Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 3

It was early afternoon on April 29, 2000. I was in the lobby of the hotel waiting for TV Actor to come down. The plan was to head to RFK Stadium for sound check and then just hang out there for the concert. As I waited in the large, cold marble lobby and interesting group of people began to assemble. First a three or four person camera crew, followed by a blonde woman who I knew to be Anne Heche. Shortly thereafter she was joined by Ellen Degeneres. I hung back and stood in awe. A few seconds later, Melissa Etheridge and Julie Cypher exited the elevators. Melissa in tight tight black leather pants and silky, flimsy rocker shirt. Julie in a summer dress, looking tan and pretty. A tall blonde woman was talking to them and when she turned toward me I realized it was Laura Dern.

I was getting more celebrity sightings in five seconds in the lobby of a DC hotel than I'd ever had in New York. Ok, that's not true. But these were real, big-time celebrities. Not just theatre people.

The elevators dinged and I looked up expectantly. The TV Actor came out and screamed. She hugged Ellen and Anne, Melissa and Julie and then Laura -- who was on her cell phone and proceeded to walk outside to continue the conversation. Then the TV Actor saw me and waved me over. One by one she introduced me and I could only say 'hi' and stand there, transfixed with my mouth agape. I'm not usually star struck but I was beyond at this point. Ellen's coming out had touched so many men and women of...well, I was going to say MY generation but really wasn't it every generation? It wasn't only gay people who crowded around their television screens to watch the coming out episode three years ago. My parents watched. My grandparents watched. My brother even watched. Ellen had made a huge impact on how America sees and accepts gays.

And Melissa Etheridge's music was playing on my car radio the afternoon I came out to mother.

All I could do was shake hands and smile. We piled into a white van, film crew and all. TV Actor explained to me that Julie Cypher was directing a documentary about Ellen, Anne and their life together. Do you know who the head cameraman was? Coley Laffoon, the man Anne would leave Ellen for only a short time later. Melissa Etheridge was to be the Emcee of the concert tonight: Equality Rocks sponsored by the Human Rights Campaign to promote the equality and safety of all people. The tag line was "Dream. Hope. Rock." The line-up of performers included Etheridge, George Michael, Garth Brooks and the Pet Shop Boys. The next morning all the same people would lead the Millenium March for Equality.

My head was spinning. Etheridge was asking the van for trivia question suggestions about her. People who answered correctly would be able to come back stage and meet her. A handsome, long-haired blonde man who must have been her assistant was making a list and throwing out ideas. He turned to me and I couldn't pay attention to him because I was fascinated by the sight of Etheridge's long blonde hair bouncing up and down in the seat in front of me. The TV Actor took my hand and I turned to her and mouthed "Oh My God." She threw back her head, laughed and looked out the window. The van pulled into RFK Stadium and I saw the flashing lights of the billboard announcing tonight's concert. I had in no way been prepared for the magnitude of this event unfolding before me.

The van pulled in. We were given our all-access passes which immediately went around our necks. Laura Dern immediately got on her cell phone and disappeared on to the stadium floor. The TV Actor and I wandered out aimlessly to watch the other performers finishing their sound check. A Canadian singer with a funny name who I'd never heard of was finishing his set. "That's Rufus Wainwright," the TV Actor said. His nasal tenor reverberated through the empty stadium and I couldn't tell if I loved or despised his voice. He walked off as Etheridge walked on with her band and she gave him a warm hug. I sat down to watch Etheridge in action but she didn't perform. She strummed a little, talked a little, and wandered around the stage checking out the venue. Laura Dern appeared again from seemingly nowhere and exited in a hurry to the backstage area. The TV Actor turned to me, "Billy Bob and Angelina are getting married. She's a mess." Well, that explained that.

"I have to find the bathroom," TV Actor said and disappeared backstage.

I got up to follow but didn't want to be a pain in her ass. I walked around the stadium floor. Soon, 45,000 people would fill this place all in support of one cause. I felt out of my element and completely alone. As cool as this was, these weren't my people. There was no one to truly share this moment with. It meant something, but what? I felt a darkness fall over me and I tried to fight it but I knew it would ebb and flow for the rest of the weekend on its own accord. I was in limbo with Present Ex, who would kill to be with my at this moment if he knew what was going on. I was now in limbo with casting and grad school. I was going to have to move to New Jersey for three years. Everything was unsettled and here I was surrounded by TV, movie and rock stars. It didn't make any sense. I didn't want to be there.

I began to head backstage when I ran in to Julie Cypher. She was alone and standing watching Etheridge on the stage. I introduced myself again and we stood and talked for a shirt time. She was distant, cold and wanted little to do with me. I tried to ask questions about the documentary but she seemed unsure of its actual purpose or where it was going to be shown. I recognized that my presence with her was not required so I moved on.

Backstage was relatively quiet. As Etheridge was the headliner, they had held her sound check til the end. So it was quiet in the green room. Couches of all shapes, sizes and colors were littered everywhere, most in various states of disrepair. A home basketball free throw machine was tucked in a corner. Caterers were coming in to lay out the food for the artists and crew. I heard my name and the TV Actor was behind me. "Let's take a walk around," she said.

As the sun set we made our way through the back parking lot. "My shirt ripped and I want to see if I can fix it. Ellen's trailer is this way. Let's see if there's a sewing kit in there." The lot was a maze of trailers glowing orange and pink in the fading light. I didn't know where we were going but followed closely behind, smoking a Nat Sherman. Someone ahead called the TV Actor's name and we both looked up. Sitting in the doorway of a trailer right in front of us was k.d. Lang. "Hey, k.d.!" TV Actor shouted. "What's going on?"

k.d. smiled and leered at TV Actor whose ample bosom was beginning to spill out of her shirt. "I ripped a strap and I'm trying to fix it."

"I can help hold those up for you," k.d. said.

"A needle and thread would be more helpful, thanks."

"Honey, I don't know how to use either. But take a look around and see if there's anything in there that helps." TV Actor kissed k.d. on the cheek and made her way into the trailer. I said Hi and stood outside watching the setting sun. The two women laughed and chatted outside and finally TV Actor reappeared. "Nothing. Let's find Ellen's."

We waved goodbye and k.d., standing in the doorway yelled out, "If you can't find anything my offer still holds."

We turned a corner and found Ellen's trailer. TV Actor walked right in. "They went back to the hotel. The place is ours." We walked in and it looked like a love shack. An orange and yellow couch straight out of the 70s took up most of the room. A shag rug lay like a dejected beast on the floor. There were plates of half-eaten food on every surface. I sat uncomfortably on the edge of the couch while TV Actor dug through whatever she could find. "I'd settle for a goddamned safety pin!" She screamed. I laughed.

I wish I could help, I said with a sigh.

She went into the bathroom and screamed, "Voila!" She stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, holding up her shirt in one hand and a safety pin in the other, a twinkle in her eye. "Got it. Ready?" She sat next to me on the sofa and i took the thin silk strap in my hand and tried to lightly bunch the fabric around her back in a tastefully simple way to attach the two pieces again. "Just don't pin me."

