The Cult of San Benedetto

After sucking down a pint of house special fried rice and a mountain of pork dumplings, the second task Trish and I fixated on after landing back in the states after our European vacation was finding a local source of San Benedetto iced tea.  It sounds crazy, but the whole family, especially Val, became obsessed with it after discovering this magical, refreshing beverage in Rome.

It may seem slightly ludicrous to get so worked up over iced tea, but then you've probably never tried San Benedetto.  Yes, it's that good.

We actually stumbled onto a local "dealer" just a block from our apartment.  Can it be that for the last decade this beverage equivalent of crack has been hiding out just down the street unbeknownst to me?

Trish and I were trying to find some fresh pasta and fixings for the jar of pistachio pesto we brought back from Sicily.  I've always walked past Dave and Tony Salumeria, but never ventured inside because it seemed like a place only a real Italian should be shopping - a tiny, dark store stacked floor-to-ceiling with imported boxes and bottles written in foreign languages, with old men smoking outside and hunched old ladies shuffling out with their rolling carts and orthopedic shoes - way too hardcore for me.  But if any store would carry our crack-tea, this would be it.  We crossed ourselves like good Catholics and walked in.

Dave and Tony's is magical.  The place is the Italian foodie's equivalent of Disney World.  We explored the narrow aisles stacked high with dried pastas, sauces, condiments and candies.  Above a counter full of freshly made pastas and breads hang rows of cured meats and cheeses and behind that, a case full of fresh mozzarella and even more meat.

And then we saw them.  Lined up on the dusty cracked floor, next to gallon tins of olive oil, swathed in glorious, gray fluorescent light, were bottles and bottles of liquid gold!  Can you hear the angelic "Ahh"?  We immediately purchase four bottles, three regular and one peach flavored.

As if that weren't enough, we were served by a swarthy Italian hunk from behind the check-out counter, complete with dark, slicked-back hair and chiseled arms protruding from behind his white butcher's apron.  Dreamy.  And yes, he spoke fluent Italian - at least to the old ladies in front of us in line.

I now make a weekly pilgrimage to Dave and Tony for my fix, my bottle of San Benedetto.  But somehow, the bottle never lasts more than one meal.  But imbibing more often would dilute the anticipation, nay, the magic, of that first delicious sip after having been deprived of it for days. 

Yes, I sound like a crazy person, but just try it and you'll see how easily you're indoctrinated into the cult of San Benedetto.

Drink the kool-aid...er...um...I mean tea.

I'd go "straight" for Audra McDonald...

Well, as long as she'd agree to an open relationship.  There are certain lines even I won't cross.  And I've crossed many - don't ask.

As expected, Ms. McDonald looked and sounded glorious at her Carnegie Hall recital Saturday night, a coming home of sorts after abandoning the East Coast for TV land.  I forgive her.  Although I would have at least be-dazzled that shoulder strap or added a big, shiny necklace to that gown.  But I'm being petty, which is what we gays do best.

Backed by a chamber orchestra and jazz trio, she performed for nearly two intermissionless hours, casually bantering between numbers and making the huge auditorium feel cozy and intimate.

She stirred the crowd into a frenzy by opening with "I Happen to Like New York", had us nodding in knowing laughter with selections from "Craigslistlieder" (and me hoping I wouldn't be assaulted by one of my own ads) and stiffling back tears with the 9/11-themed "I'll Be Here" from Adam Gwon's new musical, Ordinary Days. 

Audra should run for president of the world.  Why?  Her audience was the most diverse group I've seen anywhere - gay/straight, black/white, old/young, hip/conservative.  She could unite the world through showtunes (that might possibly be the gayest sentence I've ever typed).

I haven't been to Carnegie Hall in years and though the steep rake is wonderful for sightlines, those steps into the balcony are crazy tall.  There should at least be a warning at the top of the stairs.  I almost fell forward and rolled right down off the balcony.  I can just picture it raining little old ladies in the orchestra section.

