Category Archives: Travel

This weekend The Delusional Grandeur Tour is scheduled to hit Cape Cod, but apparently so is a Nor’Easter because God forbid I get away this winter. As such, a contingency plan has been put into effect, with provisions being laid up in Boston in case I can’t make it out of that fair city. (I will get there on or before Friday, depending on the weather trajectory – the trick will be getting to the Cape in the event of a major snowstorm.) I’ve weathered many snowy times in Boston, and the condo is always a cozy place to do so, and if I can’t make it to the Cape we will simply re-schedule.

My fingers remain crossed, however, despite Mercury continuing its debilitating retrograde motion (hanging on until the 25^th!) At the time of this writing, it’s too soon to tell which way the tide will turn. Hang on, little tomatoes, hang tight to the vine – at least until the scent of spring is in the air again.

Tomorrow, The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star hits its first New York City stop, with my friend Chris as Guest Manager. What he lacks in punctuality he makes up for in spirit, and he is one of the few people who consistently restores my faith in humanity when it’s faltering. This weekend we are spending an evening at ‘Queen of the Night’ (which requires ‘Gala Attire’ – fine for me, but often an issue for others, including the guy who wore the same blue t-shirt for at least two semesters of college). Following that, the night is wide open, and the Tour rolls on with the same piss and pizzazz we’ve employed since the first time we met two decades ago. Chris had long hair then, but the same wide-eyed exuberance for changing the world that he does now. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the kid dressed head-to-toe in silver sequins (well, actually he did – he said I looked like a bug, which I’ll attribute to my wrap-around sunglasses and nothing else). I wasn’t sure what to make of the flannel-wearing, pony-tail dangling, baggy-jeaned visage before me either. I’m pretty sure neither of us foresaw any sort of friendship developing, certainly not one that has so richly informed my life over the years.

That’s the best part of life: those unexpected surprises that deliver the people we most need when we don’t even realize how much we were missing.

Our next adventure is about to begin… New York here we come.

My trip to Seattle began with an octopus dish, so it’s only fitting that it close with the same. This opener at my closing meal at Bar Sajor featured the tender tentacles of that familiar cephalopod, and a tomato salad that made striking use of the purple blooms of borage and orange marigolds as dazzling accents in flavor and appearance (not that such delicious heirloom tomatoes needed any help in looks or flavor).

It would be difficult to say farewell to such a wonderful city, where verdant stretches of beauty expanded ever-outward, where meals were sumptuously simple and fresh, where forests rose and cyclamen bloomed, where whales sang and soared, and where things sometimes felt too dreamy to be true. It was a glorious final pause of summer, and a highlight of The Delusional Grandeur Tour thus far.

Like most places that have been a home to me when I’ve been far from home, Seattle will now occupy a portion of my wanderlusting heart ~ a place that helped me kick off my final tour, and the beginning of my 40th year.

For any ‘Twin Peaks’ fanatic (as I was in the very questionable 90’s), a trip to the Seattle region would not be complete without a glimpse at Snowqualmie Falls, that iconic waterfall that opened the credits for the David Lynch television series. Regardless of the Lynch love, this waterfall is impressive in its own right, falling 268 feet in astonishingly beautiful form. While no monster by any means, there’s something magical about this scene, particularly in the fall when so much change is afoot, when you’re no longer so sure of your stance in the world.

Standing there watching the water fall, I was transfixed by the scene. It was hypnotic, holding me transfixed, almost pulling me down along with it as I followed the droplets as they plummeted the length of the 268-foot drop. I thought of sleepwalkers and cults and pied-pipers, and wondered how far we all were from surrendering to the lull and easiness of such enchantments. If you start at the top of the running water, finding a spot of river and carefully watching it run from top to bottom, your eyes follow it at first, then your head goes down, and, were it not for the high wall and guard rail, the rest of your body just might fall along with the water. How many of us would have given in without the guard rails of others?

On this day, I manage to catch myself from falling. Above and slightly to the right of the falls, a train blows its low moan of a horn, where it would have been chugging along unseen if it hadn’t drifted its tell-tale column of smoke in its wake. It’s a scene I’ve seen before – either in book or movie or imagination: the mist of the falls echoed by the passing train – two layers of ethereal fog, and all of us watchers and dreamers caught somewhere between two worlds.

