"Another Day in Paradise"

Windansea Beach, La Jolla, CA

 

This is a common refrain by my in-laws who have been lucky enough to live in La Jolla for more than three decades. It never gets old, they still feel that way; they never take it for granted.  La Jolla is paradise, and the adjoining San Diego is equally Edenic. San Diego is often cited as the best place in the country to live. The vegetation is lush, the flowers are always in bloom, the weather is ridiculously consistent, I’ve been there in February and it was in the 70’s, and escaped many a Tucson summer to find it 70 degrees in July, the sunsets are spectacular, you can be outside all the time, biking, swimming, running, skateboarding, playing beach volleyball or holding a wedding without any fear of rain. The locals enjoy almost unlimited access to the Pacific Ocean. Even if you are on business at the San Diego Convention Center, as I was, you can step outside and see the yacht filled San Diego Bay and the beautiful bridge to Coronado.  Then hop in a car and make your way north through Mission Beach, Pacific Beach, until you reach loveliest of all, La Jolla. You can see the ocean from my in-laws’ balcony. But you cannot see Alaska.

One of my favorite runs is to go from their house two blocks down to the oceanfront, hang a right and head for Windansea beach, a small, spectacular stretch nestled between rocks and cliffs. There are some open vistas to the sea along the run but there are many oceanfront houses blocking the view, one more spectacular than the other, gates with Dolphin doorknobs on Dolphin Lane. As I ran I couldn’t help but wonder if these one-percenters knew how lucky they were. Probably not, money can’t buy happiness, right? It comes from within, right? Still, I wouldn’t mind having one of those houses. When I got to the beach, the sea was raging, there were record high waves and people were standing and staring at the ocean as if it were a gripping movie. Surfers were putting on their wet suits, taking a look and thinking twice. The ocean’s roar was powerful and awesome in the original sense of the word. Not as in: “That Instagram photo of your cat is awesome.” Truly awe-some.

When I was boarding the plane for departure, the Southwest pilot was asking passengers: “Are you ready to leave paradise?” No, I wasn’t. Every time I go to California I wonder why everyone doesn’t live there.  I’m just lucky enough to have a pass to Paradise which I will redeem on a regular basis.

Surf's Up

Thanksgiving Now and Then

Malt Barley Beer Brined Turkey
Courtesy Bon Appetit Magazine

Our Thanksgiving tradition has changed in the last two years. Our relatives, a family of five from New Jersey, used to join us, but once our oldest boys went off to college, we realized that the last thing they want to do on their first visit home is spend two or three days on the road away from friends they've missed and the comfort of their own bedrooms. So we have downsized--just five at the table, our family and the boys' Godmother. My mother always taught me that when you are entertaining, it is as easy to have 10 as five. What she was saying is, it is just as much work. And I get that. I have fallen into the must-brine-the turkey trap, and Thanksgiving is still a load of labor. 

But this year was considerably more low key than the dinner I executed three years ago, inspired by the last issue of Gourmet magazine arriving on my doorstep.  Here is what I wrote about Thanksgiving of 2009:

                                                  Gourmet I?                                                                       

            Gourmet magazine announced its demise and shortly thereafter sent me the November issue, fittingly enough with an image of a cooked turkey on the cover.  I wondered what this issue could offer in my annual struggle to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for ten. I was eager for tips on how I might be able to enhance the meal and somehow reduce the last minute stresses, in other words, for some solid tips on how to prolong the agony. The magazine offered solutions for both.  I found deep within the November issue two magnificent battle plans for a Gourmet Thanksgiving. I chose the Rural Pennsylvania route, donned my Army fatigues and prepared for the fight. “Game Plan,” it announced with a heading “Three Days Ahead.”  The idea that I could do anything three days ahead was enough to win me over. I could make the cranberry orange relish, even though I never make relish; and I could make beet pickled deviled eggs, again, a new concept. The photo of the eggs was so winning I could not resist--Pepto Bismol colored eggs with all the resplendent drama of Easter brought into deepest fall. Why not? I bought a beet, much to the astonishment of the checker, who wondered why I had wrestled a single beet out the bunch (“I only need one.” “But you are cheating yourself; they are sold by the bunch.”)  The exasperated cashier took pity on my foolishness, and in a bold move, overrode the scanning machine, put in her own code and decided to charge me a dime.

            Gourmet won’t give you a break, man. You don’t just coarsely chop two oranges and throw them into the relish; you must first “cut and peel white pith and cut segments free from their membranes.”  The magazine text features a parade of daunting imperatives, one could never imagine so much work was involved in making deviled eggs. To wit, one must: boil, simmer, cover, cool, marinate, chill, gently stir, finely grind, pat dry, cut, remove, mash, season, divide and sprinkle. No wonder deviled eggs were the go-to appetizer of the harried housewives of the 50’s.