Luckily, I'll be able to fuel my Audra obsession at least through next year with her Broadway return in Porgy and Bess this winter and at her NJPAC concert on April 20.  Buy your tickets now!

I've linked to the NY Times review which goes into more detail about her set list. 

Carnegie Hall

Saturday, October 22

8pm performance

Anna Bolena

The first thing you think of when you see the picture at left is probably not, "Those two gorgeous, young people must be opera singers."  I mean, where are the horned helmets?  The "healthy" midsections?  Well, it seems opera has finally caught up with the rest of society's embrace of all things superficial.  Not that that's entirely a bad thing (photo is real-life couple and opera superstars Erwin Schrott and Anna Netrebko).

Netrebko is actually a perfect combination of glamour and talent rolled up into a big, beautiful Russian package.  Who better to headline a new production of the rarely produced Donizetti opera, Anna Bolena.  On paper it seems like a no-brainer - international diva + hot, young supporting cast + new production should equal an electric performance.  Unfortunately, the production doesn't rise to the potential of its star.

There is a reason Anna Bolena is not a standard repertory work.  The first act drags along interminably and the music is too similar sounding throughout to sustain a three-hour long evening.  It takes a diva of the first magnitude to electrify the work.  Netrebko is up to the task and nearly succeeds, but she's hampered by a dull, clunky set, uninspired direction and historically correct, but unremarkable costuming. 

The gloomy lighting is sleep inducing.  The costumes are black on black against a dark set.  The direction consists of either the singers standing still or running back and forth across the stage for no apparent reason.  Thankfully, Netrebko's dark, warm voice and surprisingly flexible coloratura keep you from dozing off.

Watching Netrebko square off in the second act duet with rival, Jane (the imposing Ekaterina Gubanova), and seeing her thrillingly sung and sensitively acted closing mad scene are worth sitting through the soporific first act.

Netrebko's supporting cast all have vocally thrilling moments and were all surely cast for their good looks as well as their musical prowess.  With HD movie broadcasts to consider, how can you blame them?  Though a particularly swarthy Ildar Abdrazakov as Henry, made you wonder why Anne would ever choose the cute, but almost nebbish, Percy of Stephen Costello.  Then again, she gets to go home to real-life baby-daddy, Schrott.  Some girls get all the luck.

Thanks to Jill and Audrey (a Pineda Conservatory board member and family friend) who got in line earlier that afternoon to grab $20 rush seats - in the rear orchestra, no less!  We also got to lounge outside the opera house with hottie Dylan McDermott while I enjoyed my Lenny's sandwich.  Not together, of course.  He grabbed the free bench next to us while talking on his cell phone.  I pretended he was my date. 

Only in New York.

Metropolitan Opera House
Monday, October 17, 7:30pm performance

Collard Greens, Bernadette Peters, Drunk Gays and Cancer

What a weekend.  NYC had a summer flashback with temperatures in the 80s (yay, aerosol cans!).  It was the perfect weather for fulfilling comfort food cravings and seeing the incredible Broadway revival of Follies.  Again!  I know, I’m obsessed.  

We decided to try our luck at TKTS Saturday morning, but they only had extreme side seats available.  Even at half price (actually 40% off this particular performance), I’m not spending three hours watching bored chorus girls yawn in the stage right wing.  If that makes me a theatre snob, so be it.  No matter, like any true addict, I was determined to find a way to get my Follies fix even if it meant resorting to theft, murder or even - gasp! - prostitution.  Well, maybe not murder. 

We detoured a few blocks south to the Marquis Theatre and asked the box office attendant if there were any full-priced seats available for the matinee.  “Row F, center orchestra,” he smiled seductively, dangling that Follies crack pipe in my face.  Crap.  If he had said ‘last row mezzanine,’ I could walk away.  But my addict instinct kicked in.  My hands started itching and my forehead broke out in a cold sweat, paranoid that I’d never get to experience that Sondheim high again.  The desire was too strong.  I blindly handed over my credit card.  Like any junkie, I promised myself this would be the last time. 

