Category Archives: Travel

Even if you’re coming from a place where the temperature is only eight degrees, nineteen degrees isn’t much better, nor much different when it’s only seven in the morning. Such was the case when I arrived in Washington, DC to surprise my pal Chris this weekend. A flight that departs at 5:20 AM is early for a lot of people, but I’ll always choose an earlier flight to avoid possible delays. Once things start getting backed up, it’s difficult to right it again. This time it was smooth flying, and I got in a few minutes ahead of schedule. The featured pic is from the Metro stop at the airport, as the sun began to rise.

This red bear sculpture was right across from my hotel, the Fairfax Embassy Row – which I’ll not review here since they tried to be so nice (but check out my upcoming TripAdvisor entry for the reason why I had to switch rooms at 1 AM – yes, AM.)

Fortunately all that fun was yet to come. On Friday, Darcey and I set the plan into motion. I scoped out the Mayflower Hotel early in the day for possible places to hang out and hide. Darcey had made reservations at the newly redone Edgar, and the plan was to have them sit down, then have Darcey come out and get me, at which point I would walk up to the table and sit down. (My friend JoAnn and I did this trick when we surprised Kim in Las Vegas – which means  it has probably run its course as far as surprise set-ups go – but there was enough left in it to work this time.)

I recycled a holiday outfit for the evening, then set out for the Mayflower.

The site of former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer’s transactions with a high-cost call-girl, the hotel is slightly tainted, but still gorgeously opulent. Marble floors and gilded accents lend it a regal flair, while rows of beveled mirrors line the main hallway.

I got into my second floor position, one flight above the restaurant, and neatly hidden from view. I waited on the couch there for their arrival. There is no greater anticipation than the one that comes before meeting an old cherished friend. Especially when it’s a surprise.

Darcey arrived first, and we chatted for a few minutes before Chris got there (not surprisingly late). She went back down when he finally arrived, texted me that it was time, and I walked in to surprise him. We pulled it off flawlessly (I guess texting has its benefits), and enjoyed a leisurely dinner filled with wine, one amazing crab soup, and the best company and conversation I’ve been lucky to have in a while.

They make a good couple, and one of the greatest joys for a friend is seeing another friend find love and happiness in a partner.

After dinner, Chris and I stopped at the Jefferson for a nightcap at Quill. A couple of cognac side-cars later, we closed the place down. I was back in Washington, the site of so many memories going back as far as I can remember. Those ghosts were content now, or so I hoped, and, fortified by the company of one of my oldest friends (and the guy who performed our wedding ceremony) I felt safe. The surprise weekend in Washington was under-way.

If all goes according to plan (and assuming a winter storm hasn’t dashed all my plans as it did for a Miami trip several years ago), I should be in Washington, DC at the time of this posting. (If it hasn’t gone according to plan, I’ll have to quickly put this post into the ‘Drafts’ folder and hold onto it for another time.) The reason I haven’t written about this excursion to DC is because I’m hoping to surprise my friend Chris, whom I haven’t seen in about a year. With the help of his girlfriend, we’re hoping to pull the old Las Vegas switcheroo and shock him at dinner. Depending on whether my flight gets in, and Darcey and I can pull this off, it should be a fun time.

When plotting out possible events for the weekend, I told Darcey that my only real goal this time around was to stop by the Botanical Gardens, because I need a dose of tropical greenery, a quick piece of tranquility in this blustery season. Last year when I was in DC, it was brutally cold, and I’m not expecting much of a difference this time. It will take another month or two before it starts feeling Spring-like, and while patient folks may have waited until then to make the trip, I just couldn’t. It’s been too long.

So here I am, writing this in hopeful anticipation that I make it down there, thinking good thoughts and praying that Mother Nature will be kind. It would be good to see my old friends again…

One of my spring options for getting out of dodge is Washington, DC. I haven’t been there in about a year, so it might be time. Here’s a pair of reviews from my Trip Advisor contributions – both for fine lodging options ~ The Mandarin Oriental and The Dupont Circle Hotel:

From the gorgeous lobby, to the perfectly appointed rooms, the Mandarin Oriental is an exquisite hotel for when you’re looking for something special. I was lucky enough to stay for a wedding and got the wedding rate – not sure how exorbitant it might be otherwise, but for a splurge, and the impeccable service and sundries that go along with it, it’s not a bad deal. Easily the best part is the staff, who were accommodating with an early check-in, and oversaw every detail and question – from cabs and directions, to complimentary fruit bowls and artisanal chocolates, to a bookmark on the book I left beside the bed. That sort of attention to detail, and the anticipation of pleasing a customer, is never unappreciated. Room is nicely laid-out, and the king-size bed was comfortably adorned, but it was the marble bathroom that is truly impressive – immense and expansive, it was a spa-like experience in itself. The shower and bath amenities were nicely selected, and generously proportioned – enough for two people to use twice during a day, and helpfully replenished for both the bath and the shower area.

