No Cure Like Travel

Well, I've been a bad travelogue-er, I know, but what with one thing and another, I've been rather on the go. And, given all that's going on in the world, I'm afraid I've had something of the grim expression of this lovely Matisse lady I ran into last weekend.

I have to say, though, that if one must witness the start of the collapse of Western civilization, such as it is, there are a great many worse places from which to do so than San Francisco. I did my best to ignore all the dreadful goings-on in Our Nation's Capital last Friday, even as I revelled in the global response the next day. While there was a substantial protest here, I'm afraid the weather didn't cooperate very nicely, and the cold downpour kept me away (I'm not much on crowds in the best of weather, as well; they have a tendency to remind me that, as an open-heart survivor, I really oughtn't have people pushing and jostling too closely - makes me nervous).

However, while I may not have done my bit politically, socially the day was nothing short of a triumph, for I spent a good part of it in the ever-excellent company of our own dear Mr. Peenee (who I've just noticed has also been writing about the occasion). He understates the great of fun of lunching - just like girlfriends, with hats on - at the deeply retro lunchery at Nieman Marcus, and while he's quite right that for reasons mysterious I faded into naptime far too early, we had a lovely potter around the Presidio before sleep set in and all in all he's just the marvelous host one imagines.

As for the rest of my time, those of bits of it that haven't been spent in the salt mines of Human Resources drudgery, it's really been rather lovely.  I took in the formidable Museum of Modern Art here (where I ran into the Matisse and a few other treasures, not the least among them a fascinating Diane Arbus temporary show), and I've done lots and lots of lovely walking. The weather has been gray and rainy, but there is no shortage of cosy joints in which to while away a shower hereabouts, ranging from a serene Irish bar, nearly empty at mid-day, with a remarkable way with spareribs, to a great many oysters here and there. My diet may be rigorous in some ways, but it does allow for a great many luxuries on the order of good sashimi, unlimited shellfish, and more than a little bubbly, so on the whole I can't complain.

And even as we speak, Mr. Muscato is in a taxi on his way in from the airport, and after one more day of what passes for work, we're planning ten days or so of pure amusement. Updates as time allows, my dears, and if my plans hold firm, not a word of whinging about the decline and fall. We'll have plenty of time to watch all that unravel, and in the meantime I plan to find some oysters.