I'll try my best.

After a few attempts, I succeeded and she ran to the bathroom to view the results in the mirror. "I can get away with it if I wear my jacket over it," she said. "And at least the ladies won't be falling out all over the place." She lifted her boobs under the purple silk for effect.

I think they're safe.

"I'm going to fix my make-up and then we'll go."

As we opened the trailer door I was struck by a sound almost like the ocean. In the short time we had left the interior of the stadium, it had filled up. The excitement of the moment washed over both of us and we ran to the concert floor. Whereas earlier the stadium had been empty, the sunlight reflecting off the back of thousands of unoccupied chairs, the area was now dark and filled with people. The excitement of the crowd was palpable and contagious. It was almost overwhelming as I felt it rush over me from my head to my toes.

This is insane, I shouted. But TV Actor didn't hear me. She had already made her way out to the concert floor to watch the action on the stage. I flashed my badge to a security guard and ran to join her. Ellen was on-stage and the crowd would not stop cheering. It went on for what seemed like forever and it drew tears of joy from her eyes. "We shouldn't have to have a concert like this!" she yelled into the mic and the audience roared even louder.

And then followed a string of performers and speakers. As the night went on, I wandered back and forth between the stadium floor and the green room. I liked Rufus Wainwright and his sister enough. George Michael, in his purple satin suit and dark sunglasses, was amazing. The Pet Shop Boys played a long fun but redundant set. Chaka Khan was really fat.

I sat on one of the green room couches munching on a piece of fried chicken, watching an older man help a young child play basketball. A quiet, middle-aged woman with short straight redish hair sat next to me and smiled. The older man came and sat down next to the woman. He smiled and I said, Hi and put out my hand to introduce myself.

"I'm Dennis Shepard," he said. "This is my wife, Judy."

Oh. Wow.

I'm...I'm...so sorry for your loss. And I'm glad you're here. You two have been so important to this cause.

Dennis looked at the little boy still trying to play with the basketball machine and smiled wistfull. "It's very important to us. Matthew was very important to us. We just do everything we can to make the message clear. Like, see that little boy over there, I want him to grow up in a world without hate."

A runner came in and called Dennis to the stage. "It was nice meeting you."

Likewise.

I ran out to the stadium floor just as Melissa Etheridge was introducing Dennis. Judy stayed backstage. The crowd jumped to its feet again and cheered so loud the stadium shook. Once again, Dennis talked about the importance of this event and the necessity of equality in the world today, tomorrow and forever. When he was done speaking, Dennis waved to the crowd and walked off. Etheridge tore into her song about Matthew's death, "Scarecrow." You could hear a pin drop in the stadium while she performed. When she was done, there was a moment of silence. Many people, including myself, wiped tears from their eyes and then burst into a collective scream.

I was overwhelmed.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 2

That evening massaged, showered and ready to go out, the TV Actor and I went out to hit a gay bar or two. We were staying in Dupont Circle area so this was, allegedly, convenient. So we set out; she in a pair of impossibly high heels, tight leather pants and a low cut silk shirt that displayed her ample cleavage. The first bar we went to was no longer there. The second bar we went to was loud, dark and crowded.

The TV Actor asked me to ask the bartender if they had a VIP lounge. I looked at her incredulously, Really?

"Yes. Please ask. At least it'll be a place for me to sit. These shoes hurt." I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride and went up to the bar. I was embarrassed. I don't like to draw attention to myself. I didn't want to announce who I was here with. And what if they didn't know who she was. That would be awkward. Plus, the place was packed and loud so to get the attention of the bartender to ask a silly question was going to take some doing.

Excuse me, I shouted. Excuse me. The bartender turned a weary eye toward me and leaned in not at all as I sandwiched myself between two unmoving older gays on stools. Hi. I...uhm...I was wondering if you have any kind of VIP area here. You see I'm here with...and I explained the situation as succinctly as I could. He looked at me, as I feared, as if he had no idea who I was talking about. He shook his head no and turned away. I turned back to the TV Actor and she was gone, swept away in a sea of gay. I followed the bar around and saw her in the midst of a crowd, drink in her hand, smiling and entertaining the group with fabulous stories. She waved and motioned me over but I wasn't interested in joining the crowd. I motioned that I needed a drink and that I'd be right back and I pulled my own disappearing act into the crowd.

I bought a beer from the unfriendly bartender who continued to look at me suspiciously and I found the stairs to the second floor, the dance floor. I didn't feel like dancing but I did feel like disappearing in the music. The thumping drew me up and up and the colored lights flashed like a beacon. The dance floor was packed. There was another, smaller bar in the back. It was darker up here than downstairs and that was perfect for disappearing. I looked at my watch. It was late. The bars here close early. I should get my drinking in. I chugged my beer, ordered another and then commandeered a comfortable section next to the wall. I watched the sweaty mass in front of my move as if in unison. Cigarettes, bottles of beer and mixed drinks were held high in the air. Naked torsos twirled, twisted, bent and shook. I inhaled the scent of the place. It was booze and testosterone. I wasn't really looking at specific men; I was more taking in the movement of the mass. Suddenly I felt hot breath on my neck that smelled like whiskey. "Hi."

I turned and there was an older guy in his 60s standing next to me. He had two drinks in his hand, a receding hairline and a tiny paunch. He was wearing a pastel polo and khakis rolled at the bottom. He was leering at me while rocking back and forth on his unsteady legs. I was waiting for him to capsize in the storm around us. "Hi," he said again.

Hi, I nodded and tried not to engage.

"You know why no one here is talking to you?" he leaned in even further and perched one of his drink-heavy hands on my shoulder.

No. No, I don't.

"Because they're scared of you. You look like you don't want to be approached. Your eyes are mean."

I turned my mean eyes on him.

"But I'm not scared of you," he slurred. "I think you're just lonely."

Of course I was lonely. I was in a bar with my back to the wall drink in one hand, cigarette in the other watching people go by instead of engaging. Instead of being a part of the crowd, I was observing it. But I was comfortable in my loneliness. I didn't want to engage at the moment. I needed some time to be with myself even if that meant being alone. I certainly didn't want to fill the void with a drunk, leering 60-year old who needed to hold on to two drinks at the same time.

"You're very handsome though. Your angry eyes are beautiful. I'm very attracted to you."

And out of nowhere another arm slipped around my waist and drew me in. A warm, wet mouth kissed my cheek. An unfamiliar voice said, "Hey baby." I turned and standing next to me was a tall, handsome, young blonde guy with bright blue eyes and a perfect smile. "Is this guy bothering you?"

I turned to the 60-year old and said, I was just waiting for my boyfriend. Then I planted a kiss on the mouth of the guy standing next to me. He tasted of beer and salt. I put my arm around him and his back was wet from dancing. I looked up at him and he dismissed the drunken old man with a nod of the head. The leery one stumbled drunkenly, sheepishly, away disappearing into the dark and swept up in the wave of bodies, left to drown in his own loneliness.