We had a few hours to kill before the performance so we decided to try Shake Shack’s new midtown location.  It was still before noon so surely we’d beat the regular lunch time mob.  The line didn’t snake out the door and down the block as it usual does, but the dining room was standing room only prompting my newest pet peeve - people who refuse to give up their table after they’ve finished eating, laughing and lazily lounging as if they’re out at a fucking Hampton's country club, ignoring the hungry, tray-clutching throngs standing around them.  I can understand not wanting to eat and run, but sitting and nursing your empty cups after the dining room attendant has already completely cleared and wiped down your table is a little ridiculous.  Thankfully, a vacationing Australian couple graciously offered to share their table with us. 

This was my first Shake Shack burger and I must admit the burger lives up to the hype.  With one bite, my pent up rage aimed at those selfish table-hoggers subsided, replaced by the obscene pleasure - and accompanying grunts and sighs - that only a perfectly cooked bovine patty can produce.  We topped off our perfect burger with peanut butter milkshakes made with Shake Shack’s famous frozen custard.  Heart attack be damned!

We still had some time to kill, so we took a leisurely walk up to Worldwide Plaza for some sun and people watching.  How can you tell the temperature in NYC has peaked 80 degrees?  The gays are out in full force, armed with MacBooks and Starbucks grande iced caramel lattes and sporting the official Chelsea summer outfit of flip flops, khaki shorts and flimsy tank top.  Is it really October? 

I won’t go into too much detail since I just reviewed Follies a couple of weeks ago.  It really is just sensational, with every performance heartbreakingly honest.  Bernadette was in excellent voice (she seemed vocally tired on last viewing) and it seems she’s learned to maneuver through her break.  Jan Maxwell’s Phyllis remains the steely core of this production, her cathartic “Could I Leave You?” one of many highlights in the second act.  Ron Raines’ sumptuous baritone is like a little slice of vocal heaven.  Danny Burstein is so charming and sympathetic that you actually root for his adulterous husband.  And Rosalind Elias’ duet with her younger self evokes tears and an instant, wild ovation from the audience.  Imagine that - nearly stopping a show with an operetta-inspired aria.  Maybe Broadway audiences aren’t as stupidly puerile as I thought.  Then again, Mamma Mia! is still packing ‘em in at the Winter Garden.

But perhaps the most moving part of the show?  Experiencing this production with the weepy, emotional (and I think drunk) older gay gentleman sitting next to us.  In charming jacket and bow-tie, Charles (yes, that was his name, he introduced himself) wept, laughed, muttered “divine” and “brilliant” under his breath, screamed “brava” at every possible opportunity and generally had the time of his life.  Literally.  With tears streaming down his face in an almost instant standing ovation he exclaimed, “This is the greatest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”  I know, he sounds like he would be totally annoying, but he was so genuinely moved that you couldn’t help but smile and be charmed.

How do you top an afternoon of Follies and Shake Shack?  With an uplifting movie about cancer, of course!  We met Trish’s friend, Billy, after the show and headed to the Regal E-Walk on 42^nd Street to see “50/50”.  You should all buy your tickets now.  I won’t spoil it, but by the end, all three of us were reaching for a Kleenex - simply divine, as Charles would say.

