Scanning through the paper on a Sat morning, Mom sees that Bobby Short is in town and playing his home away from home – the Café Carlyle.  She insists we go.  Says I MUST see him.  And as my mom is known to do – and I can speak from experience having seen her do this around the world – she picks up the phone.  The next thing I know, we’ve not only got tickets to the late show.  He’s expecting us.

Context – for those of you who don’t know Bobby Short – do you remember the “Charlie” perfume commercials back in the 70s with Shelley Hack?  “And they call her…Chawlie”.  That divine piano player who was so cool and elegant and sang those famous words with that drippingly elegant – DRIPPINGLY ELEGANT accent?  That’s Bobby Short.  Beyond chic.  Beyond talented.  Iconic.  A legend.  Look him up. You’ll see.

The Café Carlyle was home to Bobby Short, who performed to sell-out crowds, for 36 years.  His show was absolutely de rigeur. (Of course, we’re talking about the Carlyle Hotel on Madison & 77th – a sophisticated and elegant hotel where the most distinguished of the social strata stayed in relative peace and discretion.)  The Café Carlyle has a history as a chic, understated boite, a defining jazz venue on the upper east side.  We’re talking sublimely, eminently chic – understated chic.  Marcel Vertès murals and Fortuny silk curtains.  And gorgeous gorgeous banquettes.  Small table lamps.  White table cloths.  Dark and atmospheric.  Atmosphere for days.

I was not up to speed on Bobby Short on that fateful evening, which I regret.  I was not enlightened to the power or the history of the Café, nor did I have any idea how compelling – how amazing – how intoxicating Bobby Short’s performance could be.  I felt like a little girl wearing her mother’s high heels.  It was very grown-up, sophisticated and powerful.

We sat at a table for two up front, of course, ordered dirty – dirty martinis and sucked in the atmosphere.  I was in sense overload.  And then he came on stage, and my world changed. It was intimate – like visiting someone’s fabulous salon.  He spoke fondly of his home in Paris and his BFFs – Liza, Betty Bacal, Jackie.   And then he sat at his piano and began to play.

And we listened.  And we absorbed.  And forgot about anything else in the world.  We were consumed. I was consumed.  With his performance.  His persona.  With the air and the history of the Café.  With the magnitude of that single moment in time, shared with my mom.   I remember being so caught in it that I felt as though I was looking at myself from a distance.  This is what it means to be fully plugged in.  Total, full-on sensoral connection.  PS – this is classic life with Patty.  My mom has never failed to deliver these moments.  Truly.

Just as Bobby Short starts the first sexy, jazzy notes of Duke Ellington’s The Black and Tan Fantasy (I have NEVER forgotten this), I looked around the room.  All these incredibly elegant, slim, immaculate,  impossibly chic, and possibly uptight women that had entered earlier were entirely different characters now.  With each note of this provocative, hypnotic beat, I watched with awe and such joy as their shoulders dramatically, sensuously rose and fell in time to the beat – boom boom ba boom – they were lost – they were in it.  Their posture was straight.  Lipstick perfection.  Yet their shoulders gave them away.   It stopped me in my tracks.  It was fascinating. It spoke to the power of transformation – how music can scoop you up and turn you inside out so you wouldn’t recognize yourself.

After the show, Mr Short (he was now Mr Short to me, so in awe was I)  joined us for a drink.  As I listened to my mom and this ICON chat on and on, laughing and enjoying each other, it was so clear, so clear, that this was a defining moment in my life.  No question.  I have never forgotten the image of those women and their shoulders.  Never.

Flash forward 10 years.  I was in New York on business with my beloved colleague, guru and BFF Georgia.  As I thumbed through the Saturday morning paper, I saw that  Bobby Short was playing the Cafe Carlyle.  My turn to indoctrinate.  There was no way that I wasn’t going to take the opportunity to share this rite of passage with Georgia, cost be damned.   And so that night, off we went.  For me, it was the natural order of things – it was my turn to pass along this experience.  And it was sublime.  Sublime.  Of course, we stayed after the show so I could extend my mom’s regards to Mr Short, who looked fabulous and was so gracious and elegant.  We said our goodbyes and as we headed back to our hotel that evening, I knew what a gift I had received in this experience that I had shared with my mom, and then with my dear friend.

Mr Short must have been thinking of me tonight to have raised all these wonderful memories.

