Friday, August 5: Barcelona, Day Five

1) When there is no plan, the alarm doesn’t always get set, and then I end up “wasting” half the day. On the other hand, I felt bloody exhausted last night, not to mention sore from all those staircases (Fred Astaire in Funny Face I am not), and I was content to take my ease all morning, reading the news and writing.

2) And then about 10:30 I said to myself “Why not go to the Picasso Museum today?” So I went online and booked myself a ticket for midafternoon, and I had a plan!

A street near the Picasso Museum.

3) Ascending from the metro, I looked around and said to myself again “Now this is the Barcelona I signed up for.” Pre-revolution architecture, narrow streets filled with pastries and artisan’s shops, and movement everywhere. I was about an hour before my entry time because I wanted to walk about and see, and since I hadn’t had lunch, I ended up buying a big square of sausage pizza and a chocolate cookie and searching out a park bench.

This marvelous fountain depicting one of Aesop’s fables was near my bench.

4) Ye Gyygle (I’d be lost without it on this trip, truly) had indicated a large park in a particular direction, and there it was. Not at all like that Miró park I was at Wednesday. This park had expanses of green grass, trees, benches, beautiful flowering shrubs that are not rhododendrons, a small lake, and much else. But it took a bit of trudging to find a bench in the shade that wasn’t surrounded by mud or completely occupied by a reclining backpacker or a family group.

The bell tower of this building played the most eccentric and delightful carillon.

5) But I found one, and I enjoyed my pizza while taking in the scene. Particularly I remember a group of five women of my age or a little younger, all in flowing sleeveless sundresses of memorable color: bold yellow, pale ochre, black and white, sky blue scattered with yellow flowers. Most of them had on large hats, and they all wore sensible shoes. There wasn’t anything exceptional about them — they were just living their lives for themselves (rather than social media) and their was a certain charm in their being there together, just walking and talking languidly down that path.

6) I walked about the park after my lunch, and saw everywhere (as I have already this trip) that wherever there is shade, people will just flop down under it. Park benches in the sun get no business. But it doesn’t have to be a bench; I saw men and women stretched or curled up under bushes, palm trees, you name it. And in the sun, men with collections of hippie bedspreads spread on the grass, hoping to make a sale for a picnic party.

7) You never know what you’ll find when traveling, and I didn’t expect to see a memorial to a transsexual martyr. But there it was, the Glorieta de la Transsexual Sonia, the bandstand where Sonia Rescalvo Zafra was murdered by neo-Nazis in 1991. The city of Barcelona named it in her memory as part of its condemnation of the crime.

The English translation at the bottom of the sign.

8) The Picasso Museum of Barcelona (I believe there’s one in every hamlet in Spain) is housed in a building of very pre-Picasso vintage that somehow emphasizes his identity as a Spanish artist. But Picasso had so many facets, I wasn’t sure what I’d be getting. Turns out there were some real surprises, including an exhibition of photographs taken of him by his friend Lucien Clergue over the 20 years of their friendship, analyses of the work of the scholars who took responsibility for cataloguing his work (exhibited with some very fine drawings I wouldn’t have seen otherwise), 40-odd (in every sense of the word) pieces of his pottery donated by his widow, technical discoveries of earlier paintings underneath newer ones, and three galleries full of Picasso’s themes and variations on Las Meninas, which I’d never even known about.

Quite possibly my favorite Picasso drawing on view.

8a) But the thing that delighted me the most was a film of the Ballets Russes ballet Parade of 1917, featuring recreations of Picasso’s set and costume designs. I knew all about this ballet from my Ballets Russes phase almost 40 years ago, and I loved getting to see it performed. It’s a triumph of stage Cubism, but I can also see why it doesn’t get revived much.

Picasso painted Léonide Massine, the choreographer of Parade, as a harlequin.

8b) What started me down that Ballets Russes path was Misia Sert’s biography, and near the end of her life Picasso invited her to his studio to see all of the pottery he was creating. Misia thought it was awful; she just didn’t understand it.

8c) The ground floor of the Picasso Museum is all functional: reception, coat/locker room, the gift shop, and restrooms. The shop, to my surprise, really didn’t engage my attention. And the men’s room was closed for cleaning, so I had to use one of the family restrooms, and wait patiently to wash my hands while four or five teenage boys were drinking from the bathroom sinks. It’s tough to complain about people hydrating in such hot weather, but come on boys, you’re not camels.

Picasso’s very unusual version of Las Meninas.

9) I continued my stroll through this charming quarter and saw on ye Gyygle that there was a Museum of Chocolate. Chocolate! And I had promised my dear friend Michael that I would try to have a cup of hot chocolate in Barcelona, because he said it was so good. And it was! A luscious little cup of thick rich hot chocolate luxuriously piled with whipped cream, and a chocolate croissant, were enough to reenergize me.

9a) The museum itself was quite interesting, but what charmed me most is that each ticket is a tiny bar of chocolate with a QR code on the label that you use to open the turnstile. Isn’t that delightful?

10) I had sort of an informal plan to head toward a restaurant in the gayborhood, Eixemple, but somehow I turned a corner and discovered I was on La Rambla. “Oh!” I said to myself, “So this is La Raaaammmmbla!” So I ramblaed right down La Rambla, hearing many languages, observing much tourist tumult, feeling the heat, observing without personal interest all the goods in all the shop windows, including the many cannabis shops. It concluded at a large ornate column, a monument to something or other of course, and from there I turned left.

La Rambla!

11) That turned out to be not the correct direction, but I didn’t realize that yet. I was walking into the Port Vell (I think), and also into a sky full of dark clouds. The breeze was picking up, deliciously but ominously. And before long, boom, rain! And we needed it, it’s been so hot.

12) I ducked into a likely looking tapas place, lots of exposed mellow old stonework and shiny brass. From a small table in the corner I ordered a gin and tonic, which came in a round goblet garnished with orange peel and a cinnamon stick — fabulous. And then ham croquetas and some sort of omeletty thing.

13) And then, from the corner of my eye, I could see something moving near the top of the room. And it was . . . a cockroach! And I don’t mean one of those tiny New England/New York cockroaches. I am talkin’ a big ol’ honkin’ palmetto bug like I grew up with Louisiana — ‘cause I could see it from eight to ten feet away. And it was coming toward my section of the room, along the top of the wall! I watched it, crawling closer and closer, almost touching the ceiling, thinking of Kafka and how he should have written something else, moving my tapas closer to me. That cockroach kept crawling past my table and down the back of the wall to get intimate with the fire extinguisher, and then I turned back to my food.

13a) But the four women who had been sitting in the window (a trio and one single young woman) had also seen it. A few minutes later I looked up and the cockroach was on the floor near their tables; it must have sneaked by me. And then the party of three were looking for it, and I saw it on the front window at eye level. I pointed and said “It’s on the window!” That got the ladies to point it out to the barmaid, who told one of the waiters.

13b) I had a great time, but I don’t think I’ll be back.

Me by Picasso, protecting my cocktail from a cockroach.

14) Then I moved out into the rain, feeling sticky, and a bit lost. Eventually I found a metro station I could understand, and returned safely to my hotel, soaking wet and very tired, but not unhappy. In for the night by 8 PM; I’m old.

15) But I’ve gotten my second wind somehow, so I’ll be up writing for a bit. And that’s OK.