I turned to my savior. Thanks a lot. I thought I was going to be stuck with him for the rest of the night.

"I saw you from across the room and I know how that guy can be so I wanted to help you out."

I really appreciate it. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, you know?

"You're a nice guy."

Yeah. I looked down at the floor. All of a sudden the room was alive with light and the music stopped abruptly. The gay men scattered for the door like cockroaches in a kitchen.

What was that?

"Closing time."

Already?

"It's two."

Oh, shit. I have to find my friend. I left her downstairs a while ago. Listen, I have to go. Thanks again for helping me out. You were great.

And with that I followed the roaches downstairs and found the TV Star just saying goodbye to her newfound friends. She gave me a big drunken smile and threw her arms around me. "Where were you?!"

I got lost in the crowd upstairs.

"We had so much fun down here. These guys are great. I can't believe it's 2am. Let's get the fuck outta here."

Yeah. Let's get out of here. And we stumbled out into the dark, warm, Spring night.

Can you walk? I asked.

"Fuck, yeah." And we headed back to our hotel. I turned and caught a brief glimpse of my saviour standing outside the bar. I gave him a quick wave and a smile. He nodded back.

"Who was that?" the TV Actor asked seductively.

No one. Let's get back to the hotel.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 1

In April of 2000 I unexpectedly found myself in Washington DC for a long weekend. In the early afternoon hours of April 29th I found myself in a van with the TV Star, Ellen Degeneres, Anne Heche, Melissa Etheridge, Laura Dern and a TV crew. We were on our way to RFK Stadium for a sound check.

A few days earlier I had gotten a call from the TV Actor saying that she was going down to DC for the Pride Rocks concert and a brief vacation and had an extra room in her hotel suite for a few days. Did I want to join? Did I?! Things were tough for me at the time. I was working in casting, enough said on that front. Graduate school rejection letters were pouring in. Ok, they weren't really pouring in because I had only applied to three schools: Columbia, Juilliard and Rutgers. I wanted to stay in New York, preferably. If not, the immediate area. After being rejected from both Columbia and Juilliard I was holding out hope for Rutgers. I didn't have much hope left.

Amy Saltz, the acting head of the Directing program at Rutgers University: Mason Gross School of the Arts, had put me through an intensive interview process. I had amazing credentials and stellar recommendations but Amy thought I was "too young" for the program. Reading over the MGSA materials on the program Hal Scott, who started the program, felt that a good director had to be over 30 in order to bring a certain amount of "life experience" to the table. I called bullshit. I had more life experience at the age of 25 than most people had in a life. Amy saw this but was still tentative. We had three interviews. We liked each other. I responded to her gruff, matter-of-fact manner. She was attracted to my passion and ideals. (I was full of both back then.) After our last interview she said she needed some more time to make a decision. Frustrated and thinking the answer would be negative I fell into a slump. My back-up plan of taking the money I had saved over the past few years and going to Italy until it ran out seemed to be the plan of action.

So I was working in casting. I was waiting to here from Rutgers. Present Ex and I were still living together, semi-broken up and semi-together. Relationship limbo. So when TV Actor called with the invite, I jumped. I needed a break from the island and my real life. I didn't really expect to be be in the middle of such an all-star event.

TV Actor and I had become fast friends when I put her in to the national tour of Cabaret. We got into lots of trouble together and enjoyed every moment of it. Whenever I went out to work on the tour, she invited me to stay with her. We laughed a lot. Drank red wine a lot. Smoked Nat Shermans a lot. Danced a lot. Partied a lot. And that was just rehearsal.

Her hotel suite was truly amazing. I hadn't realized the difference between having money and having TV money until I walked in there. Richly furnished and lushly upholstered, it was almost like being in a palace. My room of the suite was so far away from hers we might as well have been on different floors. I hugged her hard and thanked her for the invite. She said she was going to jump in the shower and then we were going to tour the Holocaust Museum. Fun times.

On the way in to DC I had received a phone call from Amy Saltz. I headed to my room in the suite, took a deep breath, swallowed hard and hit redial, bracing myself for the bad news. She answered the phone almost immediately. "Hi, JV. I'm glad you called back so quickly. I wanted to invite you into the Directing program at Rutgers..." And time stopped. The world seemed to move away. I wasn't expecting that. I was prepared for another rejection. I was getting ready to spend months in Italy learning how to speak the language and getting lost among the natives. And Amy talked on about how I would be one of three incoming directors. How we were all so different. How she was excited about each of us. And obviously I said I accepted. Stunned, I went back out to the living room and waited for the TV Star to make her entrance. What better way to celebrate then by experiencing a Holocaust? On the way out, the TV Actor asked the concierge to have a masseuse in our room that night at 10pm and be prepared to spend two hours, an hour for each of us. Nice.

The Holocaust Museum was a truly devastating experience for both of us. Of course, having worked on Cabaret, we talked about it and were familiar with it on an education standpoint, but seeing it in front of you makes the whole experience more visceral, more tangible. I kept myself together for as long as I could until we walked into a room that was, from floor to ceiling, covered in shoes of the victims. I broke down in tears. These relics made it real. These were possessions of people that had been thrown away, destroyed, and all that remained were these thin pieces of broken leather. Stacked behind wired fences the shoes seemed to go straight up to God. And I wanted to reach out and touch them. I wanted to connect with whatever had touched that child, that woman, that man. I wanted to know the person who had chosen that shoe for her daughter, who had crouched down and tied the laces a hundred times until they were stripped of them and kicked aside, now useless. The TV Actor who had been crying for some time now came over and put her arm around me, leading me to a bench outside where I pulled myself together.

"Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's go get a coffee."

I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of lives lost. And as I looked around and realized who I was and where I was and where I was staying at the particular moment in time, I realized just how lucky I was. It was the second (the acceptance into MGSA being the first) of many monumental events to occur that weekend.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 5

The Grand Finale.

Saturday evening in Milford was spent wrapped in the warm arms of the Hotel Fauchere. The Loved One and I put on some respectable clothes, took the elevator down to the Bar Louis and had a pre-dinner drink. We both stuck with our wine choices from the previous evening; he, the Pinot, and I, the Mercurey.

The waitress who served us the night before recognized us and seemed genuinely happy to see us. I looked around the bar and recognized some familiar faces from the night before: the Miserable Couple (of course), a pair of straight, beer-drinking guys from town, and a young couple who had been a step behind us on our tour of the town all day. I mentioned them to the Loved One and I half-listened to their conversation. It was obvious they were staying at the hotel together but they seemed at the very beginning of their relationship. The conversation was akin to that one would have on a first or second date and I found it odd they were vacationing together.