Today USA Today weighed in on the commercialism that has become Eat Pray Love. I have decided a more fitting name for the book is Eat Pray Love Buy, which I think, you have to admit Liz, is better than Eat Pray Love Die.

‘Eat Pray Love’ is already at a store near you – USATODAY.com.

Luca Spaghetti! I know you’re giddy with all the excitement, and the potential sales through HSN (need a little help, Lizard, as to the connection with HSN other than to go mass market) but it’s time to attraversiamo, head home and focus on the sequel.  No tie-ins, please!

Your slightly less devoted (but still devoted) devotée…

LMF

Author of the soon to be released Drink Write Swear

Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz.

HOW could you?  How COULD you?  How could YOU?  Of ALL people?

I am sending you this letter my dearest Lizzie, to tell you that at least one of your devotées – one of your most devoted of devotées, has fallen off the Eat Pray Love bandwagon as a result of your shameless decision to go blockbuster with Eat Pray Love.  What was that enormous thud?  Just my soul crashing to the earth.  Not to worry.  What’s one soul when millions will be boarding the bandwagon next month to drink the EPL kool-aid?  No my dearest Liz, you won’t even know I’m gone.

Like many, I was given Eat, Pray, Love by one of my dearest friends, a testament to the daisy chain of women – to the connection we have and the primal, unselfish desire to provide information to each other that WILL MAKE OUR LIVES BETTER.  That was in 2007.  For me, as for many, the book illuminated things in a way I’d never experienced.  The notions of spiritual and human enlightenment gave me much to consider.  And it showed me that one can wear Prada and meditate!  Given the duality that is my life, that was an absolutely stunning realization for me.  The fact that all my character traits, as contradictory as they may be, can co-habitate quite happily in the studio apartment of my head was a huge breakthrough.  (They all say hello, by the way).

Like many people I know, I finished the book and simply started it all over again.  Avec highlighter.  I then bought 11 copies of the book and sent them to my best and brightest friends around the world – recruiting for the Liz Nation.  I sent copies to Australia.  One to Italy.  I even sent a couple of copies to my more enlightened male friends (who not surprisingly, liked the “Eat” part best.)  I have given the book to new friends that haven’t yet been enlightened, and I have given it to the daughters (mini-Lizzies) of some of my dearest friends as an Essential Guide for navigating through life.

It all went pear-shaped for me when I learned about the casting of the film.

Suffice to say that even a woman such as myself, with one incredibly overworked, exhausted and most likely, saggy, braincell left in her head, can work out why Julia Roberts was cast in the lead.  My dog could work it out (but she is very bright, so possibly not a good example).  But for this EG devotée, in that one casting decision, the intimacy of the story, the connection to the piece – my trust in your intentions, my beloved Lizzy – all went up in smoke.   For me, the message – the what – would now be diluted by the the star – the who.   (No offense intended to Julia Roberts, though possibly the smallest tinge of resentment for her not choosing to recognize that the sheer magnitude of her star could not help but dull the small but true light of the piece.  Shame on you, Julia.)

And EG, you didn’t just go Hollywood on us, you went Blockbuster Hollywood on us – a horse of an entirely different color!   And consequently, you blew an opportunity to maintain the vulnerability and honesty of your story through the choice of an appropriate medium in which to tell it.  An opportunity to get us to believe the experiences as they were happening to you.   Instead of keeping it small and intimate with a cast that doesn’t make 20 million a picture (tough to believe them in the role or relate to, I must be honest), you went with the greatest number of screens upon which to share your experience.  Instead of saying to us, “This was painful and it was joyful and let me take you through my process and together, we’ll see if it resonates on any level for you”, you went with more of a, “Isn’t it so fabulous where I am now?  Look how I came out the other side!  It all seems sooo long ago – I can hardly remember it anymore.  Oh – Julia’s on the phone?  Tell her I’ll call her back later.”  Somehow, in these decisions, it feels more about the arrival and less about the journey.

And Lizard – its not like there isn’t a well-established history of small, independent films doing spectacularly well at the box office, receiving world-wide critical acclaim, and oh yeah, all while staying true to the message and the truth of a story.  Just saying.

