Category Archives: Travel

Dealey Plaza, the site of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35^th President of the United States. If there was one place in Dallas that I wanted to see, other than Neiman Marcus, it was this. The warehouse from which Lee Harvey Oswald shot the President has been turned into The Sixth Floor Museum – a disturbing and somewhat morbid commemoration of the events that took the life of a young President.

My mother was fascinated by the Kennedys, and I was raised with an active interest in the history and story of JFK’s assassination. She had books on the subject, and even a bust of the President that should still be somewhere in their attic. Each November 22 we would go over the sad events, and as I walked through the museum it brought back a childhood of learning, and a fascination of what could never be fully explained.

The museum does an excellent job of presenting the historical background of the time period, and then an excruciating follow-through of the shooting and the various theories and evidence behind it. Questions still linger, doubts remain, and in the end all I was left with was a feeling of profound sadness for what can never be understood – the senseless end of a promising life. I think it was the image of Mrs. Kennedy in her pink suit, climbing over the back of the car, helpless and alone, that struck me the most.

Then there were the boxes ~ the storage boxes that Oswald hid behind while staking out his striking point from the 6^th floor window. They stood, piled high, disguising the small space of a murderer – and it was such a small space, such a small life, that still somehow managed to snuff out such a large one.

Afterward, in the cold, I walked across the street and took these photos of Dealey Plaza. Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes all is forlorn.

If you ask me where I’m most comfortable, chances are my answer will be at a hotel bar. If it doubles as the lobby, so much the better. The Joule in downtown Dallas has such a set-up, and while it was too early for a cocktail, I sat in close enough proximity to the bartender to have him smile and ask what I wanted. After a polite declination, I took out a book and read a little, raising my eyes to watch a few people check-in, and hotel employees welcome them to Dallas. Families and couples met in the lobby to start their day. Luggage and bags were taken by porters and whisked upwards once the elevator doors closed. Large bouquets of white peonies accented by white twigs made an incongruously spring-like winter wonderland, while a large industrial gear spun slowly in the center of the room.

Biding time until lunch, I unwrapped my scarves. The bartender polished some glasses as a few seats began to fill. This was the in-between time ~ the moment before and after some clearly demarcated event ~ whether that be lunch or a meeting or dinner or a play. Life is about the in-between times. We think it’s the opposite, but it’s not.

My in-between time was almost over, as my stomach called, and the cold demanded a bowl of pho. That night, an electrical fire would rage in front of the Joule, forcing the hotel to be evacuated. But I escaped before then, bundling back up before crossing the street to a Vietnamese restaurant.

The cold had deepened, and the brief walk sucked all the warmth out of me in minutes. The ice storm was in the air ~ gray and foreboding ~ and the damp chill drained any holiday cheer. Yet salvation was on the way, in a bowl of hot pho ~ a bowl of sustenance, a bowl of love, a bowl to warm from the inside out. It was the only way to get warm.

Everyone assumed I would hate Dallas. Apparently some Texans don’t take kindly to my kind. Yet I had a grand time – even in the midst of an ice storm that rendered the city completely shut-down. Originally, I planned the trip to coincide with the start of the kitchen renovation, but that was postponed, so I sort of went for nothing – ahh, sweet tragic irony of life. In truth, I’ve always wanted to visit Dallas, and I figured this would be a good time to head to a warmer clime. Another cosmic joke on me after the first day, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

On Wednesday, I arrived to blue skies and 75 degree sunny weather. It felt like heaven after the brutality of upstate New York. After traversing what seemed an endless expanse of rather tiresome and depressing highways and chains (hello Waffle House and Olive Garden, and a questionable billboard for a sexy lady lawyer named Coffey – “If you drink and drive at night, have Coffey in the morning”) the shuttle dropped me on the edge of downtown Dallas, which afforded a great view of the city skyline.

An impromptu dinner at Mesa Veracruz delivered some excellent guacamole and a sinfully scrumptious lobster enchilada. Coupled with a friendly waiter and a salt-rimmed margarita, it was an enchanting evening. Outside though, the temperature was dropping – quickly. Back in the hotel, a hot shower provided a coda to a relatively good travel day. The last good travel day, for a while…

It’s not necessarily the way it should be, but any visit to a different city is shaded indelibly by the hotel in which you are staying. Luckily for me, a recent stop in Washington, DC was shaded deliciously by the vibrant red of the Hotel Rouge. From the metal-studded leather entry doors to the sparkling red tile of the lobby, there’s nothing subtle about the Hotel Rouge, and it’s better that way. I needed every bit of funky style to offset the fact that I was in town for a baby shower.

