I'm home. While I was away, Miss Leontyne Price turned 90. Here she is in 2001. I don't know about you, but hearing her, singing that, now, well...
As for the travels, except for the incessant checking of devices to suss out each new hideosity, all went very well indeed. The work portion of the trip concluded with no disasters, and Mr. Muscato and I had a lovely few days in San Francisco (including a memorable dinner with dear Mr. P.) before heading south to see what we might see. That included the Pacific Coast Highway (me for the first time since 1991; the first ever for the Mister, who has taken to California like, well... like an Egyptian to a warm, sunny place with great food wherever one turns). Perhaps I'll post a travel snap or two before we get to far back into the daily grind.
Then it was two days in Los Angeles, the unquestioned height of which was the opportunity at last to meet Felix and experience his eponymous tour. My God, what richness, to quote (as I'm wont to do) Jo March. To add another memorable meal to the trip, we preceded our toddle around the mysteries of Hollywood with a terribly glamorous lunch at a terribly chic bistro (where, predictably, Felix knew everybody, darlings, just everybody). It's tremendously to hard to describe the experience he's come up with; it's as simple as a rather short walk accompanied by remarks, but by the end one has a panoramic and eye-opening vista of all the factors that went into turning an unremarkable little burg into the Dream Factory, and a haunting sense of all the people who've hoped and succeeded and all-too-often failed right here, where you're standing now. It's a genius thing.
But then it was off again, for the last stop on this little jaunt, to check out the vaunted charms of Palm Springs, to which it feels as if half of our acquaintance either has or is about to retire. We liked it. I'll probably say more about that, but now I want to go hear Miss Price again, and brood.