It reminded me of a couple the Loved One and I had eavesdropped on when we were in Tulum, Mexico last spring. We had toured the ruins and had taken a taxi into town. The driver recommended a place to eat and we grabbed a table outside, ordered Michaladas and looked out on the quiet, dirty, sad streets. It was April and definitely off-season. A young man and woman our age sat at the table next to us. They were obviously traveling together but I couldn't tell in what capacity. The young woman kept talking about some other girl. "Didn't you used to date her?" et cetera. She was fishing for info from this guy and she was way into him. Finally she said about the other girl, "Well. She has cankles." There was a pause. Then to cover, "I mean, she's nice and everything but she's not all that." The Loved One and I almost spat out our drinks and from that point on I stopped listening. If she was trying to get closer to this guy she had just ruined her chances.

The young couple at the Bar Louis were very preppy and very upper class. The girl was very shy and embarrassed by the fact that she didn't know how to pronounce "Kir Royale" from the drinks menu. She was trying to explain the drink to the waitress and finally she grabbed the menu and pointed. The guy asked for their "oldest scotch." I flashed forward to what their lives would be like in 40 years. As soon as the drinks were served they began stressing about the fact that they were going to be late for dinner and they took their drinks upstairs with them, asking the waitress to charge their room and not leaving a tip. I didn't like them.

When they left I noticed D/Nick at a table behind where they were sitting. He was sitting with two men and we made eye contact. I went over to say hello, the Loved One behind me, and thank him again for the tour. He introduced to the men across from him. They also had a llama farm -- only theirs was in upstate New York. How many llama farms are there in the US? Crazy. We went back to our drinks and then up to the Delmonico for dinner.

The maitre d asked if we could wait a few minutes and we said 'of course' and sat on the back porch and paged through magazines. We were sat about five minutes after that. The young woman who had served us breakfast was also working the dinner shift and she also recognized us and greeted us kindly. It feels good when you're staying somewhere and people recognize and engage you.

The owner of the bookstore in town had highly recommended the lamb so when I saw it at the top of the menu, I barely looked further. The Loved One ordered the Delmonico steak which, I have to say, was also very tempting. The Loved One started with the tuna tartar (no thanks) and I had the escargot (perfection). We had another glass of wine and sat in a comfortable silence. I enjoyed watching the other tables, I enjoyed just soaking in the atmosphere of the restaurant. We were in no rush to eat. We were in no rush to leave. The food came out in its own time and I was pleased that we weren't being rushed in and out. For once, we skipped dessert and I regret it now.

The next morning, I awoke already sad that we had to leave. I threw on my jacket and ran to the ATM to get cash for the day. The Loved One met me in the Delmonico for breakfast. Again, we were greeted and recognized by familiar faces and also some new ones. Our waitress at breakfast and dinner the other day was there again and I jokingly asked her is her if she ever took any time off. We had a huge pot of coffee and a seat by the front window so I was able to watch people walking by as well as the other guests of the restaurant. Sunday brunch seemed to be much more popular than Saturday and the restaurant was alive with activity; tables being turned over, food coming out, OJ and water being poured.

After breakfast, the Loved One went to get pastries to take back with us and I went back to the room. I realized that I had forgotten my jacket in the restaurant. The Loved One opened the door with it in his hand. Who gave it to you, I asked? "How did you know?" I realized when I got back to the room. It wasn't Kenda was it? The one who I bugged all yesterday about my ATM card. "Yes." Damn. She's gonna think I'm a moron.

I knew it was Kenda. I had seen her around the lobby area when we went down to breakfast and I knew I was going to have to see her when we checked out. And, seriously. What must she think? She was very kind and I said I was just so relaxed that I kept forgetting things and wasn't usually so stupid. I'm still not sure she believed me. But I wouldn't have believed me either.
And just like that, our stay at the Hotel Fauchere was finished.

We got into the car and I looked longingly up at our room on the third floor. I wasn't quite ready to live Milford. But there were waterfalls to see and perhaps some more fun adventures on the way home. And there were. The waterfalls were beautiful. I'm glad that we stopped and I want to go back in warmer weather to hike those trails. As we made our way down a young guy in sweats, hiking boots, windbreaker and heavy backpack stopped us on the trail and said if we climbed over the fence and worked our way down the view was really amazing. I was enthralled by the metal piercing that went straight through his septum. I thanked him kindly and as we walked away I turned to Loved One and said, I would assume if a fence it there we're probably not supposed to climb over it. He agreed.

On the drive home we encountered one or two lone antique stores. One appeared to be the raised basement of someone's home. A sadness hung over this store. We went through very quickly and then left. The next was called Old Church Antiques or something like that and it was huge. A basement full of crap and a first floor full of crap. By the time we came to the next town, whose name I forget, that seemed to be nothing but antique stores we were spent. We walked around for bit, had lunch and then called it quits. I had had enough of other people's musty old crap. If they didn't want it, I certainly didn't. We had lunch and hit the road. Again.

Of course we came across what appeared to be an outlet center. So we stopped. The bookstore was disappointing. The Bass Outlet was...a Bass outlet. The Izod Outlet was a mess. The coffee was watery. And the cheese shop stank to high heaven in the worst way. Depressed and ready to be home we, once again, hit the road. Both of us were sick of our music but I put on an old Jason Mraz cd for a little life. Sunday anxiety was starting to build in my chest like a shoestring knot. It would tighten and increase with every mile closer to the city.

Happily, we came across a mall. One of the many fascinations the Loved One and I share is with malls. If there is one around, we go. Sociologically, nothing tells you more about a town and its people better than a trip to the mall. I love to look at the people. The mall was called the 'Rockaways' not to be confused, I guess, with Far Rockaway. It was interesting. The Loved One found it depressing. I didn't. Just a little sad. Which most malls are, particularly in a recession.

We walked it in half an hour, stopped at Borders so the Loved One could get a latte and hit the road one, final time.

And so it came to pass, our weekend in Pennsylvania was over. We picked up Ripley at the funeral home and headed to our Greenpoint abode. The daffodils did not bloom in our absence but they had turned yellow and would open any day now.

That was a week ago. And tonight I would like to go to Bar Louis for a glass of Mercurey and some truffle fries.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 4

As we were wrapping up lunch I was whining to the Loved One again about the loss of my ATM card.

"Give me your wallet," he said.

It's not in there, I assured him as I opened it and showed him the empty space where it usually lay. Not there. Then to further prove my point, I pulled out the assorted receipts and credit cards from another slot in the wallet and low and behold there she was, my brand new Chase ATM card twinkling in the light. I stared at it for a second and the Loved One saw it right away. I shoved it back in the correct place and mumbled, I told you it was in there the entire time.

I don't normally lose things a lot. But when I do, I lose them well. I lost a pair of keys in my backpack for about a month. I was convinced our third roommate at the funeral home had gone in to my bag and taken them while I slept. I moaned about it for days and even paid to have a new set made. One day, at the Loved Ones apartment, they fell out of an inner pocket deep inside the bag. Again, they were not in their usual place. Whose fault is that? And after the Mormon and I broke up I left my ATM card in a bank machine three times in three weeks. Two of those times I had to wait for a replacement card to be mailed to me. It was frustrating but think of all the money I saved in that time. I made no pointless purchases.