August 4, 2022: Barcelona, Day Four: Gaudí Day

1) An early alarm roused me from slumber and down to the hotel breakfast room. I had an early ticket to Sagrada Familia, that great monument to Spanish architecture, vision, and ingenuity, and they emphasized how difficult it would be to be late, or bring anything with you. Knowing this was a religious site at which a dress code was likely to be enforced (how wrong I was!), I wore white linen trousers and one of my Greek cotton shirts over a blue T-shirt.

2) My first metro station involved taking an elevator to Twilight Zone depths into the earth. At this hour I was surprised to see only one other person on the platform.

3) The next train was busier, and let me out immediately at the corner of Sagrada Familia. So my first vision of this remarkable church was its Western, or Passion, façade. There’s a small park across the street, and I was able to stand there and take everything in — try to take everything in — before continuing to the Eastern, or Nativity, façade where the tourists enter.

A detail of the Nativity façade.

4) Here I remembered what Mary McCarthy famously said about Venice: “Everything about Venice, including this sentence, has already been written.” Or something like that. The Nativity façade, by far my favorite, has a certain Disney whimsy to it (but with the knowledge that Gaudí predates Disney), and I’ll confess I felt a touch irreverent when I started remembering “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody” from The Great Ziegfeld. Because there’s a little bit of everything in this façade.

5) They don’t mess around at security, but everyone was courteous. “No hat, no sunglasses” was the immediate directive before going through the metal detector. I was glad I hadn’t brought anything but change and my phone.

6) Then up to the entrance with the growing crowd, in the morning sun already hot at 9:30. And then inside to absorb Gaudí’s genius vision of symbolism, “a forest of stone,” using materials and designs as no one had before. The treatment of light, from darkness over the altar to pure white at the back, with all the rainbow colors on each side, and how he sculpted the light with stone — it’s amazing.

7) My English-language tour began about 9:45 AM just inside the Nativity entrance. The guide, an engaging woman with a heavy accent, used the “tell you three times” strategy in her talk: tell ‘em what you’re gonna tell ‘em, tell ‘em, and then tell ‘em what you told ‘em. From this much useful information emerged about Gaudí’s vision, methods, symbolism, and more than I was able to retain. The tour took us back outside (hot) so she could interpret the Nativity façade, back inside to explain interior features and tell a few stories, and then outside the Passion façade in the west to point out the stark contrasts with the Nativity. All in all very helpful, but for myself, next time I’ll get the audio guide and do it at my own pace.

7a) The Passion façade was completed in a style familiar to me from postwar midcentury sculpture that is very angular, powerful, and brutal to my eyes.

The Western façade includes herb plantings.

8) After that, I had a break to find the restroom and buy a bottle of water from a vending machine. It is very helpful to have change on these occasions! If you’re coming to Barcelona, by all means, prepare to hydrate every chance you get.

9) I got into line a bit earlier than my time for my extra tour of the Passion Tower. And when the elevator operator called for a party of one, I was able to jump the line! They really do squash everyone they can into that tiny elevator for every trip up, and I don’t blame them.

After my tower tour.

10) But as soon as I stepped off that elevator however many hundreds of feet up in the air we were, I knew it was a bad idea for me to have come. Just the sound of the wind, so firm and strong, put me on edge, and then the discovery that I would have to walk outside briefly on an elevated bridge/buttress between two towers nearly did me in. I didn’t stop to take one photo but began my descent at once. This occasionally involved waiting patiently while people paused to take photos. And there were occasional alcoves to stop in, not that I spent much time stopping. Toward the end the railing of this hollow corkscrew staircase moved from the inside to the outside, and I became sufficiently anxious that I used both hands on it. Irrational, but there you are. I was never so glad to reach the ground floor, which appeared just when I thought it never would, and I sat in a stone seat against the wall of the church, feeling a little shaky and letting myself be surrounded by the color and light and people inside the church.

11) Because my goodness, the number of people had picked up. They say there’s no time you can visit Sagrada Familia and avoid the crowd, because it is always crowded, but I say morning is better because the light is better.

This lean dog on the metro appeared like one of those mythic beasts that get embroidered on tapestries. This also turned out to be the Day of the Whippet, as I saw five whippets in different parts of the city.

12) After that, more water, a quick tour of the museum (I was not in a space to take in more information), the shop (nothing appealed to me), and the decision to return to my room for a NAP. It’s not a bad thing to listen to your body.

13) It’s a given in Barcelona that no matter what, you will feel damp. After this I confess I felt saturated, and it was beautiful to stretch out in my room in the dark for an hour of deep sleep before resuming my Gaudí journey. The afternoon’s destination: Parc Guell in the northwest of Barcelona, a space designed by Gaudí, which I reached on three metro lines quite easily.

The view of Sagrada Familia from Parc Guell. Definitely worth it! But be prepared for a lot of stairs.

14) My lack of research on this trip showed, however, by my surprise at basically having to climb a mountain just to get to Parc Guell. I turned a corner and boom . . . a vertical street before me, with a line of intermittently working escalators in its center! The park itself is beautiful and has many interesting features, including one curious tunnel-like passage with diagonal spiral columns that was a magnet for slim young women having their photos taken by female friends or relations while I was trying to walk through it. No kidding, there were at least three photo sessions I interrupted just by existing.

During the few seconds I was not interrupting a future supermodel photo shoot.

15) But the view of Barcelona spread out to the Mediterranean, with Sagrada Familia dominating like a mountain — absolutely worth it.

16) At this point I needed to find the part of Barcelona that had wine, tapas, and elegance. I stumbled into a place called Vivo in a swish part of town near the Diagonal metro stop and had a delicious experience involving three or four plates of delicious little somethings (ham croquettes are my new favorite) and a white wine several people recommended to me, Albariño, in a room of glass and brass and marble of dark temperature. And I just got to sit there and read my book (The Invention of Murder by Judith Flanders, a Christmas gift from Oldest Nephew Who Must Not Be Tagged), chat with the hostess in a mix of languages, and feel like, yes, I’m an Americano tourist, but this is what I need right now.

17) But I actually needed one glass less of that Albariño than I had, and by the time I returned to my room I had the start of a bad headache. Remember in Gigi when Aunt Alycia was teaching Gigi to drink wine? “Did you feel the perfume?” Eventually Gigi answers “Mahhhhhhhhvelousssss . . . .” I had been loving that Albariño . . . but I knew the moon would be bright next day.

Atop Parc Guell.

August 3, 2022: Barcelona, Day Three

1) Unsurprisingly, my sleep came and went in wide stripes due to jet lag. That didn’t stop me from being surprised when I got up and noticed that it was 10:15 AM. I could only hear Maggie Smith as Poor Poor Charlotte in A Room With a View saying “Get a move on or the better part of the day will be lost!”

1a) But really dahlings, if you can’t sleep in on vacation, when can you sleep in?

2) This was a day on which I needed to conduct some business, specifically reserving seats on specific trains and buying an American electrical adapter. Also figuring out the (excellent) public transportation system here. But I was reluctant to deal with these things, and dawdled over my coffee in my room.

3) Thanks to ye Gyygle, I decided to walk to the train station, allegedly only 34 minutes from the hotel. It is certainly the best way to get to see the city! And Barcelona is large, vigorous, and full of stolid apartment blocks. Glimpses of the picturesque met me on the route suggested, and also on a couple wrong turns. Before I knew it, Barcelona Sants station was before me.