And then all the product tie-ins started to kick-in.  Now, Eat Pray Love is the adult version of a McDonalds Happy Meal that comes with a “Toy Story” action figure.  I can see the Eat, Pray Love McDonalds happy meal – a salad with mozzarella and couscous, and a string of genuine Eat Pray Love meditation beads – collect all three styles!  Even the LA Times commented on the Eat Pray Love Juggernaut of tie-ins,

“By the time the movie opens in August, you will be able to get “Eat, Pray, Love” furnishings from Cost Plus; shop the “Eat, Pray, Love” way with the Home Shopping Network, get “Eat, Pray, Love” jewelry from Dogeared, spray “Eat, Pray, Love” eau de parfum from Fresh, wear organic “Eat, Pray, Love” T-shirts from Signorelli, and drink “Eat, Pray, Love” tea.  You’ll be able to find glamorous “Eat, Pray, Love”-themed dresses by Sue Wong, and STA Travel will soon be offering their version of the “Eat, Pray, Love” experience: you can just Eat (in Italy), just Pray (in India), just Love (in Bali) or do all three.”

My favorite was a comment from Travel Hum in which another slightly jaded blogger was holding out for the official Eat Pray Love Yoga Mat and DIY Ashram Home Decorating Kit.  Sounds good to me.

Oh Lizzie Liz Liz, I know business is business.  And I know it gets tricky when you’re making copious sums of moolah from a personal journey of enlightenment.  Those lines can be sooo blurry sometimes.  And I know the studio is calling all the shots, but Liz, my darling Lizzy, you gave them the power to do so.  And I guess, at the end of the day, I just wish you hadn’t.  I wish you had kept it simple, had trusted the power of the experience to be the driving message.  And I wish you had trusted that your daisy chain of supporters – of women empowering other women with your singularly spectacular message of belief, would be enough of a legacy.

Well, I’m done lecturing, darling Elizabeth.  I have just enough time to hit the Neimans shoe department before my meditation class starts. Give my best to Julia – tell her no hard feelings.  I’ll look forward to seeing you on an astral plane very soon.

Namaste,

LMF

Look for MY book coming out soon – Drink Write  Swear.  I’m still working on the jacket cover artwork – but every time I finish, I manage to spill a glass of wine on it.  Damnit!!

You may wonder, “what inspired her great passion for the dance?”  My unhesitating response – Cotillion.  Eight long, L-O-N-G nerve-wracking years of monthly Cotillion classes at the Riviera Country Club, just as my brothers and sister had done before me.  My short white gloves and my pressed Florence Eisman dress served as an immaculate if ironic exterior to my anxiety-riddled pre-adolescent psyche that was destined to be damaged from the emotional shrapnel taken on from these 8 years of compromised ego.  I knew this even then.  A girl knows these things.

The Promenade

Authors Note: For those lucky individuals that were not dragged kicking and screaming to monthly Cotillion classes, these are the dance equivalent of finishing school, ostensibly to teach children of genteel upbringing the de rigeur social graces and requisite Samba, Fox Trot, Box Step and my personal fave, the “Rock Step” they will need to navigate through their privileged lives.

These experiences will be forever etched in my memory in a creepy/fearful/yet fabulous sort of way.  Our Cotillion teacher, Mrs Unander, was slim and elegant, but most importantly, she wore CLEAR PUMPS!  I had never seen such a thing – I was fascinated.  I had entered into the realm of the truly, deeply chic (this was before clear pumps were associated with strippers, of course).  She, and her back-up orchestra led by – wait for it – Commander Unander (say it a couple of times to get the feel and sound – COMMANDER YOUNANDER) – a-one and a-two’d (literally) me through my formative years.

The mortification of the whole experience was enough to do irreparable damage.  First there was the getting dressed part, and…those gloves!  Then the ritualistic hair styling, done by my mom, whose freakishly strong hands ran roughshod over my head, carving a part as deep and craggy as the Grand Canyon and yanking my hair into a baretted side part concoction, finishing it up with a flourish of dippity do.  The next hurdle is the journey, or more accurately, the arrival, and those last few moments snug in the safety of our no-safety-belt station wagon, wondering how I could make a run for it, and then the slow realization – no – pleeeeeease no – that my mom is going to actually come in with me.  Too much!

Once there, we (the humiliated) file into the beautiful cream marble ballroom which I imagined must be a direct copy of Versailles.  Girls to the right side; boys to the left.  The girls anxiously sit on chairs, which run single file along the length of the walls, like fifty girls awaiting execution from a pre-pubescent firing squad.