            “Make turkey stock” was featured in the two-day-ahead plan. Usually my turkey stock is a can of chicken broth; but why not try something much more difficult?  I was instructed to remove the bag of giblets and neck, which involves a full  body cavity search of some intensity. If only I’d had some medical gloves, but none were indicated in the otherwise thorough instructions. (Hint, do not get your hostess manicure before attempting this recipe).  Here’s a good one:  “Cut neck into 1 inch pieces.” Riiight! I tried with all my might and even broke my nail down to the quick in the process.  Instead, I ended up with a neck that was hacked at perfect one inch intervals.  I was sure the scarring would achieve the purpose of releasing the neck’s juicy goodness into the stock. Cutting the giblets, though gross, was a snap. It was like cutting Jell-O. And I am not sure whether my bay leaf was Turkish, as required in the recipe,  because my “spice rack for dummies” just says “Bay Leaves”.  Into the pot went all of the ingredients and at the end I felt, much like the stock itself, reduced by 25%. And behold, two days before Thanksgiving there was stock, and it was good. It stood in reserve until the dreaded gravy-making moment, listed on the itinerary as “while turkey stands” in other words, last minute panic and sheer hell.

            On Thanksgiving morning I rose before the others to continue the militaristic approach and threw myself into the rigors of a boot camp, by entering the Turkey Chase run.  Eight thousand locals, many of them with turkey headgear, joined me. Two thousand of us opted for the two-mile “slackers’ race” but most of the throng was running a full 10K in an attempt, no doubt, to feel better about the coming caloric catastrophe. I finished the two miles in 21:20, exactly what it took my nephew to run three miles. Thus fortified, I headed back to the true battle, day zero.

            Another “long-cut” I employed was creating a turkey glaze. Never in my life have I done anything but slather a little butter or oil on the bird, but I was going the distance this time, so why not add this extra labor intensive step? As I was busy boiling a cup of cider vinegar and sugar, a great stink of fumes went up and people had to flee the kitchen. I had found an effective way to get rid of the onlookers. But oops! A few days later I found out it was supposed to be apple cider NOT cider vinegar. Oh well, these sorts of mistakes are like the flaw built into the quilt that humbles us in the eyes of God’s only true perfection. Or whatever. I figured it would make the turkey look shiny and pretty if nothing else.

            For the stuffing, I decided to go rogue--to go “down on the farm” with a Bob Evans sausage recipe.  What a snap. The number and quality of verbs in this recipe were in inverse proportion to those in Gourmet.  Preparation time was presented in minutes rather than days.  “Stirring occasionally”… how relaxed. “Brown, stir, add, sprinkle, pour, spoon.”  I felt briefly that I was down on the farm and out of the manse.

            Here are the things I did not choose from the Gourmet menu--Golden Onion Pie (as a first course? With five teens at the table? I don’t think so.) Rye Bread Stuffing (Why, when you have Mr. Evans at your side?). Carrots with Shallots, Sage and Thyme (see Golden Onion Pie comments).  Toasted Sweet Corn Pudding (rejected because key ingredient “one 13 ounce package of Cope’s toasted dried sweet corn” is not readily available in a one mile radius or even a one thousand mile radius).  Kale with Pan-fried Walnuts (never been quite sure what kale is and don’t trust it). Sauerkraut with Apples (a little too rural Pennsylvania).  Pear Cranberry Cake (not making a cake, thank you, desserts were delegated). And Buttermilk Shoofly Pie (insect imagery too vivid).

            In addition to the glaze, the stock, the relish, and the eggs, here is what I chose from Gourmet: Bacon Smashed Potatoes, allowing me to use up some of the four pounds of Smithfield bacon we had received for Christmas a year ago. To say a little goes a long way is an understatement. This stuff is like pork concentrate.  And Green Salad with Mustard Vinaigrette (put away the Good Seasons envelope for a change.)  And then, our very own traditional regulars, prepared by my sous chef, my niece--sweet potatoes with marshmallows (what is Thanksgiving in Amerika without them?); Brussel sprouts with corn and pecan; and green beans microwaved in the bag and hastily buttered and peppered (for boys who won’t eat any other greens).

