The New South

Cross-Country Trip, Day 15

Lake James, North Carolina to Florence, South Carolina
(with stops in Hickory and Winston-Salem)

If you find yourself in North Carolina and in need of a snazzy European haircut, go and see Ronnie Major at Le Grande Salon in Hickory, NC.

I would never have thought that, from this small town of 40,000 people nestled in the Carolinas, Marina could emerge with the most stylish haircut she's had in years.  That's due to Ronnie's skill and talent as a hair designer but it also made me question my pre-conceived notions about this whole region.  

Like a lot of Americans, I thought of the South as a conservative, backward place without much respect for people of color, gays, atheists or progressive thought of any kind.  Highway 10, which runs along the southern part of America, is the shortest route to Miami, but it would have taken us close to the heart of the Deep South -- southern Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, the Florida panhandle.   The Ku Klux Klan flourished in these places and vigilante mob lynchings of black men was a way of life.   Remnants of that thinking still color these towns and their people, and the Confederate flag, representing the union of Southern states who sought to break away from the USA, is still flown from the dome of the capitol building in South Carolina.   

The South's claimed  "constitutional right" to treat people as property (and preserve their economic base of cotton) was the reason for the long and bloody American Civil War, which lasted four years and took 600,000 American lives. The real issue was states' rights, i.e., the right of the federal government to create laws that trump any individual state's laws.  This fundamental philosophical debate continues today and it's this battle over who has the right to legislate over cultural matters that creates the notion of two Americas, in my opinion.   Every time the federal government seeks to legislate on cultural matters such as gun control, abortion and gay marriage, a handful of die-hard backward Congressmen (and women), usually from the South, cry foul and claim for their individual states the right to pass laws on those issues. 

But as I learned today, there's an Old South and a New South.  Whatever that term may have meant in the past, today the New South stands for a more modern economy and way of thinking.  Health food stores and vegetarian menu options are part of the New South.  So are European haircuts and gay pride parades (Hickory's 4th annual is coming up this year).   The university towns are full of bookstores and cafes and wine bars and (somewhat) progressive thinking.   All this is what we've encountered on our trip along Interstate 40, a belt of highway running (approximately) through the lower third of the country.  

I've been pleasantly surprised at the non-hostility of gas station cashiers and hotels and the helpfulness of staff at restaurants and shops.  I chalked it up to being in big cities, but Fort Smith is a small town and virtually everyone we met (hotel staff, shopkeepers, museum volunteers, meter maid, restaurant staff) were all very helpful and friendly.   This must be the New South.  

And a good example of it is the historic arts district in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where we made an impromptu stop for lunch yesterday with friends we just found out/remembered were living there.  We ate at a restaurant called Sweet Potatoes (well shut my mouth!!) owned by two black lesbians.  How's that for the New South!  And yes, the parenthetical and exclamation marks are all part of the name --see the sign below. 

And that was our last stop on I-40.  Florence, South Carolina is only a 3-hour drive from Winston-Salem, and the most direct route takes you on the 38, a real back-country road through what is most certainly the old South.  We lost cell phone service and I felt the same anxiety going through Texas.  Will we get stopped because we have a rainbow sticker on the truck and California license plates?   Will the police or the locals drag us out of the car and beat us up because they don't like Marina's British accent?    We stopped at a gas station, and I walked into the shop with trepidation to see if they had SmartWater (even though the stupid water costs less).   Then I saw the man behind the counter and instantly relaxed.  Of course!  He's Indian (dot, not a feather).  My peeps!  They own the gas stations and the hotels and where there's an Indian hotelier, there's sure to be an Indian restaurateur (the hotelier's brother-in-law or second cousin once removed), so even in the South, I know I can always fill up with gas and food and find a bed for the night.  Ha!  Take that, Klansmen! You may make people run but we make the economy run.   Indians are the new black.  Wait, that didn't come out right.  What I meant to say was Indians are the New South.  

On our way to Florence, we passed through Bennettsville, a tired town that looked inhabited only by cars.  The downtown is full of lovely but empty brick buildings.  Land is probably dirt cheap.  For a brief second, I thought about buying up some of the buildings and neighboring land, creating a development for progressive people from the north who want a better quality of life, opening up art galleries and restaurants downtown, et voila!, creating a little Santa Fe or Asheville. But by the time we got to the on-ramp for the freeway, that dream had collapsed in a shudder of construction nightmares, zoning codes, neighbor disputes, nasty battles with governmental authorities, and a general sense of weariness.  It's good to have ideas, and some ideas are best left unexecuted.   But in case anyone reading this blog has a bunch of money and about 5 to 10 years lying around, there's an opportunity for you to shape and mold your own little town in Bennettsville, South Carolina.  

Santa Fe of the East

Cross-Country Trip, Day 13

Asheville, North Carolina

Asheville is known as the Oasis of the South or the Santa Fe of the East.  Downtown is a collection of restaurants that hold their own against L.A.'s best, live music venues, and shops owned and loved by locals.

Photograph by Lindsey O'Hare

Photograph by Jason Frank Rothenberg

The town is a haven for New-Agers, who believe that the magnetic ley lines of the Earth intersect here (or something like that) and/or that the Blue Ridge and Smoky mountain ranges in which Asheville is cradled provide a very nurturing energy and/or that the town is sitting on trillions of tons of quartz.  Personally, I think they all come here for the curried almond pate at Earth Fare.  I mean, that's the kind of thing that would draw me to a place.

Asheville is also home to a thriving and entrepreneurial gay community, which owns a lot of local businesses.  One of the country's largest remaining independent bookshops (and one of my favorite hang-outs when I used to frequent Asheville), Malaprop's, is located here.  Founded by two women, this is an important place, not just in Asheville, but as a beacon for independent retailing, and the founder's story of why she started the store and how they've managed to stick around for 30 years is short, inspiring and worth reading.

We spent the morning puttering around the shops on Lexington Avenue and Battery Park Lane (there's a Broadway street and a Flatiron building too -- Asheville seems to have a bit of a New York complex) and each one was . . . adorable.  There's no other word for it.  Every store seems to be incredibly well curated no matter whether it's selling rare jazz and funk CDs and records, artisan-created jewelry, vintage dresses and beaded skullcaps from the 1920s, hand-made leather-bound Italian writing journals, or every variety of incense and crystal known to mankind.  Then there are the street vendors making and selling jewelry, bottle openers out of used horseshoes, string instruments that look like ukuleles and miniature guitars, hand puppets from recycled fabric, the list goes on and on and on.  Just as everyone in LA is a screen-writer (or an actor), everyone in Asheville is an artist.   If you like beautiful things, you'll find it easy to shop here.

Click the picture and read the poem

  

Dinner was at Rezaz, another long-standing and outstanding local restaurant, this one serving a fusion of Mediterranean and European food.  The chef accommodated our vegan requirements graciously and deliciously, and we chatted with old friends who had all gravitated to Asheville from elsewhere as Burt continued his mission of convincing us to move here.   My only regret as we downed a few bottles of Rioja was that we wouldn't be in town longer to enjoy more of their company and Asheville's amazing food.  

A Little History, A Little Protest and A Lot of Music

Cross-Country Trip, Day 9 (continued)

Memphis, Tennessee

The Lorraine Motel is a lovely example of mid-century modern architecture.   Its clean lines, angled edges, and distinctive 1950s font and color are perfectly preserved.  

Even the interior of the rooms are stuck in a time warp with period furnishings.  

  

 The reason, of course, is because this is the site of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s assassination on April 4, 1968.  The picture above is of the actual motel room he stayed in during that fatal visit.  The white wreath on the balcony marks the spot that he fell.  

The Lorraine Motel is now part of the National Civil Rights Museum, and I was determined to stop in Memphis on our way to Nashville to see it.  Unfortunately, the museum has been closed for renovations this year, but we were still able to walk up the steps to the balcony and see the room from outside.   It was a powerful and moving moment, and I plan to come back when the museum has been re-opened with new exhibits.  

But only if I have the heart to get past the lone protester at the entrance to the museum.

She's been urging visitors to boycott the museum since ground was broken for the construction of the museum over 25 years ago.   

According to her website, Jacqueline Smith is a former employee of the Lorraine Motel and its last tenant.   According to the museum's website, she's never set foot inside the museum.  According to the New York Times, Smith barricaded herself in her room and had to be forcibly evicted when renovations began.  She was living at the Lorraine since 1973 as part of her job as hotel housekeeper. 

Ms. Smith's story is intriguing.  We asked her whether she thought her protest had had any effect, and she said "Oh yes.  The museum gets about 200,000 visitors annually.  The Memphis Zoo gets 2 million.  So that tells you that attendance is declining.  That's why they're doing the refurbishment.  They're desperate for visitors."  A bus pulled up and tourists filed out.  

Marina said, "This is a strange time to bring tourists here.  The museum is closed." 

Without looking, Ms. Smith identified the name of the bus.  "They're not going to the museum."

"So why are they coming then?"

Ms. Smith stared at Marina.  "Because that's where Dr. King died."

"I know that.  But why wouldn't they come when the museum is open."

"They don't want to see all that.  They don't need to.  They just want to see where Dr. King died, take their picture, and leave, that's all."

After we took pictures and paid our respects, we took our own leave of the Lorraine and Ms. Smith. The plan was to drive straight to Nashville, where we're staying with friends, but it was almost 6 and we would have ended up at their house at 10 o'clock at night.  Somewhat reluctantly, we decided to stay the night in Memphis.  We wandered the streets of downtown and stumbled quite by accident upon Beale Street, a sort of blues alley packed with clubs and restaurants playing all kinds of live music.  Memphis is known for its barbecue and it happened to be BBQ Fest when we arrived, but unfortunately, we found no tempeh, tofu or vegetables.  

As it happened, the night we arrived, Club 152, a very popular nightclub was raided for drugs and every single police car in the entire city seemed to be parked on and around Beale Street.   The closure of the club must have cost the owners thousands and it also really screwed up my night-time shot of Beale Street because of the dark spot on the left.

We wandered into the first place on the corner, B.B. King's club, and enjoyed a couple of beers each, sweet potato fries and celery.  They did have some black-eyed pea hummus, which wasn't very good, so we stuck to the fries.  Would have loved some vegan barbecue wings.  But the real story isn't the food, it's the music.  I found the band I want to hire if I ever have a big party in Tennessee or feel like splurging to fly them all somewhere and put them up.   The King Beez regaled us with covers of funk, pop and blues.  The lead female singer has a stupendous voice and a great stage presence.  Their recorded music is disappointing (of course I bought the CD!) compared to their live performance but I'll have the memory of that serendipitous and magical evening forever.

When we walked into the place, an older couple was dancing, and I knew right away that spending the night in Memphis had been a great decision, one of those gifts from the travel gods that happen when you're not looking.  I tried to embed the video in the blog but I'm having technical difficulties so until I figure it out, just click this link.

The crowd gave them an appreciative round of applause, and a good while later, another couple took the floor.  Unfortunately, by this time, my phone battery as well as the evening light was dying, and I couldn't get a decent video.  This couple was in their 20s, and the girl was good but the guy was unbelievable.  His body was an instrument, and he played it like a master.  His feet glided across the floor, and he moved with grace and confidence. He knew when to stand on his toes and pause at the beat, and when to let his torso move languidly like a snake rising from a charmer's basket.  Even the singer was astounded.

And we were lucky enough to have front row seats to this incredible spontaneous performance.  It was as though the travel gods had opened up the heavens and showered us with blessings.

I wept with joy when the song finished and the audience erupted in applause.   With perfect timing, the singer said, "What do you do for a living?" and we all laughed because it was so obvious that he was a professional, that he practiced for hours and had gotten to know his body, what it could do for him and the effect it had on others.  I wept because he knew he was born to dance and he was doing what he was born to do, and the singer too, and how much joy and pleasure they brought to people simply by doing what they loved, by honoring the yearnings of their soul.  Yes, reading, writing and math are very important, but the arts are equally so, and all of us should be exposed to them early and often.  Anyone who says otherwise has a cold, dead heart.

Art and Architecture

Cross-Country Trip, Day 6

Santa Fe, New Mexico

The day started at Annapurna Cafe, which serves organic food based on an Ayurvedic philosophy.  I've avoided discussing my meals on this blog because none of them have been particularly memorable (except for the Green Goddess salad in Sedona which I should have taken a picture of but I was so hungry that I tucked into it as soon as it arrived).  But today's breakfast was worth discussing.

First, the process.  The owners of the cafe are Indian (dot, not a feather), and I got to practice a little of my barely adequate Hindi.  Second, the philosophy.  The food is based on Ayurvedic concepts so no carbonated beverages are served and everything is vegetarian, vegan or gluten-free.  In fact, it might be the only Ayurvedic restaurant in the country (except for their Albuquerque location).  I especially loved this quote on the table marker.

 Finally, the food.   I had fresh tulsi ginger tea and tofu scramble accompanied by a dosa and a curried vegetable of black-eye peas and kale.

I complimented the owner on the food, which was fresh and flavorful. He disappeared into a room and soon the beautiful strains of Pandit Bhimsen Joshi's voice singing bhajans filled the brightly colored cafe.  For a few minutes, I forgot I was in Santa Fe.  It felt as though we were back in Kerala again.   The only difference was that after finishing this meal, I felt light and clean.       

Next stop was the Audubon Center of Santa Fe.  We expected to see a lot of birds, but it was just a trail in the woods with a lot of birdsong.    We saw a lot of glistening pink rocks that could have been rose quartz, and also a lot of black rocks.  I have no idea what they are and I'm too lazy to look it up.  

We spent the afternoon wandering through the art galleries on Canyon Road.  Santa Fe has a ton of beautiful little adobe houses which have been turned into art galleries and most of them are concentrated in a particular area.  Some of the works are truly stunning.  I managed to sneak these pics. 

And this one, my personal favorite:

     

Animal motifs figure prominently in Southwest art.  A lot of the works are of horses, bears, mules and deer, and many of the sculptures are life-sized.  Art inspires and nourishes and Marina was moved to take pictures and think about all the pieces that she would create once we have our ranch back in LA.   

In Sedona, I met with an artist who lives on the property where we stayed and he showed me his studio.  He works with metals, wood, and paints, and it was fascinating to see the process by which raw materials are put together to create something that did not exist before.  I spend too much time in the world of words (and on the Internet!) and I fantasized about the day when I had my own private skylit studio where I could experiment with rocks and clay and metal and all these wonderful resources that have texture and life outside my head.  (Chances are I'd lose patience after five minutes and walk over to Marina's private skylight studio, hand her the mangled thing I'd made a mess of and ask her to make something of it.)     

The art and architecture in Santa Fe is very similar to Mexico.  There's the adobe, of course, but also lots of bright colors and desert themes, like this little cafe we popped into for a drink. 

  

A common feature outside the adobe homes is a banco, a bench built of concrete right into the wall like this. 

This one was outside the Adobe Gallery, where we met a mesmerizing man named Todd.   

The gallery has an extensive collection of Southwest and Native American art, including half a wall of Kachina dolls and some stunning pottery.  Todd was a soft-spoken man with clear gray-green eyes who explained that the Kachina are spirit beings.  The Hopi girls are given two dolls each year and of all the pueblos (Native American communities of the Southwest), only the Hopi are allowed to give the dolls away.  As Todd explained how the Hopi boys donned the gear of the Kachina in adolescence and did ceremonial dances around the Kiva, I watched his hands flit to a painting on the wall in demonstration.  He rubbed his hands gently together and his tongue peeked out occasionally as he spoke.  We migrated gradually to the wall of pottery, and in response to Marina's question about kilns, he explained that there was no running water or electricity in some of the pueblos, which made their own kilns.  Some of the pottery on the wall was 100 years old.  He ushered us into another room full of exquisite pottery, and he showed us how to identify which pueblo a piece of pottery came from by the color of the clay.  He explained the detailed process by which each bowl was made.  

"You have to give them a lot of credit because it's very intricate work," Todd said.  "Do they have it in their blood?  Yes, but it's also practice, practice, practice," he said in his soft melodic voice. "Today we see these bowls as art, but they were actually created to be used.  Look, here's one the women used to carry water.  Now how do you think they carried the water?  In front of them like this?"  

"On their heads," we said like good students.  

"Yes, on their heads.  So they made the bowl with a slight indentation at the bottom like this."  He picked one up and showed us.  "And how did they train the girls?"

We shrugged.  I felt vaguely inferior for not knowing the answer.  

"With smaller bowls like these.  These are very rare," he said.  "Do you know why?"

Because all the others broke, we said, and I felt like a good little student again. 

"That's right. So these and that smaller one over there are very unusual.  If you were going to start a collection, I would say to start with those."  

I didn't have the heart to tell him we weren't planning on starting a collection of Southwest pottery, nor that if we did, I would want the biggest baddest bowl there was, not some little bowl that was made just so a little girl in training could break it and no one would care.   

"I have to pick up a piece to see who signed it but back in the day," Todd said, "everyone knew whose bowl was whose.  If you brought one of the elder women in here, she wouldn't need to see the signature on the bottom, she could recognize it from the symbols.  Like these circles in this pot, which we don't see in any other piece."

"Do all of the patterns and etchings have meaning?" I asked. "Nothing was done simply for decorative use?"

"We like to think so, don't we?" Todd said in his soft voice.  "But maybe not.  Maybe some things were just decorative."    

He pointed out another bowl to us.  