Let me go in and tell Kenda that I found it, I said to Loved One.

Sheepishly I walked in and approached her. She greeted me with a warm smile. I just wanted to let you know, uhm...I found my ATM card. "Oh! Good! Where was it?" I looked down at the floor, It totally wasn't in my wallet. She smiled a knowing smile and I waved goodbye and ran right into Marta who was arriving for her shift. "How were the llamas?" We're on our way right now, I said. "Be careful," she cautioned. We laughed and waved goodbye and headed to the car.

The farm was just a few minutes away and we arrived, of course, early. We initially drove past the farm and immediately knew by looking out the driver's side window and seeing a veritable sea of llamas, some lying in the sun; some picking at the grass. We turned the car around and slowly approached Llama Lane. The white gate opened automatically as our powdered blue colored Kia made the slow ascent up the drive. I was a little unclear as to how this was going to work. Was there a group before us? Would someone greet us? The Loved One asked these questions out loud and all I could say was, I don't know. As we were turning the car into a parking space, a tall lanky man dressed like...well, like a modern day farmer gave us a smile and a nod and I said, I guess that's who we see.

We got out of the car and I went up and shook his hand and introduced myself. I thought he said his name was Nick so I proceeded to call him that for the rest of the day. It wasn't until we got back to Greenpoint and the Loved One did some research on the farm that we found that, actually, his name is Dick. Oops. Sorry, Dick. I introduced the Loved One and D/Nick led us into the barn. "Which one of you is from Philly?" he asked. I am, I answered. But originally. We live in Brooklyn now. I grew up in Philly and spent my summer's in upstate PA but, I guess, in a more western section.

"Whereabouts?"

St. Clair. Near Pottsville.

"That's not too far," and then he thought. "Not Pottstown?"

No, Pottsville.

"Well, welcome. This is the llama farm." And D/Nick launched into a very detailed and thorough history of the farm and how he, in 1985, retired as a corporate executive from NYC and bought the farm, which was built and used as a dairy farm in the 19th Century. He knew he needed to maintain it to keep it up and going but he didn't want traditional farm animals. After doing a lot of research he settled on llamas -- which can also be spelled lama. I hurled questions at him like a reporter. The only problem being I wasn't writing anything down so I was trying to retain as much as possible and I had a thousand more questions swimming around in my head.

First, D/Nick took us into the original barn. Posted along the back wall were rows and rows of blue and red ribbons. Next to these were large cardboard cartons, some of which were open and I could see llama hair pouring out. "This is the shearing room," D/Nick explained. He took us over to a large metal contraption that has two long, tufted poles that lock the llama in place so that it doesn't hurt itself while they shear it. There's also another device that lifts the back legs up so the llama doesn't try to sit during the process. I laughed and said, I wish I had one of those for my dog when I give him a bath. "What kind of dog do you have?" Oh, just a little thing but he hates it and squirms like crazy. It drives me insane. Truth to tell, I was a little embarrassed to explain my little gay Havanese pup to this farmer. Ripley is anything but a little gay lapdog but it's hard to describe him without making him seem otherwise. Plus, once you say Havanese you have to go into Bischon and Shih Tsu territory and it just gets gayer and gayer...

D/Nick took us over to the cardboard boxes and told us to feel the hair. I expected it to be coarse and rough but it was very smooth and fine. Then he showed us that his sweater was made from llama hair as well. Although it can be dyed, most llama hair is kept in its natural state and D/Nick explained the various features and colors, etc.

He then took us to the main barn. As he was talking and explaining things to us, suddenly a white head precariously balanced on a long white neck popped up, chewing hay in its mouth and giving us a questioning look. It had the most startling clear blue eyes you could imagine. "That's Bright Eyes," D/Nick said. "I can see why," the Loved One replied. Curiously, Bright eyes made its way over to us. D/Nick stuck out his hand and it sniffed with little interest and then went back to chewing. Suddenly, three or so more llamas came in to the barn. D/Nick knew each and everyone's name. Some came over to check us out, while others went right to the hay. D/Nick explained that the llamas got to know you by sniffing your hair. So if one came over, we bent our heads down and offered up our shiny locks to them to smell. It's a very scary position to be in, I have to say. The llamas look very powerful. And by putting your head down, you're obstructing any view of it whatsoever. What if it bites down on the top of your head? What if it grabs your ear and won't let go? What if it messes up your hair? None of this happened. We got the same half-hearted sniff of interest and then they walked away.

D/Nick showed us the original foundation of the barn and then how he had expanded it and made it bigger, particularly because he was so tall he could hardly stand up in it before. Then he took us upstairs to where the hay was stored and showed us how they could just drop it down to the feeding area below. He pointed out an original feature of the barn. The wood beams that supported the roof were hand cut. You could see each and every hack of the ax that was used to whittle the tree into this state. I had never thought of that. Why would I? When have I ever had to build a house? But I stood there looking at the ax marks imagining the kind of guy who had to build his house and his barn by chopping down the trees around him and then chopping them even further into the appropriate shapes before fitting them together. My mind doesn't work that way. I wish it did. And then I thought, what a great workout. Crunch could introduce Tree Choppin' to its city folk clients.

All this time a cat was following us from one location to another. "He gets all the little critters," D/Nick said. "Obviously, he's solely an outdoors cat." Unwillingly to leave the dark hunting zones of the upper barn yet, D/Nick made sure that the cat could get out from somewhere before we headed back down. We walked through the feeding trough and D/Nick pointed out a large black llama with a large infection around its eye. Oh no, what happened! I exclaimed. "She had an ingrown eyelash," D/Nick explained. "The normal vert wasn't there and the one that was removed the wrong eyelid. So she tears up constantly and it leaves that area all infected like that." As he was telling us this story a chicken wandered in and jumped into a feed trough. D/Nick checked to see if it was laying an egg. "We have a few of these, you'll see around. They only lay about 10-12 eggs a day though." 10-12?! I thought they would only lay one egg a day. So much I didn't know.

There are about 60-70 llamas on the farm. The males are separated from the females and only get it on when D/Nick says so. There's even a breeding booth, as it were. Apparently this is because female llamas ovulate AFTER they copulate. So, I guess, they're guaranteed to get knocked up after sex.

We walked out to where the female llamas were. Most immediately moved down the field, further away from us. A curious, smaller black and white llama named Chicklet was much more curious than her counterparts. She would approach and then back off. We would offer our closed fist or our head and she would approach and then back away. Rinse and repeat. I loved it. We then walked off to another section where the male llamas were kept. Quite different from the females, the males almost stampeded to the gate to greet us as we stood there. One particularly fiesty one, Mitchiko, got on famously with the Loved One; nuzzling him, smelling his hair, sniffing his hand, etc. I had asked D/Nick earlier if the llamas ever made noises. He said occasionally but rarely and only in certain circumstances. All of a sudden, one of the male llamas started making a noise as another male attempted to mount him from behind. We moved away.

