea room on the premises and kicked ourselves for not dining there instead of our indifferent bistro. We heard the lunches and pastries are superb; if we're back in that neighborhood, we might pop in before the end of the week.

Tired, we returned to our hotel, eventually joining a very nice Australian mother and her teenage daughter in the patio for drinks and conversation, a pleasant ending to an equally pleasant day.

Journey to Paris

2009-06-25T11:53:00.001-07:00

Thursday we awakened early, ate a substantial breakfast--our final meal on the QMII--and then disembarked early in Southampton, England. As always, Cunard did a brilliant job of organization. We left our luggage in the corridor last night; this morning everything was sorted and waiting for us in the dockside terminal. Even our departure from the ocean liner was orderly. After years of ghastly flights, our Atlantic crossing has been something of a revelation.

We made our way via train to London, arriving mid-day at Waterloo Station. A taxi took us to St. Pancras where we had a brief layover before boarding the high-speed train for Paris. This is our first trip on the Eurostar, an impressive mode of travel. The new modern wing in St. Pancras is clean and airy; check-in and boarding are effortless. On board, one finds comfortable seats, nice tables, and outlets for laptop computers (no WiFi, alas). We traveled "leisure select," essentially business class, which meant that we were fussed over from the moment we settled into our seats. I knew that Eurostar provided some sort of lunch, but I expected no more than a little sandwich. To my shock, we were given champagne and a full lunch (pollock, salad, vegetables) that was very good indeed. This being service to France, we also had a choice of wine with lunch as well as an excellent panna cotta for dessert, all included in the price of a ticket. We have taken the Acela between Washington, D.C. and NYC--a longer journey than this--and one pays for a bottle of water, never mind a dry, unappetizing sandwich. It's more expensive than the Eurostar and far less efficient. There's much to be said for a European sensibility that expects creature comforts, even in economy class.

The actual journey under the "chunnel" is quick, perhaps all of fifteen minutes. Once in France, you can gaze out the window upon lovely farms and small towns. I smiled at the French cows grazing contently in lush pasture (no industrialized farming here), some so fat that they stretched out on their sides, semi-comatose from the abundance of grass.

What is wrong with our politicians that we refuse to invest in transportation? Why shouldn't high-speed trains traverse the U.S. or ocean vessels travel the coasts? And why can't these forms of transportation include some basic amenities? Idiot Republicans scream about socialism whenever any program that benefits the public good is discussed: have any of them actually experienced firsthand the civilizing effects of European travel? Yes, it is subsidized by taxpayers, but frankly I would much rather dedicate my tax dollars to excellent public transportation, education, and health care than the various ill-advised invasions and wars since the 1970s. Just think of how that money could have improved infrastructure.

Cunard Adventure, Part VI

2009-06-24T08:21:00.001-07:00

On this, our final full day, I will conclude with several observations about:

*The "gentlemen dancers" who steer unescorted women around the dance floor (and, yes, such a convention still exists). These six gents, somewhere between their late fifties and early seventies, wear tuxedos, have impeccable manners, and evince the old-fashioned courtliness of another time. They are unfailingly patient, whether squiring an ancient lady or showing an awkward girl some basic steps. I find them charming and touching.

*The international flavor of the staff. Some 42 nationalities are represented; as I mentioned previously, Russians and South Africans appear to predominate. For the most part, they are beautifully trained and quite pleasant.

*The band singer Michel who accompanied the small orchestra and jazz combo. He looks like a young and perhaps more compact Kevin Spacey and sounds eerily like Chet Baker. He has a meltingly sweet voice and impeccable phrasing. Given the penchant for electronic music and hip-hop, I don't foresee much of a future for a honey-mouthed singer crooning old standards--outside of a cruise liner such as this.

*The unpredictable nature of dining companions. We didn't realize that you can request special seating arrangements when booking the voyage. Cunard seated us at a table for six for lunch and dinner. Our dining companions were pleasant enough but boring as mud. Making conversation was difficult if not impossible. By the third day, we pleaded with the maitre'd to secret us away to a corner of the restaurant, which he was kind enough to do.

*The absolute luxury of room service and dining in. Now I understand entirely why moneyed characters in 1930s movies bounce around merrily: they have servants. Breakfast arrives magically to our suite, beautifully hot and handsomely presented. Our steward makes certain everything is tidied up whenever we leave. We always return to a clean room, replenished fruit bowl, and fluffed pillows. Most terrifying is how quickly one adapts to this luxury.

*The pleasure of seeing people dressed up. Like most Americans, I inhabit social spaces where casual clothing is customary. The notion of "dressing for dinner" went out decades ago. On Cunard, though, everyone dresses, even in the lower class of service. I came to enjoy very much seeing men in dark suits and evening dress and women in cocktail dresses and formal gowns. Last night, for instance, I saw a striking woman in her seventies wearing a gorgeous cowled organza blouse over a long black skirt that fell into sinuous folds of material. Her white hair was beautifully coiffed, and she accessorized her stunning outfit with striking, bold jewelry. I hope I look half as good at her age.

*Our wonderful South African dancing instructors, Mel and Alain. Both hail from Durbin, where they ran a studio and performed. Outgoing and straightforward in the typical manner of South Africans, they're living a dream, as Mel put it, sailing around the world and doing what they love. Like several staff we chatted with, they feel extraordinarily lucky to be employed by Cunard. Staff enjoy full room and board in addition to salary and benefits. Some use their earnings to help family back home; others save toward purchasing a house (like Mel and Alain) or sending children to prep school.

*The seeming infinity of the ocean. Although I grew up on the Pacific and frequently went deep sea fishing, I have never spent several uninterrupted days at sea. We have seen other vessels only twice in six days. Mainly one looks out upon a blue-grey sea that goes forever.

*The dog kennel on the 12th deck. Unbelievably, you can arrange to have your beloved dog or cat do an Atlantic crossing too. We visited the facilities and were impressed by the care. Only 10 animals are permitted per voyage, and they get 2-hour blocks of play time throughout the day and early evening. There's an indoor playroom for bad weather and an outdoor run as well. When we stopped by, several owners were tossing balls for their dogs or cuddling them. Everyone looked pretty happy.

Would I do this again? I'm not sure about a conventional cruise, where one skips from island to island or scampers from one tourist site to another, disembarking for a few hours and then clambering back on board. Generally I like going somewhere and staying put for several days in order to walk and explore. As a mode of transportation, however, a cruise liner can't be beat. We will arrive tomorrow, refreshed and relaxed, in Southampton: no jet lag, no exhaustion, and, best of all, no airports and their attendant insanity. We've met several folks on board for whom this too is a maiden voyage; like us, they're exploring the option of sailing to Europe annually rather than flying. If one can forgo the upper class of service, the cost is surprisingly reasonable given what airlines now charge. For half the price of a business-class seat, you can cruise the Atlantic for six days, enjoying good meals, fine surroundings, and fun entertainment. We're certainly thinking about it for the future.

Cunard Adventure, Part V

2009-06-23T07:29:00.003-07:00

I have figured out how to dine very well on the QMII: pretend that it's 1950 and order accordingly. Last night at dinner I succumbed to traditional fare to very happy results. I ordered prime rib (which I have not eaten in years), which was absolutely superb. It was accompanied, of course, by the requisite baked potato and horseradish. Initially I refused dessert given previous disappointments, but the waiter talked me into peach flambe.

Now who on earth serves peach flambe or baked Alaska anymore? Well, they do on the QMII--and it's fantastic. The French server who prepared the dessert table side described the ingredients as she went along: fresh peaches, fresh raspberry puree, a bit of simple syrup, and peach liqueur, accompanied by a dollop of homemade vanilla ice cream. She pointed out that "no one in Paris makes these kinds of desserts any longer," adding dismissively (with a Gallic wave of the hand), "it's all that nouvelle nonsense now." It's clear that her culinary sympathies inclined toward Escoffier, not Michel Richard.

Last night was clearly a Mad Men moment: me in a navy sheath and pearls; Rod in a smart dark suit; and both of us eating prodigious quantities of red meat washed down with red wine (I did at least forgo the pre-dinner martini). Forget healthy eating; ignore post-1980s nouvelle cuisine. Basically, any dish you would have seen in a 1950s or 60s cookbook will be superbly done on the QMII. More contemporary dishes? Not so much.

After dinner we went to the ballroom and danced to a live orchestra, happily fox-trotting, waltzing, and cha-chaing until 1.00 a.m. We went to bed blissfully content, and I had some insight into why all those characters on Mad Men seem to be having so much fun. All I needed was a cigarette holder and undulating trails of smoke.

Cunard Adventure, Part IV

2009-06-23T07:29:00.001-07:00

Blessedly calm seas have prevailed now for over 24 hours. We could use some sun, but I'll take the temperate weather. I realize now why the Atlantic has a reputation for being such a grey ocean. On overcast days, the horizon blurs into an indistinguishable mass as though a giant finger has smudged the line separating sky and sea.

This morning I saw the resident osteopath at the Canyon Ranch Spa, who was a revelation after the fellow I had visited a couple of times in Annapolis (and to whom I will not return). Using a combination of electrical stimulation, acupuncture, and good old-fashioned manipulation, he rotated my sticky sacroiliac joint back into functioning mode. I may very well return for a second visit just before we disembark. I only wish I could find someone half as good back in Annapolis.

We whiled away the rest of the afternoon on a leisurely lunch and walks around the deck. I am told that three laps = 1 mile. Keen joggers run in mad circles, determined to make their daily quota. Most folks simply stroll, an activity much more suited to the stately pace of life aboard the QMII. As I write, I am happily settled in the library, my favorite spot aboard the liner.

Food continues to be very good although not quite as excellent as I expected. The kitchen seems to excel at old-fashioned English favorites: puddings, cream soups, breaded fish, and scones. Indeed, the soups are just wonderful. Last night I had a mushroom soup for a starter that far surpassed the entree of sea bass. Gladly I would have made a meal out of the soup alone, with nice crusty bread on the side. Desserts at dinner have been a disappointment. Last night I tried an indifferent lime panna cotta; by contrast, Rod's rice pudding was very tasty. I think the trick is to order the occasional custard or pudding--or simply hold out for the superlative afternoon tea.

Fortunately, one can also dine healthily. Fresh fruit and salads abound, and the restaurants feature Canyon Ranch sanctioned items on every menu. One of the cafeterias is kept open 24/7 to accommodate insomniacs or the perpetually hungry; again, fresh fruit, cheese, and salads are offered alongside less healthy fare, even at 3.00 a.m. If one were so inclined, you could spend the entire voyage eating, with only an hour or two between meals. Lunch morphs into afternoon tea which then melts into dinner, followed by a late-snack snack (or two). Most people, though, seem pretty good about pacing themselves. From conversations I gather that many people eat a substantial lunch or dinner, preferring to graze lightly at other meals.

In a few minutes we're off to another dance lesson with our South African instructors. Then I will go to the gym for some stretching and a session in the hydro-therapy pool. Tonight we will dance again but not for too long. Poor Rod's neck makes it difficult for him to "hold a frame" for more than 45 minutes. And we'd like to get to bed before 2.00 a.m. for a change.

Cunard Adventure, Part III

2009-06-22T09:07:00.001-07:00

Saturday was not a good night: winds picked up to gale force, clocking 60 knots over the deck while waves rose to 18 feet. The much vaunted stabilizers on the QMII could only do so much to allay the effect. Rod is seemingly impervious to sea sickness, no matter how rough the seas. I suppose his stint in the South African Royal Navy, navigating the rough waters off the Cape, steeled him for any future turbulence. We learned from our steward that last night was sufficiently rough to fell staff as well, who lined up to receive the magic injection. Fortunately for me, the tablets were enough.

Stomach settled and balance restored, I've decided this is a most civilized way to cross the Atlantic. One's body clock adjusts gradually to the changing time zones, as we move ahead one hour each day. Cunard delivers each evening a schedule of the following day's activities, which passengers are free to ignore or join as they wish. If one were so inclined, you could run around from 8.00 a.m. until midnight, participating in dance classes, wine tastings, bingo, table tennis, and watercolor seminars. Lectures abound. A very good music historian has done a series of talks on great American composers such as Irving Berlin and Cole Porter, while a maritime historian gave a splendid lecture on the great ocean liners of the pre-War era.

We've selected gingerly, preferring to pace ourselves. The rough conditions last night (and the resultant sleeplessness) made for a late morning. We had some breakfast, wandered a bit, and then attended a samba dance class conducted by a lovely young South African couple. Some 42 nationalities are represented among the Cunard staff, although South Africans and Russians seem to predominate, interestingly enough.

We indulged in afternoon tea, which is lovely. White gloved waiters circulate with silver trays laden with traditional tea fare: finger sandwiches, petit fours, little tarts, and absolutely the best scones I've ever eaten. Passengers nibble to the sounds of a very good string quartet. It is eminently enjoyable.

Tonight we dine at the private restaurant reserved for our passenger class; then we will dance to ballroom and Latin music until mid-evening, followed by a late evening drink in the "Chart Room," where we will listen to jazz before retiring for the evening. We are clearly falling into the pleasures of shipboard life.

Cunard Adventure, Part II

2009-06-20T17:31:00.001-07:00

Today has been a mixture of delicious luxury and downright misery. We had a "couples massage" at the Canyon Ranch Spa aboard the QMII, which was unbelievably fabulous. Rod's masseur paid particular attention to his damaged neck; mine gently worked the lower lumbar region. Canyon Ranch is known for exquisite pampering, and it certainly lived up to its fame. The entire spa is luxurious, with hydro-therapy and relaxation areas. I could happily spend the rest of the cruise in the spa, albeit to ruinous financial results.

Our other bit of luxury involved in-suite dining, which the QMII offers as part of the general service. I take an almost childish delight in room service, so awakening to a tray laden with fresh fruit, good yoghurt, and rolls was pleasure in the extreme. I may very well order in breakfast for the remainder of the cruise.

Now the grim bit.

I awakened this morning feeling a bit queasy. Rod, by contrast, was hale and hearty. Breakfast did not settle my stomach, and by 9.00 a.m. I succumbed and took a Dramamine. Rarely, if ever, do I experience sea sickness, and by the afternoon I understood entirely its fearsome reputation. The seas worsened, the winds picked up, and the rolling increased, as did my misery. By late afternoon I was one of numerous passengers in queue at the medical center, begging for relief. The ship offers an injection that supposedly lasts five days, but the medical officer wanted to hold it back as a last resort. I was offered instead a tablet not available in the U.S. but one which worked like a bomb.

After two hours of sleep, I awakened feeling ship-shape again, even though the squall persisted. We thought about attending the black tie dinner tonight but decided to dine in (again!), giving ourselves a quiet, uncomplicated schedule. Room service, incidentally, is excellent, and we were pleased by the quality of the food, which arrived hot and freshly prepared. Mind you, this was no small accomplishment given that half the passengers on board decided on the same: evidently sea sickness had felled dozens as well as myself.

As I write, the waters are calming and the winds dying. Hopefully we will have smooth seas tomorrow.

Cunard Adventure: Part I

2009-06-20T17:30:00.005-07:00

Through our ten-year marriage (celebrated yesterday, by the way), Rod and I have sniffed dismissively at the prospect of a cruise. None of it appealed: the fixed itinerary, the canned entertainment, the excessive quantities of food, and, worst of all, the thought of being mewed up with all those people. So it was with some shock that I learned Rod had booked us on an Atlantic crossing on the Queen Mary II, the flagship of the Cunard line.

I have now been on board for roughly eighteen hours, not enough time to form definitive opinions but certainly a sufficient span from which to jot down initial impressions.

The QMII earns its reputation for luxury. Our "Princess" suite features a comfortable queen-sized bed, walk-in closet, sofa and sitting chair, and various other amenities such as a little fridge and stemware. We have a nicely apportioned balcony with two deck chairs. Weather permitting, we can sit outside and gaze at the Atlantic.

