Category Archives: Travel

A couple of weeks ago I made my first visit to JoAnn’s new digs on Shore Road in Monument Beach, MA. It sits just over the Bourne Bridge, so while it’s still technically Cape Cod, it’s nowhere near the distance of Provincetown. She recently moved into a charming cottage and has already put her indelible stamp on the place, as she can’t help but do. As I passed over the bridge and turned out of the roundabout, I felt the customary peace that comes from being by the shore wash over me. It was the joy of being back with an old friend.

It was a Saturday of work and fun, as I arrived to a cacophony of action. A table was being worn down and weathered to emulate something seen on Pinterest (further proof that nothing good ever came of Pinterest.) Friends and family gathered for an impromptu pizza party, and I got to see Wally and Carolyn and their kids (including Brandon, seen below with his Grandma.)

Two of my favorite people together in one magnificent shot! (And Wally’s arm.)

As day turned to evening, a fire was built in the backyard. The sun had gone, and with it the warmth of the day. We sat around talking as the kids roasted marshmallows. Fall was about to arrive, and it was one of JoAnn’s favorite seasons. We made plans for her Fall Party and talked about preparing the garden space for next year. We liked to think ahead, to plan for good things to come. It was what kept us both going.

I went to bed contentedly tired, and the bed lulled me quickly to sleep. Just being near the shore does that. It’s something in the sea breeze.

As the sun rose again, the house felt quieter in the morning. A padded around the living room, examining a window of crystals that captured and fractured the light into a multitude of rainbows. Mermaids dotted the interior, and one grand one swam on the outside of the house itself, announcing the presence of its new resident.

She was home again.

The anniversary of my birth dawned in sunny splendor as Andy and I made our way to Tavern on the Green for a birthday brunch. It was our first time at the establishment, and it was lovely, if a little hot. When we asked if the outside seating was shaded from the hot sun, the hostess looked at us skeptically and said with more than a little foreboding, ‘For now…’ I asked if there was more shade inside, and she said yes. Another gentleman then took us to the ‘shaded’ area which was a glass room that acted perfectly as a greenhouse. Not one to make a fuss over seating, we sucked it up, and soaked in a lot of sun. An average meal was saved by the incredible birthday cake seen below – a fluffy bit of ricotta decadence.

From there we walked back toward the hotel along Fifth Avenue, pausing for a piss-pot stop at the Plaza – because there’s no finer place to pee than the Plaza.

A cologne-sampling revelry at Bergdorf Goodman introduced me to the latest By Kilian (and at a higher price point than Tom Ford’s Private Blends, if you can even get your head around that). For that reason I kept the AmEx tucked safely away.

A matinee, and the very last performance, of ‘Bullets Over Broadway’ formed the highpoint of midday, and then it was back to the hotel for a bit of a siesta before a very late dinner at the NoMad. It was one of the finest dining experiences I’ve had in a very long time, and it’s my new favorite stomping ground in New York. No matter what it takes, I am hell-bent on staying there (it’s a hotel as well).

It was a very fine birthday. Thanks to Mom and Dad and Andy for a wonderful birthday gift.

Even with the witty warnings of Jacob Tomsky in his excellent read ‘Heads in Beds’ I’ve always loved a hotel bathroom. I don’t care if they clean the glasses with furniture polish or pee into the cologne bottles of douche-bag travelers (you can’t unscrew a Tom Ford bottle even if you try), I can suspend the realities of what monstrous dirtiness goes on there with the pristine appearance of sterility and cleanliness. And no matter how gross any hotel bathroom might seem, it’s really nothing compared with some of the dumps I frequented in college, and some apartments that some friends still reside in.

For our recent stay at 70 Park Avenue, the bathroom was this heavenly slice of paradise looking out at the Empire State Building, and resplendent in bright tile, crisp marble, and C.O. Bigelow accoutrements. Some bathrooms get short shrift in hotels, particularly in New York, but this one was a long, lean, beauty-enhancing machine.