We asked about spitting. Everyone has heard about or seen a scene of a movie in which someone gets llama spit in their face. D/Nick explained that it only happens rarely; usually when the llama feels physically or territorially threatened (and usually it spits at other llamas). I was amazed that D/Nick knew each and every llama by name. The creatures don't really respond to call by name but can be trained to. D/Nick pointed out Annie who was his oldest llame (they live to about 20 years). She was blind but still managed to get around fine and follow the rest.

As we moved around the grounds, the curious males followed us as far as they could.

D/Nick pointed out where he was using some of the grounds for selective lumbering. We came across some of his farm hands sifting llama manure to use as fertilizer in the gardens. We walked further out to a large pond. Daffodils were beginning to bloom in patches everywhere. The Loved One told him how ours were almost ready to bloom and we were afraid it was going to happen this very weekend while we were away. D/Nick explained how because he was higher up in the mountains, some 1100 feet above sea-level, the spring thaw took a little longer. As we walked around the pond he said that the koi probably wouldn't be out yet but we saw them in abundance; white koi, orange koi, some almost a foot long swimming lazily through the reeds. Our shoes squished in the mud as we circled the pond and I thought how I would love to sit out here and read or paint or throw parties.

We walked back toward the house and D/Nick showed us the greenhouse and the gardens. He supplies the Delmonico at the Hotel Fauchere with its summer herbs and vegetables. Four or five young guys were working here, getting the ground ready for planting. D/Nick told us that the man usually in charge of all of this had passed away not to long ago. D/Nick had come home to find him passed out from an aneurysm on the floor. In the midst of all this life, there is also death. Sad. I wanted to ask D/Nick more about his personal life but it didn't seem right. Where was his family? Was he lonely out here? Aside from someone named Joe who acted as a kind of manager and some assorted other staff, did he have close friends and people to relate to. But getting so personal, so quickly didn't seem appropriate. I was so fascinated by what this man had done though. Left his life in the city behind and created this successful existence out in the country. How could I do that?

As we stood outside the greenhouse, I stood on a large log that acted as a border to the entrance. The Loved One and I were looking at a beautiful, towering oak tree that hung over the property. I, of course, in my clumsiness managed to dislocate the log from where it had been fixed and couldn't manage to get it back in its proper place. The Loved One stood, amused, in the doorway just watching me trying to fix it.

We slowly walked back to the car. I didn't want to leave but we had taken up almost two hours of D/Nick's time. The chickens and roosters were pecking away in the driveway as we said our goodbyes. Four beautiful guinea hens also made an appearance. From up on top of a hill, I could see Mitchiko the llama looking down at us -- almost wistfully, I thought.

I couldn't thank D/Nick enough for this thorough, extremely educational and fun tour. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to offer him money, and I felt he would almost be offended if I had but he had so graciously offered up so much of his time and energy to us. We shook hands and he said he'd be dining at the hotel later that night and maybe we'd see him there.

The Loved One got in the car and asked me to be on chicken watch in the driveway while he pulled out. A man and a little girl had appeared thought, friends of D/Nick's, and the young girl had chased all the chickens away. The coast was clear.

I plopped down into the passenger seat and turned to the Loved One. Were you bored by that? I asked hesitantly.

"Are you kidding?! I loved it!"

Good. Me too.

Dinner wasn't until 8:30. That meant it was time for a sweet treat, some coffee and a nap before pre-dinner drinks at the Bar Louis.

I want a llama farm, I said as we drove away.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 3

I awoke Saturday morning well-rested and, as usual, before the Loved One. I put on my Hotel Fauchere white bathrobe and curled into the arm chair by the window with A Confederacy of Dunces. I read it once, in high school, and I can't even begin to fathom how much of it was lost on me at the time. However, now, being a devotee of New Orleans and (like Ignatius Reilly) a misanthrope, I understand it on every level. I'm not, actually, a misanthrope. I just think most people aren't as smart as they could or should be, and fewer live up to their potential.

When the Loved One woke up, we immediately celebrated the impending day by scarfing down the complimentary chocolate from the Patisserie Fauchere. It was perfect and stirred my already building hunger. I like to eat pretty much the second I wake up in the morning. Or from a nap. Or anytime at all.

We had a light, lovely breakfast in the Delmonico's porch. I was had one of the croissants I had read so much about in reviews online. It was light, buttery and crispy. It was also about half the size of a regular croissant and I wanted more. But Loved One and I split some eggs and fruit instead. As we ate, the Long Island or New Jersey couple came in looking as miserable in the morning as they did at night. They shot us both a withering look and then took a table in the corner by the back. I watched people run in and out of the patisserie next door and said that we should stop by later for coffee and a treat. The Loved One agreed. A party of older women came in and sat back by the miserable couple. They were too far away for me to hear their entire conversation but I heard talk of scripts and screenplays and a film festival as well as the name Rockefeller dropped, and I wished I could hear more. I'm a notorious eavesdropper. I will listen to any and all of a close-by conversation and then try to whisper what I'm hearing to the Loved One. His hearing is so hot so he usually can't hear what I'm saying and we have to talk about other things instead.

After breakfast, I made the Loved One pose for some pictures around the hotel. He begrudgingly obliged. I've become a big fan of capturing the moment on film and often regret not taking enough photos after an event. And from there we went to explore the town. Our first stop was, happily, Books & Prints at Pear Alley. The moment we opened the door and a huge white poodle came galloping out from around the front desk, I knew we were in the right place.

"That's Molly," the owner said. "I hope she isn't bothering you."

Are you kidding? I love it.

"Well, have a look around and let me know if you need any help."

The Loved One drew my attention to the glass case in front of me. On the second shelf, for $200, was a small piece of paper with a pencil sketch of Archie Andrews on it, signed by Dan DeCarlo who illustrated the comic book character throughout my formative years. In the early 80s I became an Archies Reporter and fan club member by writing in to the comic about my experience playing clarinet in the school band. I won first prize ($6)! My dad made a copy of the check before I cashed it, probably spending it on more Archie comics. It was my first, and only, byline. So far. A few years ago I found the issue I was published in and cut out the article, framed it and put it in the bathroom. The number two article was from a guy who worked part-time in a fast food joint and I couldn't help but wonder how old he was and how we felt getting beat out for first place by a 10-year old....

So I made a pass around the Archie and went, as I normally do, right to the fiction section. I am always in search of 1) a first edition of Patricia Highsmith's 'The Talented Mr. Ripley and 2) any Daphne DuMaurier novel I don't yet own. I rarely find either. After that, I head over to the drama section and look for out-of-print plays. Here, I was blessed with a collection of Random House plays from the 50s, 60s and 70s. I began pulling them off the shelf and making a stack. Before long I was over the $100 mark and I realized that I couldn't/shouldn't buy all of them. So I started going through to see which ones I did not need. I had to buy 'No Time For Sergeants' because it was the third time in three weeks that I had come across it. I had to buy the book of 'Happy Hunting', an Ethel Merman musical I had never heard of. The Loved One ran over with a copy of an original Playbill for "Little Me" in his hands. I was the AD of the Broadway revival. But I barely keep paraphernalia from shows I do work on, so I don't want any from shows I didn't work on.