Thanks to the flagship Nordstrom, Seattle can hold its own when it comes to finding a Tom Ford Private Blend, as well as any of the other mainstream fashion behemoths that populate its steep downtown hills. Yet at the same time, its main claim to fame may be the unique Pike Place Market where only stand-alone original stores are allowed to sell their wares. (The Starbucks there would seem to be the exception, but it holds to the rules as it was the very first Starbucks that ever opened – so no others existed when it opened its doors.)

I’m torn between the fancy duds to be found at glossy establishments like Nordstrom, and the simple flowers that steal the show at the market. (The dahlias below kept me fascinated the entire time I wound my way among the flying fish.) That’s the sort of tension that’s infused my life and made things tricky at times – but it’s a good thing. It keeps me balanced. It’s sugar and spice. Yin and yang. Push and pull. And it keeps me excited.

At Nordstrom, I perused their extensive (and complete) collection of Tom Ford fragrances and bow ties. Across the street, and very much benefiting from its proximity to the flagship store, Nordstrom Rack had rack after rack of the real deal: Alexanders McQueen and Wang, Balenciaga, Burberry, Roberto Cavalli, Dries Van Noten, Emilio Pucci, Oscar de la Renta, Prada, Stella McCartney, Valentino and many more. It wasn’t just a one-off feature either;  there were plastic holders with each designer’s name on it – proof that they were mainstays here. (This is what Kristi Gustafson was talking about when she recently expressed slight disappointment in the Colonie Nordstrom Rack. I have to agree: it doesn’t hold a candle to the Seattle version. Neither does the Boston Rack, for that matter.)

But for all the designer labels and Tom Ford fanciness, my heart was back in the market, where I found a silk robe of fuchsia and turquoise, and a dressing gown of cream with an intricately-embroidered border. Strands of amber and jade called to me, Iris Apfel-like, from another place, and scarves studded with beads and crystals peeked and beckoned from a corner stall. For the moment, the market won out over Nordstrom, rack and all.

I think it was the dahlias…

At the Port of Edmonds, the morning was crisp and bright. A sunny day, almost too greedily perfect to even wish for on a whale watching expedition in Seattle, dawned as I waited for the boarding to begin. Looking out over the water, I wondered what we might see. It was still and silent there – no wind or waves – and the water was like glass, affording a clear view to the shallow bottom. A dogfish lazily meandered along the bottom, and a crab shuffled sideways before crouching into a tiny crevice.

I stood there staring, transfixed, when suddenly what I thought was an enormous fish entered my view. It was so quiet there, the sight of its large head, then an even larger body speckled with faint spots, felt surreal. This was no fish, though; it was a sea otter – beautifully flying along the bottom of that shallow portion of sea, its webbed paws flush with its smooth body, swiftly and easily passing along through greenish beams of underwater light. It seemed an auspicious sign that hopefully indicated larger wildlife to come.

The Whale Watch was only a half-day excursion, which ended up being just the right amount of time (it takes about an hour and a half to get to the pod-frequented waters). After boarding, our group headed north to the San Juan Islands, where the orcas are known to swim. On the way, we encountered a humpback whale, which the naturalist on board explained had almost been extinct, and only recently was making a comeback. The sighting, then, was a happy one.

We also saw a sea lion sunning itself on a bright green buoy, oblivious or unbothered by the birds that were also vying for a resting perch.

Then, sooner than expected, and without warning, an orca was suddenly trailing the boat. The dorsal fin careened up and out of the water, then a bit of sleek black body. Its immensity was impressive, its power apparent.

In an instant, I was in once again in awe of everything that this earth afforded: the breadth of beauty and life and the startlingly simple fact of our existence. These beautiful blackfish ~ noble, majestic, powerful, and enormous ~ shared the planet with us, and trusted that we wouldn’t destroy it. It was humbling to see such magnificence – humbling and thrilling. I didn’t get many good photos, both for the fact that they surfaced without warning, and because I was much too intent on experiencing the moment than capturing it.

