Postcard from… My Apartment

Here was the scene in my apartment about two hours ago…

My nine-year-old daughter was sawing away at her viola, playing, among other all-time favorites, “Hot Cross Buns” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

My three-year-old son was working diligently with my girlfriend to assemble a Lego Star Wars “Republic Gunship.”  There were about 4,000 pieces to this dang thing, all threatening at any moment to fall to the floor.

My ex-wife’s new dog, Pixie, was attacking her toy, Mr. Squeaky, hurling it around the apartment, growling ominously, and chasing after it.  (We are babysitting Pixie this weekend, while my ex-wife, hopefully, is off getting remarried.)

There was a time when this type of scene would have pushed me to the brink of a nervous breakdown.  Tonight, I loved it, and only wish I could have recorded it on film somehow.  It is recorded in my brain camera, though, so I wanted to share it with you.  Cut!

Postcard from Pittsburgh

I traveled this weekend to Pittsburgh to see a baseball game.  I am a huge Dodgers fan, as indicated by my previous post about the happiest moment of my life.  Traveling with me was my girlfriend’s 11-year-old son, who is a huge Pirates fan.  (He is also a huge Yankee fan, thereby ensuring himself at least some happiness in life.) 

On Saturday, the first-place Dodgers played the last-place Pirates.  At stake for the Dodgers was a chance to clinch a spot in the playoffs for the third time in four years.  At stake for the Pirates?  Not much, actually, since earlier this year they set an all-time record for the most consecutive losing seasons.  (Seventeen, I believe, but who’s counting?)

We bought our tickets several months ago, so the fact that this was a game of any significance for either team was sheer luck.  But I am a big believer in luck — in signs and omens from the gods — and so I was feeling rather lucky when it appeared, about a week ago, as though the Dodgers might have a chance to clinch on Saturday.  When they lost to the Pirates on Friday — keeping their “magic number” at one — I was feeling positively flush with luck. 

After all, it’s hard to live on the East Coast and be a Dodgers fan.  They hardly ever play on TV around here and all of their home games start after 10:00 p.m. my time.  Could the stars possibly align to allow me to see them clinch in person?

As we drove to Pittsburgh it became clear that the only thing standing between me and my dream was Mother Nature.  It rained for most of the five-hour trip.  It was raining when we checked into our hotel and it was raining when we sat down to dinner at Atria’s (try the pot roast nachos), right outside of the absolutely gorgeous PNC Park.  It was raining when we first went up to the gate.

“We’re not letting anybody in right now,” the guy at the gate said.  “We’ll be making the call soon.”

Holy shit, I thought to myself, all the while smiling optimistically at my young companion.  They’re going to cancel the game.  We drove 300 miles to be here, my team can clinch a spot in the playoffs, I’m with an 11-year-old dressed in a Pirates jersey and a Steelers cap, and they’re going to CANCEL THE GAME.  What kind of omen would THAT be? 

A few minutes later, the gates opened and in we went.  Thank you, Jesus.  (Best billboard on the trip: “Jesus died for sinners.  That means you.”)

Our seats were ridiculously good.  We were five rows behind the Dodgers dugout — close enough to hear the players talking to each other.  It was still raining a bit — the usher had to wipe our seats off with a ShamWow — but it wasn’t awful and the game started at 7:05 p.m., right on schedule. 

Sitting directly behind us was actor Jake Gyllenhaal of ”Brokeback Mountain” fame, along with some other Hollywood types, including director Edward Zwick.  (I later learned that Gyllenhall is filming a movie in Pittsburgh with Anne Hathaway, who, sadly, was not in attendance.)

I am not a starfucker by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hard not to eavesdrop on some of the dialogue unfolding behind us.  At one point, one of the guys in Gyllenhall’s entourage noted that the Pirates have the least errors of any team in the National League but are still mired in last place.

“That’s just like life,” Gyllenhall replied.  “If you aren’t willing to make mistakes, you’re never going to get anywhere.” 

I can’t quit you, Jake!

Anyway, it was a fine game, with the Dodgers taking the early lead, the Pirates rallying in the seventh to pull ahead, and the Dodgers storming back in the eight to put it away and secure themselves a spot in the post-season.  We saw two home runs and an unbelievable diving catch.  My girlfriend’s son was on the Jumbotron twice and also caught a hot dog launched about 100 feet into the air by the Pirate Parrot.  (No foul balls came our way, but that was OK by me after watching a women behind the Pirates dugout get absolutely murdered by a line drive.  The usher held up a yellow card over her head, as though she had just tripped the midfielder or something.)