The Loved One took a look at the stack of books by my side. I told him I couldn't afford them all and was weeding through to see which ones I really wanted. He said he would buy them for me, especially if they were out of print. I said, no. Not necessary and picked up my pile and proceeded to the front. Molly came out and sniffed the stack of books, happy with my purchases. I plopped them down on the counter and, straightforward, asked the owner if she would give me a discount for purchasing in bulk. She didn't even bat an eye. She calculated the price of the complete purchase and then knocked $15 off of it. And that's why you have to ask for what you want!

Then I pulled out my wallet to pay and realized that my ATM card was missing. I frantically looked through my wallet, to no avail. I had paid for dinner with it the night before at Bar Louis so I knew it was in Milford. Beyond that, I didn't know where. The Loved One pulled out his ATM card and saved the day. So he did end up buying the books for me after all.

"Let's drop these off in the car and then ask in the hotel for your card." Also, between the book buying and the stress of no ATM card, it was time to stop at the Patisserie Fauchere to refuel. As we approached the hotel, the female half of Miserable Couple was sitting on the front porch talking loudly on her cell phone. She didn't even glance up as we walked by. The male half was in the reception area where a new woman, a pretty redhead by the name of Kenda, was trying to arrange something for him. He was not happy with having only one time choice as his option and stalked out of the room.

I sheepishly walked up and introduced myself. "Oh, I have your directions to the llama farm!" she exclaimed.

How does everyone here know that I made arrangements to go there?!

I explained about losing my ATM card and she checked in the safe but it wasn't there. Bar Louis wasn't open yet. So it was off to Patisserie Fauchere! I shrugged my shoulders in defeat when I saw the Loved One and we headed next door. The smell of freshly baked...everything greeted us the minute we opened the door. Breads lined the shelves. Pastries shimmered behind the glass and wooden cases. My stomach rumbled. The Loved Ones eyes lit up at the sight of hot cross buns. I wanted everything but decided to get a pain au chocalat, as my croissant desire wasn't particularly satiated that morning. Again, the pastry was delicious but could have benefited from a bit more chocolat in the pain.

We enjoyed just sitting there and watching the locals come in and make conversation with the staff. IN my secret heart of hearts I sometime wish that I could spend the day in a kitchen baking away and making conversation with my fellow bakers and the community. So I was envious of these people who both lived and worked here. It seems a simpler way of life to me. Perhaps that's naive. Whose life is simple?

Coffee and pastries complete, we took off -- once again -- to explore the town. From small antique shops, to trendy stores, to the Velveteen Habit (which we couldn't stop making fun of) we walked the small town. Our favorite place was Old Lumberyard Antiques. They use the word "antiques", I would use the word "junk." But I love looking at it. I was overwhelmed by the amount of racist antiquities I was finding; a postcard with a young black child on it, running and written in "black slang" from the 20s; two cards obviously used as placecards at an event because the names Dr. and Mrs Simcox were handwritten at the bottom, again depicting poor black children referred to as "coons" in the sentence below. I was (and still am) so shocked by them I can't even remember the rest of the sentence. But does it matter? Really? And only $25 for the pair? Tempting. Never too soon to plan the next dinner party. I called the Loved One over and his jaw literally dropped when he saw them.

All of this racism and antiquing obviously made us hungry so it was time for lunch. I ran into the Bar Louis but still no ATM card appearance. And we decided on the Milford Diner for lunch. Our waitress was wonderful. She had dyed brown hair with white roots piled on top of her head and a face filled with deep wrinkles from smoking. She eyes us cautiously at first but took our order. I was wondering if I wasn't sensing some homophobia until she came over with her drinks while I studied a large map of the Pennsylvania area with antiquing locations mapped out.

"What are you looking for, honey"" she asked in a husky smokers voice.

Oh, nothing in particular. We were thinking of possibly going to New Hope and I was trying to figure out how far it was.

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, I just love New Hope. It's so beautiful. And artsy. I was just there a few weeks ago to visit a friend of mine..." and on and on she went. Asking where we were from and why we were here. She was very kind. By the time she was done questioning us the Loved Ones lunchmeat salad (a chef's salad but c'mon, really, it was slices of lunchmeat and cheese rolled up and plopped on top of iceberg lettuce) and my Greek salad (feta cheese, olives and a side of pita does not a Greek make) were ready. Our waitress left the check on our table and went out to smoke.

We had to finish our lunch quickly because we had a date with some llamas!

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 2

I ran out the office door at 6pm like a child running out of class when the final school bell rings at the end of the year. I couldn't get out fast enough. I knew the Loved One would be late but I didn't care. I'd rather wait for him in front of the Port Authority than sit a second longer at my West Elm-purchased, dark brown, faux wood desk.

It was chilly out but the temperature was supposed to go up to the 50s on Saturday and even higher on Sunday.

I stood outside the Port Authority, my hatred for New York City growing with each passing second. I was inhaling more cigarette smoke in twenty minutes than I had in ten years of on-again/off-again smoking. I enjoyed watching the characters come and go. I remembered, as a kid, my dad would park the car here for our day trips. I was terrified. The minute you pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel you were assaulted by dirty men trying to wash the windows of your car with water dirtier than them. My mother would immediately check to make sure the doors were locked. I would crouch lower in the back seat and raise whatever I was reading to cover my face, my heart pounding. What if they broke into the car? What if they stole me out of the back seat and took me away? What if they made me dirty like them and I had to stand at the base of the Lincoln Tunnel and wash windshields for the rest of my life? Would my parents be able to find me? Save me?

My dad would drive up the long ramp to the dark, shadowed parking lot. He would always park in the space furthest from the elevator and I would clutch my mother's hand as we hastily walked away from the car. The morning rush hour was over by the time we got there so the parking lot was eerily deserted and quiet. Invariably, there was a homeless person slumped in a corner of the waiting area. The smell of piss, shit and dirt hung in the air and I would put my sleeve to my face, my hand rolled into a fist inside hidden away like a turtle and breathe in the scent of the fabric. I hopped up and down, waiting for the elevator to come and hoping that someone would be on it besides us, who wasn't homeless and smelly.

One day we had to take the stairs down and I was on the verge of tears the entire time, certain that someone would jump out and stab my mom and dad, leaving me alone and deserted without a trust fund to live on like Bruce Wayne. I would have to be the one to call my grandparents and tell them what had happened. I'd be an orphan, with a big Italian family. When we got to the bottom of the stairs I made my parents swear that we would never do that again. I was panting from both the exertion and the anxiety of the walk down. I was also anticipating the dreaded walk down 42nd Street with all its porn theatres and sex shops. Scary, ethnic-looking men standing outside calling to us, trying to get us to come in. In many ways, this was the scariest part of the trip that walk down 42nd Street. Because I wanted to know what went on in those stores. I wanted to go into those movie theatre and see what was taking place on the screens. I knew it was dirty and forbidden. And I wanted to be a witness.

