Posts: 44

1. Land Rover, Come Over: Getting muddy temps me out to the dreaded Hamptons

   03.Jul.08, 10:55 EDT
   
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   Gosh, I just never got the appeal of the Hamptons.  Its like all the social status obsessed people I dislike, who clamor to get into Manhattan restaurants, bars, parties and clubs, and make it impossible for me to enjoy myself, concentrated on one thin strip of oceanfront.  And since there are only two or three hot spots in the Hamptons, like Dune, the Pink Elephant and The Country Club at Conscience Point (site of the infamous Lizzie Grubman backing her SUV into 30 people incident, that occurred on July 6th in 2001 and brought so much attention to the souless-ness of this summer playground for the rich and famous and their wannabes), they get to over-charge in a way that makes the Meat Packing District scene seem like a budget-friendly destination.

   
   

   Plus, if you've ever been stuck in the two-lane highway traffic that can take up to one hour just to crawl a long from East Hampton to Sag Harbor, you really have to question whether it is worth it to go out there, even if you've gotten an invite to a fabulous private estate.

   
   

   These were my thoughts as I pondered an invite from Land Rover to come test drive their cars on a mud and ruts track at a major spread in East Hampton.  They were also offering free seminars with "experts"  including: one of Architectural Digest's top interior designers, Roderick Shade; chefs Tom Schaudel and Michael Ross from Jedediah Hawkins Inn (on Long Island in the North Fork); and adventurer and conservationist, Nicholas Bougas.

   
   

   The drive out there on a Thursday, mid-day was a breeze (even though I had a crap rental car and the GPS was broken).  And the estate was very elegant -- a tasteful white house, Martha Stewart perfection, with a pool and manicured lawn.  But driving the Land Rover was really fun.  I'm not sure, but I think these gas guzzlers are maybe one step above a Hummer in terms of miles per gallon.  The first ridiculously luxurious thing:  my seat had a temperature control.  Soon I felt a chill spreading under my rump and worried that I might have wet myself (but I liked it).  It helped keep me alert too as I drove almost sideways through crazy man-made valleys, and up one very steep incline.  My driving instructor (yes, a Land Rover expert who was in the car the whole time, thank stars) made me stop at the top of the hill, and it was just like that moment on a roller coaster when you climb and climb up before the big drop, and there's that pregnant pause as you are about to go over the falls.  After putting the car in first gear on the Mud and Ruts setting on the toggle wheel near the gearshift,  he said, "I know this is going to be hard for you, but I want you to take your feet completely off the pedals as you go down this incline.  Just let the car take care of it."

   
   

   I digested that info intellectually, then I just did it.  Gave it enough gas to get over the hump and start rolling and lifted my feet.  The car shifted into auto-drive and controlled its speed all the way down.  Cool.  It did weird, subtle adjustments the whole time we were on rocky terrain and its an amazing machine, but I wondered as I sped up and splashed some major mud on the perfectly polished grill, what percentage of Land Rover owners actually go off-roading?  I mean, I always associate them with the Real Housewives of Orange Country and rich MLFs.

   
   

   Next up, the experts.  I learned to prepare Duck L'Orange with chef Tom Schaudel from Jedediah Hawkins Inn, which is really not so hard if you have an assistant who shops for you and chops everything up like he had it for the demo.  I don't eat duck, but I'm happy to know I can prepare it "Hamptons Style" for my next French paramour.  Also, I was impressed that nothing was wasted.  The duck fat was saved to make duck fat croutons (like pork rinds), and the orange peel was thinly sliced, soaked in simple syrup and baked to make orange peel candy: both used as garnish.

   
   

   Decorator Roderick Shade was fabulous too, saying there was really no wrong, its all about what you like.  And really, we all do know what we like: colors, style of furniture, etc.  Just look at the stuff you already own and want to keep and incorporate into a new space.  Now, if only I had a six room beach mansion and budget to hire a interior designer! 

   
   

   And then I was utterly charmed by Nicholas Bougas, a British ex-pat who now lives in Belize and runs an eco resort called Gracie Rock Reserve.  He's been working for years now to conserve this area of jungle lands and protect the species that live there, and apparently he's succeeded in having all but one central plot declared conservation land.  That one plot, unfortunately, is owned by Taiwanese businessmen who want 4.5 million dollars for it.  So, he's trying to raise that money by offering tours to foreign visitors and getting them invested in the solution and the beauty of the wild.  Great guy.  I assured him 4.5 million wasn't really that much:  the right celebrity could raise it in a night, but that is a fortune in Belize.  Bougas will also be leading a new Abercrombie & Kent jungle safari in Belize.  This is like the Rolls Royce of adventure companies, so if you can afford it, this is the way to go!

   
   

   Bougas had a great Land Rover story too: he once lead a group of visiting journalists on a jungle safari during an unexpected flood, and the Land Rovers literally drove through rivers.  I believe it.  I was in a customized Land Rover while stalking animals in the bush in South Africa a couple years back, and not only was it totally silent, but I sweat that car could drive over anything, even the tops of trees.

   
   

   I still left disliking the hell out of the stuffy Hamptons, but I enjoyed my day of mini adventures in spending money I don't have quite a lot.

2. Gay Summer Camp: The Pines, Fire Island

   01.Jul.08, 10:57 EDT
   
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   "Traitor," a gay acquaintance hissed at me as I entered the Fresh Market, the gourmet grocery store that opened in The Pines, Fire Island, last summer.  As a dedicated fag hag, I've been going out to the Pines since the mid-'90s, but times are a changin' in more ways than one.

   
   

   A dozen years ago, I would stay with my struggling 20-something gay male buddies in a group house -- seven bedrooms split 14 ways.  This allowed a revolving cast of 28 people total, each with a half share, to come every other weekend.  I think people paid about $2,000 a summer for this arrangement. If you do the math on that, that's $48K total for the whole house, and yes, landlords get away with it because The Pines community on Fire Island isn't just another beach town: It's like the gay utopian summer camp most of these men never had.  The costume parties and the canapes and the cattiness do sometimes get out of hand (every house seemed to have at least one major scandal and one major relationship drama), but it's like a big homosexual fraternity party.