Grand, other-worldly, and gorgeous, those whales take your breath away. They remind you of your place, and theirs, and how unwieldy humans have become. But I don’t want to mar the re-telling of this tale with political grandstanding and soapbox diatribes. I want only to remember the whales, and the ocean, and the wind, and keep it all cradled in my soul.

Writing a Seattle recap is hard but happy work, and so I’m giving myself a bit of a breather with this post. It’s important to allow for such breaks when on a vacation far from home. I always try to pack a lot into a little time, wanting to make the most of such precious minutes and hoping not to regret anything, but time to relax and unwind, time to do nothing, is just as important as those moments of excitement and participation.

In fact, I’d wager that the in-between times, nestled between events and dinners and shows, are what make the most fondly-remembered moments that matter. Usually, they take place early on, just after I’ve checked into a hotel. The room is fresh and clean (and maybe there’s a bottle of local honey ale supplied by a hotel as fancy and generous as the Fairmont Olympic) and I stand before the window and let out a sigh of relief and appreciation.

Or maybe it’s a moment in a local store, where hand-made paper is rolled up into colorful bunches of pretty stand-up art. It doesn’t need to come in a frame or a museum, or hung upon a wall or on a pedestal. Sometimes it’s in the simplest of displays, the haphazard collections of whimsy, the groupings of pretty little things.

It can come in the tradition of a pre-dinner cocktail, tucked away in a private corner of a sleepy hotel, where stories far more exciting than yours are waiting to be told, or to unfold, in their own time, in their own way.

The magic of Seattle permeates everything, even these throw-away moments. Pockets of solitude within solitude. Alone but not lonely.

And tomorrow, the whales arrive…

Rising before the waterfront is a summer estate, reminiscent of Edith Wharton’s summer home. (The well-to-do certainly know how to make a summer showing.) The flowers in here are more cultivated, more perfectly formed – a contrast with the wilder cyclamen and seven sons’ flower I’d stumbled upon earlier. I’m not sure which I prefer. Inside, such boldness is necessary to compete with other man-made ornaments, the colors must be stronger to stand on their own against paint and fabric and dyed rugs.

A bouquet of dahlias does the trick nicely, stealing the focus of the entry way, bold of hue and radial of form.

The house is pleasantly cool, even in the summer sun. I suppose that’s the point of summer homes. With its tall windows, it is bright too. That’s not something that can be said for all houses in the summer – too often they turn dark and moody, smoldering in dusty shadow or stifling with stagnant heat. Here, however, the home works to augment the beauty with its formality and space, casting a spell of order unto the objects at hand. It frames the outside view, reordering things and narrowing the scope of the scene, distilling it into its very best vista.

It is easy to imagine being happy when surrounded by such beauty, and it is tempting to believe such happiness exists for everyone other than yourself. At least, it’s been easy for me to imagine that. I always do. That’s ok, though. In the midst of that beauty, everything is all right.

After pausing for a moment inside, the edge of the woods beckoned again, and back within the green curtains of foliage there were jewels lining the soft spongy floor, and they were my favorite portion of a walk overflowing with sensory delights: cyclamen. As luck would have it, their late-season blooming cycle was at its zenith. I’ve tried growing cyclamen in the garden, but the relatively dry summers they enjoy are hit-or-miss, and it seems we’ve always erred on the latter, with our wet and humid patterns. I got blooms once, and that was it. Here, they appeared to grow around every corner – bright spots of pink or white floating like flocks of butterflies low to the ground. It was absolutely enchanting, and I knelt beside them, lost in their charm, trying to capture their beauty for the chill ahead.

The path led beside the water of the Sound for a while, before returning to the enclosed protection of the forest. A few stray rhododendron and azalea blooms dotted the way, but their main season had long since passed. It would be a wonderful place to revisit in the spring.

As I made my way along the path, the trees parted again, revealing a little pond and a Japanese garden.

A teahouse was nestled into the environs, a place where one could easily envision a peaceful life, a tranquil existence. A moment of meditation honored the lovely landscape.