Public areas are also quite grand, with sweeping staircases and plush carpeting. Everything is immaculate and staff materialize out of thin air with the quiet, helpful advice one expects from Cunard's famed "white glove" service. My favorite area, perhaps predictably, is the handsome, wood paneled library, which houses over 8,000 volumes and contains lovely desks and seating areas. Afternoons will me find comfortably settled in one of the overstuffed chairs, working on my book or blogging about the QMII.

Many of the other public spaces, while grand, are not to my taste. I suppose I expected something out of Noel Coward--the sort of art deco or high modernist furnishings that The Shakespeare Theatre Company recreated so lovingly in their current production of Design for Living. Instead Cunard has gone for a style I can only describe as "Vegas with taste," which means that it isn't very tasteful at all. Beiges, pale woods, and muted golds predominate, but the carpeting is faux leopard while trim is gilt. Never in my life have I seen such a surfeit of bad art. I'm not sure what the designers were thinking.

Food so far is good but not superlative. We dined last night at the Princess Grill, and I had a very respectable haddock, preceded by a chilled asparagus soup. Both were fine. Rod started with an excellent pumpkin soup, followed by a very good crab cake. Dessert, however, was a disappointment. The grill made us a special little cake for our anniversary, which we shared with other guests at our table. A sponge cake with whip cream and strawberries, it was not to my liking.

As we went to bed, winds increased and the seas roughened, not a good foreboding for tomorrow.

The Horrors of Horse Hunting, Part I

2009-06-20T17:30:00.003-07:00

For good reason, horse themed magazines are filled with articles regaling readers with hilarious tales of horse hunting. The phrase "horse trader" well earns its pejorative connotation. In the right mood (and fueled by a couple of beers), I too can sit around with horsey pals and swap stories about crazy sellers and loco horses. My friend Susan has some of the best anecdotes I've ever heard, including one about an old guy who tried to demonstrate a horse's jumping ability but kept falling off at every cross rail. She thought he would die before he ever had a chance to sell the horse.

So it was with trepidation as well as anticipation that I embarked on the grand search. Most people have been surprisingly professional, fessing up to vices, such as cribbing, or problems with hooves and old injuries. I have run into the occasional unrealistic seller like the woman who claimed her horse was perfect except for his habit of cantering up to a jump on a cross-country course, spinning, and then running off in the opposite direction. This is not, to put it mildly, what I want in a horse.

So far, I've looked at a Belgian Cross at a local farm that seemed nice enough but too green. The connection just wasn't there. I tried a thoroughbred with a meltingly lovely face and luminous big eyes, but his trot tossed me up and down in the saddle, not a great movement for my aching lower back. I saw an adorable Haflinger pony that I would have bought in a heartbeat--he and I truly did "connect"--but he's been ridden the last three years by an adolescent boy who's taught him to run at everything. He goes from a walk to a gallop with little in between, and I didn't feel like retraining him to be a sensible mount. The pony needs another young rider who also wants to chase deer on horseback, a fitting pastime for a fifteen-year-old but not a middle-aged woman all too aware of her increasingly brittle bones.

Then there was the heartbreaker of the lot. My trainer Nina and I avoided him as long as possible for one very good reason: he was in Arkansas, and we're in Maryland. We loved the video, though, and we really liked the horse, so I did a truly crazy thing and bought us tickets to fly down to Arkansas to look at said horse. This gelding, a paint draft X, wasn't perfect, mind you. He turned out to be younger and greener than we expected, but Nina felt confident that with time and training he would make a great all-round horse. I worried about some weakness in his hind end, but we scheduled thorough vetting to disclose any potential problems.

This experience turned out to be my first truly strange horse encounter. I must admit to concern at the outset, when the seller played games with the price, dropping it by two-thirds. Who advertises a horse for three times what it is worth? One expects, especially in this economy, some wriggle room of 10-15% but not 65%. Then there was the demand for a deposit to look at him, 10% of which was non-refundable, a condition that stopped me dead in my tracks. It's like a home-owner asking for a down payment before you even see the house. I outright refused and more negotiations ensued. As soon as I bought our tickets, the seller called and claimed that she had other folks flying down. We had no way of knowing the truth of this statement, but I was sufficiently worried that I moved up our visit by three days.

The trainer in Arkansas was pleasant enough and very kind in letting me ride both days. And Arkansas proved far prettier than I expected, lush and green with lovely farms as far as the eye could see. I had a chance to hack out and see firsthand the horse's calm, sensible nature. By far, this gelding was the most comfortable horse I've ever ridden: his canter was a revelation after years os struggling with Beau's choppy, uneven gait. So I left Arkansas fully intending to buy the boy.

Then all hell broke loose. The trainer didn't seem especially interested in getting the horse to vetting in a timely fashion, and the delays concerned me, especially given the weak hind end. I've heard too many stories of drugging horses, and I know that many drugs wash out in seven days. Nonetheless I set up the vetting, and then the seller wanted a deposit--without anything in writing on her part. Two days of hassles ensued. As we got close to an agreement, I learned that she was still flying down other buyers while demanding a deposit from me. I asked that the horse be withdrawn from the market if I was going to put down part of the asking price. More hassles. The seller refused, claiming that folks were flying out that evening. When I inquired the following morning about the other buyers, she accused me ofsuspecting dark motives and professed ignorance about other prospective purchasers.

I thought about forwarding the long paper trail of e-mails to refresh my lady's memory but decided ultimately to bail. By this point, I was exhausted, fed up, and not a little worried that the seller was either wildly duplicitous or not entirely of sound mind. Either way, it didn't feel right. I called a couple of horsey friends I trust who advised me to get out--quickly--before I lost any more money.

The upshot is that I won't be hopping on planes anytime soon, swanning around the country like I'm Jackie O searching for the perfect hunt horse. But I still keep thinking about the horse that got away . . .

Horse Madness

2009-06-20T17:30:00.001-07:00

Jane Smiley's fabulous novel, Horse Heaven, is built around the love affair between horses and humans. She chronicles its many strange incarnations, from the racetrack to the retirement farm, but constant throughout is the all-consuming passion some of us have for horses. This obsession oftentimes borders on madness that leads otherwise perfectly sane women to end up with several equines when they can barely afford the cost of one.

At the moment, I am questioning my sanity in thinking about a second horse. It isn't entire whimsy, though.

Mr. Beau just turned 16, not old for a horse these days, but his eyes are beginning to fail, and this last year has been an endless ordeal of vet bills, medicines, and care. The cataract in his left eye blurs his vision, and I began noticing back in January, especially on overcast winter days, that he often spooked at objects on that side. The right eye is still pretty good, but a bad attack of uveitis in early May resulted in another trip back up to New Bolton. Future attacks of uveitis, though, will compromise vision in the right eye. In short, his sight, while diminished, is still good enough for riding, and I might even be able to manage some jumping outdoors in bright sunshine. We don't know how long his eyes will hold out. They could stabilize and be fine for several years, or he could be blind by winter. It's a crap shoot.

So after weeks of looking at finances and figuring costs, I decided to take the plunge and look for a younger, healthier horse. If Mr. Beau's health straightens out, then I will have two horses to ride, an unbelievable luxury, especially given my mount's penchant for getting into periodic scrapes (and thus getting out of work for long stretches). If he continues to decline, I will at least have one rideable horse while caring for Mr. Beau as he transitions into retirement.

Rosa Mexicano

2009-04-13T16:39:00.001-07:00

My son introduced me to Rosa Mexicano a couple of years ago, before he decamped for San Francisco and fame and fortune with Twitter. I'm pleased to say that the food and service remain very good.

Rod and I enjoyed a nice Easter brunch at Rosa Mexicano before going to a matinee of Ion at The Shakespeare Theatre Company (see subsequent posting for review). Although I don't normally associate Passover fare with Mexican restaurants, Rosa Mexicano featured several specials that qualified dietarily. Rod ordered one of these dishes, a whole roasted bass, and not for religious reasons--it just looked good! The bass was perfectly prepared, moist and juicy, with just enough seasoning to enhance but not overpower the flavor of the fish. I opted for Mexican-style scrambled eggs over ham, which was nice but certainly not as good as Rod's bass. We each had a glass of wine, a respectable Sauvignon for me and an Argentinean rose for Rod. A delicious coconut flan topped off the meal.

Our server was excellent, polite, cheery, and attentive without being officious. I would certainly return, and the convenient location--within a block of The Shakespeare Theatre Company--makes Rosa Mexicano an inviting locale for a pre-theatre meal.

Obama Bo

2009-04-13T12:27:00.001-07:00

Okay, it's official: the Obamas have a new pup, and he's a Portuguese water dog. We had a taste of our future yesterday when walking Chloe and Jack. A car slowed, head leaned out, and the driver exclaimed, "Oh, you have Obama dogs!"

So we're now the proud owners of two "Obama dogs." Never mind that our dogs preceded Bo; they will be forever known (at least for the next 4-8 years) as "Obama dogs."

Chloe actually comes by the moniker honestly. We got her from the same breeder, Martha Stern, who bred Bo, and they share bloodlines through their sire, making them distant cousins. Certainly, Bo looks eerily like Chloe, sharing the same cute baby face and white markings (Jack, by contrast, has a far more poodle-like face, with a longer nose and deeper-set eyes). If Bo also shares Chloe's sweet disposition, the Obama girls will be in for a treat.

Iron Bridge Wine Company

2009-03-09T13:24:00.000-07:00

In our ongoing bid to find edible food, we have decided to venture afield from Annapolis. As various posts from 2008 indicate, my opinion of local restaurants is low indeed, with the notable exceptions of Joss (for sushi), Jalapeno (for Latin food), and Osteria (for Northern Italian).

We went with our friends Donna and Mike to the Iron Bridge Wine Company in Columbia, Md., around a 35-minute drive. It was worth the trip. The menu is limited, which probably works to the advantage of the kitchen in terms of quality control. Rod and Mike had the 3-course special, which included duck breast and a nice selection of appetizers and desserts. Donna and I had a couple of starters. We both selected an excellent beet salad; I followed with mussels (fresh and plump), while Donna went for the jerk shrimp (again fresh and nicely spiced).

As the name of the restaurant suggests, Iron Bridge specializes more in wine than food. Donna and Mike did tasting portions of several wines, while we went for an excellent Oregon Pinot Noir. The restaurant also gives customers the option of selecting a bottle off the shelves, which they will open and pour for a $10 corking fee (a bit excessive, I thought).

I would certainly return. The food isn't especially innovative, but it's very well done and nicely presented. Service was efficient and pleasant. Pricing, given the quality, is reasonable. My only complaint has to do with the claustrophobic nature of the seating. Tables are so tightly packed that it's almost impossible to navigate a path to the loo and the noise can be off putting. Still, compared to our choices here in Annapolis, Iron Bridge Wine Company is a culinary oasis.

Next: we venture into Baltimore to begin working our way through the "50 Best" list compiled by Baltimore Magazine.

The Many Pleasures of Jack le Portie

2009-02-27T17:20:00.001-08:00

First, the blog is back. Various events conspired to keep me from the keyboard: Maggie's death, my own health issues (thankfully minor), and an overly busy schedule. I'm still waaaay too busy, but I miss blogging.

There's also the matter of having something to say, and for a while inspiration failed me--perhaps related to the struggles over my book and my grief at seeing Maggie succumb to cancer, despite my best efforts at nursing. Life is odd, though. The book finally "fell into place," and we now have a new addition to the family: Jack, a three-year old Portuguese water dog.

Jack needed a home, and we needed another dog. Jack's original owner dumped him at a grooming shop, declaring that "anyone who wants this damn dog can have him." One of the groomers, a young woman named Krystal, knew Jack to be a perfectly sweet dog, and she took him in even though she has show dogs of her own. Indeed, between Krystal and her boyfriend, they have six dogs, way too many by anyone's estimation. Nonetheless, they cared for Jack for eighteen months, teaching him nice manners and even a few tricks.

Rod first glimpsed Jack last fall. Occasionally Krystal would bring him along when she did grooming at our local doggie day care place. In January, Rod joked that we would happily take Jack if Krystal ever tired of him, and much to our surprise, she said, "let's talk." She was fond of Jack, but she also knew that he needed a different kind of home; at her place, he was just part of a large pack, which didn't suit his typically needy Portie nature. It's to Krystal's credit that she had the grace and generosity to put the dog first, something his original owner clearly didn't do.

So Jack came home with us on the 18th of January. We were immediately smitten. What is not to like about a dog that is beautiful, smart, playful, and obedient? Jack's zest for life is seemingly endless. Whether it's catching a frisbee in mid-air or playing tag, he's exuberant. Jack might also be the most affectionate dog I've ever owned. By nature, Portuguese water dogs are big, sloppy loves; even by the standards of the breed, however, Jack is infinitely doting, laying his head on your shoulder or climbing into your lap. How anyone could give up a dog this wonderful is beyond me. Best of all, Jack's presence has transformed our other dog Chloe, who lapsed into sullen despondency after Maggie's death. She's now her old self, tail upright and a little swagger in her butt.

I must admit to feeling some guilt regarding the Obama children: Jack would be the perfect dog for the first family. He's a rescue; he's three (i.e. no housebreaking); he's obedient; and he's a big kid himself. I worked hard for the Obama campaign and dutifully wrote out checks, but I draw the line at Jack. Yes, I adore Obama, but I love my new dog even more. What can I say?

Christmas in New York

2008-12-30T08:10:00.001-08:00

We spent the holidays in New York, visiting with Rod's daughter (aka my adored stepdaughter). She's going through a rough patch right now, so I think our presence was especially welcome. The city, as always, was wonderful: Central Park still shimmered from the recent snow fall, and the stores glittered with lights. New York is fabulous year-round, but at Christmas it's just sensational.

Tuesday evening we ate with Megan at a Cuban restaurant in midtown called Victor's Cafe. It's been around forever and could easily double as the set for an episode of I Love Lucy. The food was nicely seasoned, but the lackluster service resulted in food arriving lukewarm to our table, a pet peeve (see previous posts). I wouldn't return.

Afterwards we saw Roundabout's new revival of Pal Joey at Studio 54. The production is very good indeed, with a terrific combo backing the singers and slick, professional staging; indeed, the scene changes were the best I've seen in a long time, due partly to the brilliant design of the set and partly to the professionalism of the stage hands. Fluid, seamless, and, best of all, quiet, the set magically transformed from a thirties nightclub to a Fifth Avenue penthouse.

Stockard Channing is well cast as Vera Simpson, the older society dame who falls hard for Joey. She doesn't have a great voice, but her rendition of "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" is perhaps the most poignant I've ever heard. In the tradition of great Broadway chanteuses, diction and emotion more than compensated for limited range. Martha Plimpton, playing the tough chorine Gladys Bumps, nearly walks away with the show and reminds everyone why she's a perennial favorite on Broadway these days. Jenny Fellner does a nice turn as the ingenue, and she has a crystalline soprano perfect for the role.

Excellent performances by the women are not enough, though: the role of Joey makes or breaks the show. Matthew Risch, who was thrust into the lead halfway through rehearsals, taking over from Christian Hoff, is a superb song and dance man. He has a great, old-fashioned voice, slightly redolent of Frank Sinatra, and like ole' blue eyes, he knows just how to hold a note that extra half-second to create interesting phrasing. Risch's polished performance, though, doesn't get at the heart of Joey--his demons or his sexuality. This is a man, after all, who manages to seduce an upright virgin and a knowing socialite. The book also makes evident his prior involvement with Gladys, the embittered, used up chorine. At least two of these characters are women who have been around the block; clearly, they should avoid Joey, who has "trouble" emblazoned on his forehead, but they fall anyway. The actor playing Joey needs to convey the heat, the danger, and the thrill that would encourage otherwise worldly women to throw caution to the wind. Alas, Risch just doesn't have "it."