4) Inside was an air-conditioned babel of travelers of all ages, nationalities, agilities, hairstyles, and ideas of hygiene, many with enormous backpacks. I ended up with plenty of time to observe the passing throng, once I finally figured out that I had to take a number from a kiosk. (Nothing is intuitive here, and yet . . . I had to use my intuition when I spotted that kiosk.)

5) The gate agent was very patient when I finally got to the window and I couldn’t figure out why the Eurail app suddenly wasn’t working. And she let me return without taking another number once I figured it out — #grateful. At the station in Madrid I’ll know what to expect . . . but now I have my ticket to Madrid!

6) After all that anxiety — by this time it’s about 3 PM — I needed to see some of the city and I noticed that there was a park nearby dedicated to Míro, so I sauntered in that direction. I was thinking of something green with large trees, but it’s really a sun-blasted collection of athletic fields interspersed with what looked like scrub pines, some shadowy vine-covered paths, and a tall Míro pillar covered with bold fragmented tile.

7) Continuing, I descended an escalator below street level thinking there was a metro station there. Instead it was a mall/food court, which happily led me to FNAC, where I was about to find an adapter with the help of a saleslady who spoke a little English. The nice man at the hotel had suggested trying an interior design store in the neighborhood, which seemed somehow not the right lead to pursue. But now I’ll be able to keep my computer from dying, and I rejoiced.

8) Popping back to the earth’s surface, I spotted a deliciously elaborate column clustered about with figures and lamps, and beyond that, at last, something I recognized: the National Palace of Catalonia. Paraphrasing the mother-in-law in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, I said to myself “We need architecture we can understand.” I proceeded across the Plaça d’Espanya and up an infinite number of stairs.

9) But not only a large and beautiful fountain detained me, but a Man Older Than I creating enormous soap bubbles with a rope between two slender wands. I sat for half an hour, exhausted and a whisper dehydrated, watching both the wonderful fountain and delightful large bubbles that attracted much attention, especially from little children; I couldn’t help thinking how happy that would have made Mother.

10) The heat, shall we say, was making itself felt, and as I shambled gracelessly up this enormous, picturesque stone staircase lined and encroached on here and there with leafy vines, the picture of Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes irresistibly came to me, climbing those infinite stairs to Lermontov’s Monte Carlo retreat while wearing a gigantic green evening gown. I couldn’t have managed it.

11) Aside from the view, the National Palace now houses the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya . . . and you know how I love a museum. It wasn’t necessary to purchase in advance, so I spent at least a couple hours enjoying their robust collection.

One of many paintings that arrested my attention, The Apparition of Our Lady of the Pillar, by Goya.

12) But also becoming more than aware that my feet, and the rest of me, were wearing out, and that I had yet to have a meal. A quick sandwich and a great deal of water were in order.

A bust of Don Quixote. Also, kind of my mood at that moment.

13) My final “test” of the day was to take the metro back to the hotel. I certainly didn’t have any more walking in me! I am happy to say I passed the test, but please note: Barcelona metro sometimes but not always requires you to use your ticket to enter and exit the station.

14) Back in the hotel, I had just about enough energy to order room service. I intend to spend the rest of the night with my feet up contemplating tomorrow’s visit to Sagrada Familia.

I want this beach umbrella so much.

August 1-2, 2022: Barcelona, Days One and Two: Travel and Arrival

1) I don't know if it's aging or just having done so many special events in my career, but excitement doesn't manifest the way it used to. The start of the first day of this long-contemplated journey of six weeks began with, really, "Gosh, I'm tired. Oh, that's today."

2) Already 90% packed, I spent the morning cleaning the house, which led to the unexpected and comic destruction of a mop and my pretending to finish the kitchen floor on my knees withe the mophead sponge.

3) One way excitement does manifest is heightened body surface temperature, resulting in flop sweat. So when Craig -- God bless him and heap upon him many blessings -- showed up a bit early to drive me to the airport, I was half dressed and had just finished unloading the dishwasher. Then all I needed to do was turn off the router and all the lights and adjust the thermostat, and say goodbye to my house.

3a) August 13 is the 19th anniversary of my closing. I love my little home.

4) Driving through unknown parts of Roxbury listening to "Viva Espana," I observed to Craig that part of Britain looks on Spain as part of the USA looks on Mexico: a beach with alcohol and an accent.

5) Despite my anxiety, all my flying fears did not come to pass. I made my connection in PHL with 20 minutes to spare, and both my bags (I checked my larger carryon) arrived in BCN. I was disappointed not to see more masks, but the flight attendant between BOS-PHL summarizied it succintly (I'm paraphrasing at this point): "Masks on flights are optional, but many people continue to wear masks. Please respect the choices made by fellow passengers and crew [emphasis mine] and do not comment on them."

6) Unusually, on each flight I had wonderful conversations with a seatmate; I am so used to keeping to myself. The lady on the first flight suggested exploring the caves of Mallorca, and the lady on the second flight (who lives near me in JP!) a wine called something like Albarines.

7) I slept (or didn't) much of the trip over the Atlantic, reading the latest issue of The Economist or chatting with my seatmate otherwise. On arrival, we disembarked into large shuttle buses to go to the terminal. The rest of the morning was a lot of Hurry Up and Wait. Somehow there were giant shoals of passengers just standing around, and none of the escalators or moving sidewalks working. Hmm. It took well over 45 minutes to get through Immigration, but then at least the COVID line took zero time at all and my bags were waiting for me.

8) After all that, I splurged on a cab -- the jet lag was setting in, and I had two wheeled suitcases and a laptop -- so my first view of Barcelona driving out of the airport made me think immediately of Palm Springs and southern California: the high mountain ranges sloping to who knows what. The cabby eventually pulled up to the wrong hotel, and after a moment of panic, we got settled on the correct on.

9) The neighborhood I'm in, L'Hospital de Llobregat, is an everyday urban neighborhood, but vital. Exploring briefly I found the nearest subway stop, the bank (thank goodness I recognize Santander from Boston), and the little food and sundries markets across from the hotel.

10) For a late lunch I went to an outdoor restaurant a block from the hotel. If I'd spoken Spanish (I am really feeling the lack of it) I'd call it Doyle's Olé. Cold white wine, a green salad that included tuna and a white asparagus stalk, and ham and boiled potatoes intemperately showered with paprika. I must say, the last was wonderful comfort food.

11) After more jet lag, for dinner I went to the place next door, Petit Paris, and that was far more satisfying: croquettes from the tapas menu, a nice bistecca with fries, and a luscious sangria with hints of cinnamon. The joint has more character, but no one there speaks hardly a whisper of English, so for me it was tough going. But the results were admirable.

12) I may not know much Spanish, but I know when Americano is being used as an epithet behind my back.

13) Tomorrow, Wednesday (!), I am really too befogged by jet lag and that one unforgettable glass of sangria to lay concrete plans. But I must go to the train station and find an electrical adapter for my laptop (I'm already freaking out about losing power). I think I will also hike about Montjuic, which is not far from here, perhaps including the cemetery. Thursday is Sagrada Familia!

14) Finally, two delightful observations. First, when out earlier, I heard the shrilling of unseen birds in the palm trees (and other trees). Later I saw two swooping about — green parrots! Could there be anything more charming? And then bump feathers with pigeons here. Second, Spanish ladies really do fan themselves with big fans.