"Now what shape do you see in this deer?  Can you see something special about this deer?"  

"There's an arrow," Marina and I said together. 

"An arrow, yes, that's right.  The arrow points to the heart, and the heart is the giver of life, so this bowl is meant to symbolize life."  

I didn't want to tell him that the arrow was actually pointing to the deer's ass because he truly was a marvel to listen to and I didn't want him to stop.  I could have listened to him all afternoon because he was passionate and knowledgeable.  He told us about pueblo feast days and ancient trade routes and cacao beans and all sorts of other things that he obviously cared deeply about and I wondered whether he had a Native American boyfriend.  Or did he have dinner alone in front of a TV?  Was he married? Did he have kids?  All these thoughts ran through my head as I listened to Todd and watched the deliberate way he spoke about all the things crowding the little gallery.   

We told him we would be back when we had our ranch, and he told us not to wait, to buy land soon, good deals could be had outside the town center.  American Airlines had a direct flight from LA to Santa Fe, he said, and as long as didn't wait till the last minute to buy our tickets, the fares were reasonable.  "I'll come and pick you up from the airport," he said, and he meant it.   

As we left, I thought about how Marina and I always managed to meet fascinating people in our travels, people who opened up to us.  I think it's because we're curious about people and their world and where they live and, we ask questions and we genuinely want to know.   Isn't this the whole point of traveling? 

Well, also to learn different construction techniques.  Unusual for her, Marina has taken a lot of pictures of the various adobe homes.  In the town center, a building was under construction and she stopped to stare at the workers plastering the walls.  Another man stood nearby, also staring at the workers.  Marina crossed the road and entered the gated construction site to ask the workers about their technique.  She came back and the man who had been standing nearby said, "What did they say the big screws were for?  I've been wondering myself."   

"It's to keep the old stucco from falling off.  Then they put the new stucco on.  And they'll put that wire mesh on to keep the new stucco from cracking." 

"I was wondering about the mesh," the man said. "I built my house and I didn't use it."  

"You have to use it to keep the stucco from cracking," Marina said. 

"OK, thanks.  Nice talking to you," the man said and moved on.   

Marina remained standing on the street, staring at the workers.  "Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered.  

I laughed and took a picture so I could show you what she was enraptured with. 

At this point, I've probably lost all my readers because I've totally missed the point of what a blog is.  It's supposed to be only one paragraph but I can't help myself!  We have all these wonderful experiences and I need to record them so that I remember three years (or three weeks later) what we experienced.  So my sincerest apologies to those of you expecting a paragraph or two who slog through to the end and click away in a daze.  Just a few photos now for some visual relief.    

The Communal Table

Cross-Country Trip, Day 5

Sedona to Santa Fe 

Today we hit the 1000 mile mark.  Here's some of the road we've traveled.

Has it really only been 5 days since we left our beloved Los Angeles?   Today was a driving day:  400 miles from Sedona to Santa Fe.  We got an early start (for us!) and left town by 9:30 after picking up salads for a picnic lunch.

There's a big Native American population in the Southwest and their cultures have been kitschified into souvenir shops every few years selling jewelry, pottery and rugs.   But on the road from Sedona to Flagstaff, we came across several Navajo women in a park, their open-air tables laden with turquoise-and-silver jewelry and various kinds of pottery that had all been signed by individual artists.  (As one of the vendors was explaining these ancient techniques and symbols to someone,  another vendor swiped a buyer's credit card with the little white Square reader plugged into the vendor's iPhone.)

That was the end of the line for authenticity.  We passed at least three "Indian Centers" between Flagstaff and Santa Fe with teepees and totem poles in the parking lots and periodic billboards which started miles before and promised all sorts of authentic products.

And why are they still calling themselves Indians?  They're Native Americans.  They should insist on being called that.  It's more accurate and dignified and it would save Indians from India answering a lot of stupid questions, like what tribe we're from.  I'm not kidding.  When I was a kid, I got asked that a lot when I said I was Indian. Now I say, "Indian.  Dot not a feather."  Or "Indian.  Call centers, not casinos."

We passed through the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert and the part of me that wants to make sure I've covered all the bases and seen everything and done everything there is to do wanted to drive in so I could check it off my mental list but we decided it was more important to get to Santa Fe in time to enjoy a full evening than to do the 56-mile roundtrip detour into the forest.

"Doesn't look like much of a forest," Marina said.

"Well, it's been petrified.  So I guess the trees are all dead."

And with that, we pulled back onto the highway and kept on driving.