   
   

   Don't get me wrong: The Pines also has many natural charms -- big sandy beaches, wild deer, and battering surf.  And I love the process of getting out there: taking the LIRR train from Penn Station in New York to Sayville Station on Long Island, then getting a $5 shuttle bus to The Pines Ferry, then sitting on the roof and sunning during the $7.50, 30-minute jaunt across to Fire Island.  Once you arrive, its a picturesque land of wooden walkways with no cars.  Everyone walks and transports their stuff in old-fashioned red wagons.  It's always 95 percent gay men, some young and beautiful, most older and wealthy, with just a handful of heteros who got smart and like it better than The Hamptons, and fag hags like me.

   
   

   BTW, though "fag hag" has a negative connotation to many, it does not to me (though I once tried to spearhead a movement to call women who are best friends with gay men "fruit flies" instead).  It's just a fact that gay men, from Andy Warhol to my Uncle Flloyd (who had a glass eye and a penchant for green velvet jumpsuits), influenced me in my formative years.  I have a similar aesthetic and sense of humor to many gay men, and find their company comfortable and yet stimulating.  That's just how it is.

   
   

   I digress, but flash forward to the present, summer 2008, and yes, I'm still hanging out with fags and summering in The Pines.  Now my gay best friend has a private house with four bedrooms (one of them is mine all the time, whether I'm there or not) right on the sand with a pool facing the ocean.  It's occupied by three dogs and their doggy "manny," Raoul.  And according to my best gay friend's boyfriend, who defected for many years to the Hamptons, a house in The Pines is still a steal at $60K for the summer compared to $200K in Amagansett.

   
   

   And we're different, too, in our thirties. Instead of heading out to High Tea at 5 p.m. each day, we are on the island to mix and mingle. We cook, read, play games, watch DVDs, banter, and flip through The New Yorker, New York, and Newsweek by the pool. We rarely leave the house, except to maybe get a Starbucks in the harbor. Yes, this is progress and related to my original point -- there's some new retail blood in The Pines.

   
   

   Literally for a dozen years, it was just The Pantry grocery store, the bar where Tea happens, the Sip and Twirl bar (frequented by older gay men), a few clothing boutiques, and a pizza joint.  But now one wealthy gay man (rumored to be a bit of a megalomaniac, but what guy worth dozens of millions isn't?) has bought the floating "Boatel" and the adjacent retail strip and is shaking things up.

   
   

   The Starbucks is inside a little cafe with the slowest service on the planet.  But the Fresh Market is the biggest change. At first it was rumored to be a full Citarella, but they just get produce from there.  But it's almost as good, with campy sandwiches with names like the Brad Pitt, the Johnny Depp, and the Leonardo DiCaprio, and a lettuce wrap called the Mary Kate Olsen (hysterical).  And there's all that gourmet foodstuff that I like eating as long as someone else knows how to put it together and serve it up.  As for the prices, they are no worse than The Pantry, which serves up petrified Boar's Head deli-meat sandwiches.  And over the years, I never felt like the people who worked at The Pantry really liked gay people or even went out of their way to stock the food that people wanted. 

   
   

   So, in short, go ahead, call me a traitor.  But I think having some competition and some motivation to be better only helps make The Pines, my fag hag paradise, even more sublime.

3. Niagara Falls: Monsters, fireworks and wine country too!

   26.Jun.08, 10:51 EDT
   
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   When I discovered that one of the wonders of the world, Niagara Falls, was a mere two hours drive from Toronto, I felt compelled to go.  I was perversely curious.  A friend who grew up there had once told me that the U.S. side of Niagara Falls had fallen into disrepair and was economically depressed.  But, she said, cross over to the Canadian side (an easy 10-minute drive on the Rainbow Bridge if there's no traffic; just bring your passport), and it was another world -- a booming resort town with some of the kitschy charm that inspired our grandparents' generation to make Niagara Falls one of their top honeymoon destinations.

   
   

   Like most things in Toronto, renting a car from Avis in Union Station was a breeze, and driving in the city and on the highways was amazingly stress-free.  The drive to Niagara Falls was pretty bland: sprawling suburbs and malls and then, lots of green.  But I was shocked when we finally emerged upon the manicured park that borders the falls. Niagara Falls themselves were stunning: Just like in photos, a massive, powerful, drop shrouding the river below in mist.  Definitely a turn-on, though the place is overrun with families and there's a well-maintained but tacky strip of hotels, casinos, wax museums, arcades, and restaurants along Clifton Hill that is hauntingly like the old Las Vegas.

   
   

   The funny thing about the Canadian side of Niagara Falls is that it feels just like being in the U.S.  The absence of advertising and colorful stimuli sending out subliminal and not at all subtle messages to BUY! EAT! CONSUME! that I noted in Toronto was gone: We were back to the hard-sell, amusement-park glee.

   
   

   Of course, there were things I chuckled over, like the Criminals Hall of Fame Wax Museum with John Wayne Gacy in a full clown outfit standing in the entryway, and the Nightmares Fear Factory Haunted House.  And of course, one has to go on the classic Maid of the Mist ferry, where you venture almost into the falls wearing a rain poncho. Or you can opt for the Journey Behind the Falls experience, a series of elevators and platforms that take you down 150 feet, close to the base of the falls.  Either way, make sure it's a warm day, because you will get soaking wet.

   
   

   As for places to eat in Niagara Falls, I loved the look of the Burger King with a giant Frankenstein on top holding a Whopper. But if you want quality, I would say opt for the Watermark restaurant in the Fallsview Hilton Hotel (which, yes, has a killer view of the falls and the fireworks over the falls at 10 p.m., as well as a direct connection to the Casino Niagara).

   
   

   If you're looking for the best hotel in Niagara Falls, I would go with the newer Marriott Fallsview Hotel, which has rooms with views of the falls as well as the Serenity Spa By the Falls offering a signature "Cascade" massage/hydro-therapy bath treatment.  But be warned that the honeymoon vibe that once dominated Niagara is gone: This is a place for people with children and grandchildren.  In fact, I was shocked to see a very large family of religious people in Little House on the Prairie-type dresses enjoying the Clifton Hills strip.  I guess God approves of throwing hard-earned money away on arcade games and candy.

   
   

   If you want romance, I do have some good news.  Just 30 minutes away from Niagara Falls (and 90 minutes away from Toronto) is the wine country of Ontario, Niagara-on-the-Lake.  I was skeptical, but sure enough, after a few twists and turns along winding roads, we found our way to the Peller Estates vineyard, nestled among the 140 or so other vineyards in the area.  They have a very good restaurant, open for lunch and dinner daily, where the chef incorporates their best-selling ice wines into the cuisine, and also does a lovely pairing menu (so it's like a wine tasting with food!).  The estate also offers a Extreme Wine Weekend Boot Camp, to take your knowledge of wines from 101 to 201 through a series of barrel tastings, blind tastings, wine training, and vineyard meals. 