Sunday Night, 31 July -- Fin Juillet, Ahora Agosto

1) A month has passed, half of which was taken up with a delightful and very busy visit from Carl. In the two weeks he was here we visited the MFA, the Nichols House, the Harrison Gray Otis House, Salem and the Peabody Essex Museum, Petit Robert, the Union Oyster House, and much else.

At Faneuil Hall.

1a) Finalmente, he was able to meet my closest friends after all these months, which went off well all around.

1b) The best investment I’ve made in no little time was a café table and a pair of chairs for my back porch. We had breakfast out there every morning those two weeks, and it couldn’t have been more delightful. That said, Carl is all about a breakfast tray (and a tea tray at the appropriate hour), and now my tray game is 100% improved.

Unseen: napkins already on the table. Mother would be so proud at the increase of napkin use in this house.

1c) One Sunday I got to see Carl in action at the post-matinee “audience talk back” at Gloucester Stage. They were doing a play by a playwright Carl had interviewed on his podcast about Edith Wharton’s adulterous (!) midlife affair with a bounder, Mr. Fullerton Between the Sheets. A very interesting play, and a delight to see Carl in his element as an acknowledged Edith Wharton expert.

1d) The quest for a good lobster roll was also important.

2) Tomorrow I launch August in the afternoon by flying to Barcelona (!) to begin a six-week (!) stay in Spain and Malta. At the moment I’m mostly packed and ready to go, but I know I’m missing something! Like, any knowledge of how to speak Spanish beyond Sí sí, no, rioja, manzanilla, non se habla Espanol, and parts of the libretto of Carmen, which doesn’t count ‘cause it’s in French.

2a) The first three weeks include a week in Barcelona, a week in Madrid, and a week in Seville/Málaga/Granada. The last two weeks will be on Malta: first five days on Gozo, and then nine days in the capital, Valletta.

2a.1) Unlike my previous self-planned trips to Europe, I don’t have every day planned to the hour. I do already have tickets to some Very Important Attractions: Sagrada Familia, the Prado (twice, once for collections, once for exhibitions), El Escorial, and the Alhambra), but as for the rest . . . qui sait?! If I can’t figure out what to do with myself, in Barcelona I’ll certainly go to the beach. Elsewhere I can just park down at a café with a book and a spritz.

2b) The fourth week is exceptionally special: a one-week cruise of the Western Mediterranean for which Carl will be joining me. We’ll call at Villefranche in the south of France, Rome, Naples (we are doing the excursion to Pompeii, and Palma on the island of Mallorca.

The new duds!

2c) For the cruise, which includes two gala nights for black tie, I ordered my third and, I hope, Final Tuxedo from a fabulous bespoke tailor in New York, Cad and the Dandy. I have to say, it is divine! My 2000 tuxedo definitely cannot manage my 2022 waistline.

3) It’s worth emphasizing that I have never been any place on this itinerary before and I am amazed this is actually happening tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Friday Morning, 17 June

Well, it’s been a minute! You might say that COVID and romance have taken a toll on my routine. A few quick words on what’s going on.

The Van Cortlandt House.

1) I got to spend a few days earlier this month in New York with Carl, during which we got to enjoy beautiful weather, Good Home Cooking, Winslow Homer at the Met, and a couple house museums. Coincidentally, the trip was right about the time of our five-month anniversary, and we had a nice dinner at his club to celebrate.

At the Morris-Jumel Mansion.

2) Unfortunately, we think the evening of our dinner was the time he got exposed to the coronavirus. We were supposed to be going up to Maine this weekend to celebrate his birthday — he’s a Maine native — but instead he’s at home, and I’m now going out of town for an “antisocial” weekend at a friend’s, where I hope to accomplish some writing.

Anniversary dinner.

2a) Since Carl’s diagnosis, I’ve been mailing a Lovely Note every day — principally to lift his spirits, but also to test how often the mail at the corner mailbox gets picked up.

2b) I ordered a cake in a presentation box to be delivered for his birthday, but it arrived yesterday. He still loved it.

House of the Seven Gables vibes in the derelict garden of the Morris-Jumel Mansion.

3) All this travel and daily communication is wonderful, and I love it. The other side of the coin is that my writing routine of Sundays and Wednesdays has gotten seriously disrupted, and I haven’t quite found an equilibrium yet. I will definitely not make 100 columns this year.

4) June 17 is not only Carl’s birthday, but also the 50th anniversary of the Hotel Vendome fire. The two years I worked there in college (long after the fire) were overall a wonderful experience, and that building, its Boston history, and my time there remain very special.

5) My a/v wallpaper the last few days has been Macao with Robert Mitchum and Jane Russell, with Gloria Grahame in a small but notable supporting role. When her “boss” says “Diamonds would only cheapen you,” her comeback couldn’t be better: “Yeah . . . but what a way to be cheap.” The action-oriented soundtrack kept me from sound sleep last night, rumbling around in my head.

One of the many wonderful Winslow Homer paintings.

Wednesday Afternoon, 1 June -- A Peony

1) Peering through the window, a flash of white in the distance through thick leaves of green convinced me that at least one peony was in bloom. And then I remembered that rain was in the forecast for the morning, and I went out to harvest what there might be at once. Every year it’s disheartening to see beautiful fully-blown white peonies pounded into the mud by heavy rain.

1a) “Get some of those cage things!” you may say. A lovely thought to have well before the need. One year I did tie up the peonies with broken strands of Mardi Gras beads, which was both economical and colorful.

2) Even without the rain, the one blooming peony was already perilously close to the ground. My satisfaction with its size and scent quickly changed to concern when I saw an ant scuttling between the many petticoat layers of petals. And then another, and another . . . I ended up shooing, shaking, or flicking off about two dozen (!) ants from between all those petals! Wily little insects, I’m sure you’re very nice, but you need to stay outside.

3) Now its almost imperceptible scent makes itself felt in my study. I couldn’t be happier about it.

BONUS: In other news, things are going well for me right now. I’ve enjoyed a weekend in Vermont with friends, a visit from the Boyfriend (I will be visiting him soon, too), a presentation for a corporate client, and even returned to Reunions for the first time in three years to present to one of my old classes. But I certainly haven’t been blogging much, or on ye Fycebykke.

Friday Midday, 13 May

1) Unlike Bette Davis in Dark Victory, I am ready for a Large Order of Prognosisivo Negatividad. But today was not the day for it. This morning’s antigen test yielded only a very faint red line . . . but that’s still a positive result. So isolation must continue for at least a few more days; I’ll test again on Monday.

1a) Either way, I’m observing with Lizzo’s “About Damn Time.” I adore her! It continues to amuse me that I was introduced this revolutionary, profane, body-positive singer through one of my Episcopalian cousins. My Aunt Betty, may she rest in peace, the matriarch of that line, would have had no patience for it.

2) Within my own tiny world I’m doing quite well. It’s the wider world that creates so much anxiety.

3) Only Wednesday, day before yesterday, did I really feel like I was starting to turn a corner, and that was after a sea salt and soda bath. I learned this valuable bit of Science back when I was on the Board of Governors of the Ig Nobel Awards (when they were HQed at the MIT Museum in the 1990s). Take half a cup of baking soda and half a cup of sea salt (MUST be sea salt, not table salt!) and dissolve in a bathtub full of warm water. Then dissolve yourself in that tub for 15-20 minutes, not longer. It was explained to me that the reaction between the salt and the soda rebalances the positive and negative ions in your body. All I know is, Tuesday’s salt and soda totally relaxed me, and Wednesday’s energized me. I’m moving in the right direction. And it’s About Damn Time.