Still, this is a show I recommend if you like (as I do) classic American musicals. The book has always been considered problematic, but the revisions do a good job of smoothing out some of the rough patches that dogged previous productions. And as much as I hate to admit it, Pal Joey reminded me why Broadway shows still have that polish one rarely finds in even very good Washington theatre. The difference shows more in the staging than the acting.

We spent Christmas Eve at the Natural History Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. At the former we saw a special exhibit on the horse, which is very good indeed (and soon to close); at the latter, we saw a show on love and art in Renaissance Italy, again quite good, and another exhibit showcasing acquisitions made by the outgoing curator, which was so-so. Truly I think the Met is one of the great museums in the world, if not the greatest. I never tire of going there. As for the Natural History Museum, it made me sad to see the shabby building and woefully outdated dioramas, with moth-eaten birds and other sad examples of taxidermy. Only the dinosaur wing has been recently updated; everything else looks old and neglected. I found myself wondering if the entire concept of a natural history museum might not be outmoded in our virtual world. Certainly, much of it needs to be overhauled. Interactive screens would help, as would interactive video.

I'm afraid we crashed on Christmas Eve, exhausted from the crowds and hours of walking. We watched Woody Allen's new movie, "Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona" in our hotel room, a low-key and pleasant end to a frenetic day.

Christmas day we celebrated with Megan and our friends Donna and Mike (who had carpooled with us from Annapolis) at Remi, a glorious Northern Italian restaurant in midtown. Megan had a superb lobster risotto; I had equally fine seared tuna. We ate, visited, and drank for hours, enjoying the leisure and the company. In the late afternoon, we wandered over to the half-price ticket booth off Times Square, hoping to nab tickets to Gypsy or one of the other shows playing on Christmas day, but half of New York had the same idea. The wait was upward of 90 minutes; dejected, we hiked over to the large (24 screen) cinema complex on 42nd Street with the intent of seeing Slum Dog Millionaire, but again crowds defeated us. Unbelievably, every show was sold out until 10.00 p.m. Vanquished, we ended our Christmas sojourn in the bar at the Hotel W, where I had my first ever lychee martini, a weird but surprisingly good drink.

The Search for a Saddle

2008-12-29T13:16:00.001-08:00

Finding a saddle is one of the more frustrating aspects of owning a horse. Imagine trying to find a comfortable shoe that fits not only your own foot but also the appendage of another species--and you both get to wear the same item simultaneously.

I sold my fancy dressage saddle a few weeks ago. I hated the damn thing and felt entirely liberated when a girlfriend remarked last summer that it put me in a lousy position and didn't fit Beau especially well. It was an expensive used saddle I found for an astonishingly modest price at a tack shop in Middleburg. It never felt good from the start, but I somehow thought that discomfort was just part of the deal with a dressage saddle. That I managed to unload it for far more than I paid offset somewhat the two years of contorted riding I endured in the bloody thing.

That left me with the all-purpose Crosby, a saddle I have loved like no other. It's soft, cushiony and molds nicely to my bottom and Beau's back. The leather cleans up well. The problem is this: everyone else (by which I mean trainers) hates the saddle. Nina Holm, my new trainer (and owner of Glenwood Farm in Harwood, where I now board Beau), grumbled during our second lesson that the saddle, by trying to be a little of everything, ended up being nothing in particular. It doesn't put me in an ideal position for jumping, nor does it allow me the long leg and deep seat necessary for proper flat work. I realized then that she was the latest in a succession of trainers to complain about the Crosby.

I have stubbornly clung to the saddle like a bad drug addiction, knowing full well I should stop but unable to control my need. This time, though, I will truly go cold turkey. I thought about keeping the Crosby for trail riding, but I'm afraid I will fall off the wagon, sneaking rides on it in the arena when no one is looking.

So Friday morning I begin the great saddle search. I have four saddles to try from the Surrey; if they don't pan out, then I will cast a net farther afield, to Middleburg, to Pennsylvania, and, if necessary, to North Carolina. In the meantime, I have attached a picture of the Crosby Soft Ride, soon to be consigned to the tack shop. Sigh.

The Bittern in the Baltimore Aquarium

2008-11-28T10:43:00.001-08:00

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we went with Alex and his delightful girlfriend Kristen to the Baltimore Aquarium. I had not been there for a number of years, so I was glad for the excuse. Happily we didn't encounter too many school groups, and at points we even had exhibits to ourselves.

I was pleased that the aquarium has been so well maintained in recent years; I was also delighted to see some new exhibits, such as the recreation of Australian wetland habitats. We marveled at the birds and monkeys and oohed appropriately at the more cuddly creatures (not tarantulas, which always make me shiver).

We were especially bemused, however, at a bittern (see photo) who had positioned himself strategically along a walkway so humans could pet him. At first, we worried he might be ill; after all, wild birds rarely offer themselves up for voluntary cuddling. We also fretted that he might contract some virus from all those human hands or that some perverse soul might seize the opportunity to harm him. Rod informed a guard of our concerns which, it appears, were for naught. The story is this: Mr. Bittern, at some point in his captivity, decided that he liked the companionship of humans more than birds. He took up residence along the walkways, perching on ledges where human hands could easily reach down and smooth his feathers. Repeatedly his keepers moved him to remote locales within the aviary, only to be defeated by Mr. Bittern's stubborn refusal to dwell among his mates. Finally, the aquarium capitulated, permitting this gregarious avian to socialize with humans but ensuring his safety through carefully positioned security cameras.

I watched Mr. Bittern teach his admiring throng the proper way to pet him: between the wings, on the shoulders. He particularly liked a gentle stroking motion. Any hand that attempted to get near his face or neck was met with a steely glare and a sharp peck. "Yes, you can pet me," he seemed to say, "but only on my terms." Mr. Bittern was the topping on an already swell day.

Maggie: Resquiat in Pacem

2008-11-26T15:52:00.001-08:00

I am woefully behind in my blogs, having taken a long break from writing. In part the silence was due to design issues with my book: irritable and frustrated at the fruitless results, I just didn't have it in me to write in the evenings. Happily, those issues are now resolved, but the decline and inevitable death of our beloved Maggie also made it difficult to write.

It is almost impossible to talk about the demise of a pet without sounding self-indulgent. Undoubtedly one should be redirecting the time and money lavished on a pet to charities and worthy causes. For those of us who love animals, though, the prospect of a life without canine or feline or even equine companionship is unfathomable. Maggie brought us great joy and, admittedly, many moments of frustration. She was not the easiest dog in the world, but I suspect that she will prove the most memorable, the one I will think of when I am facing my own end.

I am attaching a picture of Maggie to this post that captures her very best qualities: fearlessness, curiosity, and joie de vivre. She loved sailing with Rod, and I recall many times watching her with admiration and affection as she stood on the bow of our sailboat, chest puffed out bravely and face into the wind. Even storms and high winds couldn't dampen her enthusiasm. Once we were attempting a very rough crossing from Knapp's Narrows back to Herrington Harbour, where we used to keep our sailboat. The skies opened and water pelted down, while waves washed over the bow. Maggie, cold and damp, stayed close to my feet in the cockpit but never once complained or showed fear. She was that kind of dog.

It's been three weeks, but we continue to miss Maggie horribly. Sometimes I think I glimpse her shape when I look up suddenly from my laptop or a book--only to be heartbroken when I remember she is indeed gone. Eventually we will get another dog, but now we are mourning, the very least we can do to honor this creature who gave us so much and who loved Rod with the sort of devotion we humans can rarely muster.

Wishful Drinking

2008-11-23T20:47:00.001-08:00

It was with some trepidation that I went back in September to see Carrie Fisher in Wishful Drinking, her one-woman show. I'm not much for memoirs, especially those of the "Mommy Dearest" or "kiss and tell" mode. Fisher, though, acquitted herself well for the most part. She knows how to play to an audience, and she uses irony, self-deprecation, and caustic one-liners to prevent the material from descending into maudlin self-pity. Some sections are very funny indeed, such as her attempt to reconstruct a "Hollywood Family Tree" that rivals the Houses of York and Lancaster. The stories about George Lucas and the filming of Star Wars were true crowd pleasers. I liked too her humorous and surprisingly generous assessment of her famous parents, Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher, even though their parenting skills were clearly paltry at best.

I was less entertained by the long, long account of shock therapy treatment. Fisher has battled addiction, depression, and various demons since adolescence, and while I felt compassion for her plight, I also experienced some discomfort with the florid details. Perhaps this unease arises from my own upbringing, with the concomitant insistence that one doesn't air dirty laundry--especially not with strangers--an attitude that seems nothing short of antediluvian these days.

I couldn't help but wonder, though, as I listened to Fisher recount the pills, booze, blackouts, and binges, if a little reticence might not be in order. What purpose do these sorts of revelations serve? Are we supposed to celebrate Fisher as a survivor (to use that popular term)? By her own admission, she consistently exercised poor judgment; what, then, is to admire--that she managed evade death or derangement despite her frequent attempts at self-annihilation? This hardly seems heroic to me, especially given Fisher's extraordinarily privileged upbringing and subsequent opportunities. Alternatively, Fisher could be attempting to shock us with her oftentimes hilarious but nonetheless disconcerting story of despair and degradation, but in this age of "misery memoirs," with their accompanying tales of domestic horror, her narrative is hardly singular. The final and most disturbing possibility is that Fisher's revelations function as a kind of therapy, a way for her to exorcise demons. If so, I'm not sure the audience is proving sufficiently palliative. At points during the performance, my friend and I found ourselves wondering if Fisher was, well, drunk or stoned (not to put a fine point on it). She slurred words, forgot anecdotes, and didn't seem entirely in control, which in turn made us even more uncomfortable.

As we left the theatre, I reflected (yet again) on why I so dislike and rarely attend this kind of theatre: I want live performance to rock my world. I want to be enthralled, challenged, enraged, provoked, even pushed around a bit. I'll happily settle for the pure entertainment of slick plots, great show tunes, and snappy dialogue. But I don't want to walk out feeling as though I've just been through a live, slightly upmarket version of what I can see on nearly any major television network.

Good News about Beau

2008-10-01T12:29:00.001-07:00

First, the good news: the melanoma removed from beneath Beau's tail is not invasive, nor is the white plaque in his left ear cancerous. I am very relieved. Beau drives me a little crazy sometimes, but I love him dearly and would not part with him for the world. Not yet.

Beau took the surgery with his customary equanimity (no pun intended). The folks at New Bolton thought he was the model patient and made quite a fuss when he left. I'm still marveling at the superb care New Bolton provides; truly, they are a model institution. Since his return, I've been trying to keep the wound clean--no small feat given its location--and prevent infection. Staff and friends at Southwind Farm have been wonderful in helping me. Beau, amazingly enough, doesn't seem to mind people "wiping his tush," as one friend put it. Many horses would put you through a wall for far less.

The first couple of weeks were tough; now, finally, the wound is granulating and starting to dry up. Tomorrow I might even be able to walk Beau for a few minutes. Hopefully, he will be fully rideable again in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, we're all waiting to see if the melanoma vaccine works on Beau. New Bolton is one of only two places in the U.S. that provides this treatment. I was warned that it might not work; however, I felt the chance was worth the expense. If the vaccine is successful, Beau will be protected against future melanomas; if not, he's none the worse for wear, and I'm out some money, which is always replaceable--unlike my much adored horse.

Thoughts about Spring Theatre in Washington, D.C.

2008-09-30T14:05:00.001-07:00

After a lackluster fall, I was pleased to see several fine productions this past spring in Washington, which continues to be a first-rate town for interesting and provocative theatre. By far, the best three productions were Synetic's Romeo and Juliet, the Folger Macbeth, and The Shakespeare Theatre Company's Major Barbara.

Macbeth was a delight. Aaron Posner, who typically directs one show every season for the Folger, brought his usual flair for originality to the Scottish play. With the help of Teller (of Penn and Teller fame), he created the bloodiest Macbeth this side of Jacobean stagecraft. Banquo's ghost spews disgusting clots of blood; the three weird sisters drop glistening entrails into their cauldron; and Lady M. spontaneously bleeds from her hands during the sleepwalking scene, a sort of grotesquely hilarious stigmata. So covered in blood was the stage by the curtain call that actors were slipping all over the place. Peter Marks in his Washington Post review called the production a "popcorn Macbeth, surely as good a description as any. There were lots of smart touches too, not just magic tricks and buckets of blood. Kate Eastwood Norris, one of my favorite Washington actresses, was by far the sexiest Lady M. I've ever seen, and she used her considerable wiles to seduce Macbeth into murdering Duncan. Too often Lady Macbeth is done as a steely, cold-hearted bitch who dominates and ridicules her husband into submission. I've always found it hard to square Macbeth-the-warrior with Macbeth-the-henpecked. Norris' interpretation made sense of Macbeth's rapid capitulation: their body language conveyed the hot intensity of their relationship, and one could understand entirely why this powerful warrior would do anything, including murder, for this undulating babe. Ian Merrill Peakes did a fine job with Macbeth, displaying pathos and regret that was genuinely heartfelt, not simply recited.

I liked The Shakespeare Theatre Company production of Major Barbara just as well, but for different reasons. First, I was relieved to see a STC show that I really liked for a change; second, I loved how Ethan McSweeny's direction made me rethink the script and appreciate how Shaw's penchant for Nietzsche drives the characters and the script. Vivienne Benesch burned, wild-eyed and impassioned, with Dionysian fevor. Truly she is the counterpart to Adolphus Cusin's Apollonian professor of Greek; and their marriage signifies the happy union of opposing but complementary philosophies, both necessary to a balanced life. Too often actresses play Barbara with a reserved hauteur, making her emotional abandonment of the Salvation Army at the end of Act 2 as hard to fathom as her sudden conversion to her father's war-mongering credo at the end of the play.

Although McSweeny's was by far the most intellectual Barbara I've seen, it was also the most enjoyable, with lots of lovely physical business and superb comic timing. The opening scene between the termagant Lady Britomart and her feckless son Stephen featured an especially superb piece of stage business, with a pillow cushion functioning metonymically for the battle of wills between the generations. The set was gorgeous and put to good use by McSweeney and his actors; happily, he avoided the fussiness of many contemporary directors: give them a revolve and they use it ad nauseum! All the performances sparkled, and the actors did justice to Shaw's quicksilver dialogue. The actor playing Stephen overdid his performance a bit, the one flaw in an otherwise superlative production.

As good as these shows were, they simply could not compete with Synetic's Romeo and Juliet. For good reason, this brilliant, truly innovative company blew everyone else out of the water this year at the Helen Hayes Awards. Another entry in their series of "silent" adaptations of Shakespeare, this dance- and movement-based version boiled down the story to 55 minutes of intense, explosive kinesis. Tired as I am of the play, I loved every moment of Synetic's version. Paata Tsikurishvili, the brilliant Georgian artistic director, went for an especially bleak interpretation, surrounding his young lovers with cogs and wheels (largely formed by bodies) as they are ground up by the blood feud between the families. The unremitting electronic score additionally propelled the action forward, making for an exhilarating, compressed dramatic action that sped toward its catastrophic conclusion. I really can't get enough of this talented company, and their achievements are all the more impressive given how they started from scratch a few years ago. I'm pleased to see they're finally getting some decent funding.

The New Bolton Center

2008-09-03T11:04:00.001-07:00

I've concluded that equines get better care these days in the U.S. than humans, if the New Bolton Center at the University of Pennsylvania is any indication. Barbaro went there for good reason: the care and professionalism is unparalleled.