Billy came over after the movie and stayed until 3 AM obsessing over his newest beau, a handsome young doctor.  Some people have all the luck.  Doc is apparently “the One,” so what can you do but nod your head and pretend to listen while you’re actually jealously fantasizing about the millionaire Abercrombie & Fitch model/helicopter pilot you’ll meet on the subway platform on the way to work on Monday morning when you drop your newspaper and he drops his portfolio and you accidentally bump your foreheads causing you to fall into each others arms, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, instantly falling in love, get married on a beach in Positano, buy a weekend home in Colorado and adopt two labradoodle puppies named Dolce and Gabbana.  Yes, I have a vivid fantasy life.  Anyway…

After a Sunday morning spent dozing in bed, Trish and I got our lazy asses up and headed to Harlem for a garden party.  The first thing you think of when you hear “Harlem” is likely not “garden party,” but the nabe’s cleaned up since the 80s and the white faces you see uptown aren’t necessarily lost tourists or drug addicts (though they might be). 

Jill, a family friend who also happens to manage opera singers, rented an apartment in a Harlem brownstone for the week while in NYC attending some seminars at the Met.  Guests have access to a private garden in the back.  The party was supposed to have been a networking event for Jill’s clients, but they all canceled at the last minute.  I’m not surprised.  Opera singers are some flaky individuals.  Must be all those vibrating sound waves shaking up the cerebrum.  Val and Juan drove in from NJ for the “event” so at least there was a group of us on hand to take back all the left over wine and cheese.

A block from Jill’s apartment and just down the street from Red Rooster, we noticed the signage for Sylvia’s, the famous soul food restaurant.  In an effort to salvage our little Harlem field trip, Trish and I decided to stop for some southern treats before jumping the M60 bus back to Queens.  The temperature was still hanging in the mid-70s so we grabbed a table out front and dined al fresco on fried chicken, BBQ ribs, collard greens, garlic mashed potatoes, mac and cheese and fried catfish fingers.  You know, just something light and healthy.  Incidentally, Sylvia's serves real southern sweet tea, made with simple syrup - not that tasteless brown water NYC restaurants pass off as iced tea. 

Collard greens, Bernadette Peters, drunk gays, cancer and Harlem garden parties - just your typical New York weekend. 

Sister Act

Actor's Fund Benefit
Sunday, October 2, 8 PM performance

I've been putting off seeing this one for months because Trish saw the London production and didn't have much good to say about it.  But it came up on TDF for an Actor's Fund benefit performance, so I said, "What the hell, might as well give it a try and at least I'll have contributed some cash to a worthy cause."

So I'd have a frame of reference, I made Trish come along with me.

Well - brace yourselves - I actually enjoyed it.  It's no Follies, but it's got some really clever staging, an impressive physical design and a couple of great songs (as well as some mediocre ones).  It also has a near show-stopping performance by Victoria Clark as the Mother Superior.  Which only goes to prove that no, you do not need to belt a high E to send a musical theatre audience into a frenzy (please take note all you contemporary musical theatre composers who don't even acknowledge that the soprano voice exists).  Vickie does it with a beautifully held high note in her head voice.  Yes, her head voice.  And that says a lot considering she's competing against the soulfully sung Deloris of Patina Miller.  Check out her hilarious and - forgive me in advance for using the adjective - fierce performance of "Random Black Girl" below.



To be honest, it is a slight let down not to hear the songs from the movie.  But the Menken score (though not as instantly memorable as his many hook-friendly Disney scores), is appropriately 70s - the time period has been shifted for the musical. 

According to Trish, the book appears to be completely re-written (per Trish, it wasn't funny in London) and many London songs have been jettisoned.  It also seems they've added two songs for Victoria Clark including the aforementioned show stopper (Mother Superior doesn't have any songs in London).  So basically, the Broadway production is completely different than the London production.  Weird, right?

It was widely publicized that Douglas Carter Beane script-doctored the production before it opened in New York.  But it seems he just kept the story line and re-wrote the whole damn thing, to its advantage.

Granted, I did see an Actor's Fund performance and the audiences at these fund-raisers (the actors, musicians, crew and theatre staff all donate their time) are usually filled with theatre queens, actors and other Broadway insiders, so the energy and enthusiasm in the theatre feels like an opening night.  So perhaps the performance energy was knocked up a notch or two.  Though God knows they need that little something extra, given it's usually an added ninth show at the end of their performance week.  What 'evs, I still enjoyed myself and would recommend the show if you can't get into Mormon, Priscilla or Follies.