Thursday Morning, 5 May -- Little Did I Know

1) On Monday someone posted an image of Gustave Moreau's painting Hercules and the Lernaean Hydra on ye Ynstygrymme, and I added it to my Story with the caption "Looks like an allegory for Perfect Propriety vs. This Week." Little did I know that this would involve not just the leaked decision of the Supreme Court to overturn Roe v. Wade, but also a positive COVID test. 

2) Saturday night I went to my first “real” party in just over two years, and I had a wonderful time. It was mostly outdoors, and it was chilly that night, so when I started to feel cold-like symptoms late the next day I said “Oh, it’s just a cold,” and prudently changed my Monday dinner plans with a friend to Zoom drinks.

2a) The Boyfriend was supposed to arrive Wednesday (yesterday) for several days. My symptoms raised some anxieties for him, understandably; we both took antigen tests Monday, and they both came out negative. He thought perhaps he could change his train from Wednesday to Saturday in case I would be feeling better, but I said “No! The worst thing is not you not getting to visit, but you visiting and me getting you sick, especially if it turns out to be COVID.” Tuesday I said this.

2b) But a dear friend Wagged an Admonitory Digit at me over the phone about the Monday test. “Now Robert, you know COVID has a five-day baking period!” or something like that. So yesterday morning, after the grocery delivery, I took another antigen test. And let me tell you, that second red stripe appeared seconds after I finished dropping in the fluid, hard and bright. And the irrational part of me, remembering that the instructions said results could only be trusted between 20-30 minutes after the test was activated, thought fleetingly “But perhaps the red line will fade before then?” But I knew, irrevocably, that COVID had finally caught up with me.

2c) Strangely, I had no excess emotion about it. No horror, no shame, no anger, no clawing frustration, just “OK, here I am with a positive test result. Protocols must now be followed.” Affected people to be informed, restaurant reservations and other appointments to be canceled, etc.

2d) And gratitude every moment: for being able to isolate safely at home alone (so many do not have the privilege), of being prepared by having ordered a pulse oximeter, additional masks, and my second box of four free COVID tests from the government weeks ago; the love and support I’ve received, and especially for the thousands of People Who Understand Science More Than I who created the tests, vaccines, etc. without which I could be in a much more dire predicament.

3) The national situation, on the other hand — what I have learned for myself, from unhappy previous experience, is that speaking out in anger comes to no good, no matter how justified my anger might be. Instead, since the leak of the Roe v. Wade decision, I have been reading, absorbing, listening, and contributing to candidates who believe Roe v. Wade should remain the law.

4) Everything is just falling to $@&% — “except your hair,” quipped one friend — but the conclusion I’m coming to is that a growing majority of the world wants to live in a quagmire of vengeance. And I don’t have the answer for that. But that isn’t what I want.

Friday Afternoon, 29 April -- The Theme of the Peridot/New York

1) Let’s trace a realization all the way back to its origin. Once upon a time in 2004 at the Margo Channing Memorial “Three Months Ago I Turned 40 Years Old . . . Forty, Four Oh” Party, a former colleague gave me a copy of Victoria Finlay’s wonderful book Color, a tour through the natural elements that made the colors in an artist’s paint box. This led me to her next book, Jewels, inspired by the Moh hardness scale. Peridot was the fifth stone she explored, after amber, jet, pearl, and opal, but before emerald, sapphire, ruby, and diamond. It was the peridot that stayed with me the most somehow.

2) Since leaving ye Instytytte, I’ve become more interested in semiprecious stones for some reason, particularly pendants, and their meanings. (The Pocket Book of Stones by Robert Simmons is most helpful to me.) Most often I wear a small citrine, my Speck of Sunshine, which “opens the inner doors to increased clarity of thought, enhanced creativity and magnified powers of will and manifestation . . . capable of awakening the powers of creative manifestation.” Last year I also got a small malachite oval, “protection from negative energies,” but the sort of rich deep green I’ve loved all my life.

3) Peridots sport a spring green color that, to me, makes them look more alive than other stones. It embodies the idea of viriditas put forward by Hildegarde von Bingen, of budding energy. And The Pocket Book of Stones backs this up: “. . . little green nuggets of positive energy. Their vibration brings an inner sense of warmth and well-being . . . creating an integration of Love and Will . . . and it can aid in attracting and creating our most important inner visions.”

4) As you know, the most unexpected and meaningful event of the year was the appearance of the Boyfriend. And other meanings of the peridot apply to both of us. So . . . so it was a sign, one of the many similarities and coincidences that have marked the last four months, that an IG jeweler I follow would offer not one but two tiny peridot pendants. Since when do pendants come in pairs? The Boyfriend and I picked them up in New York earlier this week, and I’m wearing mine right now. He does not really wear a lot of jewelry, but will keep his displayed in its little box where he can see it. It makes a nice little talisman for us.

5) These last few days in New York — Saturday night to Thursday noon — were actively focused on the Boyfriend’s work: two recording sessions in the recording studio, lunch with his production manager, and, to my delight, getting to see him lecture live on Edith Wharton and meet a few of his very devoted fans. Next week he will visit me for a few days and a lighter schedule: one event, one concert, and (so far) one function. We can use this time to create our most important inner visions.

Easter Sunday 2022 -- Eggs and Other Thoughts

1) Yesterday I was thinking so much about Mother, her creativity and ability, and particularly about the beautiful Easter eggs she made in the 1970s. I don’t remember when it was she made her Easter tree first, but I remember it well: thin twigs with many branches, stripped of leaves and painted white, anchored carefully into a highly decorated coffee can or something, and then hung with these gorgeous eggs that she’d made herself. I remember us poking tiny holes into eggs to get all the white and yolk out, and I remember especially one bright blue egg that Mother coated with glue and rolled in crushed white eggshell for a brilliant two-tone effect. Loops of ribbon or lace to hang them with, dyed eggs with glitter or other designs. I can’t recall what-all, but they were nothing I could have imagined myself.

Mother never through anything away. I photographed her stash of Easter eggshells, saved for any future craft projects, in 2016.

1a) There was also the very large orange papier-mâché Easter egg with the tiny chick inside that Mother bought at the church craft fair. Edged with yellow and clearly formed around a balloon that was then popped to add the chick inside, Mother would hang it on a white-painted lamp stand.

1b) Mother also had a collection of eggs: stone, wood, cloisonné, actual eggs that had been painted. The first one she got in Hawaii in 1977, delicately painted with a pagoda and orange flowers. Mother said that some of the paintbrushes were so fine they had only one hair on them. I remember another in a presentation box from an event she went to. And a beautiful pale purple egg painted with a violet that she bought at the church craft fair.

1c) I think all that stuff must have gone in the sale. The one egg I chose to keep was an orange stone egg balanced on a little gold ring of daisies.

2) My sister has definitely inherited the creative talents of our mother, and her mother and grandmother before her. We texted this morning with Easter wishes, and she shared that her sister-in-law is helping her with a quilt. It’s beautiful, and I could only think how pleased Mother would be with it.