When you get into a hotel room, you lock the door, and you know there is a secrecy, there is a luxury, there is fantasy. There is comfort. There is reassurance. ~ Diane von Furstenberg

On the Amtrak ride along the Hudson River, I scrolled through the offerings on my phone. There were two decent tickets available for ‘Kinky Boots‘ that evening, and since we had no plans, I booked them. I’d wanted Andy to see it ever since my Mom and I had been blown away by the great Billy Porter, and since it was my birthday weekend I was feeling generous and treated him to a performance. (He did, after all, get us tickets to the last performance of ‘Bullets Over Broadway‘ but I’m getting ahead of myself.)

For now, the train chugged along the river, and I watched as Andy alternately gazed at the surroundings and tried to sleep amid the raucous debauchery of a group of Yankees fans. They felt that 9 AM was the ideal time to start drinking and discussing the game that was to take place in a few hours. I popped in my earbuds and let Sam Cooke take me away.

My ambivalence toward New York has been made known, but I planned this trip a little differently, allowing ample rest time for Andy, securing a decent room in a decent hotel, and spacing out shows and dinners so nothing was rushed or hastened. Coupled with a spot of beautiful August weather, it came together as one of our favorite trips to the city.

It began with the sensational environs of the 70 Park Avenue Hotel. This heavenly Kimpton property gave us a corner room on the top floor, with a balcony that looked right up towards the Empire State Building. It was my first time staying in an NYC room with a balcony and it was every bit as wonderful as you might imagine. Along with a few cocktail coupons, and a magnificent basket of fruits and cheeses, the Kimpton folks made this birthday boy feel cherished and celebrated. I cannot sing their praises enough, and while I tend to try different hotels when traveling, I will be keeping the Kimpton hotels as my first preference.

After a dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, Rossini’s, we made our way to the Al Hirschfield Theater and I was thrilled to see that Billy Porter was still starring in ‘Kinky Boots’ – he gave another fantastic performance, and won Andy over.

We walked back to the hotel on a beautiful evening, returning to our room and looking out at the blinking lights of the city. On nights like this, I loved New York.

My eyes are closed and I’ve nothing more to say

But I’m so willing to give it all away…

The scent of pot, skunk-like and pungent, drifted up the open staircase. It felt like the college-age version of ‘Tales from the City’ and not unfittingly so, as this was the same city. It was dark, but the magical multi-chambered jewel-box of San Francisco sparkled in the distance, even through the foggy night. Shadowy figures passed me on the stairs.  Whispers and laughter and the flush of youth so palpable its headiness matched the marijuana.  I hopped a train to take me further into the city, away from such magnificent madness.

Heaven only knows, at your every turn a scandal…

There aren’t many moments when I’ve been afraid in my life. Most of my fear comes in subsequent waves, irrationally washing over me long after the fact when it should have started any adrenaline-pumping. That summer, Andrew Cunanan was going on his killing spree, starting with a gay man in San Diego, and ultimately working his way across the country to Miami, where it culminated with the cold-blooded murder of Gianni Versace outside his Ocean Drive mansion. That hadn’t happened yet, and as I sat waiting for my friend, the memory of a hand-made poster of Mr. Cunanan’s vague visage, seen earlier on the door of a bar in the Castro, suddenly haunted me. A serial killer that seemed to be targeting gay men? As if we didn’t have enough to deal with.

My friend arrived, and we spent an enjoyable time on the town. Worries of Mr. Cunanan faded away, as it’s difficult to be so concerned when surrounded by good friends and fun. Still, there was tension in the air of that summer. It crept in with the night, and lingered long after the day broke. It was the tension of evil lurking in the world.

Sometimes the nights of summer are darker than the nights of winter. How strange – and terrifying – that it should be so.

The very first Kimpton Hotel I stayed in was the Hotel Triton in San Francisco, CA about a decade ago. It was funky, fabulous, and filled with friendly staff and whimsical fervor. I was instantly impressed. Since that time, the Kimpton brand has taken over the country in the best possible way, creating boutique hotels in a number of cities, and offering unique experiences centered around good, old-fashioned customer service. It is the latter point, and its accompanying attention to personal detail and care, that sets this brand apart from the rest of the hotel chains.