Sadly, the show's original songs will never come close to eliciting the same giddy excitement as Marc Shaiman's (composer of Hairspray) arrangements from the movie. 

Newsies!

Newsies
Papermill Playhouse
Saturday, Oct 1, 2:00 PM performance

Newsies hits the “big 2” musical theatre audience demographic - gay men and tween-age girls.  Seriously though, who doesn’t like a stage full of handsome, young, muscular men dancing and flipping around a stage?  The director knows his audience, so the very first scene with all the “boys” features several shirtless Abercrombie & Fitch-types shaving.  Funny they should be shaving when they all appear to be completely hairless otherwise.  Not that I’m complaining. 

Disney’s latest effort almost makes up for the overblown and badly conceived The Little Mermaid from a few seasons back (though I still have a straight crush on Sierra Boggess - that voice!).  This time, Disney creatives have actual human characters to work with and a story set against a real historical event, no roller skates or weird hand puppets this go around.  From the audience reaction (wildly enthusiastic applause and several mid-song ovations), it seems Newsies is a hit with audiences.

From my front row, center mezzanine seat (jealous much?), I witnessed a slick, streamlined production that takes the best elements from the movie while retaining the spirit and energy of the cult film classic.

Jeremy Jordan has that indescribable “it” factor as well as a freakishly high, clean voice that is thrilling in the first act closing reprise of “Santa Fe.”  His newly created love interest (not in the movie) is a spunky pre-feminist, Katherine Plumber, played by Kara Lindsay.  Though the chemistry with Jordan is there, she seemed to be pushing vocally - at least at the performance I attended.  Otherwise, she’s a great actress and incredibly likeable in a role that could easily slip into “bitch” territory.

Some reviews describe the set as “ugly,” but I think it’s completely satisfactory and conveys the many and varied scene changes swiftly and economically.  I didn’t mind the projections and thought they were used tastefully and sparingly enough to evoke each location.

The choreography was out of control in a good and bad way.  Not much of it is character-driven, but it was so athletic and energetic, you couldn’t help but be impressed and excited.  I only wish it was more show-specific and not so much dance recital “show-off”-y.  Though Ryan Steele can do no wrong.

Broadway bound?  So it seems from insiders.  But I think it would be a mistake to move it without Jordan who’ll be starring in Bonnie and Clyde on Broadway beginning next month.  What’s the rush?  Wait for the fall and have a big-ass opening in the new season.  Let Jordan have back-to-back Tony nominations.

These are worth way more than a thousand words...

I'm still basking in the memories of last month's Pineda family cruise (don't worry, more updates and pictures are coming soon - I'm just a little slow.  Scroll down to earlier posts to see updates).  Those pesky on-ship photographers annoyed the hell out of us, but we finally broke down and decided to pose for them.  Little did they know we had our own special brand of glamour shot in mind. 

Here we are in all our airbrushed glory!  Yes, we also did a "real" pose, but it was nowhere near as interesting as this "dramatic" action shot.  The photographer didn't think we were serious and we literally had to force him to take the shot.  I think the results speak for themself, no? 

I mean, seriously, a red velvet chaise with matching red curtains?  Is this a cruise ship or a French whorehouse?

We actually couldn't believe how nice this picture of mom and dad turned out.  Now you can all see where we get our photogenic tendencies from. 

Ah, the (in)famous Northern Lights Dining Room.  So many memories of mediocre, but enjoyable meals with head waiter, Sirima (sweet but slow), and waiter, Stanimir (a sarcastic but lovable smartass). Here we are on formal night.  I guess that's why they added the extra fancy floral border to the picture.  Classy (barf).

I'm back!