We had our salads at a picnic bench in a Shell gas station with an enormous parking lot.  The main building was larger than any other gas station I've seen and stocked to the rafters with Native American souvenirs.   Soothing flute music wafted through, making the place feel sacred, instead of a gas station in the middle of nowhere off an interstate highway.  The walls of the women's room were lined with photographs of these Navajo women.

I didn't check, but I'm guessing the men's room had similar photos of Navajo men.  I was glad that the Navajo were profitting from their culture, but unfortunately, most of the souvenirs looked and felt like they were made in China.  I hoped that the owners of the gas station were Navajo and I wondered if they went home at the end of the day and laughed at the gullible idiots buying this stuff:  "Revenge is sweet. Ha!" 

They did have some lovely posters, though.

And this one is my personal favorite.

We arrived in Santa Fe while it was still light and managed to walk into town and admire the architecture and quaint shops.  

It looks like there are a lot (and I mean, A LOT) of shops selling stuff like this. 

Pretty, but having just oohed and aahed over all this back in Sedona, I'm overdosing a bit so it remains to be seen whether we go off the beaten path tomorrow.

The best part of the day was dinner.  Marina is English, and she does like her tipple, especially at the end of a long day of driving, but most vegan restaurants don't serve alcohol (why is this, people?  Spring for the damn liquor license already!  Do you think all vegans are health-conscious granola nuts?  We are not, and some of us struggle daily with how to be fashionable, vegan and slightly buzzed all at the same time.)  So we ended up at a place called Cafe Pasqual's, which had something to make us both happy.

Cafe Pasqual's

It looks and feels like a Mexican birthday party exploded inside.

Cafe Pasqual's

The place was packed and we opted to wait for two seats at the communal table.  I've only ever shared a table with strangers at a theme park or a food court, and "Is this seat taken?" is just about the only conversation we have.   But it's hard to ignore people sitting right next to you while you're all waiting for food or watching each other eat and drink.   We struck up a conversation with the couple next to us, who engaged the mother and daughter next to them, who brought into the conversation the couple next to them and pretty soon we were all chatting amiably over wine and dinner as if we were at a friend's dinner table.   Isn't this why we travel?  To meet new people and discover new ways of doing things?  To see the familiar in a new way and to see new things (and people) in a familiar way?

One couple was from Frisco, Colorado.  They had both grown up in Oklahoma and dated in college 40 years ago.  When the man's wife passed away, he looked up the woman on Facebook.  Her husband had passed away and she was living in Hong Kong.  A year ago, she moved back and they were in Santa Fe to buy silver wedding bands which they were going to design themselves.  If that story doesn't make you go "Awww,", you're a cold-hearted beady-eyed person who's probably lived in Manhattan too long. 

The mother (Gail) in the mother and daughter team had lived in Kansas her whole life until 11 months ago, when she moved to Steamboat Springs, Colorado.  Her daughter (Julie) lives in Chicago and they were both traveling down through Austin and eventually to New Orleans, where the sister is graduating from Tulane U next week.  Julie and several others had  encouraged Gail to start a blog but she offered the excuse I have heard from so many women: "I just don't think anyon'es going to be interested in what I have to say."  I told her she should write for herself and not for others.  (Not that I follow that advice.  As I go through each day on this trip, I am only thinking of you, dear reader, and what you might find interesting.  And then I disregard that and write what I want to.)  

Julie, Gail, Marina and I agreed that even the smartest women sometimes think no one is interested in what they have to say and the dumbest men all think the whole world is interested in what they have to say.   Why is it that men have so much confidence and women so little?   

Another couple wandered in from New York and yet another couple (we stayed chatting through at least 3 different seatings!) met up here from Albuquerque (woman) and Colorado (man).   Eventually, an older couple showed up, the man from Vouvray in France and the woman from Arkansas or Kansas, I forget which.    

Not a local among the lot, but what was fascinating was how easy it was to talk to all these people, how well-traveled and intelligent they all were.  The table was like a magnet and it was extraordinary how every single person had something interesting to contribute.   Fascinating too was how transient our society has become.  This is old news but sitting at a table like that and hearing all the stories of moving across states and continents, I was reminded that the story of immigration and reinventing oneself isn't limited to those who move across international borders.  There's a lot of migration happening right here in America.   

We left the restaurant laughing and marveling at the evening.   A couple stood outside looking at the menu.   We encouraged them to go in and sit at the communal table. 

The red blush of fine wine and good conversation