This particular Friday in 2009, a New Yorker for some 16 years, I had parked the rental car on the roof of the Port Authority all by myself; waited for the elevator next to a nameless, faceless homeless person, grew tired of waiting for the elevator and took the stairs down. I was a big boy.

The Loved One called at 6:20 to say that he was in a cab and running late. The shady guy next to me left his rolling luggage by my side and went in search of a light for his Newport. He kept walking back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone and I knew he was waiting to ask me if I had one. He looked ghetto thug gay. I kept talking on the phone to no one after the Loved One hung up and waited for him to walk away.

The Loved One arrived and we went to the car. As we were celebrating his birthday, I let him be in charge of music and we happily listened to the new Decemberists cd for the first hour or so of the trip. The Loved One thinks the Decemberists should be the next group of musicians to write a Broadway musical. I'm not as familiar with their stuff as I should be. I tried to listen in the car but I sat in the passenger seat, tightly clutching the Google directions in my hands. I was filled with anxiety. What if we got lost? What if I misread the directions? What if we took a wrong turn? Well...what if, JV? You'd turn around, right? What if the whole weekend was a bust?

Once we were on the road for a little bit and, seemingly, in the right direction, I began to relax. I had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time. I had earned it. I didn't want to think about work or anything related to the city. My only thought about home was, I hope the daffodils in the garden don't bloom while we're away.

The Loved One got a text message when we were about half an hour from the city. It was from his boss. It said something like, 'Have fun. Don't think about work this weekend.' Well, the sentiment is nice but if you don't want him to think about work, boss, don't text him!

We drove and chatted. The Loved One always has so much to say about his job and what's going on with his company and funny little stories about the people he works with. I feel badly because I don't have the same kind of anecdotes to share about my day. I sit at my desk, in relative silence for eight hours. I write here. I work on the play I'm writing. Once in a while, the phone rings. Not for me. Once in a while the Producer and I will share a word or two about some gossip we've heard or a show we've seen. I'll desperately hit the refresh button on Google mail or check Facebook for a message; some sign that someone out there wants to communicate with me. I spend the work day in relative, painful isolation -- counting the hours until 6pm.

We drove into the sunset, the Loved One and I, thrilled that it was after 7 and still light out. We were blessed with open roads and as the scenery began to get more rural, I relaxed into my seat, one foot on the dashboard. Exactly an hour and a half later, we drove into Milford, PA. I breathed a deep sigh out. It was a beautiful town. We passed a lot of Victorian houses, many real estate offices, a great stone building filled with stores and there on our left the beautiful Hotel Fauchere. Grand and white with black shutters, it stood out in its renovated glory; a white beacon in the dark night. We parked our car and hurried in with our bags, hungry and eager to eat something and have a drink at the basement bar, Bar Louis. I could hear the bustle of people in there as we walked by and was relieved that it was busy. The parking lot was full and it seemed like the Delmonico restaurant was also crowded. I had been anxious (again) that we would be the only guests and, while I didn't want to particularly socialize with other guests, I wanted their presence.

We were greeted by a charming Italian woman named Marta. Blonde and robust she asked in that straightforward Italian way, "Which one of you is Mercanti?" That's me, I replied. "Italian?" she asked with the hint of an accent, her blue eyes peering at me questioningly over horn-rimmed glasses. I loved her already. "Yes. Well, Sicilian and Italian." There's a difference, all you non-Italian readers out there. "Hmm. I'm from Venezia. Venice." Ah. I'm Sicial and Abruzzese. "Do you speak Italian?" No. Sorry. This was rewarded with a disapproving glance. I wish I did.

Then with a flourish and a smile she asked, "Did you come from the city?" Yes, New York not Philadelphia. "I would LOVE to live in the city. The past month here was very hard. February. Dark and dreary." It was the same way in the city, I said. "I bet it wasn't," she replied. But it was. Dark and dreary and long. February is always the hardest month of the year.

While we wear having our conversation, the sounds of music and tinkling silverware drifted in from the dining room. The Loved One kept pointing to pieces of furniture in the lobby and mouthing "I want it" to me. I felt my shoulders drop about two inches from my ears. We had made the perfect choice. The Hotel Fauchere was perfect.

"Let me take you to your room," Marta said. We walked past the beautifully restored wooden staircase that led up to the second and third floors. I peered into the Delmonico, tea lights glistening on every table and a fresh cut tulip in a small vase on every table. We stopped at a small elevator that was obviously added when the hotel was renovated. We were whisked quickly up to the third floor. Marta led us to the room. The striped wallpaper, a soft brown and gold, was understated and classy. A beautifully painted landscape hung on the wall over a black lacquered table with a large glass embossed bowl on the bottom shelf. Marta opened the door to our room for the next two nights and wished us well. "Oh, I forgot. You are confirmed for your tour of the llama farm at 2:30 tomorrow. Is that alright?" That's wonderful, I said, my eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Come to the front desk and we will give you directions."

We said goodbye and took it in our surroundings.

The room was small but beautifully appointed. A queen-sized bed with two down comforters folded like sleeping bags lay across the top of the bed. Beautiful, new sconces hung on the wall. A small, antique desk stood in the corner. A large picture window looked down on to the garden. To the left was another window that looked on to the building next door. To the left was a small foyer with a closet, a mirrored wall and the entrance to the bathroom. The bathroom itself is a work of art. Cool, grey-veined marble covers the counter and the walls. The floor is heated from below to keep your feet warm in the cold winter months. The shower is enclosed by a glass door and there are two shower heads pointing down to wash your sins away. The bath towels are hung on heated pipes. This is luxury.

I'm STARVING, I said. Let's go down to Bar Louis.

We locked the door, hopped on the elevator and headed down to the bar. I had read the menu online and was craving the truffle fries I had read so much about. And the minute the elevator doors opened, I could smell them. My stomach grumbled. I needed truffle fries and red wine, as soon as possible.

The Loved One ordered a glass of his favorite, pinot noir. I had a glass of of a red I had never tried before called Mercurey. It was dry and fruity and delicious. For dinner, Loved One had fish and chips and I had a burger, medium rare, and on a whole wheat English muffin. The small piece of bread could barely contain the patty and its juices so I ate most of it with a fork and knife. While we ate, we watched those around us. Some, like us, we obvious guests of the hotel. A couple stood out particularly from being either from Long Island or New Jersey. Her high hair, gold jewelry and their shared apathetic expressions were a dead give away. They sat in front of the brick foundation wall which separated the front bar area from more tables in the back. Two local older guys came in and sat at a high top table, ordering beers. The photograph of Andy Warhol kissing John Lennon loomed over all of us.

Satiated and content, we headed back up to the room. We sank into bed after wrestling with the down comforters and trying to figure out why there were two of them and how to share them. We were both too full to eat the complimentary chocolate from next door's Patisserie Fauchere but it was just one more thing to look forward to in the morning.

I sank into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams.