Posts: 46

1. In The Saddle: My Horse Kodiak Helps Me Cowgirl Up

   10.Jul.08, 15:20 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   There were a lot of firsts for me as I prepared for my trip to the Paws up Resort in Montana, the most interesting was a document I had emailed to me called "You and Your Horse".  This three-page brief detailed how the wranglers would match us to our assigned horses based on our "riding experience, physical size, and attitude".  We were instructed to let our new horse smell us first, and to give friendly, reassuring pats on the shoulder and neck.  

   
   

   The document also said to avoid ponchos (horses are afraid of these fringy fashion faux pas).  Interesting.  And my heart sank after I read this line:  "All clothing should be in dull colors with no neon or bright colors that can easily spook horses."

   
   

   Horses had always spooked me.  Closer to elephants in size, I had no dewy-eyed romance about their towering frames, bony appendages, hard-shelled feet, and reputation for being bad-tempered.  Volumes of literature have been devoted to little girls and their desire for ponies, and young women, on the verge of ripeness, who have special feelings for their horses.  But being a city kid, I was never in a position to have or ride horses, and thus, I've never known or loved one.

   
   

   In my last blog, I detailed the treachery of the 10 hours I spent on horseback, but what I didn't mention was how much I liked and learned from my horse, Kodiak, for the three days and two nights of that adventure.

   
   

   Dark brown (almost black), Kodiak was a hearty-looking draft horse (strong, shorter legs, thicker around the middle), obviously quite well-fed, with kind, curious eyes.  The first thing about him I related to was that, much like my 5-pound Chihuahua, his entire existence seemed to be motivated by the pursuit of a unexpected snack.  He was docile and took direction well except when a nice patch of grass or a river stream caught his eye.  Then he would go his own way, animal instincts and nostrils flaring.

   
   

   I learned from the wranglers that horses live 25 to 30 years (Kodiak is all of six).  If just standing around in a pasture, they need 20 gallons of water and 20 pounds of hay just for maintenance.  If they are active, they need 35 pounds of hay, thus the expense of keeping one.  Apparently, the grass they love to graze on provides little by way of nutrients, so one must buy them quality hay.

   
   

   But I think I learned the most from just watching the backside of the horse in front of me during the long trek up to and down from Encampment at Bull Creek.  First of all, being around horses means being assaulted by the constant smell of horse poop.  The horse in front of me would shake a bit when he was about to let go, then he would lift his tail gracefully, and bombs away, barely breaking stride.  Other times, he would just lift tail and let out an blast of gas.

   
   

   Kodiak was extra gassy, which I was told was my fault for giving him my green apple cores.  But especially when we were snaking along narrow mountain trails with steep drop-offs down a couple hundred feet to the river, I wanted him to have a reason to keep me alive.  Luckily, Kodiak had no suicidal tendencies: in fact, I sometimes saw him looking down the sheer drop with the same panic I felt.

   
   

   Kodiak wasn't the smartest horse.  That award might have to go to Tigger, who the wranglers called the ugliest horse they had ever seen.  He was a muddy brown color with a kind of random Jackson Pollack-effect splatter of grey, but he could scratch his butt with no hands, by rubbing up against a tree.  He also liked to cool off by letting his big business hang out for all of us to admire, unfortunately, it was an unappetizing sight during our lunch break.

   
   

   As far as riding Kodiak, I learned the first day, to sit up straight: to bounce along with him and not clench his sides so much with my knees.  Also, I figured out that it would have been less painful if I'd had a protective layer between my denim jumpsuit and my skin.  And long socks that went over the knee to provide an extra layer there, would have been smart too.  And it's important to work with the horse by sitting in the middle back groove, leaning forward when you go downhill, and leaning back when you go uphill.

   
   

   The horse wranglers taught me a things too, like how to perfectly toast a marshmallow in a campfire (get it smokin' but never let it catch on fire) to make "the last, best s'more": graham crackers, toasted marshmallow, peanut butter and a squirt of Hersey's chocolate sauce.  Yum.  And they also tried to teach us to play horseshoes.  It's a simple enough set-up: you stand behind a line and pitch the horseshoe.  It's 3 points around the stake, 2 points leaning against the stake and 1 point if the shoe is within a horseshoe distance from the stake.  And they spoke about lonely nights without female company, near escapes from grizzly bears and their favorite huckleberry milkshakes.  They also spoke fondly of the old days in Montana when there was no speed limit and you could drink a beer and have a loaded gun in the car.  They also told me any person could officiate a marriage in Montana, as long as they were deemed suitable by the couple.  It was like a non-gay version of Brokeback Mountain. Even if they did have to reluctantly help pick ticks off each other.