For my birthday weekend in New York, though properties like the Waldorf Towers and the Standard originally called to me, I thought back to that first Kimpton stay, and the subsequent stays I’ve enjoyed at several locations (including this spectacular time at the Hotel Rouge in Washington, DC) so I switched gears and looked into the Kimpton selection. Ultimately, while I was intrigued by The Muse, I found a happy reservation at 70 Park Avenue, and that’s where I’ll be spending my birthday weekend. Coupled with a performance of ‘Bullets Over Broadway’ – its last, sadly – I’m looking forward to a fun way of continuing on the frightening path into my upper 30’s. The way-upper-30’s… as in one more before 40.

The world seemed a lot bigger back in 1990. It was my first time out of the continental United States, and I was part of a People-to-People program visiting then then-Soviet Union. It was also my first time being away from home for such a duration (three weeks) but after first night jitters, I had settled into the group and began to enjoy myself. In many ways, it was the first time I realized that I could charm and impress, because I never quite felt that way growing up. Here, surrounded by people outside my family (aside from Suzie and her Dad) I could blossom in a way that had gone unnoticed at best, downright trampled at worst.

The first thing I noticed upon touching down was that everything was in full-color. It was a novice’s awareness of the obvious. Russia would not be in black and white or sepia tones as I’d always seen on historical news reports and textbooks. It was a living, breathing country, with trees just as green as the ones back home. I don’t know why that was so innocently jarring for me, but it portended a few weeks of eye-opening experiences and badly-needed growth. We traveled the country, with stops in Moscow and Leningrad (Saint Petersburg) and on the way we had a few opportunities to meet and interact with other kids our age. These moments found us forging bonds between different nations, and different worlds, and while it shrunk my conception of the earth, it also expanded my horizons. There was one person I remember to this day, and I still can’t fully explain why.

They called him Rat. A tall but agile boy, he was the unofficial leader of the pack. We were visiting a summer camp of sorts, and he was one of the shining stars whom the counselors nodded at, and who commanded the respect and adulations of everyone around him. Maybe it was that magnetism that drew us all to him, or maybe he needed us as much as we needed him.

Certain people, and it’s true of kids as much as adults, are born to take the lead. Their charisma, their attitude, and sometimes their hunger places them in such positions. In the case of Rat, it was a role he seemed to relish, and also take very seriously. The others clearly deferred to him. I just thought he was a nice guy. Too often, people in power could be mean or condescending to others. He never appeared that way. He defended the defenseless, and fought for what was fair. In the limited interactions I had with him I saw that.

Breaking free from our role-models-of-America poses, we were left alone with him and some other kids, and reverted to how young we really were (about 14). We escaped the confines of the rooms in which we were supposed to stay, and went outside for a walk. When there was danger of exposure or being caught, Rat took us through a back passage-way, ducking behind foliage and creating one of the more exciting moments of that trip. It was a minor infraction of being where we weren’t supposed to be, but I trusted him when others hesitated, and went ahead when others stayed behind.

Nothing came of it – we simply had some time with kids our own age and no adult supervision, and when we returned at the end of the day just a little bit later than everyone else, no one was the wiser, and no one got into any trouble. It was Rat’s protective stance of us that stayed with me. A bit of transparent affection that was at odds with the emotional armor I wore at all times.

Before we left, we sat in a circle talking with him. He was inclusive of everyone, and we were all under his spell. He waved goodbye as we took our leave, smiling and surrounded by his minions. Out of all the people I met in the Soviet Union that summer, he’s one of the few who still haunts my heart. I wonder what became of him, what he went on to do with his life, if he still had it.

When I returned to the States, the radio was playing this Roxette song. Though I was in no way in love or even remotely attracted to him, it reminded me of Rat, and of that summer. He had unlocked something, and I carefully lifted the lid with reverence and reserve. As the bus neared my hometown, I noticed that the fields of corn had grown tall. Soon I would see that the hollyhocks in our backyard stretched to the sky, higher than my head, but I had grown a little as well. Or maybe the world wasn’t as big as I thought it was.

The sea roses were in full bloom, and around every corner the heavy fragrance of Rosa rugosa balanced the salty sea air. One of the first things I did upon getting my bearings was to find the walkway to the ocean, and its accompanying cache of roses, and inhale deeply. It reset the system. It started the vacation. And it brought me back to the shore.