2a) But they’ve all expressed their creativity a little differently. Gramma made her own clothes, appliquéd designs to decorate dish towels, and made bead flowers. Mother went through all sorts of crafts: burlap flowers, découpage, knitting, papier-mâché. There was nothing she couldn’t do. My sister took up needlepoint, some of it quite elaborate, and I cherish the pieces she created specially for me. I just “loaf, in a decorative and highly charming manner.”

3) Easter this year is much quieter than childhood Easters. Instead of church clothes, Sunday school, Easter services, egg hunts, and a family dinner either big or small, I texted my sister and the children individually (I have not actually seen the family in person since Mother’s funeral in 2019) and I will have Easter tea with the Boyfriend via Zoom. I am quite content with this arrangement. But Memory, that fickle trickster, can raise emotions, and I found myself — hmm, how to describe without alarm? — in a heightened state writing this morning’s column in haiku form about dressing for Easter Sunday as a little boy.

3a) Having to have everything just so, Rex Humbard and/or Oral Roberts on television (Mother and Daddy went through a brief phase with those TV preachers), the cool spring air, and always the three of us in the car waiting for Mother to swirl out of the house late to Sunday school. Always looking perfect, fresh, lively, every hair in place. I have no idea how she did it.

4) For that column I had to leaf through my baby book for a photo, another example of Mother’s creativity. She made baby books for both my sister and myself, from birth until about second grade. Mother did so much I honestly don’t know how she had time to do everything. I value that book so much.

The O’Neil Family art in their memorial booth at Doyle’s, as seen at the auction, November, 2019. The O’Neils had 12 children as seen in the painting at right: a son, ten daughters, and then another son.

5) Speaking of dressing your best for Easter Sunday, over on ye Ynstygrymme Etiquetteer had reposted someone’s story about Boston’s famous O’Neil Sisters, all ten (!) of them, dressed alike for the Easter parade every year by their mother Julia. She made all the clothes herself (!) and had to get started in February! Their day had passed by the day I got to Boston, but I learned about them at Doyle’s, where they were memorialized in one of the booths in the front room.

Friday Morning, 15 April

1) Hmm . . . it’s Good Friday, Tax Day, the anniversary of Lincoln’s assassination and the Titanic’s sinking. That’s quite a bouquet.

1a) This week I did manage to reread Hugh Brewster’s Gilded Lives, Fatal Voyage about first class (spoiler alert: eventually everyone dies), particularly those who weren’t really of the leisure class: military aide Archie Butt, artist Frank Millet, Broadway producer Henry B. Harris, novelist Jacques Futrelle, silent movie star and model Dorothy Gibson, etc. But of course the plutocrats come in for their share of examination.

1b) Have you experienced instant friendship? I was moved by the story of Marian Thayer sitting next to Archie Butt at the Widener’s dinner party for Captain Smith and how immediately they took to each other and communicated so much from the deepest parts of themselves in only a few hours. She survived, he drowned.

1c) The other was that Frank Millet’s sons, mistakenly believe their father had survived, showed up for the docking of the Carpathia with whiskey and cigars for him . . . but he never came down the gangway.

2) We are going to have a day of sunlight, birdsong, and ambient construction noise from down the street.

3) I feel like I should be spending the day making lists. Suggest some lists I should make, please.

Friday Midday, 8 April

Sharing a great deal of random today:

1) On Monday the Boyfriend left after a long weekend visit, taking a very early train because of my grand jury summons (which, as it happened, didn’t actually begin until the next day). So of course I got up before dawn and prepared the breakfast he likes — yogurt, blueberries, Grape Nuts, English muffins with Irish butter and jam, and coffee — served in the dining room on the good china, because the good china is almost identical to his mother’s from when he was a boy.

1a) A pre-dawn dining room breakfast took me back to July, 1977, when we set off on our “Roots trip” to meet Mother’s family in Minnesota for the first time. Daddy liked to get on the road early, so the trip started before sunrise with breakfast next door at Granny’s house. This was surprising enough — we’d gone on vacations before and never been sent off this way — but so was actually eating in the dining room, and off the good china.

1a.i) I sat at the foot of the table, and what I remember most was seeing Granny at the other end in her thin pale blue flannel bathrobe and thin pale pink nightgown smiling as broadly as ever. She loved to have a lot of people around, and she loved especially when it was family. That’s what happens when you grow up with five sisters and a brother in your mother’s boarding house with 20 or 30 college students and no internet, television, or radio.

2) Grand jury service on Tuesday, to my surprise and relief, was concluded by 1 PM. I showed up early at the Moakley courthouse, of course, got checked in, listened to all the instructions, videos, and the interminably oratorical judge, and then got sent up to two courtrooms. In each I failed to be impaneled since my name was near the end of the list. Everything was handled efficiently and courteously, and I celebrated getting sprung with lunch on the waterfront.

3) Since the pandemic started, ye Ynstagrym has really become my preferred social media platform; you should be following @etiquetteer1 if you aren’t already. But . . . it is doing a very poor job of corralling and eliminating fake accounts. In the last week I found three using my photos for profile pics, and yesterday I found three more using photos of a follower. It is almost an obsession now, tracking down and blocking fake accounts (also on ye Twyttyr).

4) Spring has sprung in New England, and I can tell because the star magnolia in front of the house has started blooming. We now begin the three weeks of the year when my home looks its best.

5) Obviously travel takes on a new significance now that I’m dating someone in another city, and I will be back in mad Manhattan near the end of the month for a few days, during which I’ll get to witness the Boyfriend record a podcast episode and also attend one of his public programs. He will then head up to Beantown for the Gibson House benefit and BBC’s Brahms Requiem. It’s time for me to start maximizing every possible points program!

6) A quagmire of unfinished books is building up around me. I am near the end of Maiden Voyages by Sian Philllips (women’s experiences as passengers, crew, and refugees in the golden age of transatlantic liners, fascinating), The Invention of Murder by Judith Flanders (how the Victorians became engrossed in gory public murder trials, etc. — a Christmas gift from Oldest Nephew Who Must Not Be Tagged that I brought to Palm Springs and didn’t nearly make a dent in), and now The Age of Decadence by Simon Heffer (British imperial history and culture from 1880 to World War I, just what I love).

7) Thinking about Etiquetteer content for the spring. What would you like to hear Etiquetteer comment on?

Friday Morning, 18 March

1) So sleepy yesterday evening, so I surprised myself by staying up until midnight reading Carol Wallace’s Our Kind of People, a novel of Old New York Gilded Age snobbery and (soon, I hope) social fluidity. I had to force myself to put the book down, and then had a terrible time getting to sleep. Now I feel heavy as a boulder in a muddy riverbank.

2) But not so unconscious that I can’t do basic math. I realized this morning that today would have been Gramma’s 120th birthday.

3) The recent rediscovery (by me) of Mae West’s Goin’ to Town of 1935 reminded me of the many wonderful movies I discovered as a boy on KHTV Houston Channel 39’s Eight O’Clock Movie. All the Shirley Temple movies, Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast (with subtitles, thank goodness), The Helen Morgan Story, all the Flash Gordon films. And so often next door at Granny and Grampa’s house.

Tuesday Afternoon, the Ides of March -- This Was Not Expected

1) Genuinely touched by all the support after my public Change of Relationship Status on ye Fycebykke yesterday. So many friends, so many good wishes, so much curiosity about Who This Man Is. Now is the time to introduce you to Carl.