Yes, my lovelies, I’m indeed back in the country and overflowing with tawdry tales of my European adventures, not to mention a dapper new hat from our day in Positano, Italy (me left - snazzy, huh?).  For my readers in the northern Jersey area, I hope my silly blog entries can at least bring a smile to your faces during your continuing recovery efforts in the aftermath of hurricane Irene. 

I’ve been taking copious notes and writing furiously while in Europe, but with the ridiculously expensive internet rates on the cruise ship and my hours scurrying from ancient ruin to ancient ruin, I’ve not been able to publish any of my adventures in real time.  Therefore, please check back regularly as I’ll be updating like a fiend over the next week or so, uploading blog entries and posting photos.  I’ll publish under the actual dates of travel, so make sure to scroll down to make sure you don’t miss a single delicious detail. 

Trish and I actually returned to our beloved Queens apartment on Monday night, following an exhaustive and nausea-inducing 10-hour flight, stopping over in Geneva for literally an hour to change planes.  Don’t worry, we still managed to haul ass to the duty free shop and purchased our weight in Swiss chocolate. 

Earlier that morning, 5:30 AM Barcelona time (that's 11:30 PM Sunday night for you East Coasters), we pried our eyelids open for the 30-minute cab ride to Barcelona airport.  Trish and I were going to head out late Sunday night for one last jamon sandwich and gelato on La Rambla (that's me on the left, actually on a street just off La Rambla, but you get the idea) but instead spent most of the evening packing and re-packing our bags to ensure we’d be under the 50-pound weight limit. 

With our portable hanging scale in hand, we furiously juggled trinkets, socks and dirty underwear between our three suitcases in order to avoid paying an extra fee.  We finally got under weight, but the effort left me literally dripping with sweat.  I appreciate the efforts of the Spanish government to limit energy use, but I am a spoiled American and want my room Arctic cold, dammit.  Turn up those thermostats!  Although I do give my Spanish homies props for installing nifty energy-saving key slots in each room, which automatically shut off the electricity unless you insert your key in the slot. 

The ride to the airport the next morning was uneventful, with just the gorgeous views of the city rushing by our cab window in the early morning darkness.  Oh, and also the view of the nasty couple playing tonsil hockey in the cab next to us.  Boy, those Spaniards sure are...um...romantic(?).

Check-in was quick and painless, except for the shenanigans of the Spanish gentleman ahead of me at security.  It seemed he had never flown before and kept setting off the metal detector, each time removing another metal article from his person before walking through the gates and again setting off the alarm - first some keys, then his watch, then some coins and finally his belt.  Unfortunately, with his belt also went his shorts - down to around his knees.  A middle-aged, overweight, Spanish dude’s hairy ass crack in red bikini underwear was not exactly the last image of Barcelona I wanted to take away with me.

I forced myself not to sleep on the flight so that I could go to bed at a regular hour once we arrived back in NYC.  Those changing time zones wreak havoc with your sleep cycle, not to mention your stomach.  So Thor, Hannah and an episode of House later (I started Battle LA, but the skittish camera work had me reaching for the barf bag), I was coasting into JFK, tired but happy to be home. 

It turns out our apartment was unscathed by the hurricane thanks to our landlord who was kind enough to shut all the windows that I had inadvertantly left open in my haste to escape the city amidst my earthquake panic.  Seriously, an earthquake and a hurricane within the same week?  What next, locust and plagues of hail and fire?  Anyway, two weeks with minimal airflow left the apartment warm, humid and musty like a homeless dog in the rain.  So after hauling our suitcases up the three flights of stairs, we flung open every window and Lysol-ed the shit out of place. 

And what's the first thing we do after turning on the TV and peeling off our dirty traveling clothes?  Call friends and family?  Wax nostalgically over shots of the Trevi Fountain and Tower of Pisa?  Of course not, silly, we order Chinese food!  After ten days of incredible pasta, the freshest seafood in the world and the most decadent desserts imaginable, I just want to sink into my sofa in my underwear with a pair of chopsticks and a pint of house special fried rice. 