Laurie and I arrived, our respective mounts in tow, to be greeted by a wonderfully efficient and kind staff. No waiting for paperwork; no pause for admission: our forms were already prepared and waiting to be signed, while two kind young women stood by with lead ropes. Beau and Tommy were escorted to their immaculate stalls, heaped high with fresh straw, and their culinary preferences recorded. Did Beau want orchard grass hay or a mix of timothy and orchard? Would the occasional flake of alfafa mix be alright? It was not the usual alfafa, mind you, but a special import from the west. "The horses love it," I was told. "They gobble it down like Godiva chocolates." In the meantime, a perky third-year resident fluttered around Beau, taking his vitals and inspecting him closely.

Once the horses were settled, Laurie and I went to clean up from our long, hot trip before meeting with Dr. Busschers, the energetic Dutch surgeon overseeing Beau and Tommy. Patient and thorough, she examined both horses and talked through their respective treatments with us. She promised to call me immediately after Beau's surgery, and this morning she proved as good as her word, explaining the results and subsequent follow-up care. These days I'm lucky if a M.D. returns my call within a week--and only if I leave countless e-mails and voice messages.

Little things caught my attention, from the area where we could leave the horse trailer to the trash bins for the content of muck buckets. Another (cute British) resident advised us not to eat at the cafeteria because of the "mean" chef. We took his recommendation and dined at a bistro up the road to very happy results.

On the way back, Laurie decided it was high time I learn how to drive a truck and horse box. She handed me the keys and sat back, ready to relax on the way home (the horse box comes later). So here we were, two middle-aged broads in a big-ass Ford truck, blasting country western while we tooled down highway 95 back to Maryland. I loved every minute of it.

As the picture shows, all I need is a beer and a hound dog by my side.

The Mortality of Pets

2008-09-01T09:02:00.000-07:00

Unbelievably, Maggie is still with us--and thriving. Rod and I never expected her to make it past July, much into September. Her bladder is still compromised but improved: she makes it through the night and doesn't need to wear a diaper unless we're gone for several hours. Best of all, she's enjoying what's left of her life. Mags cavorts outside with Chloe, cuddles with us in the morning, and barks indignantly at the crows, her particular nemesis (nemeses?). She gobbles her meals greedily and looks at me expectantly when I'm cooking, knowing full well that eventually a little taste of something will come her way. From a dog's perspective, life is pretty good.

Several months ago, I questioned Rod's sanity in giving chemotherapy to a pet, a much-loved pet, mind you, but still a pet. I have since questioned my views. If Maggie lives until Christmas, we will have extended her life by 9-10 months, nearly 6 years in human terms. She has endured some discomfort during that time, but overall the quality of her life has been pretty good. The extra time has given Rod a chance to come to terms with Maggie's impending end.

If it had been my choice, I'm still not sure I would have opted for chemotherapy. Tomorrow I trailer Beau up to New Bolton to have a melanoma under his tail removed. It's ulcerating and could become infected. There's also a chance it will be malignant. 80% of grey horses have melanomas by the age of 15, a strange genetic abnormality; most are benign, if sometimes unsightly. In some instances, though, a small, harmless black bump will grow exponentially, exploding into a huge, cancerous mass. Further testing usually reveals cancer spreading through internal organs.

Beau seems his usual cantankerous self to me, but I am bracing for the worst: what was a little knob has suddenly morphed into an oozy, repellant mass. I have already decided that if the melanoma is malignant and has already spread (or is about to spread), I will have New Bolton put him down before pain sets in. Brutally, disposing of a horse is quite a different matter from euthanizing a cat or dog: the logistics of burying, rendering, or cremating an 1100 pound animal requires forethought, planning, and considerable expense. New Bolton is set up to euthanize large animals in a humane manner. There's nothing I can do if Beau's melanoma has metastasized; unlike Maggie's lymphoma, it cannot be treated with chemotherapy. Even if treatment were an option, I would not subject Beau to the regimen.

So I hope for the best. Losing one of our pets to cancer is bad enough; possibly losing two out of three is just wrenching.

The Love Affair is Over

2008-08-23T15:57:00.001-07:00

I am about to say the unsayable: Tom Stoppard needs to hang up his pen, throw out his quill, break his pencil, or electrocute his laptop. Put another way, his time these days would be better spent cruising Facebook than writing plays.

You have no idea how much it pains me to say this (and no bad puns on my name please--I've heard them all). I discovered Stoppard in the seventies when I was a student at University College London. One day I caught a matinee of Jumpers starring Michael Hordern and Diana Rigg at the National Theatre. I was, to borrow Rod's colonialism, "gobsmacked." I went back to see the show two more times, so astounded was I by the intellectual play, the verbal pyrotechnics, and the forays into absurdist dramatic structure. For an American girl, brought up on a diet of Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, and musicals (with the usual odd dash of Chekhov or Aeschylus), the notion that one could pen a play that veered wildly from farce to philosophy was a revelation. Jumpers, well, jumped from the moon landing, to a murder, to a failed nightclub singer (who may or may not have committed said murder), to gymnastically adept philosophers, all the while musing on the possibility of philosophical positivism in a world of uncertainty. The National, as always, did a stellar job, and to this day I remember vividly Michael Hordern's bumbling, brilliant philosopher and Diana Rigg's singer-on-the-verge.

From that day forward I became a Stoppard groupie, and it was true, deep, unshakeable love: it outlasted husbands, family members, and pets. For thirty years I worshipped this man and saw every production and read every play. When I glimpsed him several years ago in a small Indian restaurant in South Kensington (dining with then squeeze, Felicity Kendall), I just about squealed and did a little dance right on the spot. Stoppard affected me the way that Mick Jagger did other women of my generation. Let me put it this way: I would have run off with the guy in a nanosecond, throwing sanity and reputation to the wind.

The first sign that my ardor had cooled came last year when I saw The Coast of Utopia at the Lincoln Center in NYC. Yes, the acting was stellar and Billy Crudup et al. were fabulous, no doubt about it. The script? Unwieldy and ponderous, it sounded like something penned by a recent grad from the Yale School of Drama wanting to show off how much he had read about the philosophical origins of the Russian Revolution. It was a dissertation in the making, not a dramatic trilogy.

I just read Rock and Roll, and while it isn't as hopelessly baggy as The Coast of Utopia, the play displays many of the same problems. Now Stoppard has never been a master of tight dramatic structure, and his ideas often exceed the limits of his form; still, one was able to forgive the occasional digression or weak ending since Stoppard, even when he stumbled, was still so much better than everyone else. There's a difference, however, between weak moments in an otherwise brilliant script and a play that just doesn't add up to much. I'm not actually sure what Rock and Roll is about. As with Utopia, Stoppard seems to have done so much reading (this time, Milan Kundera and Vaclav Havel) that it's completely overwhelmed his imagination, not to mention any sense of creative discipline. Despite the inherent pathos of the material--the '68 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia--I didn't give a damn about the characters or their plight. The episodic structure, the leaps in time, the bittiness of the action doesn't give the reader (or spectator) the chance to settle in and think about these people. And the old Stoppard linguistic magic, that verbal sleight-of-hand, is nowhere apparent, a criticism of Utopia as well.

Unless the old boy finds his mojo, I guess the affair is over.

Mr. Beau's Requests and Requirements

2008-08-05T13:49:00.001-07:00

Mr. Beau has a mighty long list of preferences, all of which he makes perfectly known. He is nothing if not opinionated, as several trainers have pointed out. After four years together, I know him as well as one does a spouse; and, frankly, I wouldn't put up with those kinds of persnickedy demands from a partner. Then again, women are notoriously inconsistent when it comes to horses and husbands--and you don't have to think very hard to figure out which one comes out ahead.

Some of the little desires I find quite charming, a sign of Beau's individuality. He likes carrots but not apples; tepid but not cold water; chin but not ear rubs; and massages on his left but not his right flank. After we ride, especially if Beau has taken good care of me, he likes his efforts to be acknowledged with lots of pats, hugs, and endearments. After I dismount, Beau lowers his head to bring his ear near my mouth so he can hear me murmur loving inanities. His eyes droop to half-masts and his lower lip goes all blubbery, indicating pure pleasure at my sweet talk. Sometimes he simply tucks his nose under my arm and sighs contentedly.

Less charming are the days when Beau is just full of blue meanies. Sometimes it's the weather--his majesty doesn't like heat and humidity--sometimes it's just life. Horses, like people, have moods, and I'm sure Beau's pasture mates infuriate him every bit as much as my academic colleagues sometimes annoy me. When the blue meanies hit, Beau gets sullen and grumpy, refusing to go forward and ignoring my leg aids. On trails, he'll bolt ahead or, if I ask for a quicker pace, slow to a snail's pace. Worst of all is when we're trying to do flat work or have a lesson. "Get that horse to move forward," yells the instructor, or "put some leg on that horse" (usually when my legs are close to numb from exertion). I console myself with the thought that she just doesn't understand my complicated horse.

One day an instructor, exasperated with both Beau and me, launched into a lecture on the differences between requests and requirements.

"He requires," she explained none too patiently, "food, water, medicine, and protection from the elements. Everything else is a request, which you are not obligated to honor."

"Try telling him that," was my defeated reply.

I was not a little heartened two weeks later when this same instructor explained how she had backed off during a training session because Beau wasn't quite in the mood. I was about to refer to her earlier lecture but thought better of it. Clearly, yet another human had fallen victim to Beau's outlook on life, which sees requests and requirements as one and the same.

Charleston

2008-07-24T14:02:00.001-07:00

For my birthday dinner--and do not, dear reader, inquire which one--Rod took me to Charleston in Baltimore. The flagship of Cindy Wolf's impressive array of Baltimore restaurants, which include Petit Louis, Cinghiale, and Pazo, it is well known for a superlative tasting menu and excellent cellar.

We went with high expectations, and we were not disappointed. Service was superb, a perfect blend of formality and friendliness. Food was exquisitely presented. I was especially taken with a goat cheese flan and grilled pheasant breast on a crispy corn cake. Many of the dishes are inspired by the time Cindy Wolf spent cooking and refining low-country cuisine in the Charleston area, as evidenced by the corn cake or the addition of grilled vidalia onion. Desert was equally impressive: Rod indulged in a chocolate bombe, while I greedily consumed a buttery fruit tart.

The ambiance of Charleston, the attention to detail, and the excellent cuisine made for a lovely birthday dinner except . . .

I think I came down with food poisoning. Awakened at 3:00 a.m. with, to put it politely, gastrointestinal upset, I spent the subsequent twelve hours doubled over in bed or rushing to the bathroom. I sent an e-mail to Charleston, but, so far, no one has responded. On Saturday, when fetching my weekly bag of groceries from our CSA, I chatted with Craig about the unpleasant aftermath of my birthday dinner. He suspected the pheasant which, as he pointed out, is only harvested in fall and therefore had most likely been sitting in the walk-in freezer for eight or nine months. Of course, I have no way of knowing what made me sick at Charleston, but I am disappointed that a restaurant of this calibre has not followed up on a likely case of food poisoning.

Jalapenos

2008-07-19T06:52:00.001-07:00

Finally, a good mid-priced restaurant in Annapolis!

Some women at the local knitting shop (where I am spending far too much money these days) told me to try Jalapenos in the Riva Road shopping center. I was skeptical, given that other recommendations haven't panned out. Either I'm incredibly fussy or most people have indifferent palates--I'm not sure which.

A week ago, on a steamy Friday night, we decided to forego cooking for a meal out, and so we ventured to Jalapenos. The entrance isn't promising--the restaurant is in a strip mall, sandwiched between other businesses--but the handsome interior belies that first impression. I'm delighted to say that the food was very good, reasonably priced, and beautifully presented.

Our waiter was delightful, bantering with us in Spanish and explaining various dishes. When Rod questioned the heat index of a chicken mole, he promptly brought a sample from the kitchen. Amused that Rod didn't consider it sufficiently spicy, he instructed the kitchen to make it muy caliente. I had one of the specials, a piece of tuna marinated in olive oil and lightly grilled. Presented on a bed of greens, it was the perfect dish for a hot summer evening. Rod's flan was equally tasty, rich and dense with a hint of mango on top.

My margarita was a little heavy on triple sec, giving it an unpleasantly sweet, syrupy flavor; otherwise, everything was first rate. We're delighted to have finally found a good restaurant that is close to the house and won't break the bank. Bravo, Jalapenos!

Crazy Diva Farriers

2008-07-17T10:12:00.001-07:00

I have concluded that craziness is a prerequisite for being a farrier.

I just lost my farrier of the last nine months, a man I will simply identify as #2. A little bantam cock of a guy, he swaggered and talked a good line. Addicted to neo-con talk radio, he assailed us with his extremist right-wing views. Radio blaring, voices screaming, and tongs hammering: this is the auditory experience I came to expect from #2.

Generally #2 did a good job on my horse's feet except for the time he hot-nailed Beau. I was assured that even the best of farriers sometimes miss, so I chalked it up to bad luck. Beau had a bit of an abscess, but got over it soon enough. I didn't appreciate the vet bill resulting from #2's mistake, nor did he offer to help defray the additional costs. This didn't seem quite right to me, but, again, I was told by knowledgeable horse people to suck it in, and so I did.

#2 dumped me and Mr. Beau last week, leaving a note to the effect that my horse had put him in a dangerous position where he could have been hurt. I'm still puzzling over that statement. First, Beau is in cross-ties, so just how mobile (and therefore dangerous) can he be? Second--and more to the point--previous farriers and vets have all commented on Beau's easy-going and gentlemanly behavior. He normally stands stock still. Jim Lewis, my vet, calls Beau "the saint" and never ceases to marvel at his docility, no matter how uncomfortable the medical procedure. If Beau did misbehave, then I'm suspicious of #2's handling of this normally cooperative creature.

I have since learned that #2 left a similar missive for a woman at another barn two miles down the road. The likelihood that both of our horses suddenly chose this moment to behave badly is, to put it mildly, slim. The weather is stinking hot and humid, and most of the horses look half-dead. July and August in the greater Washington area is not conducive to frisky, mischievous behavior. #2 also won't return the messages left by another woman at my barn, nor did he indicate a date for a return visit. Do I smell I rat?

I suspect that #2 simply doesn't want to drive down to Damascus any longer given the cost of gas. He has a huge truck and hauls an enormous trailer, replete with forge and heavy instruments. I'd be surprised if he gets 5 miles a gallon. Why not simply say so? Why leave bizarre notes about horses behaving badly?

#2's odd manner of jettisoning clients is rivaled by the disappearing act of #1, a farrier whose brilliance was matched only by his equal strangeness. More interested in playing blues than shoeing horses, he handpicked clients, limiting appointments to a few each week. I was warned by my former trainer Carol that he sometimes went AWOL--he disappeared after shoeing her horse for several years--and her words proved prophetic. An appointment rolled around; I waited dutifully; and #1 never showed up. Successive calls were in vain. For whatever reason, I was expunged from his practice. Did he go on a bender? Did he throw out his back, a chronic complaint for this mercurial personality? Did he give up blacksmithing for the blues? I'll never know.

So now I gird myself to meet #3 on Sunday, a man who is reputed to practice yoga in the aisles between appointments and evidently expects his clients to hold their horses during shoeing while praising his mighty efforts. Sigh.

I keep thinking of some women I met at a little barn down in Harwood who were so desperate to lure a particular farrier out of retirement, they plied him with gift baskets and very good single malt whiskey. As one of them remarked to me, "Farriers are the rock stars of Anne Arundel County." And, it would seem, of Montgomery County, Baltimore County, Howard County and just about everywhere else. Much more of this, and I'm going to think about attending blacksmithing school.

Reno

2008-06-11T16:16:00.001-07:00

I'll admit upfront that I don't much like Reno. People here are mighty friendly, the skies are blue, and the humidity low, but I find this kind of barren, stark landscape soul-withering. When I drive to my brother's restaurant in Verdi, a tiny town on the outskirts of Reno, I see a landscape so spare that it might as well be lunar.