   
   

   But you can't stay at the Peller Estates.  You'll have to book lodging for yourself in the cute-as-pie little town, where there are a number of options, including the charming Oban Inn & OSpa, where I happily decompressed.

   
   

4. Distillery District Toronto: A hopelessly hip community with soul

   19.Jun.08, 13:43 EDT
   
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   Usually, when someone starts talking about a planned community, I see images from The Stepford Wives in my head and am instantly creeped out.  But leave it to Canada to take a sketchy concept and turn it on its head.

   
   

   Welcome to the Distillery District of Toronto, a historic site of the best preserved Victorian industrial architecture in North America, that yes, was actually an ale distillery (the drink of choice back in the 1800's when people feared water-born diseases).  But since clever developers got their hands on the property in the post 9/11 real estate confusion (remember, no one knew what was coming so people bought and sold for under market value?), it has now been turned into a pedestrian only "village" of hopelessly hip condos, shops, restaurants, bars, cafes, art galleries and offices, as well as the elements that actually save it from souless-ness: schools, performance spaces and artist studios.

   
   

   A third of the available space here is saved for educational institutions and artist studios in the hope that this planned community will actually sprout something organic -- a Toronto-based arts scene, that developers hope will make the hood the premiere arts, culture and entertainment center of Canada.

   
   

   Leave it to earnest Canadians to turn a money-making venture like this into something that seems almost like a good deed, I mused as I toured the site (you can opt for a group tour via Segway, we chose to walk).  

   
   

   My first moment of seduction was an iced latte from Cafe Uno, possibly the most satisfying one ever.  It was there I first noticed the ridiculously good-looking artist Carlito Dalceggio, though I had no idea it was him until after I was delighted by his colorful Mexican-inspired work inside the Thompson Landry Gallery, and happened to see his photo.  My colleagues were equally impressed, so we had to call him in to pose with his work.  The best thing about him: he could have cared less and did nothing at all to try to charm us in his morning ruffled and scruffiness.

   
   

   Next we made a few stops among the retail outlets selling one of a kind pieces by artists from the studios including silk scarves, raku pottery and vegan handbags, all of which were high-quality and tempting, but the ultimate stop was at SOMA, a place to eat, drink and WORSHIP chocolate. Using an artisan approach, they make small batches of single origin chocolate from the bean and create unusual handmade truffles. A shot of their famous Mayan Hot Chocolate will fuel you up for the whole day and inspire amorous thoughts (yes, chile plus chocolate is a powerful aphrodisiac), so beware if you have no outlet for your affections.

   
   

   Randomly, a full Brazilian ensemble from Bahia was drumming and singing wildly in the courtyard as we settled in for lunch at Pure Spirits Oyster House & Grill, set inside a 130 year old barrel shipping room.  A marvelous blackberry mojito was followed by an enormous  plate of the best fish and chips ever.

   
   

   I was reluctant to leave this little utopia until the developer mentioned they were hoping the area would eventually have the feel of Chelsea in New York.  Wait a gosh darn moment: that's home for me!  Where I actually live! Oh, right,  the real thing.

5. Woofstock: Welcome to the Canine Summer of Love

   17.Jun.08, 11:53 EDT
   
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   "Don't go down to that neighborhood if you don't like dogs.", a friendly Toronto native said, after I asked for directions to the St Lawrence Market.  "They are having a dog festival around there this weekend."

   
   

   Little did she know, I had a pocket-sized dog of my own: my Chihuahua, Carlos, lounging inside his stealth but stylish demin bag.  We were heading there by design to roll around in the proverbial mud at Woofstock, the largest dog festival in North America.  Organizers could not have known that June 7th & 8th would fall during the surprise heatwave that hit the northeast, but they were prepared: the first thing we saw as we approached was a doggy swimming pool.  Owners were lining up their furry charges to take advantage of the diving board.  Splashes were heard followed by swimming and vigorous shaking once the dogs who took the plunge reached the far deck.

   
   

   Other Woofstock activities included: Extreme Doggy Makeovers, Doggy Fashion Shows and Costume Parties, Stupid Pet Tricks competitions, "Because Dogs Can't Talk" behavior sessions, a fundraiser for Doggy Cancer, and the slightly suspect, Mr & Mrs Canine Canada contest.  But mostly, the event was a street fair consisting of dozens of booths along closed to traffic Front Street, hawking everything from organic Paws-itively Raw Foods, to fashions from Dolce Dog, to Dyson vacuum cleaners (hey, when you have a furry pet, you need a good one).

   
   

   Carlos had a blast watching a Great Dane play group (he understands the joy of finding dogs his own size), and sampling from the many food booths, and all the dogs were pretty cute.  But the unfortunate thing about attending the largest gathering of dogs in North America, is its also the largest gathering of dog owners in North America.  And as much as I love my dog, I have a healthy distaste for people who take it a step too far, such as outfitting a dog in a visor and sunglasses that make the poor thing miserable.  Dogs are a part of your life, they shouldn't be your whole life.  I have the same philosophy towards children, and their sometimes overly precious parents.

   
   

   But the irony of Woofstock is that it takes place in one of the already most dog-friendly cities in the world.  Year-round, Toronto offers dog owners an abundance of dog-friendly parks and beaches, including 29 spaces where dogs can run off the leash.  The city even publishes a guide to these locations.  And dogs are welcome on all public transport with their owners, including the trolly cars and ferries to Toronto's beaches (the most dog-welcoming includes a unique dog labyrinth at Kew Gardens), and islands (we like Hanlan Point's nude beach -- Carlos loves being nude!).

   
   

   We also found some fun establishments like Urban Dog (an indoor dog fitness playground), Barkingham Palace (a dog spa), My Pet Boutique (store in Yorkville), and a dog and human canoe and kyak outfit called Dog Paddling Adventures.

   
   

   Hotels aren't a problem, many of them, especially on the high end like the Four Seasons Toronto in tony Yorkville, allow dogs and provide amenities like dog walkers to owners.  The only tricky thing was finding dog-friendly restaurants.  There are a ton of them, don't get me wrong.  Its just that not every one with an outdoor patio allows dogs, and there's no way to know except to ask.  A sure bet is Cafe Uno in our favorite haunt in Toronto, the awesome Distillery District, but more about this trendy nabe in my next blog.