Enter our dance teacher, Mrs Unander, who steps onto the cream, carpeted stage, with her impeccable coif,  St John suit and clear plastic pumps (those SHOES!!)  With the orchestra (I mean orchestra!  Please – we’re like 10!!) behind her, she grabs her microphone and summons us all to nervous attention, along the lines of Frau Farbissna’s famous screech “Fire the Laser” given the inevitable shrill feedback from the microphone, which frankly, became a metaphor for the whole experience.

She instructs us to stand, and boys to choose their first dance partner, at which point they cross the dance floor, not looking supremely confident, to the waiting girls who, like me, have willed themselves, literally willed themselves, to a happy place far far away.  (My happy place had Snickers Bars, Peanut M&Ms and Movie Magazines).  This ritualistic process of waiting to be selected by a boy is about as angst-ridden and scary as it can get for a girl.  I still wake up in a cold sweat!

Once the god-awful selection process was undertaken, Mrs Unander, with her pointy shoes tap-tap-tapping out the steps, occasionally shooting dirty looks at Commander Unander (considered by us to be significantly older than his bride), would direct into her microphone,  “Promenade people, promenade”, at which point, with our partners, we would walk the circle of the entire room.  I suppose it was her version of a warm up lap, but it did ease the tension as we began to recognize ourselves in the other trapped deer promenading around the room, caught in the Versailles-like headlight of Cotillion.

Truthfully, the getting there and settling in was probably the hardest part of the experience.  Once the nerves started to calm and we realized that yet again, we had all been duped – conned into participating in this ritualistic exercise of which the soul benefit was to make our parents feel they were extending their birthright to us, their dance-impaired progeny, the playing field, um ball room floor, was immediately leveled, and it became us against them (the Unanders and our parents).

I went through this experience every month for eight years, which I find truly remarkable given I only remember a few of the dances.  Clearly a result of the trauma!  And diminished brain cells from all that hair styling by my mom.  Of all of the dances, I remember the “Hitch hike” best – “…walk…walk…walk…hitch-hike”, the ridiculousness of it makes it hard to forget, I imagine.  And seeing Mrs Unander do it, get all raw and street with it, well – its an image that will stay with me for the rest of my life.  I actually performed the infamous “Hitch Hike” while dancing with my kids on vacation recently, despite their mortified expressions and emphatic declarations that I was bringing shame onto the family.  But for me, Cotillion will be forever associated with the Fox Trot, my personal fave (side-touch, side-touch, back step), although I like to refer to it as my “signature” step.  Keith Small and I won a trophy one year for Best Fox Trot.  I have never been more proud yet so profoundly disturbed at the same time. 

Now, when one of those dancing shows comes on TV, I head downstairs to my office, fish out that trophy, and casually place it on the coffee table in front of my kids.  Just to remind them that their mom could have been the Britney Spears of her time.  Well, almost.  Of course, now we use the trophy to hold the bets we make every Monday night when my girlfriends come over, drink wine, watch the Bachelorette in guilty shame, and vote on which poor bugger is going to get tossed out that week.  Good clean, healthy fun and turns out, an excellent re-purposing of the trophy.

Chapter 2 in which the author (me) seriously ponders whether she is genetically flawed, evidencing what she has suspected for years, that she is a direct descendant of the Lazy tribe (of the Brentwood and Newport Lazys) and the I Don’t Seem to Give a Shit tribe (of the Bal Harbor and Pacific Palisades I Don’t Seem to Give a Shits).

Just finished reading J. Maarten Troost’s “The Sex Lives of Cannibals – Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific”, a handy compendium for those visiting the remote – we’re talking R-E-M-O-T-E island of Kiribati in the South Pacific.  In truth, I have had this book on my bedside table for some time, but seemed to have difficulty getting over the dark bitterness of envy that crept into my soul every time I attempted to open the cover.  I had convinced myself that since his style of prose and slightly skewed approach to the world was heady, colorful and informative…even zany (!), that there was certainly no room for another one of this travel writing breed, particularly a paler shade of one.  So why put myself through the humiliation of reading this?

At some stage, I decided I needed to simply accept the loss of what might have been, as I see it, a stunning and powerfully-influencing career in travel writing (hey, it’s plausible), or possibly the curiosity got the best of me.  I had to see why this guy was copying my style, perfecting my approach and otherwise, living the life that was supposed to be my career.