1a) One quick caveat: I have the right to tell my story, but not anyone else’s. So if I’m light on details, it’s out of consideration for everyone else involved.

2) The short version: a mutual friend from my Ballet days suggested I check out his friend’s new podcast about the Gilded Age (the era, not the HBO series). Early in January I finally did, and I was very impressed. As suggested in every episode, I emailed with some possible topics for future episodes. Two days later he responded (from his private email) “Our mutual friend has been telling me about you for years!” By the end of his message I was sure any future communication would not be of a professional nature.

2a) Daily email led to Zoom afternoon tea, Zoom dinner, and then to his taking the train up to Boston in early February for the day just so we could meet; he’s based in New York. I took him to lunch at the Oak Room, where the conversation never flagged. Over a month after that lunch, I’d say the conversation still hasn’t flagged.

2b) He spent a long weekend with me in Boston over Presidents Day, and I just returned from a few days with him in New York. We are starting to work out how to do this regularly.

3) Carl’s podcast is The Gilded Gentleman, and it’s superb; subscribe now please (and thank you). He is not on ye Fycebykke. A Maine native who lived for a few years in Boston, he’s long established on the Upper West Side. Like me, he can be everything from stately to silly, usually in only a few seconds. He is considerate and thoughtful in ways I can only hope to emulate after a lot of practice.

4) I have stopped listing all the similarities and coincidences because there are so many — besides, they appear ever green if I can go absentminded now and then. We are both affiliated with 19th-century house museums (mine is the Gibson House Museum, his is the Merchants House Museum). Another Gibson House affiliate was one of Carl’s coworkers when he was in Boston. Afternoon tea is as important a part of his day as the cocktail hour is to mine. We both love china, and my grandmother’s strongly resembles his mother’s china from childhood. We have both been to Venice, and we both bought capes when we were there. We both love opera, and I actually attended performances in Boston back in the 1980s in which he performed as a super or chorister. (Earlier reports that he sang in Back Bay Chorale were mistaken on my part; one of his friends sang in the Chorale, while he sang with another chorus.)

5) I am 58 years old and have never had a boyfriend. How on earth is this happening?! First, I didn’t reach out with any idea of romance; as God is my witness, this was only about the podcast (and possible collaboration with Etiquetteer). Second, I had really and truly given up on the idea of a lifelong love, particularly as I’m so firmly established in middle age. And third, as lovely as this new relationship is, I can’t know how long it will last; this gives me the freedom to enjoy what we have without anxiety about being thought Good Enough for marriage or a lifetime commitment. That may sound callous, but when you consider how much I was raised on the Happily Ever After myth and the (beautiful) example of my own parents’ marriage . . . this is a sea change for me, and I’m not ungrateful.

6) Being old and inexperienced is different from being young and inexperienced. Learning how to walk down the street holding hands is delightful. Learning not to barrel forward when rolling a suitcase in one hand, leaving Carl 12 paces behind, quite another. Oopsie.

7) So . . . I didn’t expect 2022 to begin like this, and I’ll bet most of you never expected to hear me say I was in a relationship. No matter how many other good things may crowd into this year, they won’t be any better than this unexpected gift.

Waiting for my train back to Boston yesterday afternoon.

Monday Morning, 7 March

1) The past few days have offered me a rich return to the arts in person. Friday I went with two friends to the Van Gogh Immersive on Harrison Avenue — truly immersive, truly magical — Saturday I went to the Back Bay Chorale’s performance at the Boston Public Library, and yesterday afternoon friends brought me to the Lyric Stage’s production of The Book of Will. It’s all been wonderful!

At the BPL for the BBC concert.

2) Today’s horoscope from Gold River Astrology includes the phrase “. . . challenges us to be discerning with what we feed our mind with.” To me, that means limiting news and social media intake so I can focus on what really matters to me. Time to tune out the &^%$^$@$%!

3) And more coffee. There can always be more coffee.

Friday Afternoon, 25 February

1) On Wednesday the skies were sunny and my heart was light. I enjoyed a beautiful lunch out with two of my best friends, two hours (including an hour after the check had been paid) of engaging conversation with people rarely seen in person during the pandemic — and all this after the departure the day before of that Fascinating New Personality, who had come to visit for a few days.

1a) Today, Friday, the skies are stormy and my heart — and the sidewalks — are heavy. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has justly alarmed and angered the world, taking us to a place I think few of us are really prepared to go.

2) To add to that growing sense of unease and suspicion, it appears I have been deceived by an IG account that had all the appearances of a professional acquaintance from 20 years ago. This account followed me three weeks ago, an account that had well over 1K legit posts that were not all posted on the same date, and I was looking forward to reconnecting. Yesterday appeared in that accounts Posts and Stories a post related to a, shall we say, uncharacteristic topic: ye Bytcoynne, also known as ye Cripteau, ye Fyryx, etc. etc. etc. I messaged “Dahling, it looks like you’ve been hacked,” and this morning got the reply, “No, I really did it, I made [Insert Whatever Amount of Money It Was] and I’m gonna do it again!”

2a) So then I knew something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and during an Economist Zoom program about Ukraine I scrolled this account’s followers and blocked dozens of fake accounts.

2a.1) It feels like I spend more and more of my time online blocking fake accounts. Is social media worth it?

2b) The only problem: this account now has my email and phone number. 😰

3) Add to all this today’s horoscope from Gold River Astrology on Twitter, which contains this: “Words have a powerful impact on a Rooster day - think before you speak. Keep to your center.” An admonition to be discreet, circumspect, and calm above all else.

Thursday Evening, 17 February

1) After a week away I’m used to going through a stack of mail, especially after Christmas. Returning from a week away in February, however, I was surprised to find five to seven handwritten notes among the bills and junk mail. Such bounty! I am not ungrateful. It was pure delight to open each envelope.

1a) One was from a friend of Mother’s, with news clippings from the Old Hometown Newspaper that mentioned my father, and some other things, and it was like hearing from Mother Herself.

1b) Two others, from that Fascinating New Personality, could be classified as love letters.

1c) In addition, a large padded envelope from an Interlochen friend yielded . . . every letter and card I’d sent him in the last 35 years. This is the sort of thing that used to happen when people died; letters were returned. That’s how James Fox was able to write his book Five Sisters about the legendary Langhorne sisters of Virginia, including his mother Phyllis Brand and his notorious aunt Nancy Astor. I believe they found their letters to each other in a trunk in Phyllis’s bedroom long after she died. But . . . gurrrrlllll, if I don’t write my story, no one else will!

2) I have never missed Begonia and Estonia, my housemaids AWOL since 1994, more than I have today. But with a Fascinating New Personality arriving tomorrow for a long weekend, well . . . as Sir Roderick Bland said in Noel Coward’s “Bon Voyage,” “The moment is urgent!”

3) Today I have veered between Charlie Chan and the 1990 Live from Lincoln Center performance of Sondheim’s A Little Night Music with my beloved Sally Ann Howes as Desirée and Regina Resnik as Madame Armfeldt. I am particularly obsessed with the song “Soon.”

3a) Long ago, when I was a tender sweet young thing working as a concierge at the Vendome, one of the tenants cleaning out his vinyl passed on to me a boxed four-record set of Regina Resnik in the title role of Carmen. I think one of those records was scratched. I’ve never forgotten that recording, not least because Dame Joan Sutherland Herself played Micaela.