Stands of Japanese anemone punctuated the greens and browns with their pink blossoms, centered with eyes of bright gold.

And still more cyclamen, daintily scattering their softer hues along the decomposing carpet.

Near the end of the journey, a formal reflecting pool caught the trees and the sky and the beauty of the sunlit day like a mirror, doubling the image with underwater accents of bright green algae. It was an appropriate and symbolic time for reflection, and I sat on a bench and once again wondered at the perfection of the world, especially of nature, when left to its own devices.

Yet the ferry would wait for no man, and I needed to return to the water. My chariot would not turn into a pumpkin, but nor would it wait for a straggler.

Up next: watching the whales…

Reportedly a favorite haunt of Martha Stewart, the Bloedell Reserve is one of those places that I secretly assumed would be a favorite moment of my Seattle trip, but whose anticipation I didn’t want to stir too much. (Too many movies and theatrical events have been ruined that way.) There was no need to worry, as this experience surpassed anything that ever took place on a stage or in a theater.

It began with a walk in the forest, and this forest is unlike anything the Northeast has to offer. Trees rocket into the sky, disappearing into the sun, ending beyond where the eye can see, in what I can only assume is some heavenly plane so grand mere humans couldn’t witness it.

The heart manages to simultaneously ache and soar when surrounded by such beauty – a glimpse of the sublime not saddened by any solitude, yet somehow pining to share it with another. I guess that’s being achieved now, but I did not know that then. The tricks of time and travel and subsequent writing.

A walk in the woods does much for the soul, and the founder of the Bloedell Reserve was very much aware of it. In fact, part of the reason for keeping it open to the public was to share the emotional health and happiness achieved after spending some time in the folds of the forest. A brush with nature and beauty has always proven a balm for most troubled moments, and it was this tranquility that I had traveled across the country to find.

Mossy stumps of fallen trees and wide swaths of ferns rolled off the soft, meandering path of bark mulch. Sunlight filtered through the lofty boughs of conifers, tiny moss spores and fairy seeds of fantastical tales drifted though the slanting rays, carried on the lightest puff of a breeze. This was magical land – lush, rich, tender and teaming with life. Just a few minutes into my walk, and my load already felt lighter, my heart fuller.

A pond, still and quiet, provided a place for a few ducks to rest and frolic. It reflected the blue sky, and the shadowy underside of leaves from a tree overhanging the water.

This is a world of transformation, where fallen logs become pathways or parts of more magnificent tableaux, where the minute and the immense happily co-exist beside one another.

Elements of the vertical mesh with the horizontal, trees rise out of other trees, and moss grows fat on almost every surface, not limited by any mythically-required northern exposure. The effect is gorgeous, and quite new for someone accustomed to the smaller scale and harsher climate of the Northeast.

At the edge of the forest, signs of humans.

A worn bench. A manicured lawn. A cultivated hydrangea.

In sunlight the color is almost obscene after the muted palette of the woods.

Then, appearing before the waterfront, a house: mirage-like and incongruous, and yet perfectly part of everything that came before, formal grooming and all…

Up next: the summer house…

From the moment the mountains came into view – immense, majestic, deep purple and dark green – I was reminded of how magical Seattle can be. As The Delusional Grandeur Tour touched down in the Emerald City, I breathed in cedar-scented air and exhaled the confines of New England. There was an awe to the magnificence suddenly at hand, as stands of conifers stretched from the airport to the city, rising into the sky and looking more beautiful than the ragged pines that surround Albany.

I’d scheduled a few events and dinners in advance, and there would be a whale watch and a visit to the Bloedell Reserve (favorite spot of Martha Stewart) – along with a couple of ferry rides and a ‘Twin Peaks’ visit to Snowqualmie Falls. But I’m jumping ahead. On my first day in Seattle I wanted a quiet start.

Most great cities have some sort of conservatory, a place where greenery and flowers persist even in the face of winter or snow or ice. Washington has its Botanical Garden, Boston has its Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and Seattle has this house of glass, a few steps away from the Asian Art Museum.