It started raining again shortly after we left the park and it poured the next day all the way home.  I must be living right.

Postcard from Napa Valley

I spent several days last week in the heaven on earth that also goes by the name of Napa Valley.  My girlfriend and I rented a car in San Francisco – a convertible, of course – and headed North across the Golden Gate Bridge, still one of the most awe-inspiring man-made structures in the world. 

(Two quick Golden Gate Bridge stories.  First, my 80-year-old father told me once that the happiest moment in his life was when he was sailing back to the United States after serving for several years in the Korean War and spotted the Golden Gate Bridge.  “I knew I’d made it home,” he said, a rare display by my dad of… well, of actually speaking.  My dad makes Gary Cooper look like Jim Cramer.  Second, I once biked across the Golden Gate Bridge and nearly froze to death about halfway across.  It was 80 degrees on either side of the bridge – and about 40 degrees in the middle.)

Base camp for us in Napa was the Westin Verasa Napa, an absolutely beautiful property built, rather curiously, in the middle of an otherwise empty field.  I love Westin hotels.  Yes, they have the Heavenly Beds, which are, indeed, quite comfy.  But more than that, I love the Westin vibe, which is sleek and cool and contemporary – just like me.  (Stop laughing, goddamn you.)

After dropping off our luggage, we walked over to the Oxbow Market, where we sat down for an afternoon snack of – what else? – wine and cheese. 

Let me say right here that I am not a “wine guy” by any stretch of the imagination.  When given the choice, I will generally have beer, rather than wine, and when I do drink wine, it’s almost always wine purchased at Trader Joe’s for no more than $7.00 a bottle.  (We actually passed the Hacienda winery, which is one of our favorite Trader Joe’s labels.  It was reassuring to know that it is an actual winery in California, not five guys in a basement in New Jersey peeing into a bottle.)

Still, when in Rome you do as the Romans do and when you are in Napa you drink wine or you go home.  Or, as one local put it, “If you don’t like wine, this really isn’t the place for you.”

For dinner on our first night, we headed to Tra Vigne, which is on all of the “best of” lists and for good reason.  The food was ridiculously wonderful.  We started with some padron peppers, grilled then drizzled with a little bit of olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt.  One bite and I realized that I was in the presence of genius and that the rest of the night was going to shape up just fine.  For my main course, I took the advice of our waiter and ordered half portions of two pastas: a risotto with sausage and a pasta with lamb.  My girlfriend ordered a different kind of pasta with rabbit.  Should I ever find myself on death row, I will order one of these three dishes as my final meal.

We grabbed breakfast the next morning at the downtown Napa branch of the Model Bakery.  Excellent. 

Then it was time for some pampering at the Greenhaus Spa.  I had a deep-tissue massage and a pedicure.  My girlfriend was exfoliated and then basted with some sort of Chardonnay-based cream.  Smooth as silk.   

And then it was time to hit the road and get down to some serious drinking.  (I’m already a bit hazy on the order of the vineyards we visited.  It doesn’t really matter.)  Our first stop was the Cliff Lede vineyard.  (It’s pronounced “lady,” by the way, which will allow you to avoid making an idiot of yourself, as I did, by asking if Mr. “Luh-day” was still active in the winery.)  We sampled two tasting menus, one of sparkling wines, the other of “regular” wines.  All good.

From there, we went to lunch at another local favorite, Taylor’s Automatic Refresher, which is just downright fun to say out loud.  Go ahead, say it.   The line was about 40 deep, but worth the wait. 

In the afternoon, we visited Sterling Vineyards, which is distinguished by an aerial tram that takes you up, up, and away to where the winery is and to some absolutely stunning views of the valley.  At one of the tasting stations, we met a Sterling employee who chucked his career as a tax man in order to work at a vineyard.  “Is your life better now?” I asked.  “Oh, yeah!” he said, laughing.   Dumb question.

Our final stop of the day was Peju, which I think was the most beautiful winery we visited.  The grounds were absolutely gorgeous, as was the main building, which included a spectacular 50-foot tower.  Oh, and the wine was good, too.

Dinner that night was at Cole’s Chop House.  My girlfriend had the filet mignon and I had the rib eye.  Man, there’s nothing like a good steak every once in a while, and these steaks were VERY good.

The next day, we drove through Sonoma and up to Healdsburg, a sweet little town in the Russian River Valley.  We ate lunch at the Bear Republic Brewery, where we drank…beer.  It was excellent.