Monday, Valentine's Day 2022 -- Palm Springs, Day Eight

1) This Valentine’s Day began differently from every other I can remember: Bitmoji texts and a 30-minute phone call from an actual Valentine, after he received the dozen roses I had ordered for him. Thank goodness I decided to start my day with the dawn after all and not try to sleep on until 7:30, and thank goodness I had my first cup of coffee. We had a really lovely conversation, and later, when I logged on, I saw the email he said he’d sent, with a favorite quote of his from Brideshead Revisited that — that left me in an emotional state, let’s just leave it there.

1a) Who is this Valentine, you ask? Well, never you mind; his identity may be revealed at a later date. He is the Fascinating New Personality I mentioned a few weeks ago, and he is still fascinating.

1b) At age 58, this is my first Valentine.

2) So . . . “New friends are silver, but old friends are gold,” and in my current state I had particular need for a gold friend. Thank goodness Hochmina and I had already arranged to go to breakfast at Sherman’s and we were able to talk through this Brave New World.

3) I’ve been able to act on few of the recommendations made to me of things to do in Palm Springs, but so many people said “Go to Sherman’s!” that I’d’ve been justly shunned if I hadn’t made it there. I love delis and I love deli food, so it is no surprise that I now love Sherman’s, too. We had a table outside on the sidewalk, good coffee, a bacon cheese omelette, and a view of one of my besties backed by a range of mountains. Sherman’s FTW!

3a) “Great for people watching,” I was told, and at 9:15 AM Sherman’s was definitely a magnet for Heterosexual Palm Springers Older Than I. Walking from the car to the entrance, we past an elderly cellist just setting up for a morning serenade; our table turned out to be just next to him, and we enjoyed a series of romantic solos backed by pre-recorded accompaniment. I tipped him on the way out, and then got to notice his sign board with all of his previous symphony gigs.

3b) With most people appearing in T-shirts and shorts, one irresistibly noticed the arrival of a person in a short fringed buckskin dress with long sleeves and bits of jewelry. And I thought, “If Georgia O’Keeffe had ever been part of cocktail culture, this would have been her look.”

4) Then prowling through Ralph’s with one of my hosts on the lookout for egg noodles, flowers, a particular kind of prepared tomato, and some other things. And lunch al fresco with my hosts.

5) In the late afternoon I Lyfted over to Rancho Mirage to see two friends who moved to Palm Springs permanently about a year ago. While Palm Springs is defined by the mid-century modern low ranch house of severe angles and brightly colored doors, this gated community in Rancho Mirage is entirely high-ceilinged stucco cottages with Spanish roof tiles and rather lush plantings. The contrast surprised me.

5a) My friends have arranged their new home luxuriously; my goodness, their living room of pale gray with rich blues and greens was so perfect. As seems to be the practice here, the house came with a great deal of furniture from the previous owner, and they found some marvelous things in the consignment shops here. We had a really nice hour or so catching up and daydreaming about the future.

6) The Lyft driver on my return trip was a native of Indio, CA, full of questions about how New England was different from this region.

7) I rushed into the house with barely enough time to set the table before the Valentine’s dinner guests summoned by my hosts arrived. What was going to be a simple pasta dinner had been enriched by leftovers from polo and a superb homemade chocolate mousse.

8) Like all dinners with absorbing conversations, the evening stretched on, and I knew I was going to have to finish my packing. The night concluded with wide smiles and fond embraces from old friends and new.

PS: I conclude this entry on Tuesday morning, only two hours before departing for the airport. Dawn substituted her hazy robe for her rosy fingers this morning. It feels like forever ago that I arrived here, but that is because I’ve experienced and absorbed so much during this stay. After so much sameness and anxiety in the last two years, this new and different week fed my soul as I had hoped — but not, perhaps, quite as expected. I leave grateful for the generous hearts that welcomed me here in the first place — and eager to welcome my own houseguest in only a few days.

Sunday Evening, 13 February -- Palm Springs Day Seven

1) I had been told by my hosts well before I arrived that on Sunday we would be going to polo with a group of their friends — some of whom I got to meet at Saturday’s pool party. (I am becoming terrible with names and am, of course, adopting the Tallulah Bankhead Approach here. It works splendidly.) Never having been to a polo match, I thought, “Well, that’ll be different!”

1a) I was advised that this wasn’t fancy upper-crust polo but casual clothes and heavy tailgating. So I was not expecting the stereotypical North Shore country club, but something more like the desert polo field seen at the beginning of White Mischief with Charles Dance in the saddle: dust, blazing sun, champagne, and a few laughs, e.g. “Where’s the bloody ball?”

2) The morning was spent in some confusion — I’d say it was a comedy of Mercury retrograde except that that ended on February 3 — but I was certainly seeing parts of Palm Springs I hadn’t yet seen, and the mountain ranges everywhere in the background compelled my attention.

3) Of the two country clubs in Palm Springs, we went first the one that, contrary to expectations, was not open due to a private event. But we were directed to the other, where “family polo” was taking place. There, eventually, we were able to park and to set out our picnic, unprotected from the stronger-than-Palm-Springs-is-used-to-in-February sun.

4) Altogether the assembly spread out an impressive buffet: bagels and lox, fried chicken, potato salad, brownies, lemon squares, something in a crock pot I didn’t get to try, and of course champagne served in plastic flutes. Salut!

Polo!

5) So polo is a lot of horses with men on them carrying long-handled mallets galloping back and forth to get a hard white ball between goal posts at either end of a large grass field the size of nine football fields. This field is surrounded by a low wooden border painted red because, while the ball doesn’t leave the field, often the horses do. A margin of about eight feet stood between this border and the safety line for spectators so that no one watching might, um, make contact with a horse. And we certainly saw the horses cross over quite a few times, and a couple times quite near us.

5a) The six chukkas seemed to go on forever. Suddenly one horseman was actually in the space next to us, with the cameraman filming for the judges — surprise! Apparently he had been fouled, which I was told was quite rare.

I believe this was the start of a chukka, with all the riders gathered with the referee.

5b) Later I saw a riderless horse gallop off the field; it appears that one of the referees somehow came separated from his mount.

5c) Fun fact: the horses of the referees had long flowing tails, but the horses of the players had their tails braided and bound or bobbed.

Chapeau a la Zouave.

6) But really, the sun . . . I had to tuck a bandana in the back of my cap to protect my neck.

7) Once everything was packed up, we had a longish drive back home, where I almost immediately got into the pool. Eventually six of us were drinking champagne in the hot tub and I thought, as another friend has so memorably said, “Well . . . this doesn’t suck!”

8) During this stay I really haven’t seen much of what might be called The Scene, but the dinner decision was for Black Book, a gay bar on a street of gay bars that serverd great burgers. When our party of five arrived they were just shutting down the patio, which would have been lovely. But they had a substantial high top for us in the back of this all-black room, and they did indeed have good burgers.

8a) The one thing: the music was so loud I could barely hear any of the conversation at our table, confining me to responses like “Yes,” “Oh yes!” or “I’m sorry” or “What?” #agingactressyesterdaysglamorqueen

9) Outside, after our bill was paid, the suggestion was made to press on to another bar for another drink. One friend and I had had enough and headed home, where I am now sleepily compiling this entry.

10) This has been quite the California day: sun, sport, swimming pools, champagne, and friends. Now all I need to do is continue to hydrate and moisturize.