It was prime time for the dahlia garden, which was in full late-season bloom. As much as I love dahlias, I grew them only once as a child. I remember waiting and waiting and waiting for them to bloom, which they eventually started to do, but it was so late in the season only a few went through the full bloom cycle before the burgeoning buds were through. It broke my heart. Still, I am grateful for those who do grow them, because when you see something like this it makes it all worth it.

The balm of beauty, particular when conjured by nature, is the best possible way to decompress after a long flight.

The Asian Art Museum was another great way to move my mind-set away from the limited possibilities of Albany. Transcending time and space, it offered glimpses of the distant past, as well as the future. The current exhibit was as modern as they come, while a pear tree bonsai looked to be several hundred years old. It was both a compelling and a calming contrast, this idea that past, present, and future could co-exist simultaneously, and peacefully, and all we needed to do was take it all in and embrace it.

My Seattle Tour Stop had just begun, and already the city was working its magic. Artful, beautiful, and calming – the ABC’s of a perfect world.

Up next: The Food…

Our first time in Portland, Maine was such a treat that we’ve been looking for an excuse to return ever since. That came in the form of ‘Iris’ – the latest, and last, Maysles documentary on fashion darling Iris Apfel. It was playing at the Portland Museum of Art on the last day of August, so we made the trip and turned it into a late summer weekend vacation.

We met up with our friends Eric and Lonnie, who brought us around to several fun spots and a delicious dinner in a building that Eric used to work in (long before it was a fab restaurant). Portland is filled with charm, and a rich restaurant scene – both of which provided ample enjoyment.

We toured the Art Museum before the movie, a bright space that spanned several levels. Adjoining a historic home, it’s a perfect respite (like most Art Museums that find themselves less than bustling on a beautiful summer day – much preferred to crowds) and a lovely destination in its own right. On this day, a collection of pieces hand-selected and sent in by various museums of Maine was on display – a Greatest Hits of sorts – so we did that first, then made our way through the other floors.

The movie was lovely – and it solidified my adulation of Ms. Apfel as a unique individual who made her personal style into its own work of art (in addition to a bazillion other career endeavors that make most of us look lazy as a clam, if clams are even lazy).

We enjoyed a few cocktails at Vena’s Fizz House, which was originally an alcohol-free place that specialized in fizzy drinks. It has since gained a liquor license, and offers some of the most unique and delectable libations I’ve encountered in quite some time. An extensive selection of bitters, and some scintillating shrubs were on hand for herbal concoctions that rested just right upon my palette. (Any place that uses ice spheres knows what’s up.)

Rightly renowned for its food, Portland is even offering fine dining in many of its hotels. Case in point was Union Restaurant, housed in the charming Press Hotel. The photos here show a meal that was practically perfect in every way. I can’t do the butter braised lobster dish justice with photos or description, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. It’s diabolically good.

As always, it was over much too soon, and we departed wanting more. That’s the best way to do a vacation. It was also an official stop of The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star, and we’re still only in the first leg. Up next will be my Seattle excursion, and then next weekend I’ll return to Boston for that OTHER tour… and I’m not talking Taylor.

The Delusional Grandeur Tour traverses the country this weekend, as I make my way from Maine to the West Coast, and my first visit to Seattle since 1998. When last I left that Emerald City, I was riding in an over-heated white Volvo station wagon with Suzie, and as incongruent and unlikely as that sounds to my preferred mode of living, it was one of the happiest times of my life.

After a few days in Seattle, we had packed up Suzie’s meager minimalist belongings and headed out, and one of the only things I remember about that first day of traveling (aside from the over-heating) was a magnificent field of sunflowers, resplendent in the deep amber glow of an August sunset. It remains a memory that warms my heart all these years later – a memory of beauty, of contentment, only slightly tinged with restlessness, and emboldened by a golden lining of hope.

This time around, I’m focusing solely on Seattle – home of the Nordstrom flagship store, the fish-flinging Pike Place Market, the team of hunky Cooper Helfet, and a whole fleet of whales soaring through Puget Sound. In other words, it’s the ideal place for a touring adventure. A throwback and a new beginning in one. A return – not a comeback – and a moment ripe for a sunset…