Additionally, while never a big spa person, I decided to try the facilities here since the Mandarin has been so widely touted as having such luxurious spa amenities. And they were absolutely well-deserved. A pristine and grand swimming pool surrounded by several large circular settees provided a perfect respite from the outside world, while the sauna and steam-room were clean and perfectly kept. The showers were elegant, and the entire atmosphere instilled a sense of peace and calm, from the comfortable low-lighting, to the ambient soothing music. I would go back for the spa alone. The wedding was held in one of the spacious ballrooms, and this too was perfect – sumptuous, yet elegantly restrained and refined. All in all, a wonderful stay at an excellent establishment, highly-worthy of all its accolades.

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It’s been way too long since I’ve been in a hotel room. I think the last was The Out in New York, and that was way back in November. In other words, I’m drying to get out and stay somewhere away from home. The heightened hospitality, coupled with the clinical sterility speaks to me in a way that no other juxtaposition can muster. The anonymity is appealing too, the way you can get lost amid the nameless faces and cookie-cutter bodies.

Several fantasies have presented themselves in my head – the first being some secluded wintry get-away at a ski lodge. Not that I’d have anything to do with skiing – I simply want to lounge around by a cozy fireplace, sipping some brown liquor, and wearing a sweater that borders on the ridiculous. The second involves a longer journey – a warm, sunny, secluded beach where the water is turquoise and the cocktails come with colorful umbrellas. The third is even further – the West Coast – somewhere in California, where complaints of a cold-spell mean it went down to fifty degrees at night. It’s been too many years since I was in San Francisco… and San Diego… and I’ve never even been to Los Angeles.

One might mistakenly assume that I would love a gay hotel, and in part that’s correct. There’s certainly a different comfort level staying at a predominantly gay establishment than some place that bans gay weddings and flies the Confederate flag. For me, though, it’s never been a priority. When The Out first opened, billing itself as the first gay, but straight-friendly hotel, I was intrigued, but also worried that it might be some over-the-top gay Disneyworld. It’s so easy to go overboard when one of our symbols is the rainbow (a definite design no-no). Happily, The Out manages to be both overtly gay, and understated and elegant at the same time.

I walked into the lobby and heard the distinctive voices of two drag queens doing a Madonna/Lady Gaga mash-up. Suddenly, I knew I was where I belonged. They waved and said hello as they passed by on their break. It was probably the best greeting to a hotel that I’ve ever received. Waiting to check in, I noticed that this was probably the most diverse collection of clientele that I’ve seen in a while: gay, straight, frumpy, refined, couples, friends, singles, young, old – and from every walk of life, speaking Spanish and French and English in a zillion assorted accents.

The hotel itself is a veritable oasis in the midst of the grubby insanity of Times Square – with several outdoor areas lending a lush tropical Miami-feel, combined with a modern and stylish sensibility. On the days I was there, it was nice enough to sit outside and make use of these spaces. When the weather does finally turn, however, there is an enclosed atrium with two jacuzzis, right next to the spa, which offers a steam room and sauna. While all these amenities are nice, they would mean nothing if the service didn’t rise to the occasion, and I’m happy to say that the staff may be the best part of The Out experience. Knowing how to make each guest feel as if they are the hotel’s number one priority is the trade trick of hospitality. That makes all the difference. When I visit New York, I usually don’t stay at the same hotel twice, but The Out may change that.

PS – Stick around for the shower shots… And the naked lounging shots.

Today I take the train into Manhattan, and my first stay at The Out Hotel. A full review will come following that stay (I haven’t decided whether it’ll go up here or on my TripAdvisor profile), but for now we’ll just go with what their website has put forth:

THE OUT NYC is New York’s first straight-friendly urban resort located in the epicenter of gay life – Hell’s Kitchen, steps from Times Square and Chelsea. When you stay at THE OUT NYC, great things will happen. Live your own unforgettable experience with the best of lodging, dining, nightlife and design all in one place – THE OUT NYC.

When one is in town for a Madonna concert, The Out seems the most appropriate place to stay. (I’ve also read rave reviews on the comfort of their beds, so it’s a double win.) As for all this free publicity I’ve been giving places, if you start to see ads popping up on this site you’ll understand why. If you’re good at something, never do it for free.