6. Lovely, if a bit Beige, Toronto: Something is missing here? I think its the hard sell!

   12.Jun.08, 11:50 EDT
   
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   Toronto (say it like a local, "Tee-ron-no") is the largest, most bustling city in Canada. The rest of the country takes great pleasure in deriding its citizens, the same way everyone in the U.S. who doesn't live in Los Angeles or New York City loves to roll their eyes at the alleged crackpot ways of kooky Californians or neurotic Manhattanites.

   
   

   Just as a basis for comparison, Toronto's total population is approximately 4.7 million; that's about half as many people as New York City's total population of 8.3 million. (FYI: Los Angeles's total population is 9.9 million; Chicago's total population is 3 million; and  San Francisco's total population comes in at just 750,000.)

   
   

   But just the fact that Toronto is spread out over 244 square miles (as compared to New York City's density of 304 square miles) doesn't fully account for the serenity one feels here, whether walking down a crowded street or lining up to see a sold-out show of Mark Morris's Mozart Dances in the Luminato festival.  There is a marked absence of anxiety.  And attitude.

   
   

   I mean, there are hipsters, bouncing along Queen Street West with their shaggy, asymmetrical haircuts; there are boutique hotels with gilded bars like  ONE inside the Hazelton in Yorkville, filled with beautiful, fashionable people; there are taxis driven by recent immigrants; there are nightclubs, like Peter Gatien's CIRCA, a pantheon to his pre-prison and deportation haunts, the Tunnel and the Limelight in NYC; and there are garbage trucks and homeless people and superstores, like my favorite, Winners (a designer discount chain akin to Daffy's).  But it's not crowded and it's not exclusive and it's not at all snobby, anywhere.

   
   

   Even at the gala opening night party for the Luminato festival inside the Royal Ontario Museum, or ROM, sponsored by L'Oreal and Armani, socialite types looked you in the eye and smiled.  Good-looking men even did that, unafraid that you, an average non-model woman, might think they were hitting on you.  How very strange ...

   
   

   And I never had trouble getting a taxi, getting a reservation (even at Jamie Kennedy's Wine Bar), or even using a public restroom in a restaurant where I hadn't bought a thing.  Also, people were always volunteering directions, the minute you looked confused or pulled out a street map.  Plus Toronto is a city with seamless public transportation and easy access to beaches and islands. And it's so dog-friendly that there was even a dog festival going on around the St. Lawrence Market called Woofstock.

   
   

   But as I wandered with my Chihuahua, eating a green tea gelato I bought at the dog-friendly organic cafe Solferino, I couldn't help but feel something was missing from this fair city.  For all its harmony, Toronto -- designed to function well, not for fashion -- seemed a bit beige.  I felt like a real asshole for saying it, but then it finally hit me.  There was a terrible lack of NOISE.  The noise of people in a hurry.  The noise of people aggravated and yakking on their Blackberrys.  The noise of the screeching subway and honking cars.  And, most notably, the NOISE of advertising.

   
   

   This was the big shocker.  Every blank wall or surface was not screaming out to me to buy something, to consume and want more.  I could hear my own thoughts and find my own rhythms without the chatter and pressure of all the hawking for the Sex and the City movie or the season finale of LOST or Lancome's latest fragrance or the new limited edition whatever.  I found I didn't need two Starbucks iced lattes a day (even though they are on offer in Toronto).

   
   

   So, I spent five days in a city, doing city things like going to the museum and taking in shows (like REM in concert; that would have been a royal pain to get tickets for in NYC), and eating well and shopping (my best purchase was a $6 topical salt bar for treating everything from psoriasis to acne to ingrown hairs from Selis Sea Rocks in St. Lawrence Market), and the oddest thing of all, was at the end of it, I felt totally relaxed.

7. Sex And The City Tourism: Carrie-wannabes flock to NYC

   30.May.08, 13:30 EDT
   
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   If you live near West 11th and Bleecker Streets in New York City, its hard enough on an average day to get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, where lines tend to stretch around the corner and down the block for a minimum 15 minute wait.  Dealing with crowds like this all day long, the staff working inside are often surly (don't expect smiles or a thank you here).  Its even bad if you want to walk past Magnolia (which recently opened a second bakery on the Upper West Side):  I tend to cross the street just to avoid the throng.  But things got amped up to a whole other level with the invention of the Sex and The City bus tours, that now stop at Magnolia twice daily weekdays, and three times a day on the weekends.

   
   

   Offered by a company called Screen Tours (that also offer The Sopranos tour of New Jersey), this three-hour, $40 tour also includes stops at The Pleasure Chest, where character Charlotte got addicted to her BOB (battery-operated boyfriend), "The Rabbit", and the real apartment building stoop that poses as character Carrie's office/love nest/shoe closet.

   
   

   I was extremely skeptical when these SATC (Sex and The City) tours launched back in 2002.  By then, my own personal love affair with the show had waned significantly.  I wrote my share of articles in the early years celebrating the show that made single, independent women in their 30's such pop culture heroes.  But as the show limped towards its lame finale, I began to feel denigrated by these characters, who at times both neurotic and superficial, foolishly threw away some perfectly decent guys like last seasons' Prada handbag.  And the finale seemed a total betrayal of the main premise of the show -- that modern urban women may believe in love, but we are not waiting for or expecting a fairy tale ending, and are enjoying good lives comprised of friends, big careers, (hopefully) lots of good sex, and the independence of earning and spending our own money.  

   
   

   In the TV show finale, all four characters end up in tidy relationships, the most unrealistic of which was the taming of Mr. Big, the character Carrie's unavailable love interest, who jerked her chain for six years.  The show went totally Hollywood, and gave women a dangerous party line -- yes, you should have hope that the guy you've been obsessed with and wasted most of your 30's chasing, will, after humiliating you time and time again, see the light.  Sorry ladies.  From living and dating here in NYC, I just don't see it happening.  The women I know who have found love here in Mad-hattan, generally end up:  1) Going to therapy, 2) Making better choices, and 3) Letting go of unrealistic expectations and embracing real, imperfect relationships.

   
   

   But as I looked around at the excited crowds who gathered near midnight on May 29th to see the first screenings of the much-anticipated Sex and The City movie, I realize that the true fans of the show now are actually much younger than the characters in the series.  The group at the Chelsea Cinema was 90% women, 10% gay men, and I'd say 90% of them were in their 20's.  That's on average about 25 years younger than the character Samantha (so, yes, they could all be her children).  And these are the same "girls",  I see populating the still wildly popular against all odds SATC bus tours, who are intent on stuffing the Magnolia Bakery cupcake into their mouths that character Miranda raved about as "almost as good as sex".