And because irony is never fun unless it rips you to the core, I loved this book.  Loved his humor and tale spinning.  I mean, how can you not love a book that begins with…

Disclaimer

“This book recounts the experiences of the author while he lived in Kiribati.  A few names have been changed, either because the author, who is very bad with names, couldnt remember what they were, or to protect their privacy.  Also, since we’re disclaiming here, the author wishes to acknowledge that in a few incidents recounted herein, he has played a little fast and loose with the space-time continuum.  He has done this for you, the reader.”

I am looking forward to reading the next of Troost’s magnum opus(es?) – “Getting Stoned with Savages”, and am proactively seeking therapy for the lack in confidence and complete shattering of my spirit that reading this book will no doubt, bring on in volumes.

INSPIRE.  ACT.  IMPRINT CHANGE ON THE WORLD.

Mandela Day (July 18)  is a global call to action for people to recognize their individual power to make an imprint. The hope is to inspire people from every corner of the earth to embrace the values of Nelson Mandela as they seek to improve their lives through service to their communities.

The Mandela Day campaign message is simple: Nelson Mandela has given 67 years of his life fighting for the rights of humanity. The challenge is for everyone to give 67 minutes of their time, whether it’s supporting a chosen charity or serving the  local community.

My family sat down this morning (which is pro-active for our family) to think of what we could do today to commemorate Mandela Day.  Cooper has volunteered to wash the cars of some of the older folks in our neighborhood.

We also decided to sacrifice air-conditioning today.  In the 100+ degree temperatures, its hot as hell here, and you can’t help but feel it.  Its also hard not to notice the persistent drone of air-conditioners all around us, creating a massive drain on a seriously-overloaded energy grid.  In our house, we will forgo this precious commodity and sweat it out, which seems fitting when thinking about Mandela sweating it out on Robben Island as prisoner #46664.

What are you going to do in the spirit of Nelson Mandela?
Visit Mandela Day for more information.

Katie Melua - "A Happy Place"

Love love love Katie Melua.  Her new album, “The House” is interesting and hypnotic, anchored by the first release, “The Flood” (see earlier post).  Subtle shades of electronica beneath flowing, melodic, artfully structured and sweetly sung songs.  The result is unusual and moody.

“A Happy Place” is industrial-chic and beautifully shot in what seems to be a vast studio with an army of androgynous, pale-faced dancers caught in the monotony of a cheerless, factory-based, Orwellian-tinted existence.  The beat is syncopated and catchy and the vocals clear and divine.

Bottom of the Board - Buddha Face

Having a wonderful time in Sayulita?  Check.  Trying to figure out a way to get back sooner than later?  Check.  But how will I make this happen? Hmmmm.

I’ve got it!!  I’ll arrange to have a custom surfboard made for Cooper!  That’s PERFECT!  Not only will it be useful (I am already envisioning all the myriad of things that we can do with the board – coffee table, shelf, hood ornament for Stuart’s ungodly big car), but it will be ready in...a month! Awesome! My surfing muscle memory may still be in tact and it gives me time to work on my abysmal Salsa (don’t get me started on this one)!

Enter Rogelio Ramos – surfboard maker extraordinaire.

Rogelio - surfboard designer extraordinaire

We were introduced to Rogelio by Nando, our beloved surf instructor, adopted son and all around outstanding young man, who unselfishly, without any questions or retort, spends hours and hours each and every day with Coop, shooting the breeze, hanging out, looking for the perfect break and deflecting hard core locals from shredding my poor son as they jump onto a 5-footer.  Coop shadows Nando like a groupie, and to his eminent credit, Nando is such a good kid, that he is happy to put up with it.  He is a local treasure bordering on iconic in status, and likely accounts for a significant portion of Sayulita tourist dollars.  But I digress.

As we walked up the dusty street – barefoot – to Rogelio’s studio one bright day last month, we weren’t exactly sure what to expect.  What we found was a serious and dedicated artist.  His understanding of surfing and knowledge in crafting a board to meet specific capabilities, to enhance and indeed, improve your surfing ability, was obvious.  As I inhaled the toxic fumes of fiberglass and airbrush ink, I knew this guy had the goods.

Nando, taking the big brother lead, discussed Coop’s surfing ability with Rogelio, his style and preferences.  Coop input enthusiastically, eliciting more thoughtful conversation.  Jesus, you would have thought they were solving the climate crisis, with such seriousness did they undertake this interview.  I watched with interest and pride and just the slightest notion of yet again, being the oldest person in the group by two decades.  Feeling confident that Rogelio was up to the task and that Coop would be able to provide the artwork via email, I counted out the 50% deposit, and set my sail on how I was going to essplain this to Ricky. I mean Stuart.

Coop & Nando Debating & Discussing

Arriving at Rogelio's Studio

Fast forward – Rogelio finished the final artwork of the board yesterday and it is truly a work of art (even Rogelio thinks so).  The experience – which could have been iffy – was anything but.  Communication was a breeze, which I take full credit for as I carefully and painstakingly translated all my emails into espanol, a task I took enormously seriously for fear I might accidentally mistake a word for another, like buddah and, well, doodah (clearly, a common example) and end up with a completely different design.  Again, another case of perception vs reality as each laborious, painstakingly exacting email I crafted in Spanish to Rogelio was met with an equally accurate English response, using actual contemporary jargon versus my high-school antiquated and hokey nonsense, giving me every reason to believe Coop when he said, “mom, he speaks English really well.”  Aye, Dios mio!!

Most importantly though, Cooper is thrilled.  The board is completely custom, down to Coop’s specific artwork choices, sort of a poo-poo platter of Hindi, Buddhist and traditional Kaizen symbols, initials, and a personal message from the artist.  In 72 hours, its a safe bet that Coop will be tearing up the Sayulita surf on his new board, with Nando politely running interference.  With any luck, I’ll be right alongside, patiently designing My custom board to pick up in August!

Author’s note – while this strategy ultimately worked for me, I would not necessarily recommend this ruse to everyone.  Thankfully, I have a husband who, for reasons that I cannot fathom and test constantly, simply wants to make me happy.  As confounding as this is, he quickly got on board (sorry!) with the plan, and is looking forward to riding his new investment this weekend.  And of course, when I say riding his investment, I am referring to the surfboard (get your mind out of the gutter).

Artist's Message

Top of Board

Another View of Bottom

Forward step step. Back step step.

Oh yeah, that would be me.  Dancing in a carved out space in the living room, between the dog bed and the TV, music blaring, windows wide open, and trying desperately to keep up with the pros salsa-ing on “So You Think You Can Dance?”  Short answer?  No, I have no illusions that I can dance.  But I can shimmie.  And the dogs seem to like it.

This is all in preparation for the trip back down to Sayulita next week, and Monday night Salsa Night at Don Pedros. Let…Me…Tell…You…they take their Salsa seriously on Monday nights.  We’re talking full orchestra and hot Latin dancers – male and female – forward step – stepping – backward step-stepping around the dance floor, helping those of us tap into our inner Shakira.

Hopped up on margaritas and an appetizer of self-delusion (a frequent party pairing), I really believed I WAS Shakira, for the slightest, briefest moment.  I mean,  I…Was…All…That (Envision me snapping my fingers when I say each word) AND a bag of chips.  I was just waiting for one of the teachers to tap me on the shoulder and effuse about my natural gift of rhythm and musicality.   I figured they’d make a big fuss, and appoint me deputy salsa-er, or something like that.  I was zigging all the right ways, tapping out the beats, working the arms, working the hips.  I felt MAHVELOUS!  I was on FUEGA!   In fact, I was a little embarrassed for my pal Myrtle, who has actually been taking Salsa lessons with her husband for years.  Poor Myrt.  She just wasn’t born with the raw talent I was.  Better forward step step over to the other side of the dance floor so as not to get her upset with my primal ability.  Ahhh, what a lovely night.  Sweatin’ with the oldies!

Fast forward to this evening.  I’m salsaing in my living room with my homies (well,  my dogs) – Elsa – who barely raises her head to see what is shaking all the furniture, and then when she does, a small poop comes out of her increasingly-incontinent large body (poor Elsa!); Indi, who is nervous to begin with, is growing increasingly more so as I make spastic movements that remind her, no doubt, of the 8 weeks she spent in the Puppy mill before we rescued her.  Horatio, ever the gentleman, just like Cary Grant or Fred Astaire, maintains a discreet snore, instinctively knowing that this woman will not want anyone with 2 or 4 legs to bear witness to her over confident, yet clearly possessed and misunderstood take on this dance.