   
   

   But back to Kodiak.  I came to see him and his kind as large dogs, with varying personality traits.  When treated well, they could be absolutely lovable, but cost and arm and leg to keep, especially if you had no practical use for them.  I certainly  appreciated the fact that I didn't have to walk the 26 miles up and back from the camp, even though at times, I thought I might have preferred it.  And the wranglers told me it was mules who were ornery by nature, not horses. 

   
   

   When I said goodbye to Kodiak at the end of the trip, it was a bit rougher than expected.  I was pleased he lived here at Paws Up, I told myself.  I certainly couldn't keep him in my apartment in New York City, and I thanked him with the gift of one last, gastronomically distressing treat -- a whole Granny Smith.

2. Five-Star Glamping: Into The Wild of Montana

   08.Jul.08, 15:23 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   
   

   About five years ago, I randomly purchased a book called How to Stay Alive in the Woods by Bradford Angier.  Given that I found it in a fancy home decor store, I think the green rubber-bound volume with safety orange print was meant to be ironic, aimed at a dedicated urban dweller, like me, whose absence of knowledge about the natural world is profound.  

   
   

   As a New Yorker, I can perfectly navigate the maze of Manhattan streets and bus routes, sizing up potential predators (hostile crackheads, speeding taxis, pitbulls) and prey (cafes with excellent lattes, sample sales, clean-ish public restrooms).  But if Internet/cellphone/GPS civilization as I know it suddenly crumbled, it's doubtful I'd be able to last very long "living off the land".

   
   

   Knowing this, however, has never been enough to prompt me to change (the aforementioned book remains unread).  And though I'm not a mandatory high-heels and make-up wearing kind of gal, I would definitely put camping high on the list of "Not My Idea of Fun".  Perhaps then, it was an over-abundance of city hotels and beach resorts that recently tempted me into the wilderness of Montana by the promise of five-star camping or "glamping".

   
   

   Paws Up, "the last best place," was as pretty as its website pictures: lots of tall, spindly trees, rolling green plains, and the expected big sky (it really does seem bigger in Montana).  Owned by a family who made some of their fortune via Fredericks of Hollywood and SuperCuts, it was a tad tedious to get to: a two-hour flight from New York to Chicago, followed by a three-hour flight to Missoula, one of the state's progressive hubs (as evidenced by the popularity of "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers).  From there, it was about a 30-minute drive to the resort's 60 square miles of adventure, where one could stay in River Camp or Tent City (a dozen 270-square-foot tents with real beds, electricity, and butlers); get rubbed down in Spa Town (10 treatment tents); or drive ATVs (this is apparently what the Rolling Stones did when they stayed here), fly-fish, repel, go tubing and white-water rafting (in summer), or go dog-sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, and ice skating (in winter).  The site of the resort is a working ranch that was once owned by the son of Charles Lindbergh.

   
   

   Montana itself is sort of intriguing as well.  Though rich people from California love to buy second homes here, the state is fourth largest in size, but ranks 47th in terms of density of people per square mile (the total population is not even a million).  Why is a place this lovely so unappealing?  Well, the winters are very long, rumored to last from October to June.  Also, the state isn't very developed -- which is why it's so pristine, preserved in time as it must have looked when Lewis & Clark traversed it -- but there aren't a lot of job opportunities.  This explains why there is no sales tax in Montana.

   
   

   But back to "glamping". Well, apparently, I didn't read the fine print on my invitation.  My first night at Paws Up River Camp was fine, except for the fact that I had to share my tent and my one place of solace, my bathroom (which was chic with modern plumbing and heated floors), with someone else: namely the publicist for the resort.  At night, you fall asleep to the soothing sound of the Blackfoot River (this is the river that inspired the famous Montana novel, A River Runs Through It).  Also, with a price tag of $675/night, though everyone who worked at the resort was friendly and attentive, I was shocked that the food (included in the meal plan) was lackluster, and nothing ran smoothly (we waited until 4 p.m. to check into our tents).  Still, had I stayed there, I probably would have enjoyed myself.

   
   

   But instead, the second day we had to pack up and head out on a Paws Up excursion to Encampment at Bull Creek, an adventure that started with a five-hour trek on horseback.  It would have been one thing if we were a bunch of journalists from Outside or National Geographic Adventure, but as it were, there were four of us who had never spent more than an hour on a horse our entire lives.  The dead giveaway were the fashions we donned for the day:  one had a pair of black boots with 4-inch heels; another wore a pair of $500 Cole Haan soft calfskin boots in whiskey brown; and, not being a big fan of jeans (the suggested attire), I decided on a vintage '70s denim jumpsuit.