I'm not a gambler, so the casino culture that dominates downtown has little appeal. Reno lacks the high-end casinos and Disney-like fantasia of Las Vegas: it's far more down-market. And there's not much to do outside of gambling. If you're a skier, the very nice slopes around Lake Tahoe beckon, and other outdoor sports, such as biking or skateboarding, are eminently doable part of the year. Otherwise, there's not much here: a small, mediocre museum; a so-so branch of the state university; and the occasional road show floating through town.

I come once a year solely to see my mother and one of my brothers. I stay at the Peppermill Casino and Hotel, largely out of habit. I suspect they aren't entirely happy to see me return, given how little money I spend. I don't like gambling--I don't see the point--and I don't like casinos. In Reno, though, your only options are sleazy motels or casinos, so I pick the latter.

I'm happy to see that the Peppermill has replaced the ghastly orange-and-purple decor from the 80s (sort of New Orleans whorehouse meets psychedelia) with what they're dubbing a "Tuscan" theme. It's a huge improvement: my room is done in cool whites and beiges with subtle splashes of gold. I could do without the gilt, but it is, after all, a casino. One can only hope for so much.

To the credit of this establishment, they run things very well. The staff are unfailingly polite and helpful; rooms are immaculate; and food is surprisingly good. Tonight my mother and I will eat at Romanza's, an Italian restaurant that in the past has done very well by us. I don't get the appeal of squandering hard earned money on slot machines or blackjack, but I'm clearly in the minority. The array of visitors is quite astonishing, ranging from older couples to families with children in tow. One sees representatives from every ethnicity and class. Personally, I'd rather be in Southern France, with a nice glass of bordeaux and a good book, but I suppose that's why I ended up in a university: my tastes are rather rarefied.

So while the Peppermill has certainly done a nice job of taking care of their customers, I will be very happy to leave Reno and casino culture behind tomorrow morning.

The Russian River

2008-06-10T21:26:00.001-07:00

As part of my continued journey down memory lane, Alex and I went to the Russian River, another site of happy reminiscences. My great uncle and aunt, who put up with me for long stretches every summer, owned a cabin not far from Guerneville. My holidays with them fell into a predictable pattern of staying in the city during the week and then, on Friday, driving 90 minutes north on Highway 101. On the way, Hank and I would stop off at an ice cream parlor in Santa Rosa. Always I would deliberate carefully, but inevitably I would order rum raisin, my very favorite. I suspect the dash of rum seemed the height of sophistication to my thirteen-year-old palate.

Our long weekends consisted of lazing around the cabin and reading; looking at the stars through Hank's telescope, one of his few indulgences; and floating down the river in inner tubes. Temperatures easily run fifteen degrees higher than in the city, a fact I forgot one summer. I ended up with a sunburn so bad that I ran a high fever and nearly ended up in an ER. This excruciating experience made me swear off tanning subsequently and taught me to cover my fair skin, no small feat for an adolescent growing up in Southern California. From that summer onward, I was resigned to life as a pasty-faced person.

Overall, I was struck by the relative lack of development in the area, something entirely unexpected. While the proliferation of ugly, largely frangible, tract homes and malls have ruined the Peninsula and blighted former farm land in what is now Silicon Valley, the same has not happened north of the city. On Saturday when we hiked through Muir Woods and then lunched in Sausalito, I was startled to see that Marin County looked unchanged. The same is true for areas further north, as one drives up 101 through Tiburon, Petaluma, and Santa Rosa. Huge swaths of land remain untouched, and farms (many quite neglected) dot the landscape. As for the Russian River itself, the most notable change is the profusion of wineries and vineyards everywhere; if anything, cultivation has beautified the area.

If Healdsburg is any indication, the small, sleepy towns that once typified the Russian River have grown nicely. I remember in my youth being hard pressed to find a decent restaurant. Occasionally we went into Occidental to eat at a family-style restaurant where the Italian-American waiters plunked down heaping bowls of pasta on picnic-style tables. The food was hearty and plentiful but hardly gourmet. With the influx of wineries and vino-tourism, that has, of course, all changed. Excellent brasseries and cafes are everywhere. We had lunch at Bistro Ralph, one of the places recommended to us, and we were not disappointed. Our good-natured waiter, a friendly bear of a guy, gave us excellent service, and food came piping hot out of the kitchen. Alex had a very good salad; I had a superb pasta with smoked chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, and a fennel cream sauce. Our waiter suggested we try the strawberry shortcake for dessert. I hesitated since I do a pretty mean shortcake myself, but caved at his urging. I grudgingly admit this shortcake trumps what I make at home, something that happens too rarely (and one of the reasons I rarely order dessert in restaurants--frankly, I usually do better).

Invigorated by the lunch, Alex and I spent the rest of the afternoon, map in hand, driving to various wineries. We only got through five and there must be at least fifty now in the area. By far, Rosenblum was our favorite. A brilliant winery, they do fabulous reds and whites, in addition to extraordinary dessert wines. I put together a case and arranged for shipping to some friends in Virginia since we're not allowed to receive wine across state lines in Maryland, a barbaric law. Among my finds at Rosenblum is a dessert wine that smacks of chocolate and coconut: it's like drinking an exquisite version of an Almond Joy bar. Unfortunately, none of the other wineries we visited came close to Rosenblum. Several produced wines that left a funny metallic taste on the tongue, something Alex noticed as well. We liked the sparkling wines at J Winery--the rose is especially nice--but I wasn't sufficiently convinced as to order another case.

I've noticed that people working in wineries are, without exception, delightful. This appears to be a universal phenomenon, if my experiences in France, Italy, and South Africa are any indication. I suspect the lifestyle is largely responsible. Good wines flourish in beautiful surroundings and great climates, so one gets to live in paradise and pour wine for happy, eager customers. True to form, we met some lovely folks on our little tour. The man who helped us at Rosenblum had a superb palate, and I ended up purchasing nearly everything he poured for us. The woman who assisted us at J Wineries turned out to be a graduate from AU. She was so delighted to encounter an AU professor that she poured us samples well beyond the requisite four wines covered by our tasting fee.

At the end of the day, sated and tired, we drove back into the city. As we approached my hotel, I became teary at the prospect of parting from my adored and adorable son (who was the consummate host and gentleman throughout my stay). We had a tearful parting and, crying lightly, I went into the hotel only to be dragooned by a group of Aussies who were dismayed at my discomfiture. I have to say there's nothing like drinking with a bunch of blokes from down under to cheer one up.

'Tis Pity She's a Whore

2008-06-08T00:26:00.000-07:00

Even by Jacobean standards, John Ford's plays are wonderfully strange. Plots twist and coil, as revenge piles upon revenge; siblings lust after each other; and characters spontaneously expire, keeling over from shock or, even weirder, willing themselves to die, as occurs with Calantha in The Broken Heart (1625?). She appoints an heir, sits down on her throne, and then painstakingly describes her death as it occurs. As I said, this is strange stuff--and I love it!

Thus it was with great eagerness that I accompanied Alex to see 'Tis Pity She's a Whore (1633) at American Conservatory Theatre (A.C.T.). The play is rarely staged, and A.C.T. used to have a fine reputation. I haven't seen one of their shows in twenty years, so this was a particular treat.

Overall, I was quite pleased. We saw a preview, so I fully expect the minor problems with pacing, tech, and entrance cues will vanish once the production gets further into the run. The director, Carey Perloff, made some fascinating choices. She hired the cellist and singer Bonfire Madigan Shive (who does "punk chamber music") to accompany the show with haunting melodies and otherworldly moans and screams, a terrific effect. Shive is fully visible throughout the performance, sitting aloft on a raised platform integrated into the set. I liked too that Perloff didn't update the script by transposing it to another period. She left language intact, trusting her audience's comprehension.

The set is semi-industrial, as seems to be the fashion right now in staging Shakespeare and Elizabethan/Jacobean plays, but for the most part it worked. A strange series of tubes hung in a cluster from the ceiling, and tiny glass balls dotted fishing line that was also suspended throughout the space. At first, I didn't get their significance; then I realized that Perloff and the designer, Walt Spangler, were giving us visual metaphors for blood, with the tubes signifying arteries running to the heart and the glass balls standing in for corpuscles. These visual references are obscure but smart: blood is everywhere in 'Tis Pity, literally and figuratively, from the bodies littering the stage to the "hot blood" inflaming the incestuous siblings.

Overall, I thought the women were stronger than the men. Susan Gibney is simply fabulous as Hippolita, the sexy, wayward wife who dispatches her husband (or so she thinks) for her lover, only to have him dump her for another woman. Rene Augesen brings a complexity to Arabella, the incestuous sister, that I never saw when reading the play. While Michael Hayden does a fine job as Giovanni, the incestuous brother, he has an unfortunate tendency to swallow words at moments of high passion. His gradual descent into madness, though, is absolutely believable. I wish some of the other men were as strong. Steven Anthony Jones is downright embarrassing as the friar; Michael Fajardo phones in his performance as Soranzo; and Gregory Wallace is painfully bad as Bergetto, the foolish nephew of a wealthy citizen. I think Anthony Fusco will improve as Vasques. He strengthened as the performance progressed, always a good sign. I don't have much hope for the others.

I was pleased to see A.C.T. still going strong after nearly 45 years. It's a shame that this very smart production will just miss being superlative because of several weak men in the cast.

Muir Woods and Sausalito

2008-06-07T18:03:00.000-07:00

It has been many a year since I last hiked in Muir Woods, that stunning national park just over the Golden Gate Bridge. This morning Alex and I spent a couple of hours walking along manicured paths and taking in the redwoods. I had forgotten how much I love the smell of eucalyptus trees. I also forgot how wildflowers perfume the air in California. The weather was perfect: low seventies with little humidity. One could not ask for a better day.

Later we drove to Sausalito for lunch. Alex recommended Fish, a casual eatery overlooking the marina. Alex had a sandwich with crab rolls; I had a crab louis salad, a dish I always ordered when I visited SF in my youth. Both were excellent.

Later we hiked into town, where I was sorry to see that the once chic shops have been replaced by tacky tourist joints. Unfortunately, the Fisherman's Wharf syndrome has spilled over to other parts of the Bay area. Around 3.00, we found a bar where we could watch Big Brown run the Belmont. I knew immediately that something was wrong: BB's gait looked nothing like his customarily easy, loping gallop, and I'm happy his jockey pulled him up, perhaps preventing a tragedy like the one that doomed poor Eight Belles. Big Brown didn't win the Triple Crown--but he's still alive.

Tonight we're seeing John Ford's wonderfully strange Jacobean play, 'Tis Pity She's a Whore at American Conservatory Theatre. I haven't been to ACT for years--I used to go regularly with Hank and Ruth--and I'm curious to see how this classic repertory company has fared. Aside from ACT and Berkeley Rep, there's little serious theatre in San Francisco. It's telling that Beach Blanket Babylon, now in its 34th year, has outlasted every other form of drama.

Impressions of San Francisco,

2008-06-06T23:38:00.000-07:00

Let me preface this post by saying that I have happy memories of San Francisco that go back many years to my childhood and adolescence. I used to spend part of my summer with a great uncle and aunt in this city, and they were partially responsible for who I am today. Uncle Hank regularly shipped me boxes of books; Aunt Ruth taught me how to dress and comport myself. They took me to theatre and concerts, and they shaped my politics, opposing my father's cowboy conservatism with classic Marxist materialism.

I have through the years made periodic trips to SF, but it has been a long time since I've explored the city at a leisurely pace. Here to visit my son Alex, I've had a chance to wander neighborhoods, visit museums, and eat out.

Some moments have charmed: the man playing the theme to the Godfather on his sax in Union Square; the AIDS Memorial in Golden Gate Park; the tough old Chinese ladies who still elbow one aside; the adult entertainment store on Market Street that blares classical music from loudspeakers (Tschaikovsky as I walked past); the beatific old black man blessing passerbys (when he wasn't ogling attractive girls); the grotesquely fat seagull that has apparently taken up permanent residence outside the museum cafe in Golden Gate Park.

And there have been some delights. I am absolutely enchanted with the Asian Art Museum, a superb collection in a beautifully retrofitted building. I loved everything about the museum, from the smart commentary to the interactive touch screens. The galleries are light and airy, and the objects displayed carefully. I also like how cross-cultural currents are underscored throughout. This is exactly what a museum should be: intelligent and aesthetically pleasing. Even the museum cafe defied expectations, serving fresh, impeccably prepared food at reasonable prices. I had planned on spending no more than two hours at the Asian Art Museum; I ended up staying most of the day.

I have, thanks to Alex, discovered the pleasures of San Francisco's hip neighborhood bars. One night we went to Absinthe, where I had an odd but refreshing cocktail with a very complicated name I cannot recall; this afternoon we stopped at Alembic in the Haight, where I had my first Pisco Sour. I am a complete convert to this delightful drink.

For the most part, food has been good. We ate on Wednesday night at Citizen Cake in Hayes Valley and had a fine meal. Although they are known primarily for unusual desserts, Citizen Cake's limited dinner menu features some real delights. Alex had very good braised pork, while I had local cod on vegetables infused with ginger and lime. Dinner the following night at Zazil, located in the quite grand Westfield Mall on Market Street was okay, not great: my braised pork (a popular dish here!) was too salty; Alex didn't like the sauce on his fish. I have better hopes for a seafood restaurant we're trying in Sausalito tomorrow.

Increasingly, however, I understand why Alex doesn't enjoy day-to-day life here. Without a doubt, San Francisco is scenic and charming, but there's little to do outside of the 20-something hipster culture that dominates the city. Good theatre is scarce, and the opera is horrifically expensive. Museums, with the exception of the Asian Art, are so-so. Little works. We waited nearly 50 minutes for a bus that supposedly runs every 10 minutes, an all too common occurrence I am told. BART has so few stations as to be almost useless. The streets are dirty, some smelling like urinals. Petty crime is rife. This afternoon alone we were approached by a gang of youths in Golden Gate Park trying to sell us drugs; then we saw a woman lose her wallet to a nimble-fingered thief as she boarded the bus. Sadly, banks in tourist areas, such as Union Square, post security guards next to ATM's. And homeless people are everywhere, pushing carts overflowing with their possessions. Most mind their own business, but the schizophrenics and druggies are unnerving. I found myself walking briskly back to my hotel and hugging my purse. This is not the San Francisco I remember.

A Shopping and Eating Orgy

2008-06-05T17:07:00.001-07:00

My last two days in Pasadena whirled by in a carousel of food and clothes, thanks to the goodly ministrations of Kathie, who has a genius for ferreting out charming little boutiques. I've fallen into the habit over the past four years of shopping almost exclusively on holiday. What little disposable time I have during my normal workaday life goes to sports, theatre outings, and entertaining, with nary a minute left over for anything else. I also lack the patience to try on clothes and sort through racks: I'm in work mode, powering through my day and trying desperately to conserve enough energy to ride my horse in the afternoon or mark papers later that night. Stumbling through a mall is the furthest thing from my mind, even on weekends, which, alas, have become extensions of the work week.

When I travel, however, the relaxed pace mellows me sufficiently to browse and sample various garments. I like too that I find more daring fashions outside of Washington, a notoriously staid city. Last summer in Paris, for instance, I came upon a couple of charming skirts, the one a riot of Provencal colors, the other a ribbony swirl of flounces in more subdued grays and taupe. Neither was the sort of thing I would normally pull off the rack, but the very good French saleslady insisted I try them on to happy results.

International attitudes among saleswomen vary greatly, another source of pleasure (and occasional bemusement). French saleswomen are universally helpful and refreshingly blunt. At one shop in Paris, the saleslady blocked my progress to a fitting room and pulled a couple of items out of my hands, clucking at me disapprovingly.