Our accommodations were standard seaside fare, with a couple of pools on the property. As mentioned, they let us into our rooms a little before check-in (impatient kids have a way of working wonders with hotel staff) but beyond that, the staff was exceptionally friendly and efficient. If I can find the time, I’ll write up a TripAdvisor review. Otherwise, these pool pics are all I’ve got.

As nice as the pools were, it was the beach that was the destination, and Noah and Emi wasted no time in getting out to the sand.

Sometimes there is no greater balm upon the soul than that which comes from watching your niece and nephew play on a sunny beach, but a sunset in Cape Cod can come pretty close.

As can dinner with your husband, a dear friend, and the family.

By the time the day came to a close, we had eased into the relaxation that only a vacation can afford. That, and a seafood dinner, made for a good night of sleep.

The sun settled over the water, and I settled into a pillow.

When spring proves stubborn, and the skies are wild with wind and cold against the skin, alternatives to the beach and the Marginal Way are a welcome distraction. On this day, we made our way to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, back over the Piscataqua Bridge, and one exit away from Maine. A couple of friends had recommended that we try the charming town, which promised a collection of unique shops and restaurants. Even at this late stage of the OGT game, there were uncharted waters just nearby.

There were shops of flowers and antiques and objects from lands on the other side of the world.

Pillows and sculptures and Buddhas of wood stood beside salt cellars and wine shops and purveyors of vintage clothing.

It seemed to be a town friendly to bicyclists, a place perfect for smiling blossoms, backed by a cozy harbor.

There was a gentleman’s store too – Old As Adam – that offered a small but quaint selection of manly wares, such as these wondrous spectacles.

We wound our way around this shopping district, anchored by a church and a bookstore, and the clouds cleared, revealing a bright bit of blue and a steeple resplendent in white, gleaming in the sun.

It was a morning well-spent, a quick trip across the bridge to another town on the sea, and the mid-point of our Maine journey this year.

Last week at this time I was boarding a train for New York City for a Broadway weekend with Mom. Though the first two days threatened rain, we somehow managed to avoid most of it – and for the major downpours (which weren’t even all that major) we happened to be in theaters or restaurants or bed. This NYC excursion is grand tradition that actually goes back even further than I initially recalled. I was reminded that we attended the original productions of ‘Lost in Yonkers’ (with Mercedes Ruehl and Kevin Spacey) and ‘Six Degrees of Separation’ ( with Stockard Channing) on a trip with Suzie and her Mom, so these theatrical escapades have been happening since the 80’s.

This time around we began with a little shopping along Fifth Avenue, peeking in at Rockefeller Center where Mom found some of her favorite chocolates, recounting how she had taken my brother and me to the skating rink on one visit, only to find that it was closed (after my brother had brought his skates.)

After a bit of window shopping, we had a lunch of sushi at Soba Nippon.

From there we tried out the fragrance counters at Saks and Bergdorf’s, where I briefly entertained the idea of my first Jo Malone bottle (I did not indulge).

We made our way up Madison, to the Tom Ford flagship store. I’ll admit to some well-reasoned trepidation upon entering the powerfully reserved yet stately storefront. This was, arguably, my favorite designer (even if I have to be able to afford one of his suits or even his shoes) – and by far my favorite perfumer. My collection of Private Blends occupies an entire shelf in my bathroom. It was like dropping off a coke-head in a swimming pool filled with the white stuff. A winding staircase led up to a room filled with fragrance. Mirrors multiplied the rich apothecary-like glass, and the scent of elegance and sophistication drifted through the air. I asked about the new ‘London’ Private Blend, but New York did not have it yet.

I walked down the hallway into another finely appointed room, where a silk dressing gown hung on a mannequin. I felt the sleeve with my fingers, and I may have sighed out loud a little. But it was nothing compared to the gasp I emitted upon seeing the shoe room. I can’t get into it now because the price points make me too sad. Despite that, and my ultimate act of resilience in not purchasing anything (hey, I can always hop a train and go back), there was something to be taken away from being around all that beauty.

We reluctantly left the world of Mr. Ford, and returned to get ready for dinner and our first show, ‘Mothers & Sons.’