Having gone more than five minutes without a glass of wine, we dropped by the tasting room of La Crema Winery, where I ended up plunking down $90 for a bottle of Nine Barrel Pinot Noir.  (That’s a lot of Hacienda, baby.)  I couldn’t resist and the description on the web site explains why: “Each vintage, our winemaking team tastes through every barrel to find the nine barrels which best characterize the distinctive personality of the Russian River Valley for that particular vintage.”  Yes, I am special!  (And, no, you cannot come over for a glass!)

Our final meal was at La Toque, which recently moved to a beautiful new location right there at the Westin.  We decided to let it all hang out by ordering a three-course meal, complete with wine pairings for each course (and lovely descriptions of each wine by the sommelier).  I started with the foie gras (which I always confuse with pate because I’m just that stupid), then the halibut, and, last but certainly not least, the antelope.  Yes, I said antelope.  It was absolutely fabulous. 

On Sunday, we headed (sadly) to the airport, each with a box of three bottles of wine ready to carry on.  Precious cargo.  About halfway there, it occurred to me that if you can’t carry a 10-ounce bottle of shampoo onto an airplane, you probably can’t carry on three bottles of wine.  We decided to roll up the bottles in our clothing, pack them into our checked luggage, and pray to the Gods of Wine for mercy.  At the Newark Airport luggage carousel, our prayers were answered – and how many times can you say THAT?

The perfect end to a perfect few days in paradise.

Postcard from Barcelona

Earlier this month, I visited Barcelona, Spain, on business.  I didn’t get to see any of the traditional sights (the giant cinder block convention center is apparently not quite as visually striking as  Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia).  But I did get the chance to see Europeans in their natural habitat and that is always fun for an ugly American like me.  A few observations…

• Europeans love rules.  I showed up for breakfast at my hotel a few minutes before 7:00 a.m., when breakfast officially started.  All of the wait staff were in place.  The buffet was laid out.  But when I made a move to sit down, I was shooed away.  “We are not open yet,” the girl said, tapping her wrist, the international sign for temporal disputes.  I stood there for another minute or two.  “Okay,” the girl said, finally, and showed me to my table.  One night, a few of us showed up at a restaurant for dinner.  “Do you have a reservation?” the host asked us.  We did not.  He disappeared for several minutes and then, in a show of true generosity, brought us into the dining room — where we were the only people in the entire place.
• Europeans do NOT love clothing.  After nine hours overnight in coach, I took a walk along the beach to stretch my aching legs.  Most of the women were topless and it is just SO not a big deal there.  Janet Jackson flashes her boob at the Super Bowl and America has a meltdown.  Not so much in Barcelona.  The funny thing is that when boobs are on such rampant display, they lose all of their magical, hypnotic  powers.  Sadly, many of the men were in Speedos and one guy was strolling down the beach completely naked.  Nothing magical about that.
• Europeans like to drink.  My company is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year and, at the convention center, we invited customers to come by our booth for a little celebration.  In the U.S., we would have passed out “sparkling apple juice,” the beverage equivalent of dry humping, but in Barcelona, they handed out genuine Cava, a type of Spanish champagne.  A few hours later, all of the executives from my company gathered to do a conference call with financial analysts — but not before another round of Cava was passed around. 

I would like to return to Barcelona someday as a tourist.  I visited Madrid many years ago on business, but managed to extend my stay for a few days and really loved it, so I would expect similar success in Barcelona.  I’ll be sure to pack my Speedo.

It’s Better in the Bahamas

Having recently spent four days at Atlantis — the massive resort on Paradise Island in the Bahamas — I now know what finished off the legendary ancient civilization.  They ate themselves to death.

For breakfast, you could easily cram enough muffins, omelettes, fruit, bacon, bagels, cereal, yogurt, and doughnuts into your piehole to carry you well past the lunch hour.  For dinner, the shock of paying more than $50 per entree was softened by the knowledge that, on a per pound basis, the meal was actually quite a bargain.  (The $18 tropical drinks at the poolside bar, on the other hand, were highway robbery, pure and simple.  Ogling the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, several of whom were also poolside?  Priceless.)