   
   

   For the people on the SATC bus tours, most of whom don't even live in NYC, and the just starting out in NYC demo, SATC is something different than it was for me.  For them, its an aspirational lifestyle.  For them, its about dreaming of living in Manhattan, and being liberated, beautiful and wealthy, with the option of a endless parade of lovers.  And the humbling dating experiences and frustrated love affairs that come with this lifestyle, well, that's all ahead of them, not behind them.  Rigth now, they are young and golden and imperious, and they deserve to enjoy their unadultured enthusiasm for "the glamorous life" that SATC portrays.

   
   

   I enjoyed the movie, which in my opinion, is the finale the TV show should have had.  Its not all quite as rosy now for our 40-something heroines, and forgiveness and acceptance of the road bumps of romance are part of the package.  And as I exited the screening at 3am (its a loooooong movie), I felt in love with NYC again and the freedoms it provides me.  But it had little to do with the movie.  Its just, where else can you  go to a sold-out movie at midnight on a school night?

8. The Big Isle of Hawaii Hides Cate Blanchett and Harrison Ford

   29.May.08, 13:41 EDT
   
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   I read a press release from the Big Island of Hawaii Visitors Bureau, informing me that key scenes from the new Paramount Pictures blockbuster Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull were filmed in the lush rain forests of the Puna District, with interest.

   
   

   Now, I've already seen the movie, the fourth in the wildly popular series, produced by George Lucas and directed by Steven Spielberg and Kathleen Kennedy. It stars a still handsome Harrison Ford, now in his sixties, and brings back his first love, Karen Allen (who shockingly looks like a real fifty-something woman).  Shia Lebeouf and Oscars' darling Cate Blanchett are also in the movie. (She plays a much-lambasted stereotypical Soviet spy, but of course, she's fantastic.)

   
   

   Hawaii shows up in one of the film's most action-packed sequences: a seat-clutching chase scene through dense, ivy-covered, palm-tree-studded forest on a narrow, unpaved road that meanders along steep coastal cliffs (the Visitors Bureau is quick to point out that the gigantic ants and vicious monkeys were created in the fertile imaginations and computers of the special effects team, far from Hawaii).

   
   

   According to Big Island film commissioner John L. Mason, these scenes (about 20 percent of the movie) were shot last summer over an eight-week period.  With Hawaii's Act 88 state tax credit, which provides a 20 percent refundable production tax credit for shooting on any of the Hawaiian Islands (except on Oahu, where the TV series Lost is filmed, it's just 15 percent), it's easy to see why they picked this remote, undeveloped spot (there are fewer and fewer like this in Hawaii, but most of them are on the Big Island).

   
   

   But I'm still shocked, in the celebrity bounty hunting world we live in, that with those big-name stars crawling all over the island for nearly two months, and the production dropping $15 million into the economy, no one blabbed to any mainstream media outlets. Where the stars were staying (Reed Island) or eating (Hilo Bay Cafe), and any of the film's plot points, were kept secret until now.

   
   

   Let me remind you that the total population on the Big Island is about 160,000 people.  And this is the biggest film production in the state of Hawaii since 1995's Waterworld.  There is no way that almost every person on the island wasn't aware of it.  I guess my point is simply that I'm impressed there is a place in the U.S. that still appears paparazzi proof.

9. Cool Cape May: Victorian mansions, high-spirits and comfort food

   27.May.08, 14:03 EDT
   
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   I have some sobering news to report:  since the harsh economic reality has set in that its mostly Europeans who can afford far-flung luxury resorts, my media outlets have started asking me for stories that focus on domestic travel.  Instead of jetting off to Bora Bora or Morocco, I am now being asked to check out hotels in places like Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Palm Beach, Florida.

   
   

   But I don't mind.  Traveling in North America means I get to bring my dog along a bit more, and its good for me as a travel writer.  Its really embarrassing to know other countries better than you do your own.  So, bare with me this summer, during my process of catching up.

   
   

   This week, that meant heading out for the very first time to the Jersey Shore, where I was fully expecting to see girls with big hair, neon thong bikinis and nasal accents, bitch-slapping and scratching each other with air-brushed talon nails:  a live-action episode of The Jerry Springer Show.  But it seems those stereotypes of "The Shore" are as outmoded as the bad 80's movies that inspired them.

   
   

   It took about two hours to drive from NYC to the shore, that begins with the still working-class community of Asbury Park.  We continued driving for another hour down the coast, all the way to gilded Cape May County.  This includes the communities of Ocean City, Avalon, Stone Harbor, Wildwood (this is the only part of Cape May with the pier, amusement parks rides, cotton candy, beer and corn dogs culture, which is sometimes fun)  and finally, Cape May island, located where the Delaware Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean.

   
   

   I was staying at Congress Hall, the oldest seaside hotel in the U.S.  According to the book, Tommy's Folly, by former Men's Journal executive editor and now full-time Cape May resident,  Jack Wright, it was opened in 1816 by Thomas Hughes.  Hughes later became an assemblyman before being elected to Congress.  To honor him, the next owner, Samuel Richards (who bought the place for $3,000), renamed the hotel, Congress Hall.  According to an article in the Spring issue of Cape May Magazine, five Presidents have also stayed at Congress Hall:  Franklin Pierce, Chester Arthur, James Buchanan, Ulysses Grant and Benjamin Harrison.

   
   

   The first surprise was how quaint and Victorian the entire area looked.  This seemed much more like classic New England, than the state that inspired The Sopranos.  Further reading in Wright's book reminds us that Philadelphia was the first capitol city, and Cape May was the first seaside escape.

   
   

   A stroll down the brick lanes of Washington Street (most of the Streets bear Presidential names) soon revealed that Cape May was Martha Stewart-cute.  I was informed by a friendly local that most families couldn't really afford to stay around here anymore, and with the pristine, brightly-painted mansions turned into B&B's, antique stores and fine dining establishments, it was much more of an adult escape for urbanites from Philadelphia, D.C. and New York.

   
   

   The beach located right across the street (Beach Avenue) from Congress Hall was seemingly endless, and though it was too cold to take a dip or surf, we sat in an empty lifeguard chair and then made it to Carney's for the Early Bird Specials. 

   
   

   We learned that there was a fire in 1878 that basically burned up 35 acres of beachfront property including Congress Hall (which was completely rebuilt).  Then, the area sort of fell into disrepair in the late 1800's because of conservative influences which had it declared a "dry" town, which contributed to the rise of Atlantic City (which also had better weather).  But as I've said before, "poverty preserves".  Victorian mansions, like my favorite -- newly renovated in art deco meets Bjork -- The Virginia Hotel, were never torn down or updated to the Gothic style of Newport mansions.  Now they give the area a feeling much like Savannah, Georgia or the Garden District of New Orleans.

   
   

   Cape May has the quirkiness of  those places too.  We found an exhibit on "Victorian Spiritualism" (pictures of ghosts from the era when photography was new), a theater showing the Academy Award winning foreign film, The Counterfeiters.  The reasonable prices at The Cape May Day Spa, inspired us to check-in for an afternoon of beauty, followed by perhaps the best latte I've ever had at The Magic Brain Cyber Cafe (maybe there was something extra in it, I dunno), and dinner at the best restaurant in town, The Ebbitt Room (back at The Virginia Hotel).

   
   

   After two days, I felt like a visitor in the ealry 1800's who'd come here must have.  I had a taste of the "cure": fresh ocean air, spa treatments, long walks, fresh seafood, time to read and rub elbows with others in "good society", chatting with friendly people in Congress Hall's Brown Room (oh, they make a good Cosmopolitan!).  Men were even hitting on us in Cape May, a sign that the place really does have a pulse!

10. Downtown Florent is Dead: And I'm overreacting with the best of them

    22.May.08, 13:58 EDT
    
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    Like many longtime denizens of the Restaurant Florent, I have joined the death march, stopping in as much as possible for a divine $6 glass of red wine or $10 cheeseburger and fries, before the Downtown institution closes its doors for good on June 29.

    
    

    Last week's New York Times article (in the style of Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain's history of the NYC punk scene Please Kill Me) used quotes from owner/founder Florent Morellet himself, staff, and famous Florent regulars, including Calvin Klein and Spike Lee, to retell the story of the 23-year-old institution. 

    
    

    Opened in 1985, during the Reagan years and the onset of the AIDS crisis, in the dark, seedy, smelly meat-packing district, overrun by gay S&M clubs and trannie hookers, Florent was a beacon for anyone hanging out on the fringes and looking for a hot, delicious meal at 4 a.m.

    
    

    I didn't move to the city and discover it myself until 1994, when I had become a regular at Jackie 60, a pansexual party on Tuesday nights on the corner of 14th Street and Washington, which started as a nightclub for people who worked in nightclubs (who generally had Tuesdays off).  The costume theme nights and performances that took place each week there at about 2 a.m. are still among the best I've ever seen, and exist only in the audiences' collective memories.  Most of them were never documented, as this was a wee bit before the phenomena of cellphone cameras and YouTube, though whatever technology that existed was utilized here first (I seem to recall surveillance cameras in the bathroom stalls).  Rumors of the imminent release of a documentary filmed in the club's final years, Jackie 60: The Movie, are still whispered about and hoped for.

    
    

    Going to Florent completed the ritual of the Tuesday night club crawl in what was back then, to steal a phrase from the infamous Florent boards written like punk haiku by Tom Eubanks, "the land the Gap forgot".  I've never been much of a drinker, so I remember things clearly, and can still see and smell the scary three block walk from the corner of 14th Street, past the biker bar Hogs & Heifers, to Gansenvoort Street.  I was always just so tired and bleary-eyed at this point, but I'd push on for the yummy meal at Florent, the ritual of closure that completed the end of each episode of Jackie 60. 

    
    

    Often, I was broke, so I'd opt for the just the French fries; each greasy, salty sliver: total perfection.  When I could (Florent was "pleased to accept cash only", you couldn't live on credit here), I'd add the burger or a salad, and finish-up with a slab of fluffy, just sweet enough cheesecake.  And I remember the feeling of looking around the dining room in Florent and seeing Johnny Depp or drag queen Ebony Jet or Joan Jett, seated among the nameless, non-celebrity movers and shakers of downtown, and loving just being part of the mix.  As one of Eubanks' boards in Florent once summed it up:

    
    

    RESTAURANT FLORENT

    
    

    SINCE 1985, THE PROUD HOME OF:

    
    

    POLITICAL DRAG QUEENS

    
    

    SUICIDAL LIBERTINES

    
    

    SECULAR SURGEONS

    
    

    TRANSVESTAL VIRGINS

    
    

    STEROIDAL SAVIORS

    
    

    TWELVE-STEPPING TWO-STEPPERS

    
    

    INFIDEL LEPERS

    
    

    SADISTIC HUMANISTS

    
    

    LUNATIC SENSUALISTS

    
    

    WONDERING JEWS

    
    

    MULTICULTURAL VIEWS

    
    

    LEFTIST RITUALS

    
    

    &

    
    

    DELECTABLE VICTUALS

    
    

    To be honest, like most of the people bemoaning its demise, I had stopped patronizing Florent on a regular basis at the turn of the century.  First, because I was struggling in the wake of 9/11 and searching for new directions for my life (which was when I started travel writing).  Then the Jackie 60 family closed up shop and my late nights were pretty much over.  And the meat-packing district was starting its rapid transformation into sanitized Euro-Trash designer flagship store and swank lounge wonderland.  But I am over-reacting to its close (apparently, the rent would have gone up from $6K a month to $50K a month, or $60K a year to $600K) with the best of them.

    
    

    Perhaps on one hand, simply because it makes me feel ancient to see everything I loved about NYC in my 20's, when I first landed here and fell in love with it, forced out or deemed too old, ugly, or antiquated of an idea to exist in the sleek 2000's.  Other clubs I once patronized, like the Palladium and Roxy, were literally torn down for ridiculously overpiced condo developments.  My familiar faces of the 90's have all faded into the woodwork of the city, and maybe I'm feeling like I no longer have a toe-hold in this big, bad, ever-changing dynamic?

    
    

    But it's not really true.  The people I knew just starting out are now boldfaced names and the top cheese at many of the companies and publications we all use to dream about working for.  We're still here doing amazing things, but we're older and established and (big sigh), it's just not the same.

    
    

    The final weeks before Florent closes will be marked by themes representing the Kubler-Ross stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  Clearly, I need to be present and accounted for during all five.

11. MGM Grand Opens at Foxwoods: Like junk food for the soul

    20.May.08, 13:56 EDT
    
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    What do Catherine Zeta Jones, Sean "Diddy" Combs, John Mayer, Alicia Keys, the Pequot Indian Tribe, Quincy Jones, and Josh Groban have in common?  On an average day, probably not much, but on Saturday, May 17, they we all in attendance as the kitschy Connecticut casino Foxwoods (owned by the Mashantucket Pequot) added the MGM Grand Resort and Casino to its formerly humble premises.

    
    

    The celebrities were paid to be there, which is a simple enough reason for their presence given they are entertainers and that's what they do, but a harder question to answer is what was I doing there?  The swag fest began with a mid-day luxury coach from Grand Central Station in NYC to Foxwoods.  It's about a two-and-a-half-hour drive, so we each had two seats and two bag lunches provided by Burke in the Box, David Burke's takeaway restaurant in Bloomingdale's department store that now has a location at Foxwoods.  As I unwrapped my market salad with goat cheese, walnuts, and cranberries, and an oatmeal cookie, I marveled at whoever the mind-reader was who'd chosen for me exactly what I loved to eat.  My other bag had an organic prosciutto and mozzarella baguette sandwich with Peppadew, arugula, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar, which I vowed to save for later, though I knew I wouldn't need it.

    
    

    Indeed, once we arrived at the swank new MGM Grand, with its tasteful modern lobby designed by David Rockwell (who else?), the champagne was already flowing.  Guests were already in black-tie attire and waiting around for the 5-8 p.m. dinner event, which was an open invitation to wander around and sample the cuisine at any or all of the resort's four restaurants:  Junior's (yes, an outpost of the Brooklyn cheesecake place), Alta Strada (Italian by chef Michael Schlow), Shrine (pan-Asian venue reminiscent of Budahkan in NYC that turns into a nightclub after hours), or my favorite, CraftSteak, by Tom Colicchio of Top Chef fame.

    
    

    Up in the plush room (pretty much identical to the Mohegan Sun 30 minutes away), I slipped into my fancy dress and regarded my high heels with dismay.  The thing I've learned about casinos from my trips to Vegas and Atlantic City is they are big and spread out, so you end up doing a lot of walking.  But there was no getting around it: Looking at the other people there (out of the 800 or so guests, only 100 or so were media; I'm guessing the other non-celebrities were high-rollers?), I already felt a bit shabby for not having had my hair done for the occasion.  But the most important accessory for this evening was your MGM Grand at Foxwoods gold wristband that allowed you entrance to the nights' events, free only to wristband-wearing "VIPs."

    
    

    My buddy, Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto, who looked very dashing in his tux, and I decided not to save the best for last -- we headed directly to CraftSteak, which serves dry aged beef sourced from the world's top ranchers, a dizzying array of artisanal sides like roasted yellow beets, and a raw bar with oysters, crudo, and marinated and chilled seafood.  We were seated right away and happy to see a buffet (this is NOT normally how you are served here, but with crowds filing in over three hours, it made sense).  We ended with cheesecake and coffee milkshakes at Junior's, and rolled ourselves over to the new 4,000-seat MGM Grand Theater.

    
    

    After gorging yourself, it is very hard to stay awake and listen to treacly Catherine Zeta-Jones and ancient Michael Douglas talk about the Motion Picture & Television Fund, a charity that takes care of senior actors who fall on hard times (i.e., never land that lucrative TV series that goes into syndication).  Adult contemporary producer David Foster was even harder to take, with his slickster/huckster old radio DJ persona, bringing out young unknown talents for a song or two between sets by a newly handsome John Mayer(paparazzi swarmed, hoping he'd have new girlfriend Jennifer Aniston in tow), Josh Groban (the whole time I kept thinking he was a Will Ferrell character in a bad comedy about opening night at the MGM Grand Foxwoods), and the headliner, Alicia Keys (who was great, but out of sync with the 50-something Groban-loving demo).

    
    

    The night got even more twisted with DJ AM's party at Shrine and a Sean "Diddy" Combs-hosted party inside one of the conference spaces. The space had been turned into a fantasy club with stilt-walkers, women in cat costumes (MGM's mascot is the lion, but I when I see people in cat costumes, I expect them to dance!), and acrobats.  And everywhere you looked, there was an open bar.  EVERYWHERE -- inside the casino, inside each restaurant, inside the theater, and inside both parties.  Even I drank way more (champagne) than I usually do, just because it was there and free and everyone else was doing it.

    
    

    And of course, in this state, I wandered over to the slot machines -- past an Apple Store inside the casino, where I would happily spend my winnings -- looking for a 25-cent Double Diamond Deluxe (the only machine I will ever play).  After an old man drove his power wheelchair away, I found one, sat down, and promptly deposited a $20 bill.  About $5 down, I hit a mini-jackpot totaling $30.  Now the dilemma:  to walk away with $10, or to "feel lucky" and keep playing?  I walked.  But the next morning, I would spend that $10 on a scented candle over at the old, kitschy side of Foxwoods (that still has a Native American feel to it), so I knew the casino won anyway.  It always does.

    
    

    But a night like this is like eating French fries smothered in cheese, or sucking down a 1,000-calorie caramel frappucino, or slipping into a Die Hard sequel movie.  It's permission to check out of harsh economic realities and self-medicate yourself into oblivion, which is okay once in awhile.  I think the problem is, for many Americans, it's the norm, not the exception.

    
    

    The celebrities were paid to be there, which is a simple enough reason for their presence given they are entertainers and that's what they do, but a harder question to answer is what was I doing there? And here's the thing I still can't make sense of:  Foxwoods is owned by the Pequot tribe. During a brunch on Sunday with producer Quincy Jones, I tried my best to mesh traditional values (the brunch began with a blessing and an overlong prayer by a Pequot elder woman) with the extravagance of the MGM Grand (which cost 700 million dollars to build).  A blanket was gifted to Jones, who is entering into an entertainment-producing role at Foxwoods, and there was some talk of how the evil U.S. government gave blankets infested with smallpox to Native Americans as a form of population control.  All this while we feasted on French cheese and shrimp cocktail and ripped apart our swag bag -- a gift of two Waterford crystal champagne flutes.

    
    

    Exhausted, I was happy, as I always am, to return to the relative sanity (or familiar contradictions) of Manhattan.