Thanks to an early flight, I arrive a few hours before the listed check-in time, but the friendly and super-accommodating front desk finds a room already available. They also offer some helpful suggestions on where to find a bite to eat. When you fly in from another state, it’s always nice when a hotel has a room open. It’s even better when the service is genuinely gracious, and from beginning to end (as in most Kimpton properties) it’s the service that really puts the stay over-the-top.

Like the fabulous Lola says in ‘Kinky Boots’, “Red is the color of sex and fear and danger and signs that say, DO NOT ENTER. All my favorite things in life.” That sort of attitude defines the Hotel Rouge, even if the signs are saying quite the opposite. The tiger-print carpeting of the hallway leads to my room, where pixilated red walls and tufted red-leather headboards match the red bed-frames. The room itself is expansive, so even with its dramatically dark floors and accent walls it never feels closed in. Red velvet drapes are tied back in front of the windows, ready to be closed to keep out early morning sunlight, while a giant framed floor-to-ceiling mirror stands at a striking angle.

Of course, being the robe fetishist I am, my favorite part is seeking out the trademark animal print robes, and the Hotel Rouge offers one in leopard and one in zebra. Those quirky touches of the boutique hotels in the Kimpton line are what make travelers smile. It also keeps me coming back for me.

A nightly wine hour adds to the festive atmosphere, and the adjacent Bar Rouge offered night-time revelry and sophisticated ambience. For all the shiny bells and whistles, it remains the staff that is the highlight of a stay here, executing their jobs with panache and pleasure, taking obvious pride in their work and providing an enjoyable environment for anyone looking for a fashionable home away from home.

Happiness for me will always be a hotel room. It’s one of the few places I feel truly at ease. Maybe it’s the transitory nature of it, or the largely impersonal anonymity of the space. Maybe it’s the simple diversion from the everyday doldrums of the tried and true. Whatever the reasons, one of my happiest pleasures in life is walking into a hotel room for the first time, setting down my luggage, seeing a perfectly-made bed, and taking a moment to simply indulge in the pristine perfection of a room that has been cleaned and laid out solely for you – the next guest. (Yes, I now know the dark underside of most hotel rooms, but I don’t care. If you knew what went on in my bedroom, you’d be less traumatized too.)

This weekend, I’ll be ensconced at the Hotel Rouge, one of the Kimpton Hotels. They usually do a fine job of offering unique rooms, quirky style, and an impeccable staff. I’m actually not a fussy traveler, and unless a room is so God-awful it’s uninhabitable (which has only happened once – at the Hotel Chelsea, when they offered me a room that opened, literally, onto a back alley and the largest cockroach I’ve ever seen in my life frightened the porter who was showing me to the room) I’ve never asked for different lodging.

Washington has a great number of good hotels, starting with these two: the Mandarin Oriental and the Dupont Circle Hotel. The former is where I had my virgin spa experience, one which changed my life for the better. It also turned a nightmarish morning flight around, the very best gift a hotel can offer.

At any rate, I’m very much looking forward to this weekend at the Hotel Rouge. Red is, after all, one of my favorite colors.

After the wedding, we hopped back in Andy’s new car (after he had promptly dented the bumper after hitting the curb – TWICE in as many hours). If I’d made such a move I’d never hear the end of it, so I’m simply returning the favor. We headed back into Portland for another dinner in their fine dining scene. The heat-wave had broken, the sky was resplendent as the sun started to go down, and the town was in a gorgeous state.

Even the graffiti in Portland is an artistic work of color and faded glory.

We settled on an Italian restaurant, The Corner Room, where I settled for a trout ragu special with their homemade pasta. Andy played it safe and tried their Chicken Parmesan, which he claimed was one of the best he’d had in years. The meal left us full and contented – a perfect ending to a perfect wedding day.

Our time in Portland was coming to an all-too-soon close, but we vowed to return. It looks like the perfect place to spend a fall weekend.

Portland’s version of France.

For one of the first times in my life, I did not plan much for our stay in Portland. No restaurant reservations, no mapped-out plan of attack, no regimented schedule of activities. We went where the wind took us, stopping as we wished, and seeking out any place that had an open table. A friend had recommended the Armory Lounge at the Regency hotel as a place to find a classic cocktail, so that’s what we sought out as a starting point.

After sitting somewhat foolishly near the midst of what looked to be a growing wedding party, our server went out of her way and politely asked us if we wouldn’t prefer to move to a quieter area of the bar to be more comfortable and able to talk. She showed us to a table for two out of the way of raging bridesmaids and took our order. Given the heat of the day, I wondered if a mint julep would be the best way to cool down. I asked the server if the bartender was decent, and she gave me her assurance.

