Stu and me taking it in stride

Saturday, August 20 @ Zuma Beach

1 mile swim (3 circuits around the buoys)
25 mile bike ride
3 mile run

The critic slumming at the Bulgari Resort

One day while in Bali, I had the occasion to visit three seriously chic, high-end resorts with my friend Kristin, a young Australian architect who happens to design resorts. Kristin’s mission was to take in the details – the aesthetic cues – the trends – the blend with the environment.  The lines.  The flow.  Essentially, to discern what makes these places so fabulous from a form & functionality standpoint.

Me – well, I have a slightly different set of criteria when evaluating a place where I may hang my (sun) hat.  It’s no secret I’m into ramshackle chic, which in my vernacular, refers to an effortless, slightly haphazard balance of comfort and coolness; an eclectic yet approachable style that doesn’t take itself too seriously.  So. I’m going to look at the vibe.  The style.  The price (and value).  The other guests.  The pool.  The bar.  The view.  And the precious factor – how serious does the resort (and worse, the guests) take itself.  Ultimately for me, its about how I feel here. Would I want to stay here?  Would I want to be friends with anyone who stayed here?

And so we set out that beautiful Thursday morning with our driver, Eddie, to see some seriously-chic resort cribs.  We started with Alila Villas in Uluwatu, then hit Bulgari Hotels & Resort and finished up with the classic, Amanusa

Alila Villas – Uluwatu

The Bird's Nest - The Clifftop Bar at Alila Villas

Inside the Bird's Nest

Listed on Conde Nast’s 2010 Hot list, the 4-1-1 on Alila Villas Uluwatu reads like this,”If any further proof were needed that Bali is back on track as a destination with cool hotels, then Alila Villas Uluwatu is it.”

The Alila is all about clean lines.  It is uber modern.  A classic case of form meets function.  Cement meets wood.  Reclaimed wood, FYI.  (The Alila group takes its environmentalism extremely seriously, and in 1997, received Green Globe Certification to prove it.) Water is a dominant theme, from the reflecting pond that greets you in the sleek open lobby and walks your eyes right out to the next major body of water – that incredible infinity edge pool cut right into the cliff – and beyond that to that other major body of water – The Indian Ocean.

The bar which juts over the cliff on some sort of cantilevered system,  is an awesome structure that draws your attention immediately.  Constructed with alternating boards of reclaimed wood supported by bamboo segment frames, it looks like a post-modern bird’s nest.  The cushions and built-in sofas are sunken in and comfortable.  This is the place to be for an end of day cocktail.  The view is for days.  The drinks are to die. Yup, I can see me here – its a little more serious than I normally would like – but I could work it out.

The villas all dot the hills, built in a similar, open style.  Each villa on the hills faces the ocean, has its own salt-water pool and bird’s nest – a smaller version of the magnificent cantilevered bar, jutting over the soft sloping hill.

My take on Alila Villas, Uluwatu

Right off the bat…Alila Villas Uluwatu is slightly isolated.  The road to get there felt as if it required a compass and professional tracker.  Probably the point, but I remember thinking it would be kind of a pain to leave the resort – to actually go somewhere else – not that there was anything very close – and that didn’t appeal to me.

As you enter the lobby, you sense this is a place that takes itself very seriously.  Which intimidates me – makes me whisper and say ridiculous things like, “I love the water – its so…fluid.”   And I gush a lot.

Villa Pool and Not-so-Private Bird's Nest Balé

We were shown a villa, lowest level of the hill.  It was modern and beautiful, with its little saltwater pool, ginormous bathroom and beautifully-appointed bedroom.  Everything is hidden to maintain those sleek lines and minimal feeling.  It took me absolute ages to find the television – which I had to do.  Just to know I could.  And just beyond the saltwater pool, each villa has its own miniature version of the fabulous Bird’s Nest Bar -a little balé with cushions and pillows, and view of the sea (and of the Bird’s Nest in the villa next door – exhibitionists will love this feature!)

The main pool is pretty amazing, has to be said.  The infinity edge is so sharp, it looks like it cuts into the steep cliff.  You feel as if the swimmers are taking their lives in their hands.  But one thing that caught my attention – and this speaks to the guest factor – was the Korean woman who brought her own huge inflatable killer whale water toy.  So, here this woman – wearing some version of a modest maillot (I seem to recall a t-shirt and gym shorts), riding her Shamu across this elegant pool with its elegant guests, getting her whale-wrangling groove on.  Distinctly odd, I thought, and totally incongruous to the surroundings.  Maybe its a Korean thing. Who knows? Certainly amusing to watch.  We did notice that with the exception of one couple, the rest of the guests that we saw were indeed, Korean – interested and cashed-up.  No surprise they are an extremely important target market of the Alila and indeed, of many of the upper echelon resorts in Bali.  And they can have Alila Villas, as at a nightly minimum of $775, its out of my league and definitely not my thing.

The Main Pool - No Shamu in Sight

Kristin and I finished the tour with a long and lovely lunch and bottle of bubbly (as you do), sitting on the patio of one of the two restaurants, separated by the Bird’s Nest lounge – Asian cuisine to the right; Western cuisine to the left.  We chose the left.  Service – impeccable, beginning with the offering of an assortment of branded goodies – wipes, oils, aromatic mists (repellent, I think) presented on a lacquer tray.

Bottom line – Alila Villas is undoubtedly a beautifully-designed property.  Their involvement in supporting sustainable, responsible tourism, is important and worthy of special consideration.  But unfortunately, this did not tick all my boxes.  Too serious.  Too expensive.  Too isolated.  Too quiet.  But great if you like water toys.

Part 11 – Bulgari Hotels & Resorts coming next.

Surf Goddess Living

I blame House Hunters International for my latest junket into delusion. This HGTV show is a mainstay in our home. It affords us an opportunity to snoop in someone’s home – in fact – three homes – in some foreign locale while never having to pull our carcasses off the couch. It serves to tickle our wonderment and stoke our wanderlust.

The premise is that a couple – or individual – is relocating to some foreign shore or searching for a holiday home, and is shown three houses/apts to purchase, based on budget and specifications.  In our house, we look at it as a 30-minute cultural immersion program. And being betting folk, we like to wager on the results, enthusiastically and sometimes aggressively guessing which home in Merida or which apartment in Amsterdam the buyer will select.

Not too long ago, we were cuddled up on the couch watching the latest HHI, which featured a young American woman who was touring three properties in Nicaragua with the intention of starting a women-only surf camp. The woman, Holly Beck, is a professional surfer – young, cute, smart and ambitious. I liked her and liked the concept even more. A surf camp for women only. No worrying about the fit of the bikini.  No care about looking less than athletic on a board.  Hmmm. The idea resonated and ruminated, percolated in the back of my mind, as the rationalization process slowly worked its magic behind the scenes of my conscious thought, until at last I found myself uttering those two words – those two small words that throughout my life, have served to set the course of a new step, path, chapter, experience. “Why not?”

Surf Goddess Boards

That was roughly a month ago.  Flash forward to now and I am squashed in a middle seat of a Cathay Pacific flight, heading to – not Nicaragua, I’m afraid – but to Bali. To a women-only surf retreat. I actually contacted Holly Beck, the American who was scouting properties in Nicaragua. Great girl. Really liked her and liked that she had incorporated community outreach programs into her “surf camp” experience, with opportunities to meet and support locals. Suffice to say I will hit her next.  (www.surfwithhollybeck.com).

Ultimately though, my inner surf diva took me in a slightly different direction. Yes, I wanted a rigorous surfing focus, but I also wanted a private villa and plunge pool. The classic yin/yang that is the often difficult underpinning of my life’s decisions.  The contradictory nature that had me wearing Lacoste shirts with miniskirts when I was a teenager.  Espadrilles with safety pins through my ears.  My inner surf diva found just the place – a surf & spa retreat that in its very name – Surf Goddess Retreats – appealed to my physical and spiritual aspirations and fulfilled my need to surf seriously combined with my passion for seriously-chic travel experiences.  Voila surf chic.

Big shoes to fill indeed, but based on their website, Surf Goddess has got the goods, with an aesthetic that comes right off the page. The fact that it is located in Bali, a destination that has been on my mind for years, sealed the deal. All of a sudden this innocuous Sunday afternoon watching HHI with my husband, took on a life of its own. And so, back to reality and here I am, sitting squashed in my middle seat, winging my way to Hong Kong and then Bali, my yoga mat tucked into my carry-on bag, my excitement quietly sitting alongside the anxiety of the quest, which is to learn how to surf. Surf well.  A big difference.  To be able to put my body through the paces of a regimen that includes daily surfing and daily yoga sessions. Will I be able to do it?  I don’t honestly know.  I guess we’ll see tomorrow when they pick me up.  More to follow…

Surf Goddesses in action

St Barts sans celebrities photo: Tom Lipscomb

According to a recent mention in the NY Post, it seems St Barts is once again teeming with God-awful showbiz/mogul types, who in one-week’s time, will pump more money onto those sleepy shores than George Clooney will spend on the uber-sophisticated satellite monitoring system he’s funding out of his own pocket to prevent civil war in the Sudan.

Come December, my skin starts to flinch at the decadence and holiday hijinx taking place at Nikki Beach or gasp, my beloved La Plage.  Of the nefarious characters sucking the soul out of this quiet little island paradise.  Of the abrasive New Yawk accents and the heavy, cloying scent of entitlement mixed with bad taste and cigars, all feeling like a slickly-packaged, hyped-up episode of Real Housewives of Wherever (does it really matter?) meets TMZ meets Wall Street, with a hot dose of MTV Cribs to give the street cred needed to attract the newly cashed-ups.

And as I slip into a mild seizure considering all of this, I find myself asking this one, simple question.

Who in the hell is in charge of marketing for Mustique?

For Nevis or Anguilla.  For Aruba, Bahamas, c’mon pretty mama.  Because by God, they need to step it up!  My dog could do a better job wooing people to Mustique for the holidays!  If a fraction of the fractious crowd overwhelming (underwhelming?) St Barts’ charming nooks and crannies over Christmas and New Years could be amortized against even one more Caribbean island – well, in the words of Louis Armstrong, “what a wonderful world this would be”.

Vieques - the new hot destination for the Holidays

Certainly someone must know someone who knows someone who could take on this role of savvy marketing stiff, charged with spending obscene amounts of money to promote reasonably competitive (as if) Caribbean locales as alternative bright and sparkly December destinations to the glitterati?  I mean, how hard could it be to build a business case for spending the holidays on St. John or even the Grenadines?  What about Vieques?  A rustic and rural little charmer – some go as far as saying Vieques is St Barts thirty years ago.  Perhaps the lure of being in on the ground floor might serve as a sufficient destination distraction to off-load the St Barts holiday mayhem.  I mean, all you really need is a few divine villas, a handful of excellent chefs to open chic little bistros, a smattering of exclusive boutiques & hotels, power boat charters, container ships of champagne and a few spectacularly, effortlessly gorgeous people lounging around and cavorting in the turquoise waters.  Throw in Nikki Beach, et voilà – a perfect holiday locale that the rich and fabulous will be drawn to as naturally as fish to water; as Lindsey to a crack pipe.

I say we mobilize and start an aggressive search for the right shill, I mean candidate, for the job.  A destination marketeer extraordinaire.  In the meantime, I will no doubt, continue to whine (wine) myself to sleep as I do every holiday season, with convulsions of envy and disgust, like gentle waves lapping the shores of St Jean beach, and I will wait patiently until the Spring, when the crowds are gone, the stores re-stocked and there’s not a Diddy in sight.

19th Floor & Cupola

Ensconced in Philadelphia.  Staying at the Hyatt at the Bellevue.  What a great find!  When was the last time you were in a cupola?  19th floor.  30′ ceiling.  Wrap around balcony.  360-degree views.  I had the whole place furnished in my mind – couch there.  Conversation pit there.  Beaux arts building – grand.  Original marble hand tiled floor (1904).  Original Edison lights.

Terrace with 360-degree view - 19 floors up!

Tattered a bit, but character for days.  Great ghost stories.  Debutante got too rowdy and tried to slide down banister to her demise.  Apparently still walks the stairs.  Had a good poke around tonight.  They were kind enough to leave ballroom doors unlocked.  Walked in one that had balconies and stage.  Soooo fabulous.  Reminds me of growing up when we would take over a hotel and play sardines at night.  Best time ever!  Great neighborhood, too.  Block from Union League.  2 blocks from Anthropologie.  Great running – Yo Adrienne!  The steps are right here!  Fun!

Bar on 19th Floor

Dark Dining Wait Staff in Hong Kong

I have been Dancing in the Dark with Bruce Springsteen.  I consider myself often in the dark – sometimes as a result of a teenage son who won’t share information, sometimes when it comes to convoluted political processes.  And now, I want to dine in the dark.

Dans le Noir, a successful Paris-based restaurant chain, has capitalized on offering a pitch-black dining experience that is meant to engage all the senses.  The whole thing appeals to me on a visceral and slightly intimidating level.  Like a gastronomic adrenalin rush.

Dans le Noir is truly pitch black.  The wait staff is blind, thus eminently more suited for the experience than your average diner, who tends to spill wine and miss whole food items on his plate.  Dining is communal – which apparently makes for a free-flowing conversation and bonding experience.  Menus are selected ahead of time, and color-coded – red for meat; green for vegetarian; blue for seafood; and white for the supreme je ne sais quoi meal.

What is also interesting, is the fact that whenever this topic has come up in conversation, men immediately and strongly say Non to the dark dining experience.  The women, however, are enthusiastic to experience the sensations.  I am looking forward to dinner at Opaque, in L.A, where I can experience this dining trend first hand.  I’ll be dining with girlfriends, of course.

Click here for a Dark Dining Experience near you.

Dark Dining in Melbourne, Australia

Dining in the Dark - NYC

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.

Mom & Coop Ride Tandem

Just back from our recent fab Surfing trip to Sayulita with Coop, his pal Andrew and my pal Koko (a.k.a. Myrtle, a moniker we picked up for her while listening to a homespun radio program near the Myrtles Plantation in Louisiana.  I am Sue Ellen (pronounced S’willin, but that’s another story).

When we got back home, I couldn’t wait for Myrtle to send me all three thousand two hundred and eighty four pictures (nearly) that she snapped.  Got myself comfortable, and excitedly began to go through the images when the wave of nausea hit – I spied the first picture of me, a forty-something mom, cavorting on a beach in Mexico, bopping around as if I were Gidget, (though looking rather more like Gidget’s bloated, gravity-impacted grandmother Golda, with my 16-year old son, and an ever-increasing number of other sixteen to early-twenty-year-olds.

Yup, I was squarely bitten on my Brazilian bikini-covered ass by the ugly moral conundrum known as perception versus reality.  I can still feel the sting, though it has been slightly assuaged by the horrifying mortification of what my son’s friends must have thought of his mother clearly experiencing an “awkward stage” in her mid-life crisis.

The Highlight Reel of our Trip

Now, several days after the unfortunate and revealing incident, I am still left with a feeling of embarrassment and unease, though the,”goddamnit why can’t I”, justification sequence has started to kick in.  In my desperate rationalizations, I say to myself that I have always been the athletic mom; that Coop and I have spent every summer since he could walk, swimming and playing in the ocean – boogie boarding, body surfing, surfing.   When the big waves come (“outsiders”), I taught him to swim towards them, regardless of his fear or their size.  We spent two summers working on his conquering the fear of big waves, but he got it before any other kid his age.  And if we’re too late to get to the wave in time, and it broke on us, I taught him to dive down to the bottom and pick up a handful of sand as a way to take his mind off the fear while also staying out of what could be a powerful washing machine.

My conclusion?  No doubt the surf is our playground.  As I consider this, I realize that it is a sacred place that we have always shared – where we have grown up.  Together.  These times represent a celebration of summer, of spending time just the two of us, of the hot sun, of salty skin, of ice cream cones at 3PM, and an early evening swim before dinner when hardly anyone was left on the beach and none in the water, before we would each head into our respective locker rooms at the club, spend far too much time under a hot shower, get in warm clothes and stay down at the beach for Bistro dinner, when Stuart would come down and join us.  This was our Friday schedule for over 10 years.  And we loved it.

So, while there is clearly a pang of self-consciousness at my body’s total lack of cooperation and traitorous foray to the dark side of gravity, painfully evidenced in a bikini these days (note to self – possibly more conservative bathing suit selections in future), after careful consideration, I’ve decided “screw it” – the end justifies the means.  If Cooper actually wants me to surf with him – to continue as we have done for 16 years, and play in the ocean together, I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop now.

So…look for us back in Sayulita in a couple of weeks.  I’ll be the one hanging out (literally, most likely) with the group of 16 – 23 year olds, eyeing the breaks, chatting about God knows what, surfing with my kid for hours and hours at a stretch and occasionally reminding myself that I am having the time of my life.

Stephen David Ford

We have had the heart-breaking news today that Stuart’s big brother, and Lynne’s little brother, Stephen Ford, passed this morning in the UK.

I did not know Steve as well as I would have liked, but I immediately liked him very, very much.  When I met him the first time, I was on a mission.  I was bound and determined to  have a kumbaya moment with my new brother-in-law.  I felt there was much to discuss – some heavy stuff – and I had an instinctive feeling that we would get each other.  The poor man!  Didn’t see me coming, at all!  This brash American, the new wife of his little brother, turning on the L.A. mumbo jumbo about karma and choices and reconnection.  But I think he was secretly amused by me, and recognized that my intentions were sincere.

Steve & Stuart 2006

Sometimes relationships are complicated.  Particularly between siblings.  Stuart and Steve are in many ways, very different people.  Like the little brother, Stuart bristled at Steve’s clear-cut paternal role (and deep love of all things American, most-especially the Civil War (a confederate!!).   Given Stuart’s clear dislike of all things American, I used to say that I married the wrong brother), yet I also know the love and adoration that Stuart felt for Steve is irreplaceable.  Steve was very much the father figure to Stuart.  Which makes the loss doubly painful.

Steve and I were facebook buddies, as he was with all of his family – all the kids, who routinely communicated with him, the patriarch again,  in this medium.  It was on facebook that I had my last “conversation” with Steve.  I had been planning a surprise bday for Stuart in Sydney, which Steve was in on.  I needed a decoy during the surprise period, someone to spin the surprise in a different direction and keep Stuart guessing.  Steve immediately rose to the occasion, firing off an email to Stuart (supposedly by accident) confirming he would pick us up at Heathrow.  He got such a kick out of being in on the joke, and when it was a fait accompli, he wrote me the last message he ever sent me.  It said, “I always knew I liked you.”   And that makes me very happy.

And so – having lost one of my brothers in recent years, I totally get the pain and the process.    It sucks.  Sucks, sucks, sucks.  Everyone has to find their own grace to help them get through.  I have learned that the pain of the loss never goes away, just seems to come with less frequency as time goes by.  And as the pain of the news hit us this morning – this first warm, beautiful Spring morning in ages, I began to grieve.  For Stuart, for Steve’s wife Elaine, for Lynne, for the kids, for Alva.  And for the loss of my own brother David.  And then the learning kicked in, and I called my brother Daniel, and I told him I loved him.

Steve, Stuart & Lynne

With all of my love to the volumes of friends and family that loved Steve Ford.  He will be sorely missed.