12. Northern California: So perfect, its nauseating.....

    15.May.08, 13:54 EDT
    
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    The most divine, and ultimately nauseating, realization one can have about Northern California is just how perfect it is.  Progressive to its core, it reeks of liberal complacency (now, that's what I call "luxury").  If you're based in San Francisco, you are equally poised to access the ultimate in urban sophistication or the stunning, California-rustic outdoors.  And then a mere half-hour drive away, you've got the delights of wine country (Napa and Sonoma valleys), or the still small-town beachiness of Half Moon Bay.

    
    

    People also say constantly that San Francisco is the most European city in the United States, and I'd have to agree.  Between their French-like love of wine and good food, Norwegian-like dedication to conservation and clean living, and Italian-casual meets Patagonia style of dress, San Franciscans offer a confusing and almost sickening descent into utopia.

    
    

    I was sort of marveling at the stunning beauty of Northern California as embodied in my friend, "Dane," a director of one of San Francisco's many impressive nonprofit organizations.  He's an all-around do-gooder with model looks, who has somehow been divorced twice (hey, Sweden has the highest divorce rate in Europe -- divorce must be part of utopia).  I listened intently to his story about the Presidio of San Francisco's transformation from military base into national park, and was shocked to discover that there's even a five-star retreat opening there called Cavallo Point.  It's a Passport Resort, the eco-conscious, San Fran-based company behind the Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur, Hotel Hana Maui, and the Jean Michel Cousteau Resort Fiji.

    
    

    During my too brief stay at the Solage Resort in Calistoga, it occurred to me that one of the most European things about Northern California is how its residents seem to have the best quality of life without making it seem like crass consumerism.  Like the Solage's freestanding stylish yet modest cottages that come with bicycles to roam around Calistoga.  The place screams CONSCIOUS LIVING, but stops short of making it too easy for you. 

    
    

    The area is known for its naturally occurring mineral baths and mud, so the 20,000-square-foot Solage Spa's signature treatment is called a "mudslide."  I was handed a tub of mojito-scented mud and led into a private room (there is a couple's room, but I was solo) with a heated stone bed and an enclosed outdoor patio.  After rubbing the mud all over myself, I lay on the terracotta brick bed, baking in the warm sun -- divine.  After 20 minutes, the therapist knocked and signaled me to shower.  There were a dozen jets built into the ceiling of the room, so I could lie on the bed with this shower on, washing off the mud (this took some effort).  Then, I was led into another room for a mineral water bath, followed by being tucked into an ergonomic space chair and slightly inverted to zero gravity, while I was plugged into my private iPod playing new age tunes.  FABULOUS.

    
    

    I left wine country without drinking much wine (I'd like to go back when I'm not alone and doing all the driving), and drove myself back to San Fran and on to my next retreat: the Beach House Half Moon Bay.  Half Moon Bay, an undiscovered, unpretentious beach town located 30 minutes south of San Fran and one hour north of Santa Cruz, was shrouded in mist and at least 10 degrees cooler than Napa Valley.  It is most famous among surfers as the legendary home of "Mavericks," a green, cold monster wave that only the very brave, buff, and bold surf.  It is not a tow-in wave where surfers get escorted into the wave via jet ski: The guys who surf this wave paddle themselves into it, the old-fashioned way.  Mavericks isn't breaking in May, but still, it was important for me to stand at the point beyond the white weather balloon and pay homage to the spot.

    
    

    My room at the Beach House had a sea-salty balcony overlooking the water and a fireplace where I lit my first Duraflame log (really idiot proof).  Going south from the hotel is a six-mile coastal hiking trail that ends at the town farmer's market.  And just north of the hotel is Sam's Chowder House, which is the default restaurant for the hotel (which doesn't have one of its own).  If you're a fan of clam chowder, I was told it was the very best.  I had a divine slab of salmon on a bed of cream corn and a gorgeous beet salad.

    
    

    Life in Northern California is so seamless, so seductive -- like a showplace living room of the best life has to offer.  And yet, I knew I did not belong there.  I'm just not comfortable with that much comfort.

    
    

13. Audi All-Girl Action: 35 women find the need for speed

    13.May.08, 12:28 EDT
    
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    People tell me being a travel writer is a good gig, and most of the time, I’d have to agree.  But I have a buddy whose job and resulting lifestyle, makes mine seem almost pious: he writes about fast, sleek cars.  So, not only does he also get flown all over the world (Business Class – the car companies have the budgets), put up in swank hotels and wined and dined within an inch of his life, but he also gets to test drive newest cars on some of the world’s best racetracks and speedways.  Not only that, but on any given weekend, he can call up a car company and have one of their new models delivered to him for his personal use (the theory is, he’s test driving it on everyday roads).

    
    

    As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve never owned a car and only learned to drive one at age 30 to enable my travel writing.  Still, I’d say I drive about five times a year tops though some of that driving is likely to be in Australia on the wrong side of the road, or in Tahiti on the harrowig freeways of Papeete.  Thus, the whole American obsession with cars and “car culture” have remained a mystery to me.

    
    

    But last week I had a rare opportunity to jump the fence when Audi invited me to join their first ever all-female “Audi Lifestyle Summit”.  Apparently, Audi has figured out that single women are 51% of the car buying market, and even women in couples tend to be the decision makers when buying the family vehicle.  The event would take place in Northern California, and the itinerary was plush, including a private screening of the Robert Downey Jr. film, Iron Man, (his character in the movie, “Tony Starck”, drives a customized Audi A8); stays at the St Regis San Fran and The Solage in Calistoga; lunch at Etoile at Domaine Chandon and a private wine tasting at the Francis Ford Coppola Rubicon Estate in Napa; a private seminar with Timothy Ferriss, author of the 4-Hour Work Week; and finally, taking the new Audi A4 for a spin on the Infineon Raceway.  And it would be attended by 35 other women, all reporters and editors from various womens magazines and lifestyle publications.

    
    

    Now, if you are not a girls’s girl, the idea of spending a weekend with 35 other females might freak you out.  But I have always liked other women and had very close female friends.  I have also seen firsthand working for publications like Glamour and InStyle that even those “skinny bitches” that popular culture likes to make fun of, are massively hardworking and far from dumb.  But all this doesn’t mean that I wasn’t just a little bit worried about what to wear.  I mean, the all-out glamour of this trip encouraged me to pack the designer shoes and handbags I so rarely ever get to wear, much less pack when I’m traveling.

    
    

    Though I didn’t get to chat with all of them, the other women were great.  We seemed to divide right away into the 20-somethings and the 30-somethings, and the east coast and the west coast (since the east coast people began to nod off at 9pm Pacific Time), but it was totally fun and easy.  I mean, what did we have to not be