Russian saleswomen trump every other nationality when it comes to mercantile brusqueness. They also have an uncanny ability to sniff out black market knockoffs, a topic deserving of a separate post. Several years ago I wandered into a shop in St. Petersburg with my friend Elena, hoping to get ideas for a coat my darling husband was having made for me. The two salesgirls, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, watched contemptuously as I tried on a succession of fur jackets. I liked a sheared grey number, but one of the girls suddenly waved her hand dismissively, scolding me in Russian and gesturing toward my face. Bewildered, I turn to Elena for translation. It appeared the grey made me look sallow (which was probably right). The salesgirl then ordered me to another shop down the street: "Nothing here looks good on you." So much for post-Glastnov capitalism.

My two-day shopping orgy in Pasadena with Kathie resulted in nothing that inadvertently hilarious, but I did end up buying a smart pair of linen trousers and several tops, mostly casual. I indulged in one designer piece, the sort of thing one can pair with jeans or nicely tailored pants. Kathie has an impeccable eye for clothing, as she does for interior design. She's one of those people blessed with damn good taste and superb organizational skills. I've decided she should run my life.

We punctuated our shopping expeditions with very good lunches and dinners. On Monday we had a long leisurely lunch at Saladang Song, a tasty Thai restaurant in Pasadena. Later that afternoon we made our way to an outdoor mall that just opened in Glendale called Americana, developed by the same guy who did the Grove in Culver City. Again, we wandered through shops before collapsing at a Mexican restaurant with outdoor seating. Fortified with drinks and appetizers, we watched the throngs promenade lazily in the perfect Southern California weather: families with young children; well-heeled 50- and 60-somethings; and teenagers armed with credit cards and hopping hormones. I liked the ambiance, the leisurely pace of it all.

On Tuesday, we indulged in yet more shopping, breaking up our descent into abject materialism with a stopover at the Huntington Library, where I saw a chum and met the delightful old lady who is the subject of a biography Kathie is writing. This woman, a famous dancer between the wars, still at the age of 95 goes to the Huntington daily to work on her own project. She's quite extraordinary. We lunched at nearby Nicole's Cafe, a brilliant little eatery featuring light fare and superb pastries (or so I am told). Alarmed by my expanding waistline, I have momentarily put desserts and snacks on hold. Dinner at Celastino's later that night was also excellent. Bob and I had delicious homemade pastas; Kathie had veal Milanese (a tad overdone).

On Wednesday I boarded my flight to San Francisco with mixed emotions. Sorry to leave L.A. and my friends behind, I was nonetheless eager to see my son Alex.

The Sacred and the Profane

2008-06-04T08:47:00.001-07:00

Sunday in LA defied my expectations: the church service I attended in Hollywood with friends turned out to be far more thought-provoking and aesthetically satisfying than the theatre performance I saw (also in Hollywood) later that night.

I met up with Kathie and Bob, close friends originally from Georgetown who relocated to LA four years ago so Bob could pick up the threads of his acting career. Years ago Bob was a professional actor in DC, working at Arena Stage and Olney, landing roles in films, and building a nice resume. Acting gigs, however, do not pay school fees, nor do they feather the nest except in the rarest of instances. Bob, now comfortably retired, can pick up projects while soaking up rays in L.A. It's quite a nice life.

These generous souls are hosting me for several days. We met up on Sunday morning at Ecclesia, a three-year old church based at the Pacific Theatre, a grand art deco building from the thirties, on Hollywood Blvd. The service is a strange amalgamation of early church egalitarianism, liberation theology, traditional liturgy, and evangelical fervor--all held together with excellent rock music and slick Power Point slides. The congregants are ethnically diverse but largely young and hip, many working in Hollywood. One glimpses Oscar nominees among the wannabes, but in typical LA fashion, everyone is cool with it. I was impressed by the church's commitment to a non-hierarchical structure, with congregants fully involved in the service. The church pushes its members to pledge time and risk safety in doing outreach. A group had just left for Africa; another was about to depart for Burma. The church is especially keen on helping homeless people on their doorstep in Hollywood, and I was also pleased they are targeting the grim issue of sex slavery.

Ecclesia has thought carefully about their policy on outreach. They provide support to indigenous, well-established groups so as not to come off as the outsiders bringing money and Western values to impoverished (and therefore culturally vulnerable) countries. The young man preaching the sermon reminded congregants that it's far easier to write out a check than help an actual individual. I was impressed and moved.

After the service, we met up with D. Paul Thomas, the associate rector of Ecclesia, his wife Debbie, and their daughter Dee at the Larchmont Grill on Melrose Avenue, the sort of place that is seemingly ubiquitous in L.A. It goes without saying that the food was spanking fresh and meticulously prepared: I had a superb salad nicoise with lightly grilled ahi tuna. The service was relaxed yet attentive. I'd kill for an equivalent eatery in Annapolis.

Halfway through lunch we were joined by D. Paul's other daughter, Shelley, who just graduated from Cal Arts with a major in international music. A mesmerizing (and striking) young woman, with intense eyes and Angeline Jolie lips, she too burns with evangelical fervor, only this time for global music. She sings Middle Eastern and South American music with her band around town; shortly she's off to Morocco to "absorb the musical rhythms," as she said, of that culture. I adored her instantly.

Over lunch we debated topics ranging from theology, to the Democratic campaign, to the direction of the music scene in L.A. It was the sort of intense, thoughtful conversation I haven't experienced in a long time and reminded me of what I so miss about L.A.: the openness and the eclecticism. D. Paul is especially fascinating, an actor who doubles as a minister. In him, one glimpses the aesthetic and the spiritual fires that probably animated ancient Greek theatre. So often one hears the truism about the affinity between performance and ritual, but in our contemporary culture, we rarely see it in action. I would like to know D. Paul further.

After nearly three hours, we drove back to Pasadena, where Kathie and Bob live. Their condo is lovely and comfortable, and they made me feel immediately at home. We rested and then hit the freeways once again that evening, heading back to Hollywood for a benefit performance at the Matrix Theartre, where Bob has done some work. The benefit in question was for Sister Cities, a new play by Colette Freedman headed for the Edinburgh Arts Festival. While I loved the notion of a play featuring all women (there are parts for five actresses), I didn't much like the script, which I found glib and unbelievable. Basically, Freedman marries Marsha Norman's unspeakably bad play, 'Night Mother to Beth Henley's Crimes of the Heart--and not to good results. The premise is fairly simple: four half-sisters congregate at their mother's flat, where she has just committed suicide. Over the ensuing 70 minutes we learn that Mom, unbeknownst to three of the daughters, suffered from Lou Gehrig's disease (ALS) and was assisted in her suicide by the one daughter who lived with her and therefore was privy to the horrors of the disease. While the script featured some nice comic moments, the bulk of dialogue required the half-sisters to scream epithets and accusations. No one cried; no one evinced a single emotional moment that rang true. Mainly, the characters threw off sitcom one-liners when they weren't telling each other to fuck off. This was not, to put it mildly, good writing.

I felt sorry for the actresses, who gave the script their all, but there's only so much one can do with lousy material. There were some pacing issues, mainly with missed beats at key moments of emotional reaction, but for the most part I liked the energy and physicality these talented women brought to their roles. As this was a benefit performance intended to raise money for the trip to the Edinburgh Arts Festival, I expected the plea for bucks before and after the show. I was, however, disturbed to see pitches to corporations for product placement. Is this what theatre is coming to? Let's raise the audience's consciousness about ALS while hawking toilet paper? Not good --not good at all.

California Dreamin'

2008-06-01T17:45:00.001-07:00

I landed in LA on Saturday after a long, but pleasantly uneventful flight. One of my closest, dearest friends--we go back to third grade--met me at LAX, along with assorted family members. Happily ensconced at their home, I visited with Carolyn's 92-year-old mother and reminisced about bygone days. The trip down memory lane continued when Julie, Carolyn's eldest daughter, graciously offered to drive me around old neighborhoods.

Julie and Carolyn wanted me to see recent additions to Loyola Marymount University (LMU), where I received undergraduate degrees in Theatre and English. The campus, always handsome, is now striking indeed. The university purchased adjacent land that used to belong to Hughes Aircraft. Once upon a time, these were empty fields where the brilliant but mad millionaire tested innovative aerial designs; now they are beautifully landscaped and feature an elegant entrance to the university, along with nicely designed buildings and dormitories. A new library is underway; an extension to the fine arts building was recently finished; and a new performing arts center is planned. The university has become quite posh.

We then drove down to Marina del Rey, where I worked back in the seventies while attending LMU. I had a cushy weekend job running the front office for a yacht sales center and marina. The owner, scion of an old California Spanish family, was charming and indulgent: when things were quiet, I could do schoolwork on his yacht, feet dangling lazily in the water. It beat the hell out of waiting tables.

Marina del Rey is hardly recognizable from what I knew: marinas everywhere, upscale eateries, and pleasantly apportioned townhouses and apartments. Indeed, even the area around Marina del Rey, which used to be quite grotty, is looking smart these days. Lincoln and Washington Blvds. were dotted with ugly strip malls and dubious liquor stores; now, new developments sparkle everywhere.

Most surprising of all is the transformation that has occurred in Culver City, where I lived for a year while attending graduate school at UCLA. In 1981 we fled to Santa Monica after being threatened by gang members. Now Culver City sports beautiful developments, and the neighborhood where I once feared for my life seems quite staid. Restaurants and theatres abound; best of all, city planners have created lovely plazas for mingling and lots of walkable space. I was very pleased.

That evening a couple of old theatre pals joined us for dinner. We spent hours catching up and recalling outrageous incidents from productions and parties; we mused aloud about former lovers and adored professors, too many, alas, now gone. There is something about early friendships that attachments made in middle-age simply can't emulate, an intensity of feeling that miraculously survives even the passing of years. I have, quite sadly, seen any number of friendships made in my thirties and forties evaporate on the filmiest of pretexts--a difference of opinion, the unthinking remark, even jealousy over career advancement or new spouses. My old friends, though, do not begrudge my little successes or my mid-life happiness, quite the contrary.

Best of all is how one easily picks up the thread of conversation. I had not seen Maryrose or Rick for ten years, yet from the moment they arrived, we chatted openly and affectionately. I've always loved that quality about Carolyn, my old friend from third grade. Sometimes we won't speak for a year or more; then one of us picks up a phone and we're off. For me, California will always be the place where I go to warm my heart at the embers of old friendships, still glowing after all this time.

Human Nature

2008-05-27T07:00:00.001-07:00

Need I say more?

Movies and Holidays

2008-05-23T06:21:00.001-07:00

We never seem to have enough time in our workaday existence to get through an entire movie. These past few months, we could barely manage 40 minutes for an old episode of West Wing or, if we were really lucky, an hour of Foyle's War. Two hours for a film was simply out of the question. Of course, the scarcity of time also has to do with interests outside our jobs. Rod would much rather sail, and I would much rather ride than sit in front of a television. We like entertaining on weekends. And given the choice, I'll take a live performance over a film--no contest there.

With great pleasure, then, we attacked a backlog of movies while on holiday. While I enjoyed the mere act of watching films, the results also reminded me why missing out on movies no longer seems like much of a sacrifice: quality, as many critics note, has declined sharply.

Out of seven films, only one, La Vie en Rose, was really good. Marion Cotillard fully deserved her Oscar for Best Actress: it was an amazing performance and a compassionate screenplay. We also liked Charlie Wilson's War, although the satire became tiresome. Elizabeth: The Golden Years was visually sumptuous, and Cate Blanchett was eminently watchable (as always). Seeing her storm around campily as Elizabeth I was fun, if not exactly convincing. Then again, I didn't have high expectations. The Savages and The Darjeeling Express reminded me why I suffer indie movie burnout these days: both featured talented actors giving their utmost but hamstrung by third-rate scripts and precious camera work. Most disappointing of all was Atonement, a creepy amalgamation of highly aestheticized gloss and blood-strewn battlefields. I also found the ending dubious if not downright specious. The doomed lovers, both of whom expire in especially ghastly manners, nonetheless get a consolation prize of literary immortality, courtesy of Briony's pen. The swelling music and slick flashback make it clear that we are supposed to dab our eyes in appreciation. I didn't read the novel, but I assume (and hope) that McEwan's narrative voice made for a more nuanced, ironic ending.

Even though it was pleasant to have the time this week to catch up on movies, I was saddened to see that I'm not missing very much. I'd rather go for a hack on my horse.

The Glories of Seafood in Chatham

2008-05-20T14:21:00.001-07:00

Put simply, Cape Cod has some of the best seafood around. On Sunday, after fetching my stepdaughter in Provincetown, we stopped at Chatham Fish & Lobster Company, which advertises "the highest quality seafood caught daily." This time a seafood market actually lived up to its claims: the scallops and mussels were exquisitely fresh. Meg prepared a simple but tasty broth for the mussels, first sauteing fresh garlic in lots of olive oil and butter, then adding white wine, which she reduced before pouring in some water. We lightly steamed the mussels in this fragrant broth, and they were glorious. For our main course, we gorged on scallops, again prepared simply. When seafood is this good, you really don't want to mess around with cloying sauces. Meg seared the scallops in a very hot frying pan, just "kissing" the heat when flipped. Divine!

Today we had a late lunch at the Impudent Oyster, just up the road from our rental. Our jovial waitress helped with choices and poured generous glasses of wine, always a good sign. Meg and I started with a dozen Wellfleet oysters, a local specialty. They were just as good as the waitress said, slightly briny and ever so plump. The homemade horseradish was hot enough to set off the oysters without overpowering their delicacy. Rod, who refrains from raw fish, contented himself with a very good cup of Lobster bisque, followed by excellent fish and chips made with local cod. Meg ordered mussels prepared Portuguese style with lots of chopped tomatoes and thin slices of chorizo, almost like a fisherman's stew. I had a huge bowl of steamers, accompanied by superb Portuguese rolls slathered in garlic butter. Halfway through, Meg and I swapped dishes so I could gorge myself on mussels as well as clams. Unbelievably, after this descent into gluttony, we ordered dessert. Rod and I split a slice of delicious coconut key lime pie; Meg had less luck with a mediocre chocolate panna cotta.

Normally, we would have gone for a long two-hour hike to work off this absurdly indulgent lunch, but the grey skies that had threatened rain all morning opened just as we left the restaurant. So we went back to our flat and indulged in the sweetness of doing nothing, or as the Italians would say, dolce far niente.

The History Boys at the Studio Theatre

2008-05-20T09:38:00.001-07:00

I didn't have the good fortune to see the London or Broadway productions of The History Boys, but friends verified the glowing reviews. The play didn't transfer well to the screen, but by using the original cast, the film gave some sense of the performances that so enthralled audiences and critics alike.

The new production at the Studio Theatre, while good, lacks the sheen of the original. Normally, Joy Zinoman does a crackerjack job with recent Broadway and London imports, and she has a particular genius for reworking material to sometimes startling results. Witness her brilliant production of The Invention of Love, which discovered untapped depths of feeling in the script, whereas the London production saw only Stoppard's customary linguistic brilliance. This time, though, the magic touch eluded Zinoman, and the resulting show, while enjoyable, has some real problems.

The most obvious kink, which other reviewers have noted, was the casting of Floyd King as Hector, the Pied Piper of a pedagogue with roving hands. King's portrayal contrasted sharply with that of Richard Griffiths, who premiered the role. Griffiths, a portly, jolly man with a distinctive voice, made us understand entirely why his charges would shrug off the occasional grope, as if that were a small price to pay for being in the presence of such delicious eccentricity. Zinoman's casting of King was a clear decision to go against type, and while contrary choices have served her well in the past, this time it backfired. Everything about King seemed crabbed, inward, and small, from his appearance to his delivery, and the result left one wondering what appeal he could possibly hold for his students. There were small annoyances too. King's pallid English accent fluctuated, disappearing by the end, and his customarily slurry enunciation, charming in comic roles, too often rendered him inaudible. An actor should be able to make himself heard in an intimate space like the Metheny Theatre, but King habitually swallowed the ends of words, making comprehension difficult.

