Vacation: Report from the City and the Beach

Actually, I'm typing this with a view of the bay... the beach is a whole three blocks from here.

Petra and I are at my dad's for several days. I began my vacation being taken along on a business trip of Beloved's (there's something about that feels slightly naughty to me, something "Mad Men" like, taking the lover on a business trip. Then again, I've never seen "Mad Men," only read about it non-stop for about the last week, everwhere from the New York Times to the local rag). Beloved and I enjoyed our favorite hotel in Big City, a lovely long evening with Larry-O, who threatened to have just a "quick dinner" with us and ended up savoring a two-hour meal, followed by a walk to a Big and Notable bookstore. On the walk he popped his iPod Touch (I almost said "Walkman") on my head so that I could listen to some tracks from the newest Dave Matthews Band album, and hooked his arm in mine as we walked. Sweet! Really, I mean it. It was so damned sweet.

After depositing Larry at the subway station, Beloved and I found our way to a bar whose name seemed to promise gay-friendliness. Which it did. But it also featured a Piano Bar. We had the singular experience of being whistled at when we walked in the door. That, my friends, was... a first. And not unwelcome.

We stayed for the length of one Madras (and one Virgin Madras), and renditions of "One Day More," "Little Surrey With the Fringe on Top," "Don't Rain on My Parade," "Loving You," and songs I didn't know from "Chess" and "Jekyll and Hyde." It was fun. Unexpectedly.

And now Petra and I are at the shore. We walked on the beach this morning (essentially in the water), lovely breeze even though it's hot and humid. My hair is frighteningly curly. Frighteningly.

My dad is... mixed. This symptom and that. Not willing to make any changes at this time. I'm just trying to enjoy him. And myself. And Petra.

Back later.