The Atlantis is perhaps best known for its Mayan Temple water slides, one of which, the aptly named Leap of Faith, “offers the daring and adventurous a 60 ft. almost-vertical drop from the top of the Mayan Temple, propelling riders at a tremendous speed through a clear acrylic tunnel submerged in a shark-filled lagoon.”  Unlike a roller coaster, there is no build-up of anticipation on the Leap of Faith.  There is no uphill.  You lie down, cross your arms and legs, and — WHOOSH! — a tenth of a second later, you are hurtling down the slide at about 700 miles an hour.  The sharks are a non-factor.  You are moving way too fast — and there is way too much water shooting into your eyes and up your nose — to even notice them.   The slide comes to an ubrupt, almost-violent end and I saw people who hydroplaned across the “landing area” pool for a good 15-20 feet.  A young boy — maybe 10 or 12 years old — summed it up best when he splashed down, stood up, looked around, laughed, and said simply, “Shit!”

The Atlantis also features Dolphin Cay, home to more than 30 Atlantic bottlenose dolphins.  For a fee roughly comparable to the AIG bailout, you can have a “Shallow Water Interaction” with these truly magnificent creatures.  An affable Bahamian named Hartmann was the guide for our group, which included a German dad with a huge handlebar moustache, who clearly did not understand Hartmann’s instructions to avoid stroking Jackie the Dolphin’s genitals as she swam by us on her tummy.  (“You did it again, sir!” Hartmann called out as Jackie passed us by for the second time.)  We each got to kiss Jackie and pose for a photo with her and it was all so benign that you almost forget that you are kneeling in three feet of water with a seven-foot-long, four-hundred-pound fish.  Jackie finally got a chance to strut her stuff when Hartmann signalled her to begin a series of leaps out of the water.  Jackie’s final leap took place about 100 feet away from us, but I swear to God about half a second later she popped up out of the water right in front of our faces.  Nice work, Jackie!

All in all, I’d say that Atlantis is a heck of a lot of fun for young kids — and big kids like me, too. 

Feelin’ the Love in Bermuda

I recently returned from a four-day vacation in Bermuda.  You have to love a place where the official logo is a pair of pink shorts –- a clever combination of the island’s legendary pink sand and the enduring popularity of Bermuda shorts among local businessmen.

I’d been to Bermuda once before, when I was maybe 15 or 16 years old.  This was a time in my life when I was VERY interested in girls, but completely clueless about how to ask a girl out or how even to SPEAK to a girl for that matter.   (Yes, I know.  Some things never change.)  

There was a family at our hotel who hailed from the U.K., judging by their accents.  The daughter in the family was my age and she was BEAUTIFUL.  She had blond hair and blue eyes, and she wore a blindingly white bikini every day.  I was in love.  I never said a word to her, of course.  I didn’t even know her name.  But I was in love.

My therapist likes to say that I am very comfortable “living inside my own head,” by which he means that I am prone to constructing elaborate scenarios and dialogues in my mind.  (This is not entirely unhelpful, by the way.  I often find myself in situations –- at work, with family and friends -– where the conversation unfolds almost exactly the way I have envisioned it in my head.  It’s like being in a play.  All you have to do is say your lines when it’s your turn to speak.) 

With the girl from Bermuda, I didn’t just live inside my own head.  I built a fucking McMansion.

Immediately upon returning home to Connecticut, I began laying plans for how to contact her and profess my true love.  I would call the hotel and get her name and address.  Surely, they would remember her as vividly as I did.  Once I had this information, I would write her a letter, introducing myself.  Perhaps you remember me, dream girl?  I was the 6’2”, 150-pound weakling with really bad acne.  We exchanged knowing glances, or at least you caught me staring at your boobies a few times.  Of course I remember you, she would write back.  I wanted to say something to you, too, but I was shy.  She would invite me to come to the U.K. for a visit.  Or perhaps she would come to America as a foreign exchange student and we would be her host family.  It would be the love story of the century, I was convinced of that.  None of this ever happened, but it took up an inordinately large amount of space in my brain for an inordinately long time.            

This time around, I stayed at 9 Beaches, a relatively new resort on the west end of the island that promises the “unexpected Bermuda.”  For me, the “unexpected” included a room with a busted air conditioning unit; a rooster who cock-a-doodle-doo-ed about 75 times an hour, irrespective of the time of day; a combination key ring/piece-of-shit plastic bottle opener that wasn’t up to the task of opening any of the Coronas in my $50 “bucket of beer;” a working dairy farm within smelling distance of the resort (hint: it did not smell like milk); and an abundance of flies at the complimentary breakfast buffet (not entirely unrelated, one imagines, to the nearby dairy farm). 

Still, all was forgiven every time I set foot on my balcony, which actually extended out over the crystal-clear water and offered a postcard-perfect view of the resort’s stunning surroundings.