Teaching Andrew and Myrtle the ever-popular and often-copied "Hitch Hike" move learned in cotillion when I was 9.

I confirm he’s right as I work my best salsa turns towards the dining room, where the large (and confrontational) mirror rests on the wall.  I instantly see the truth.  The footwork is fine, it’s true.  But my arms look like a cross between a doped-up hippie at a Grateful Dead concert and a vaudeville act – bendy and cliché, like I should be doing a tap dance in a red & white striped blazer.  And Birkenstocks.  Needless to say, not the look I had envisioned.

And the best news of all???  You can take it to the bank that the people who witnessed my, um, personal interpretation of Salsa that Monday night at Don Pedros will be there next Monday night, when I do my encore performance.  This time however, I’ll have a secret weapon.  This time Stuart will be with me.  His salsa is an even more unique interpretation than mine (one could actually call it a wrong or completely misguided take), which combines the  deep knee bend, legs together twist move (think 1980s new wave lead singer) accompanied by both arms bent at the elbows, which never leave the sides of his chest.  Ever.  This is punctuated with the occasional shimmie bend forward and shimmie bend backward.  You guessed it – no visible clues to identify this movement as having anything whatsoever to do with the Salsa.  He is my ace in the hole.

Needless to say, I have emailed Myrtle to come over and teach me the basics.  Or at least figure out a way to strap my arms down.  Either way will be a vast improvement from tonight.

Lately I have been thinking about journeys I want to take, and trying to work them around a theme..song.  There’s something about the idea of a trip to India covering all the basic “must see” elements that leaves me flatter than Naan.  Don’t get me wrong, I know it would be a mind bending and utterly fabulous adventure, but these days, I’m wanting that theme song – a link that brings a story alive, a splash of history, a greater emotional connection to my travel choices. India seen through the eyes of Rudyard Kipling would be something altogether different.  It conjures up images of Riki Tiki Tavi.  Of louvered doors and overgrown gardens with pebble paths and, mongooese (mongeese?) and of course, ssssssssnakes.

A journey I took to Scotland nearly 17 years ago was based on a theme.   Why Scotland?  Great country.  Lovely people.  Verdant landscape, but ohmygod cold.  Cold, cold horrifyingly cold.  But the real reason we were there – in the Highlands outside of Inverness to be exact, was Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander” series of novels, which I loved and which inspired my fascination (obsession) with all things Scot, particularly with the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden of 1746 – the battle which ultimately did away with the clans.  No kidding, I must have spent 8 hours combing the stark (and soo cold) moor which was the Culloden battlefield, trying to imagine what it must have been like as the Jacobites were completely outflanked, and willing each of my senses to be as present as they could, to grab every sensoral cue to bring me closer to this tragic period.  Consequently for me, Scotland isn’t about Nessie, St. Andrews or even haggis.  Its about the Highlands and the clans.

Another journey had me and my husband Stuart, and son Coop, in East Africa.  My take was slightly different than the set itinerary. You see, East Africa, to me, is all about the early 1900s, when colonialism was establishing a strong toe-hold, when the idea of a posting in Kenya was like being sent to the last frontier – where the air was hot, yet soft and scented with frangipani and the roar of a lion in the middle of the night is as commonplace as a car alarm in a big city.  Where women were strong and could handle a shotgun with agility and singular focus.  I would have given anything to have lived during the time of “Out of Africa”, with Karen von Blixen and Berkelely Cole and Lord Delamere (and possibly John Barry’s music as my theme score).  Of Beryl Markham and of course, Denys Finch-Hatten.  I would happily go back to Africa to recreate some of the times, visit her farm in Karen, outside of Nairobi, “at the base of the Ngong hills”, camps, buildings (Like Lake Elementaita, where Berkeley Cole called home for quite awhile), right across a lake of pink flamingos from Lord Delamere’s enormous estate, which is still there.  If someone said let’s go to Kenya, stay at the Norfolk in Nairobi, visit Karen and take a safari on horseback or foot, in the classic manner, with the white canvas tents and period music, I WOULD BE THERE TOMORROW.

What are some other destinations that lend themselves to themes beyond what is expected?  Because those are the kinds of journeys that I’m interested in.  I invite your thoughts and ideas.