Others in the cast fared better. Simon Kendall was a softer, more hesitant Irwin than Stephen Campbell Moore in the London/Broadway production, giving his character the complexity that King also sought (but missed). The boys were uniformly good with some real standouts, such as Owen Scott as the comically sad Posner and Jay Sullivan as the sexually predatory Dakin. Sullivan, who looks like a youngish Robert Redford, embodied perfectly the golden boy that everyone wants.

Some of Zinoman's staging choices also failed to serve the production. The modular set, while clever and attractive, was used to excess, a common problem these days. Bennett's script evinces the sort of episodic structure that has pervaded British drama since the eighties, which can translate to upward of thirty scene changes. Rather than relying on lighting or movement to indicate a simple change, Zinoman had the "boys" constantly rearrange modular bits, moving archways and repositioning desks. The chronic changes, largely unnecessary, made an already choppy script even more disjointed. She also eliminated the back screen projection of eighties video footage, a choice that not only drained the play of its political context--and the Thatcher years are essential here--but also inadvertently revealed the flaws in Bennett's script.

On the face of it, The History Boys pays homage to a fast-fading society where knowledge is valued for itself and ethics still matter. Irwin, the young, smarty-pants history instructor (and pedagogical villain) teaches to exam results, not the intellect, preaching the virtues of glib originality to secure a place at Oxbridge. History for Irwin is little more than ductile narratives. If received opinion condemns Mussolini, then praise him; if post-war society denounces the Holocaust, then suggest its unexpected benefits. Projected video in the original show clearly associated Irwin's educational principles--if one can dignify them with such a word--with the excesses of the Thatcherism. Without that context, Irwin seems little more than a smug prig, one of the pitfalls of the Studio Theatre production.

Against Irwin is juxtaposed the old humanist Hector, who quotes poetry and demands that his boys do the same. His lads learn for the sheer pleasure of learning, be it snippets of old movies or the French subjunctive. Hector also treats learning as a bulwark against the erosion of time, a way to fortify the spirit when all else fails. If Irwin's efficient amorality is symptomatic of the Thatcher years, then Hector's intellectual messiness, a hodgepodge of high and low culture, brings to mind the post-war period of the fifties and sixties, when clever boys out of Oxbridge (some of whom like Bennett would go on to form Beyond the Fringe) married music hall vaudeville to Left Bank existentialism.

Zinoman's production forsook Thatcherite politics for an emphasis on sexual desire, ironically, the most problematic aspect of Bennett's script. While Hector, not Irwin, commands our sympathies, he is also pathetic: Auden, Hardy, and Housman, all masters of unrequited and repressed emotion, figure largely in his poetic flights for good reason. Unwilling to face his homosexuality or leave his marriage, Hector's longing finds expression in the sad little gropes visited upon the boys who ride double on his motorcycle. While one would expect Irwin, the consummate product of the eighties, to embody post-Stonewall attitudes, he too longs silently from afar. Only golden boy Dakin finds sexual fulfillment--and yet we recoil from his predatory pursuit of men and women alike.

Indeed, The History Boys seems peculiarly intent on punishing those who "come out." Publicly exposed and shamed into early retirement, Hector enjoys a last-minute reprieve when the headmaster's own peccadillos--albeit of the heterosexual variety--are conveniently revealed. Circumstances thus accomplish what volition could not, forcing Hector to acknowledge his predilection for boys, not his wife. Irwin plans to meet Dakin for what surely will prove to be a life-altering tete-a-tete. A motorcycle accident at the penultimate moment, however, kills Hector and maims Irwin, thereby ensuring that neither man will know peace in the wake of sexual revelation. The postscript to the play proper, where we learn the eventual fate of the students, underscores the punitive message. Posner, another unfulfilled homosexual, is destined to halfway houses, psychiatric treatment, suicide attempts--and literary scribblings.

What, then, are we to make of a play that murders or cripples (literally and psychically), any male who gives voice to the love that dare not speak its name? Only Dakin prospers--as a slimy barrister. Moreover, his undifferentiated, avaricious sexuality appears--even more so than Irwin's educational policies--to figure the unbridled consumerism of the 80s. If so, then the play's outcome suggests both the triumph of capitalism over the socialist state and the victory of vulturine over repressed sexuality. Certainly, the maudlin ending secures this reading. As the students and faculty eulogize Hector, we are expected to wax nostalgic for a mode of learning, as Bennett reminds us in 2004, now vanished--as has the unrequited version of homosexual longing he embodied. Even more disturbing is the collective price Hector, Irwin, and Posner pay for "coming out," an odd moral made all the more bald by Zinoman's decision to eliminate political context from the production. At least in the Broadway/London premiere, the constant visual reminder of the Thatcher years shifted attention away from Bennett's dubious sexual message.

In the final analysis, The History Boys not only promotes misty-eyed remembrance of old-fashioned pedagogy but also of the days when men could not express same-sex desire. By suggesting that art and learning can only flourish in the soil of unhappiness, Bennett recycles the same muddled sentiments one finds in the worst Romantic poetry. Only the sexual orientation has changed.

The Dilemma of Maggie

2008-05-19T10:32:00.003-07:00

Maggie and Chloe have adapted quickly to a Cape Cod existence. Chloe, with her unerring instinct for comfort, quickly found the softest cushions, the plushest throw rugs, and the most luxurious pieces of furniture. Maggie discovered the best windows from which to watch the world at large. And both dogs figured out the prime spots in the kitchen for retrieving dropped bits of food.

On Sunday morning we walked to a bakery on Main Street, where we got muffins (dry, indifferent) and then hiked over to the pier. Unfortunately, the fishmonger at that location doesn't open yet for a few days, but we took the dogs out onto the beach that runs beneath the pier. They cavorted in the sand, gleefully running into the water but stopping short of outright swimming.

After an hour, we headed back, worried about Maggie. She tires easily and her bladder problem has not resolved. Some days she squats almost compulsively, and today seemed especially bad. Inside she wears a diaper; outside she relieves herself every block or so. It's difficult to watch and even more difficult to know what to do. Our oncologist professes never to have encountered ongoing urinary tract problems, claiming that in other dogs the symptoms abate after a week or two. An ultrasound scan showed thickening of Maggie's bladder, but tests revealed no infection, nor have antibiotics made an iota of difference. I fear that Cytoxan has damaged her bladder or urethra permanently.

Rod wavers between putting Maggie down when we return to Annapolis and letting her finish out what's left of her life. We've stopped chemotherapy, and unless her condition improves, we will not resume. Since Maggie didn't have the full course of treatment, I'm assuming the lymphoma will return before too long. I too vacillate between euthanasia and life, and I am increasingly aware of burnout. The interrupted sleep; the endless medications; the frequent trips outside have exacted a toll. And Maggie has never been an easy dog, even under better circumstances than these. Stubborn to the point of mulishness, she resisted our various attempts at training. Her first year with us, we trudged dutifully from one expert to another. The third (and most expensive) trainer, a specialist in Portuguese Water Dogs, pronounced Maggie one of the most difficult dogs she had ever encountered, ranking her third out of a hundred, a number that gave us both pause. Rod, though, loved this wayward creature, and I didn't have the heart to put my foot down. And so she stayed, assured of a loving home to the very end.

As Maggie matured, she either became more tractable or we simply yielded to her obstreperous (but essentially sweet) nature--I'm not sure which. If she were a more accommodating dog, her illness might be less trying. Selfishly, I sometimes think of putting her down when it just seems too damn much, between the exasperating behavior and the grueling regimen. When I'm in a nobler frame of mind, I worry that we're sustaining her suffering. Most horrible is listening to Maggie groan when she empties her bladder, but these moments are thankfully infrequent. Whenever Rod and I discuss euthanasia, she invariably rebounds for several days, swaggering around the house, blithely indifferent to our commands, and then I'm relieved to see a return to her customary truculence.

Thus our dilemma.

The Pleasures of Chatham

2008-05-19T10:32:00.001-07:00

After our horrific drive to Mystic, CT, on Friday, we were rewarded with an easy three-hour jaunt to Chatham the following day. Light traffic and clearing weather made for blessedly welcome road conditions. We found ourselves ahead of our scheduled arrival, but the rental office permitted us to check in early, for which we were grateful.

Our two-bedroom condo, which perches one floor above the back end of a posh pet boutique, is better than expected. It looked lovely from the photos we saw, but we've been burned by some previous vacation rentals. Several years ago, what looked like a nice beach cottage on the island of Eleuthera turned out to be little more than a dive. Dirty, with broken rattan and unwelcome critters (I have a vague, partially repressed, recollection of a bat), it offered the additional indignity of broken-down beds. So colored was our Bahamian experience by this lousy rental that we have never ventured back. Of course, it didn't help that some locals slammed into our car on Christmas Eve, or that the police were unhelpful, if not downright hostile, or that my son was in the final throes of a very tough adolescence. It was not a good trip.

Chatham, by contrast, has always held good memories for us. When Rod and I were seriously courting, he whisked me away for several days at a lovely inn, replete with fireplace and hot tub. Several years later, after we married, we rented a pretty little house within an easy walk of the lighthouse. And here we are for the third time, again delighted by our accommodations. Our condo was recently refurbished, and while the owner favors the sort of Crate and Barrel look that can sometimes be a bit twee, in this instance, the decor isn't overly done. A seaside theme pervades, but, again, it's just enough to be charming, not oppressively cute. We especially like the skylights throughout and the smartly outfitted kitchen, gleaming with new marble countertops and shiny steel appliances. If a setting can presage good tidings, then I think we're in for a fine week once again.

Mystic Pizza

2008-05-17T04:45:00.000-07:00

We spent ten hours on what should have been a five-hour drive from Annapolis, Maryland to Mystic, Connecticut. Truly, it was the drive from hell: non-stop, pelting rain and continuous traffic jams from the end of the Jersey Turnpike through New Haven. Horrible, horrible, horrible.

To compound matters, we had the dogs in the back of the car. Mind you, these pets traveled in the height of luxury, thanks to Rod's clever improvisation of two soft dog beds atop blankets. Chloe, always the princess, sank luxuriously into her cushion, rousing herself periodically to peer out the window. Maggie, more restless by nature, pawed us anxiously and refused to settle, making a hellish trip even more miserable.

Today, I might add, we are drugging Maggie before completing our journey to Chatham, Cape Cod.

Last night we arrived in Mystic, exhausted and hungry, not to mention bedraggled from numerous stops in the rain with the dogs. Thankfully, the staff at the local Comfort Inn were pleasant and helpful, for which we were infinitely grateful. We got to our room, fed the dogs, and promptly opened and began draining a bottle of red wine. By the second glass, we realized that food was a necessity--unless we both wanted to pass out on the motel floor. We wanted delivery food; after the ten-hour drive-from-hell, there was no way either one of us would willingly get into a car again.

In some strange state of free-association (exhaustion + wine + empty stomach), I remembered Julia Roberts in the 80s indie flick, Mystic Pizza. It turns out there really is a Mystic Pizza, and they even deliver to motels on the outskirts of town. Well, I'm happy to report that the pizza is as good as its filmic reputation: it's actually the best pizza I've had since we were in Florence five years ago. The crust was flavorful and crispy, the sauce herbal and pungent, and the ingredients absolutely fresh. I especially appreciated the quality cheese, apportioned in just the right amount. The salad also delighted: again, fresh ingredients with some nice touches, such as freshly roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, and crumbled gorgonzola. Thank you, Mystic Pizza, for one ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak, soggy day!

Contentedly fed and watered, we watched an eminently stupid but enjoyable movie on HBO, Blades of Glory. I don't know why I watch trash in hotels that I would never tolerate in my normal, workaday life, but I hear this is a fairly universal phenomenon (to be pondered in a future blog).

And now for the second leg of our journey . . .

Things That Go Screech in the Night

2008-05-08T11:14:00.000-07:00

On Monday night at 4:00 a.m., Maggie needed to go outside. Rod graciously did the honors, trudging outside with the dogs into the cool night air. Half-asleep, I was vaguely aware of their exit when I heard the most peculiar scream issuing from the woods behind our house. Half feline and half goblin, it sounded like a cry and sob combined. Chloe, so I am told, tore back to the house in terror; once inside, she leapt onto the bed and dug in close beside me, not moving a muscle for the next three hours. What can I say? She's an absolutely adorable but perfectly useless dog. It's hard to believe that she's classified by the AKC as a working breed unless one considers reclining on laps a form of labor. Good stalwart Maggie, however, puffed out her chest and answered each successive scream from the woods with a hearty woof. Even in her debilitated state, she was going to face down this mysterious varmint. She was, nonetheless, relieved to accompany Rod back into the house.

We still can't identify the sound, despite listening to audio snippets on the web. We've narrowed down our suspects to a bobcat and screech owl; I think Rod is inclining toward the latter.

I must say that spring has truly sprung in the Downs, between the possums, snakes, and mysterious screaming beasties. Soon the big ugly toads that reside in the creek and serenade us through the night will make an appearance. Often I find one on the front step, puffing up with indignation if I dare to push it aside gently with my toe. I'm told these toads excrete some sort of vaguely psychedelic ooze: neighbors have warned me not to let the dogs lick them (as if). After the toads, come the tortoises, who regularly hazard their lives when crossing the road. I'm happy to report that everyone in the neighborhood makes a collective effort on their behalf, stopping cars and carrying them to safety. As for the mosquitoes that feed upon us all, human and animal alike, no one accords them mercy. I slap the miscreants with impunity, delighting at the little splat of blood (usually mine) that signals their demise. I have no doubt that I will suffer many lowly reincarnations as a result of my terrible attitude, but I draw the line at mosquitoes. Good karma only goes so far.

15 Ria

2008-05-08T11:04:00.001-07:00

Yet another lackluster meal, this one in Washington. We were looking for somewhere to lunch (or brunch) before taking in History Boys at Studio Theatre (see the subsequent post). Our friends suggested 15 Ria, which received an "excellent" rating from Zagat in 2006. Our experience on Sunday suggests that either the kitchen has fallen apart over the last couple of years or that the reviewer was smoking something that obliterated his/her taste buds. In short, our meal was a far cry from the claims touted on 15 Ria's web site ("contemporary American cuisine, using a bounty of fresh local products") nor did it live up to reviews.

Rod and I ordered a vegetarian cannelloni that was undercooked and unappetizing, the dough chewy and the vegetables raw. It was cold to boot. We sent it back to the kitchen. Worried about making our 2.00 p.m. curtain, we ordered omelets, which are quick to prepare. The best thing I can say is that they were edible. Dry, tasteless, they reminded me why I usually refrain from souffles and omelets in restaurants. At home, I can ensure proper execution of these dishes, and I accord eggs the delicate handling they deserve. As a child, I remember my father teaching me how to make proper scrambled eggs, emphasizing light beating and gentle stirring over a low flame. I quickly acquired a taste for slightly runny, tender eggs, not the plastic foam one too often encounters in American restaurants.

While it was pleasant to sit outside on a glorious spring day, the patio service was grudging at best. One waitress was responsible for the outside dining area, and she was sullen and slow. Dishes crawled out of the kitchen, and we twice asked anxiously about the state of our lunches. We had budgeted 90 minutes for lunch, certainly a reasonable time in which to order and eat a meal.

Clearly, we will not return to 15 Ria.

Another Maggie Update

2008-05-03T11:02:00.001-07:00

First, the good news: it appears that Maggie's cancer is in remission. Now the not so good news: she's still suffering side effects from the Cytoxan administered three weeks ago. It's much improved, but problems with incontinence persist, making us worry that permanent damage was done to her bladder or urethra. The oncologist assures us that eventually the symptoms will subside, but we remain anxious.