I spent a lot of time doing nothing, but did eat at a few excellent restaurants, including the Salt Rock Grill and the Bone Fish Grill.  The Bone Fish Grill is located at the Dockyards, which until the 1950’s served as a major outpost for the British Royal Navy.  Today, it’s been converted to shops and restaurants, frequented largely (and I do mean LARGELY) by cruise ship passengers.  When I visited, there was a Royal Caribbean ship in port — an absolutely monstrous structure that was about ten stories high. 

I love pottery, so whenever I visit someplace interesting, be it for business or pleasure, I try to purchase a locally made bowl or vase.  (I bought a beautiful vase at a local crafts store in Cuzco, Peru, a few years ago.  I lovingly brought it home with me in my carry-on bag only to find the exact same piece (not a knock off) for sale at Marshall’s a few weeks later for $13.99.  It’s a small world after all.)  At the Dockyards, I visited Bermuda Clayworks, where artist Jon Faulkner makes absolutely beautiful stuff.  He was building a kiln right there on the floor of his store, putting each brick in place with such care it looked as though he were defusing a bomb.

I also ventured out to Bermuda’s most famous beach, Horseshoe Bay.  Since that big cruise ship was in town, the beach was covered with tourists, but they congregated within the first 50 yards or so of the entrance, unwilling (and, for many, unable) to stray too far from the snack bar.  A five-minute walk down the beach, though, and the tourist-per-square-foot ratio plummeted.  Ten minutes and I was pretty much by myself. 

The rock formations were incredible, carved out by the pounding surf over millions of years.  I came across three young children frolicking in a tidal pool surrounded by rocks.  Occasionally, a big wave would slam into the rocks and send sea spray flying into the pool, the kids shrieking in delight.  The mom said to them, “I’m going to get your Dad, stay here,” and off she went, leaving them all by themselves for a good ten minutes.  The oldest of the three was maybe nine.  Mother of the Year!

One thing I did NOT do in Bermuda is rent a moped, a popular mode of transportation for tourists, since they do not rent cars on the island.  I’ll always remember that scene in “The Deep” where the bad guys try to force Nick Nolte and Jaqueline Bissett, both on mopeds, into these incredibly jagged walls that run along the side of the road.  (I’ll always remember that OTHER scene in “The Deep,” where Bissett emerges from the ocean wearing bikini bottoms and a very wet t-shirt, but I digress.)  My decision not to rent a moped was validated by a story in the newspaper of a local man who was riding as the passenger on a moped, stuck his head out from behind the driver to have a look around, and was promptly decapitated by a telephone pole.  Ouch.

Bermuda’s slogan is “Feel the love” and it is a lovely island, indeed.  With a flight time from Newark of under two hours, I encourage you to put it on your (pink) short list of places to visit.

Postcard from the Hamptons

We spent this weekend in Easthampton — my wife and my two kids, my sister and her daughter, and my parents.  We stayed at my sister’s ex-partner’s house (say that ten times fast), which she recently purchased from a gay couple, who sold the place furnished.  I found that strange and sad.  People break up all the time, of course, but they usually divvy up the posessions.  These two guys just walked away — from each other and all of their stuff. 

And, oh, what stuff it was!   Say what you will, but gay guys can DECORATE. 

I’m not sure there was a single item in the entire house that I would have purchased for my own home, but, in that house, it all worked beautifully.  In the guest bedroom, for example, there was a huge photo of Dolly Parton hugging Mick Jagger, which in Westfield, NJ, would earn you a place on the local police watch list, but in Easthampton, NY, simply means that you are hip, rich, and comfortable with your sexuality.

My parents are neither hip nor rich (though they are comfortable with their sexuality, I suppose), so instead of having dinner on Saturday night at one of those fancy Hamptons restaurants, my Mom brought frozen meatballs and spaghetti with her from home, which we heated up and ate just like we did when we were ten years old.  It was delicious.  (For lunch on Sunday, we took it up a notch and ordered a pizza.)

The whole Hamptons scene is pretty ridiculous from my perspective, but on Sunday we went to the beach and it was absolutely beautiful.  As I’ve described in a previous post, I love the beaches in St. John, where the presence of so many islands, large and small, means that the waves are measured in inches, not feet.  Out in the Hamptons, the waves come in BIG, baby, since the only thing standing between the sea and the sand is, well, Europe, I guess.

 Those waves could care less what kind of car you drive or what kind of stove you have in your house.  (The gay guys had a Wolf.  Nice.)  Those waves were here a long time before you and I showed up, and they’ll be rolling in long after we’re gone, God willing.  We hung out on the beach for a while, flying kites, building sandcastles, and collecting seashells. 

I felt like a millionaire.