I've now managed to stay awake for nearly 24 hours straight thanks to all the time zone crossing.  Though it's been an amazing trip, I'm thrilled I'll be able to collapse into my own dirty, damp bed tonight.  Where is our trusty cabin stewart, Lito, when you really need him?  Probably off at some towel-animal folding seminar.  Oh well, I’ll change the sheets when I’ve finally unpacked all my luggage, which shouldn’t be more than a month or two. 

Speaking of luggage, my fellow passengers were not as conscientious as I had been with their packing.  Apparently, our flight from Geneva to JFK was overweight, so the airline randomly pulled luggage off the plane in an effort to reduce our chances of falling out of the sky and thereby providing a lovely International feast for the Atlantic shark population.  Oh, those pesky weight restrictions.  As of this writing, we’re still waiting for our floral print Le Sport Sac filled with souvenirs and contraband French cured sausage from the farmer’s market in Arles.

Tomorrow morning I'll be bitch-slapped back into reality, answering phones and once again kowtowing to the financial elite in investment bankerland.  It's still good to be home.

Aix en Provence

With the success of our self-guided tour of Arles, Trish and I decided to ditch the group completely in Aix.  So after our guide, Sandrine, announced the bus departure time, we split from the group and headed out into town.  Our bus buddies followed suit and headed out on their own as well, shopping for back to school clothes for their teenage daughter. 

After wandering around a very modern mall complex, Trish and I found our way to the older, more interesting part of town.

The beautiful Hotel de Ville looks like a movie set.

The square in front of the Hotel de Ville.

Yet another gorgeous church, the Cathedrale Saint-Sauveur.

Perhaps the greatest find on our Aix-ploration was the Undiz store.  We left with half a dozen pairs of men's graphic underwear, some for friends and some for me.  I can't believe some enterprising person hasn't yet tried to open a franchise in the states.  This store would make a killing with a Chelsea boutique.  The gays would devour these clothes like a muscle daddy prowling for twinks at the black party.

We ended our day of underwear shopping with a stroll down the Cours Mirabeau, one of the main shopping thoroughfares in Aix, stopping along the way for a gelato.  In line, we spotted our bus buddies, Patti and Brian, and their children, Natalie and Jeff.  Patti was wondering where she could get a to-go glass of red wine for the bus ride back to Marseille - my kind of gal.

We finally met back up with our bus and tour group at the Fountaine de la Rotonde. 

On the ride back to the port of Marseille, we had an underwear viewing party in the back of the bus for Patti and her family.  They were quite impressed.  Of course, we were showing off our newly purchased Undiz, not the undies we were actually wearing.  That would just be way too weird, even for us.

Through the course of our conversation, we also discovered Patti's deep hatred for Fox News.  Yes, Patti and her middle American Michigan family are liberals!  I mean, seriously, what are the chances?  No wonder we became instant buddies.  Her daughter, Natalie, even had an Obama-themed Birthday party.  Now that is some hardcore shit.  

It seems Patti is also a quasi-celebrity.  She's written books for American Girl Place and has appeared on Dr. Phil as an expert on girl's body image.  You go, girl!

Back on board for our final night at sea, we took some time to hang out on mom and dad's balcony.

We couldn't relax for long.  Our packed bags had to be in the hallway and ready for sorting and pick-up by 10 PM that night.  Above, Trish cannot quite figure out how we are going to get all our newly purchased crap into our suitcases.

Here are the seven - yes, seven - pairs of new shoes I managed to purchase along the way.  Shoes take up a hell of a lot of space in a suitcase.  What the hell was I thinking?

This Afternoon's Itinerary:

Drive to Aix en Provence

Shopping

Cours Mirabeau

More shopping

Drive back to Port of Marseille

Next day in Barcelona

Morning in Arles

Previous day in Palma