   
   

   I am going to devote my entire next blog to my horse, Kodiak, but suffice it to say that after just the first two hours, snaking up the mountain on a rubble trail with steep cliff drop-offs, I was rubbed raw in a place on my body I didn't even know could hurt (inner upper thigh near your anus).

   
   

   When we finally made it to camp after nearly a whole day of dead silence (all of the participants, including our cowboy guides, were either too exhausted or mortified to speak), we arrived at the camp site.  To be fair, with real camping, we would have had to set up our own tents and cook our own food, and we wouldn't have been sleeping on such comfy cots.  That was taken care of for us by a really lovely woman who stayed up at the camp site for the whole summer season (bless her).  But given that people pay $1,200 for this 48-hour experience, I was expecting something better than the second grader school lunches (Doritos, white bread with ham and cheese, and Oreo cookies anyone?); the stinking long-drop outhouse (two of my colleagues later confessed to me that they didn't poop for the whole two days we were there); and having to pick ticks off myself.

   
   

   I would compare the endless trek up on horseback to Encampment (or Internment, as I would come to refer to it) to an 18-hour flight to Johannesburg in coach.   But even exhausted, I didn't sleep peacefully because nature continued to test me.  I awoke twice with a cricket on my face.  Also, I had to pee badly, but rather than gather my Bear Bell (yes, a bell to prevent sneaking up on bears, but which I thought might rather alert mountain lions to come attack me) and head up to the horror-show outhouse, I decided to pee into a cup and pour it out a few feet away from my tent for the deer (we were told the deer were stalking us for our pee: They needed the salt).

   
   

   The next day might have been okay if we had been able to rest, but instead we were rallied for a three-mile hike to a glacier lake the locals call Dead Horse (nice).  Three miles didn't sound too bad: I mean, I go to the gym and do that on a treadmill several times a week.  But I didn't realize the climb would be 2,000 feet straight up to an elevation of 7,300 feet.  I was huffing and puffing, my head was pounding with the onset of altitude sickness, and I was so miserable, I thought I might actually expire.  Again, no one said anything.  We walked in silence, at some points through the snow, at some points sweating like marathon runners, feeling like we couldn't complain to our cowboy hosts who already thought we were a bunch of soft city fillies.

   
   

   The weird thing is that once we got to the glacier lake, it was a non-event.  Sure, it was pretty, but there weren't even blankets to sit on, just the dirt and patches of grass, as we dug into day two of all-American crap foods.  We had each paid $25 for a fishing license, so our guides talked us through hooking a few tiny trout (all of them released back into the river).  At one point, I was lying down and trying to relax when the guide hooked me right in the armpit.  When he came to take the hook back, he ripped it out of my shirt, only afterwards asking, "Oh, was it in your skin too?"

   
   

   I know for a fact that I was the biggest complainer on the trip.  I was sick of me too.  It just wasn't what I thought I had signed up for and my mind boggled.  How did I end up here?  Yes, Montana is quite beautiful, but the idea of paying $600 a day to be tortured and made miserable seemed ludicrous.  I think I could have managed to do it some other way in some other locale Rachael Ray-style for $40 a day.

   
   

   I'm still picking ticks off myself back in NYC, but I will say this: After the five-hour ride back to Paws Up (the horses were anxious to get home so they started trotting -- double ouch!), my first hour in a modern bathroom with a flush toilet and a hot shower was simply DIVINE.

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

   03.Jul.08, 10:55 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   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.

4. Gay Summer Camp: The Pines, Fire Island

   01.Jul.08, 10:57 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   
   

   "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.

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

   26.Jun.08, 10:51 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   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.

   
   

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

   19.Jun.08, 13:43 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   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.

7. Woofstock: Welcome to the Canine Summer of Love

   17.Jun.08, 11:53 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   "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.

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

   12.Jun.08, 11:50 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

   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.

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

   30.May.08, 13:30 EDT
   
   Share It | Spread It | Comments: 2

   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?

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

    29.May.08, 13:41 EDT
    
    Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

    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.

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

    27.May.08, 14:03 EDT
    
    Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

    
    

    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!

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

    22.May.08, 13:58 EDT
    
    Share It | Spread It | Comments: 0

    
    

    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.

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

    20.May.08, 13:56 EDT
    
    Share It |