Here are a few photographs that I took when in Falmouth, MA this past weekend. They are rather unrelated, to each other, and to anything else I had on deck. Since they didn’t fit into any other place, I’ve assembled them here in a Post for Misfit Photos. In many ways, this is sort of where my brain has been of late too, so the haphazard collection is indicative of a scrambled mind I’m trying to make into something sensible. The feature pic is of a quahog. Pronounced ‘ko-hog’, these are big clams that are stuffed with a traditional stuffing and clam mix, then served with some lemon wedges, hot pepper sauce, and clarified butter. Like oysters, it’s the accompaniment that makes the whole thing for me.

The second photo is of a sign and sentiment that I hold near and dear to my heart. I’m not saying that it’s right or fair or the way the world should be, but it is largely true. Appearance does matter, and sometimes the clothes do make the man. The third photo, below, was just something that struck me as slightly suggestive. It’s a gnarled juniper hanging over the sidewalk along Main Street. Something about its curves and crevices lends it an erotic aspect.

The fourth and final photo is simply the sun peering through a tree still holding on to its leaves. In the evidence of its brilliance…

By the sea, the light is always prettier – and by the Cape, it may be the prettiest. The late-afternoon sun, caught in the hours before we save some light for later and turn the clocks back, strikes its golden rays upon the tops of buildings and the bottoms of clouds, igniting them boldly against a sky of cool blue. It’s a juxtaposition that only seems to burn so brilliantly at this time of the year.

On a recent trip to Falmouth, MA, I was wandering along Main Street when this cathedral, and the water behind it, silently called out to me, drawing me closer to the edge, and to a hidden verdant sanctuary beneath a setting sun. I had an hour to kill before meeting my friend JoAnn, and so I took a few minutes to walk off the beaten path and find this little cathedral by the edge of a salt pond. No one was around at the time, and the noise of the street dissipated as I crossed over to another building.

A garden opened up in a small pocket of space and time, nestled amid the stone, between the sky and water, and a squirrel was suddenly screaming at me from the high branches of a tree. I turned to walk away, but he was adamant, clucking at me repeatedly, as if begging me to stay. I paused and walked back, looking out at the water again. What is it that you want, annoying creature? Why have you called me back here?

A cross rose in the middle of the path leading out. I stopped to examine its surface, lichens and mosses colorfully ruffling their way over the rough stone, returning it to the place from whence it came, from where we all came.

Portals and peeks of paths, a skip and a throw across a glittering pond of water, and the sun now drawing back into slumber, retreat. Another eye opens, another way to live.

The light of the chapel glows warm and amber as the outside dusk descends. Inside there is a garden too, something to see us through the winter, in the name of Saint Barnabas.

I am not quite ready for Winter.

It has stood for fifty years, over half a life-time, and it will likely be around for long after I’m gone. We stay such a short time here.

My most favorite part of the Farmer’s Museum was the garden and the animals. Both came toward the end of the village. The herb garden was usually buzzing with bees and fluttering butterflies. A small stone path led through the fragrant plants, and there was something deeply comforting in the beauty and the order found in the layout of that small parcel of land.

On this visit, the gardens had mostly wilted and browned in the frosty nights, but there were a few blooms that remained on the warm-for-October day.

Back when I was kid, it was the animals that most excited me, and I could spend hours just watching them go about their business, chasing the chickens, or waiting for the turkeys to meander my way. I don’t know why they held such a fascination – maybe because I grew up with a single German shepherd, far from any farm, and this was the most exotic thing in the world to me.

Whatever the case, part of that allure still held, and I stood watching the livestock for a few minutes longer than anything else at the museum that day.

After a brief moment of reflection in the church, we got back on the road to Sharon Springs, Lake Otsego on our right. It was almost time for our four-course dinner at the American Hotel…

Most kids don’t like being forced to tour museums and historical sites (and as for the latter I may be in agreement – the only thing I wanted to see in St. Augustine was the beach, but we had to endure hours of historical forts and canons first), but for the most part I enjoyed the museums we went to as children – especially natural history or scientific stuff. When there were re-enactments of historical jobs, with costumes and everything, I was even more interested. (I still remember Sturbridge Village and Colonial Williamsburg quite fondly.) So the Historic Village at the Farmer’s Museum in Cooperstown was a highlight of my childhood vacation days. From the heat of the blacksmith to the rhythmic workings of the wood-cutter, I would watch as they carried out the way life was in the 1800’s.

Far more than most children, I lived largely in my head as a kid. It gave me a quiet self-possession, even as it read as ‘arrogant’ and ‘aloof’. I didn’t care – the worlds I could create, aided and abetted by the fantasy of costume and make-believe, were somehow more meaningful and authentic than the mundane reality of school and sports.

It was always more fun to pretend to be someone else, to walk in someone else’s shoes, or to follow a foreign path. The idea of stepping into the past – and leaving the present – was an unconscious desire for escape from the person I really was.