            And voila, at 6:09 p.m. we had our 19.3 pound Sort of Cider-Glazed Turkey and Semi Rural Pennsylvania Thanksgiving on the table.  A grace was reluctantly uttered by our resident Catholic; and the kids hastily mumbled statements of gratitude. The meal offered a welcome break from the bad football games.  And by 6:49 p.m. everyone had left the table. That’s right--40 minutes of enjoyment for a meal that had been 72 hours in the making. It looked and tasted, well, gourmet.  That’s what I call a victory strike.  And the embattled general will retire from the field.  At least until Christmas. Bon Appetit, I hope you have a game plan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Putting the O in Virginia

I took the Obait and volunteered to work the phones for Obama last weekend. The volunteer told me to report to a preschool in downtown Bethesda.  I was offered my choice of rooms where I would set up my station. Winding through a maze of rooms filled with cots and puzzles and paints and easels, it was odd to see dedicated Democrats sitting in rocking chairs or stationed at tables that had recently been home to finger painting projects.

The concept of the Phone Bank has changed in the past four years. There are no banks of phones, instead the campaign organizers bank on the volunteer bringing his or her own cell phone. I was given three pages of names of people in rural Virginia. Maryland is so blue there is no sense in us bothering our own people, but just across the Potomac River it's a different story.

We were told to call and ask the person three questions--could we could count on their vote for President Obama; did they also plan to support Kaine for Senator; and would they like to volunteer for the campaign. We were provided a set of talking points if we needed to bring around one of the undecided.

It's not that easy to get someone on the phone these days. First of all, they all have voice mail and they all have caller ID. I am sure just the sight of my DC area code was enough to stop many of them from answering the phone. Out of roughly 150 calls, I talked to six people. The first man was a quick yes, yes, yes to all three questions. Then I got a yes, yes, no. I got a couple of people who were either partners or spouses, who after hearing I was calling from Obama headquarters said that their spouse/partner didn't want to come to the phone "but we're basically supportive and all that." They don't count, the Campaign Coordinator said, I have to report that I did not reach the voter, because the surrogate might "be trying to avoid confrontation." I got one abrupt hang up. I only got one person who really wanted to talk, she said it is hard for her this year because she just turned 60 and she has a lot of concerns about the economy, but she will vote for Obama because she "simply cannot abide" his opponent. As for Kaine, well she wasn't so sure. And no, she didn't want to volunteer.  She sounded tired.

I got pretty tired too after doing this for an hour. But I said I would come back again this weekend. It will be interesting to see what the debate has wrought.

The Jazz Fest of Books

Jeffrey Stayed Overtime to Sign This for Me

There is this annual event in Washington, DC called The National Book Festival, which I have missed since its inception 11 years ago.  I guess I was too busy going to my kids’ soccer and baseball games. But I finally went last weekend.  It reminded me of the New Orleans Jazz Fest with a series of tents filled with stages and chairs. But instead of music, inside the tents were authors  giving talks.  And there wasn’t any crayfish etouffee, just food for thought.  You could choose from History and Biography; Fiction and Mystery; Contemporary Life; Poetry and Prose; SciFi, Fantasy & Graphic Novels; and three other tents geared to teens, children and families, which I could pass on.  My boys don’t enjoy reading.  I blame their early exposure to the Internet and the wonderful world of video games. I wonder if 20 years from now the Book Festival will be greatly thinned out as the new generation of tiny byte readers comes to maturity.  But this year, anyway, it was teeming with people who love reading and love books and want to hear authors and want to buy their books and have their books signed. You can’t get a YouTube clip signed, now can you?  It was a nice, peaceful crowd, the kind of crowd where it seemed unlikely that anything dangerous would happen.  Maybe I got this sense after the mention of the word “librarian” caused one audience to erupt in applause.  All of this against the backdrop of the gorgeous Washington Mall…look one way you see the Capitol, the other way, the Washington Monument.  Sadly, I have turned into the typical suburbanite who fails to capitalize on the beauty of our Nation’s Capital.

I rolled in to see Douglas Brinkley talking about his new book on Walter Cronkite; then bought a copy of The Marriage Plot and stood in line to get Jeffrey Eugenides to sign it. The line for his signing was very long. At five sharp, when his signing was supposed to end, I was the third of about 20 people left.  The attendants in the line told us it was unlikely that he would get to us. Moments later we were told he would stay and sign everyone’s book.  Jeffrey has a big loopy signature. I told him it was worth the wait. He told me it’s getting messier. I told you it was a nice crowd.

Nomen Est Omen-Dr. Bone

... an orthopedic surgeon, of course, was profiled tonight on Brian Williams' Nightly News broadcast. Check it out:
http://video.msnbc.msn.com/nightly-news/49111802/

Is Your iPod Psychic?

My Psychic iPod

In order to answer this question you have to a) own an iPod that has a shuffle feature or b) own a computer that has an iTunes library with a shuffle feature. Have I lost anyone yet? I didn't think so.