It arrived with the whiff of a refreshing mint breeze, more beautiful than the poor lighting of this photo could ever convey. Andy settled in with his traditional gin and tonic, and we enjoyed the first moments of our vacation.

We asked the server for some local recommendations on dinner places, and she came back with a list of possibilities. We walked around a bit, perusing a few stores along the way,and watching the moon hang in the early evening sky. Shop windows glowed from within, and reflected light from outside – that slightly-surreal switch that happens when day turns to night.

The Grill Room had a short wait, so we sidled up to the bar and I asked the bartender to make something with a grapefruit slant. When on vacation, I prefer to leave the libations up to the recommendations of others, and he did not disappoint, conjuring this variation on the Last Word – and I didn’t even have to request it.

The wisdom of selecting a restaurant with an open grill on one of the hotter days of the year is questionable at best (and to be honest, there clearly wasn’t much wisdom in it at all), but the food was amazing, and a glass of white wine closed off a perfect evening in Portland. (I have judiciously left off the ice cream photos, lest you think me ruinously gluttonous.)

We began our Maine adventure in Portland. As had been foretold by friends, Portland is a place for foodies, with ample restaurants and award-winning chefs on every quaint cobblestone-street. It’s also a port town rife with the charm of the coast, the tranquil proximity to the sea, and a host of charming shops. Despite the sweltering heat (we arrived at the tail-end of that heat-wave), we rallied forth and took a sweaty turn around the area.

Great Food. Good Fun. All at Andy’s. (Cool inside.)

Portland enchanted and enthralled us, beckoning with its welcoming establishments and uncommonly-friendly people, bathed in glorious afternoon light. Sun-drenched brick always looks striking against sky and sea.

Like many New England towns, this one is gorgeously imbued with years of history, and a few cobblestone streets remain charmingly intact.

But more important than history, at least to my hungry stomach, was the food scene… coming up next.

The best way I’ve found to beat the traffic heading to Cape Cod is simply to depart very early in the day, preferably from a place close by, such as Boston. To that end, I spent Friday night in my favorite city, laying low so as to avoid any FaceBook revelations regarding my location (to insure this surprise). I departed Boston by 7 AM, and I thought I was in the clear. It flowed pretty smoothly until we reached the Sagamore Bridge, where it was already lined up, down to a single lane thanks to some flooding, but the early hour made it less than what must have followed.

While waiting for JoAnn to get up and get ready, I stopped at the Beach Plum Bakery, because a place that advertises fresh muffin tops is speaking my language. I opted for the banana walnut, and a cup of green tea. The talk of the cafe was the storm from the night before. It came through at 5 AM, someone said, woke all the households, shook windows and rattled doors, finishing with a deluge that resulted in such flooding. This wild tempest was an unlikely beacon for my arrival, but after a few hours of rain, the sun came out and the rest of the weekend was stellar.

There’s something about being close to the sea that sets the mind at ease. Now that my friend JoAnn has returned to Monument Beach, I’m hoping to get down to the Cape more often, but maybe not until fall. For now, this Mo has left Mo Beach. Next sandy destination is Ogunquit… in a few weeks.

I have a confession to make: I love my stalkers. The mere fact that there are a few people who stalk me on FaceBook or Twitter or Instagram (oh baby, follow me on Instagram…) tickles me to no end. It’s probably because there are so few of them, but also because it’s nice to be heard. More often than not I’m surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about me one way or another. That’s usually okay, it keeps me on my toes and allows for the insanity you find here. [Dramatic bow.] But it’s refreshing to hear that there are people who actually appreciate the work I put into this. So for any stalkers out there, it’s a mutual admiration thing.

Such was the case when I met this lovely lady – Traci – my new bestie. The sister of my friend Laurie (one of the Cape Crew), she had been corresponding with me on FaceBook and was a self-professed stalker. To surprise her, I sent a bunch of pictures and promotional material to her home in Florida, and her sister was there to see her enthustiastic reception. When she’s been in New England, I always tried to get down to the Cape to meet up with her, but it never worked out. This time around, with the help of Laurie and JoAnn, we planned ahead, and I made it down for a surprise weekend at the Cape.

I’ve actually met a few “stalkers” from FaceBook and Twitter, and my first worry is not that they’re going to kill or kidnap me, but that I’ll prove a disastrous disappointment. Despite the way I carry myself, I’m not all that great, and the fact that some people want to meet me is always an unexpected surprise. When they turn out to be as fun and cool as Traci though, it sets everything at ease. We spent a lovely afternoon and evening on the Cape ~ lunching at the Chart House, cocktailing at Hemisphere and the Lobster Trap, and finishing up at the Courtyard. In all, it was a fantastic time, and I feel like I just met an old friend.