This morning Maggie cavorted outside with Chloe, running after tennis balls, barking indignantly at squirrels, and, in general, having a grand time. It was wonderful to see her with that much energy, something we never thought we would witness again. We didn't think she would be strong enough to go sailing with us, but after this morning, we're starting to reconsider. I'm not sure she could manage tough sailing in high winds, but I think she will do fine with moderate winds and a partially reefed mainsail. We'll find out next Saturday, when we do our first "shake down" sail of the season.

Follow-Up to a Fishy Tale

2008-05-03T10:46:00.001-07:00

The manager of Annapolis Seafood did indeed contact me via e-mail to say that he was looking into my complaint. Apologies were offered (which I duly here accept). I still won't be returning to Annapolis Seafood anytime soon. On Thursday I stopped by the local Whole Foods in Annapolis and purchased some "west coast sole" (what we used to call "sand dabs"), which was very good and very fresh, not to mention reasonably priced. I'm not thrilled about giving my food dollars to Whole Foods, but right now they seem like the only good alternative for fish.

Of course, with halibut costing nearly $24.00/pound, I'm not sure we will be eating that much fish in the future, unless, of course, I come across the occasional special, as I did on Thursday. I remain divided on the subject of fish from aquafarms. I gather that some species, such as Tilapia, do little damage, while salmon wreak havoc on the environment. For the time being, I'm inclining toward "wild" fish caught from the sea, but it's becoming almost prohibitively expensive, and I'm worried about overfishing. It's difficult to know fully the ethical implications of one's choices.

A Fishy Tale

2008-04-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing to complain about the practice at your Edgewater venue of selling old fish. You advertise on your web site that "we go fishing everyday." Evidently this is not the case.

Several times I have brought home seafood that smells bad: I have returned scallops, rockfish, and cod. Fortunately, the crab cakes have always been fresh. So suspicious have I become that I now demand to smell fish before purchasing it. Today (Saturday, noon) I stopped by, hoping to find something for dinner. Most of the fish in the case looked old, so I asked about the dry scallops,which I smelled. They emitted a foul, offensive odor, and I told the salesperson that Annapolis Seafood had no right selling decrepit fish to its customers. I then asked to speak with the manager.

Initially, he suggested the problem was me, not the scallops ("they smell like that"). I informed him that I grew up fishing on the coast of California and that we regularly bought our fish from the local wharf; moreover, my father owned and ran restaurants. I know the difference between fresh and putrid seafood. The manager then admitted that these scallops came in on Thursday. They were already three days old just from being in the shop; and who knows how long they were out of the water before being shipped to Annapolis Seafood!

Most troubling of all, the manager subsequently disclosed that a fresh shipment had come in that morning, which I asked to inspect. These scallops had the proper briny scent: they smelled like the ocean, not a garbage heap. Clearly, the manager hoped to pawn off the old scallops before putting out the new shipment.

This is appalling, especially given the claims on your web site. Even if the bulk of your customers can't tell the difference (or are too embarrassed to make a fuss), you have no business misrepresenting your seafood. As I said at the outset of this letter, this is not the first time I have encountered questionable fish at your establishment.

I will continue to purchase crab cakes from Annapolis Seafood but nothing else after today's experience, which I am also recording in my blog. We have a dining club in my community, and I will alert folks to your dubious practices. I am also going to talk to chefs and caterers in town to see about alternative sources for seafood.

Sincerely yours,

Dr. Deborah Payne Fisk

Associate Professor of Literature

Affiliate Professor of Theatre

American University

Maggie Update

2008-04-24T10:31:00.001-07:00

The last ten days with Maggie have been gruesome. She had a terrible reaction to Cytoxan, a derivative of mustard gas. As one might expect from such a potent chemical, the side effects can be considerable. Typically Cytoxan induces cystitis-like symptoms, and in Maggie, these were especially egregious, resulting in incontinency and bloody urine.

Several times we thought about putting her down. I was especially distraught at her suffering, something I never wanted for this stoic creature who had already undergone major surgery. She sailed through the first round of chemo, and we expected, perhaps naively, that the second round would follow suit. Alas, that was not to be the case. Even though Cytoxan didn't affect her the first time through, for whatever reason it slammed her during this second course of chemo.

Gradually Maggie is improving, but if the symptoms don't abate by Friday, we will make the hard decision to put her down. The oncologist doesn't seem that concerned: he goes by the old formula of "as long as they're eating and drinking," but we're not convinced, knowing this dog as well as we do.

The Possum in the Trash and the Snake in the Basement

2008-04-11T07:01:00.000-07:00

Husband calls at 9:00 a.m. and informs me there's a possum in the trash can.

Me: And why didn't you let him out?

Rod: I was afraid Maggie might attack him.

Me: Why didn't you put Maggie in the car and then cope with said possum?

Rod: We were late for Maggie's appointment with the oncologist.

And so I found myself staring at a possum who had somehow pried open the lid of our trash can and slid down the recepticle to enjoy a nocturnal feast. I thought that surfing trash cans was largely the domain of raccoons, but the sight before me suggested otherwise. The possum regarded me with the bilious expression of a drunk recovering from a bender. Then I noticed his panting, in addition to a protruding stomach. Was he sick? I gave the trash can, now on its side, a little shake, hoping to encourage Mr. Possum's departure. Instead, he dug in, resting his head on a discarded sport sock.

Another phone exchange ensued.

Me: I think he's dying.

Rod: They're nocturnal. He probably just wants to sleep. Leave him alone and eventually he'll wander off into the woods.

Me: Maybe our trash is killing him. What if he ate one of the socks? What if it's entwined around his intestine?

Rod: Then there's nothing we can do about it, right?

Annoyed by my husband's eminent reasonableness, I ventured outside again to look at Mr. Possum, who was either sleeping or dying--I couldn't tell which. I gently picked up one end of the trash can and tipped it, sliding the marsupial to the opening. He showed his teeth. Testiness I took for a good sign. We regarded each other warily until he closed his eyes, resting his head once again on the discarded sock. Defeated, I went back into the house, certain to find a dead possum in a couple of hours.

As Rod predicted, Mr. Possum wandered away, no doubt irritated by these continuous intrusions. I worried about the effect of coffee grounds and crème fraîche on his digestive track until I read that possums (technically the Virginia Opossum or Didelphis Virginiana) are omnivores, frequently feasting on road kill. They are also impervious to snake venom. I figured that any creature who can withstand the bite of a rattlesnake will survive our yuppie garbage.

Speaking of snakes, on Wednesday night I nearly stepped on one that slithered into the lower basement level of our home. I had just put away my knitting, turned off the BBC evening report, and was making for the stairs when I heard Chloe growl, an uncharacteristic sound for this otherwise docile animal. I looked down to see a coiled snake at my feet. I screamed, jumped, and painfully slammed my hip into the handrail, instigating utter canine chaos as the dogs circled the intruder. Terrified the snake might be poisonous, I grabbed the dogs by their respective collars and dragged them upstairs. I slammed the door shut, breathing hard. What to do? If I left the snake below, it might eventually work its way up the stairs and under the door, finding me in the bedroom. I imagined waking at 3:00 to the sensation of a reptile undulating against me, not the sort of amorous encounter I want in the middle of the night.

I called Rod, who was in Miami on a business trip.

Me: There's a snake in the basement.

Rod: What?

Me: There's a snake in the basement.

Rod: Is it poisonous?

Me: How the hell do I know?

Rod: (thinking for a moment) Either sweep it out of the house or put a bucket over the snake. I'll deal with it when I get home.

Me: The snake might die by then. I don't want it in the house, but I don't want it to die.

Rod: (exasperated) Then sweep it out of the house.

As it turned out, the snake was more terrified of me than I was of it. I grabbed a broom and gingerly poked at the little serpent to see if it attacked or showed fangs. He coiled defensively into a mound. Satisfied the snake wasn't poisonous, I gently pushed him into the garage and then outside. I went upstairs to bed, relieved that I wouldn't have an unexpected companion in the wee hours, at least not of the reptilian variety.

The next day I glanced at the web site for the Chesapeake Bay Program, hoping to identify the interloper. Recognizing the markings, I realized to my horror that I had indeed swept a baby copperhead out of the house. Further research disclosed that the babies are just as venomous as the adults. It was my good fortune to have encountered a cowardly copperhead; still, I'd rather not press my luck.

A condo in the heart of urban D.C. is starting to look good.

Argonautika

2008-04-04T15:12:00.001-07:00

Known for her adaptations of timeless works, such as The Arabian Nights or Ovid's Metamorphosis, Mary Zimmerman turned her sights to the ancient story of Jason and the Argonaut. Back in January we went with eager anticipation to see her latest redaction, this time staged by The Shakespeare Theatre Company. I walked away disappointed: the show, while good, had none of the polish or visual ingenuity of Metamorphosis, which we had seen in New York several years ago.

We saw Argonautika fairly early in the run, and it felt underrehearsed: entrances and exits were sloppy and some technical cues were missed. Movement-based theatre needs especially to be sharp. I was also disappointed with the poor handling of the language. Several actors treated their lines like a casual afterthought, not an essential part of the show, again, a problem I often encounter in theatre based more on movement than script.

Casting actors to fulfill an ideological aim is common these days. One sees, for instance, all-male versions of Sondheim's Company or race-reversed productions of Othello. I don't object to the practice but rather to the assumption that one must be pounded to get the point. Do we really need to see a white Othello and a black Iago to divine the complexities of race in the play? Can Bobby's reluctance to marry at the end of Company only be explained in terms of repressed homosexuality? Zimmerman, alas, was so determined to make goddesses central to her retelling of Jason's story that she cast an absolutely colorless actor in the role. His line readings were flat and without affect, as were those of the men who accompany him on the journey. The women playing the goddesses were, by contrast, energetic, funny, smart, and sexy, dominating the stage figuratively and literally (many of their scenes take place on a platform overlooking the exploits of the bland males). Okay, we get it: goddesses rule, not masculine heroics. Zimmerman clearly wants us to rethink this ancient tale; rather than "Jason and the Argonauts," she's giving us "Jason, the hapless plaything of Hera and Athena," with the usual philippic on the evils of empire, colonies, and warfare.

Maggie Update

2008-03-30T13:50:00.001-07:00

One month into chemotherapy, Maggie is thriving. She had an ultra-sound on Thursday, and she is completely clear: no tumors, no swollen lymph nodes. We're astonished and delighted. She has weathered four treatments with little more than occasional lethargy and a runny tummy, the latter easily remedied with a half-dose of Immodium. Even the dreaded Doxyrubicin exerted little untoward effect: the following day, Maggie bounced around the front lawn with Chloe and bolted her food.

Mags did lose weight about two weeks into treatment, a loss she could not afford on her already painfully thin frame. Frantic, I increased her meals to three times a day, giving her generous portions of salmon, high-quality dog food, and even rice when her stomach was a bit loose. A small bowl of ultra-rich vanilla ice cream at bedtime provides additional calories, not to mention untold pleasure. Every dog I've owned loves ice cream--they'd eat themselves silly on it given half a chance. My efforts are paying off. Slowly Maggie is gaining weight and looking more herself.

It's a cliche about every day being a gift, but so often we take our beloved pets, like our family and friends, for granted, expecting they will always be around. We know that remission won't last long, but as Rod says, we'll enjoy every extra moment we have with this lovable, affectionate dog. And who knows? Rod met a man the other day whose dog was diagnosed with the same virulent form of Lymphoma that plagues Maggie. That dog too was given 4-6 months with treatment but is still in remission a year later and doing just fine. Maybe Maggie too will beat the odds.

Mr. Beau's Work Ethic

2008-03-14T07:57:00.001-07:00

Truth be told, Mr. Beau does not have the best work ethic in the world. One hears frequently in the horse world of equines that "know their job" or "get the job done." Alas, Mr. Beau is not one of these heralded beasts.

An opinionated horse, Mr. Beau lets me know exactly what he wants to do and when. Best time for work (that dreaded word)? Early afternoon, around an hour before feeding time. He likes to wrap things up before the other horses are brought in from the fields; that way, he can get to his feed bucket first, thereby maintaining his premier status.

In hot weather, Beau's desires and mine especially conflict. Typical for this region, the horses are out in the pastures all night and brought in around 8:00 a.m. so they can spend the heat of the day in a nice shaded stall, replete with a box fan. As Rod frequently remarks, these horses live better than many people in Third World countries, to which I readily and guiltily assent. Despite these creature comforts, Beau conveys his extreme displeasure with early morning rides; after all, he's been outside all night, which is clearly exhausting and debilitating. How dare I expect him to do anything other than nap? Of course, I think riding at 7:00 a.m. is far saner than attempting a hack in mid-day heat, especially in July and August--and therein lies the conflict. I am sorry to confess that Beau usually wins through passive resistance, barely placing one hoof in front of the next and sighing perceptibly. It could be worse: I know a woman whose horse grunts audibly whenever she gains five pounds, a veritable talking scale.

We're more of one mind when it comes to equine disciplines. Beau hates flat work, especially dressage, which he regards as akin to water boarding. Taking a cue from George Bush, I explain that neither activity technically qualifies as torture, but Beau just doesn't believe me. Put the old boy in front of a jump, though, and you get a different horse. At Southwind, where I board him, his quicksilver transformation from slacker to workaholic has become an ongoing joke. Onlookers who have watched me urge Beau fruitlessly and laboriously through serpentines and 20 meter circles do a double take at the sight of the little grey thoroughbred, ears pricked, eyes alert, and body quivering with excitement, as he pops over rails. Even slightly elevated ground poles do it for him. I have to admit I share Beau's preference in this regard, but I keep explaining to him that dressage is good for both of us, sort of an equine version of taking your vitamins or doing push-ups. He just gives me that long sideways glance, a combination of skepticism and incredulity ("you expect me to do that?).

If the weather is reasonable, which to Beau means anything below 75 degrees, he happily hacks through the woods and fields around Southwind Farm. If it's muddy, humid, or, worst of all, buggy, then this activity goes from pleasant to onerous for both of us. I've endured dirty looks, pinned ears, and truly stupid behavior that I know is deliberate on his part. Don't even begin to explain to me about animals' inability to think ahead or make conscious choices. As anyone who has ever owned a horse knows, they are capable of truly diabolical behavior. Beau can be lazy, but he's also whip smart. If we're out on a day that is too humid, then Beau will suddenly "spook" at bushes or farm equipment he's passed previously with nary a glance. He will run relay races with horses in nearby fields, going from a stately walk to a bolting gallop in two seconds flat. He will, in short, make my life hell for forcing him to do other than what he wants.

So why do I keep the worthless beast? Well, he's actually a very good all-around horse for a middle-aged woman: I don't need a wild eyed four-year-old. Even when Beau bolts a few feet, he stops quickly. He's sending a message, not trying to murder me, which is more than you can say for some horses. Usually Beau takes pretty damn good care of me. My former trainer Carol once drily pointed out (as I hung off Beau's neck in a crumbled heap), "Many horses would have taken advantage of your poor position." Beau, however, feeling me fall forward as we cleared the jump, eased to a gentle walk and then stopped, giving me a chance to climb back into the saddle. He did turn his head to shoot me a disgusted look, but as Carol observed, he had the grace and generosity to save his rider.

In our way, we've come to love each other deeply. Beau nuzzles and licks me, even though he's not an especially affectionate horse by nature. When we've had a good ride, he leans his chin on my shoulder, giving me a chance to drape an arm around his neck or lay my cheek against his. He sighs contentedly, proud that he's done a good job--on his terms, of course. Then there are the kisses I taught him, our usual good-bye ritual unless I've asked for something untoward, like flat work or, heaven forfend, riding in hot, sticky weather. Last night, irritated at having to work in a lesson for the first time in weeks, Beau showed me his bottom, not his pretty nose when I came to say good-bye. And not for the first time did I think about having a horse with a dubious work ethic.