I want to discuss the fact that the Ipod is psychic because when set on shuffle it often knows just what you want or need to hear. Examples: on the first day of summer "A Summer Wind" comes on. On arrival in Tucson, a song from Linda Ronstadt's "Canciones di Mi Padres" is the first song to play. One morning when I woke up worried and bemoaning the fact that I worry so much, the second song that played during my run was "I Worry," by John Mayer. On the day after Levon Helm died, The Band's "Whispering Pines" came on, bringing a tear to my eye. Dick Cavett wrote "Music bypasses your brain and goes straight to your heart." So true.

Saratoga Springs Sweeps Up Sophomore Stallion

Peter and Pals in Skidmore Dorm Room

Peter started his sophomore year at Skidmore this week. Move in day was Labor Day. Now I know why they call it Labor Day. We made the seven hour drive from Bethesda on Sunday. My friend Lina came with us to help. Darr was at the Democratic Convention in Charlotte. Upon arrival in Saratoga Springs I got that "everything is going to be all right" feeling that I experienced last year. The town is just so damn cute and appealing and lively and pretty. Especially Labor Day weekend which marks the end of the racing season. There are "Final Stretch" festivities, including live music on nearly every street corner, and great people watching--the horsey set wolfing down their last martinis, squeezing in their last dose of fine dining and high-end shopping, men in blue blazers with cigars, and chic women in pink and green clicking their high heels as they stroll down Broadway, the main drag. I cleverly made dinner reservations at Sperry's so we wouldn't have to fight the hordes for a table. They present you with a piping hot Gruyere filled popover to get you started and from there we had calamari in Thai chili lime sauce, caramelized Brussels sprouts with bacon lardons, and fettuccine with peas, asparagus and pancetta, and before you know it the blood had returned to my white knuckled hands. Expedia served me well with a room at the Courtyard by Marriott which was a stone's throw from Skidmore.

Artist at work on Broadway

But is also time for the horsey set to make way for the Thoroughbreds, the student body at Skidmore. We headed for the campus to inspect the new room, and it was big and glorious. Peter is rooming with an old friend from his high school, and two of his other good friends are on the same floor. Even better, one of them is the RA.  There is much more comfort in sophomore year. Both students and parents know the drill, know where they are going and what they are doing. In other words, I didn't have to cry all the way home. The length of the drive made me feel like crying, but leaving the beaming Peter on that beautiful campus which seems designed to calm did not.



A horse is a horse...

...of course, of course

 

Well Visit to West Virginia

Sandy and Denny's House--Berkeley Springs

Last weekend we went to West Virginia. I am missing a tooth, so we were immediately let across the state line. My tooth has been cosmetically corrected, but we were still let in. Okay, enough cheap shots at West Virginia.

We are fortunate to have friends with a weekend house in Berkeley Springs, and it is really lovely there. Really. We started a family tradition of going at least one night each summer since the boys were little; and we do the same thing every time we go, sort of a West Virginia version of Groundhog's Day. We drive down on Saturday in time for lunch; the men go to Tony's Butcher Block to hunt and gather dinner; we go to the Capacon Resort State Park Lake, which we fondly call The Redneck Riviera, where we swim and count the tattoos; we go to the live music concert (featuring everything from Zydeco to rock and roll cellists) in Berkeley Springs State Park; then we go home and eat very well--Tony's exquisite steaks, really good corn on the cob, and Sandy's delicious peach cobbler; enjoy some time on the deck under the crystal clear skies; sleep like babies with cool breezes and open windows. The next morning we eat a nice breakfast; go to the farmer's market to buy local produce and homemade pie; and then we hit the road.

Last weekend there was a slight variation--no boys; they both had their own getaway plans, so Darr and I went on our own. We still stuck closely to the program, but we chose to skip the Redneck Riviera and were able to go to a Happy Hour before the concert in the park. Also, we had missed last summer and our friends had moved to a nicer bigger house higher up in the hollers which we had yet to see. Gorgeous.

Although you are only about an hour and a half from Washington, DC, you feel a million miles away both through the presence of nature and the absence of stress. People are a little different there too, artsier, friendlier, hippier, with a sprinkling of hillbilly. We often spend our time at the concert chatting about the local characters. One of the prominent women in the community believes in fairies and talks to cats. There are hundreds of such stories. I think there's book material there.

Meanwhile, I plan to book my trip for next summer. It's a rejuvenating, joyful jaunt every time.

Skidmore Website Publishes Story on Peter's College Search

Peter at Whitman Graduation 2011

Here's the story: http://cms.skidmore.edu/news/news.cfm?passID=3560
...with a link to the Washingtonian article.

Nomen Est Omen (first in a series)

“Nomen est omen” is Latin for the “name is the (an) omen.”  I have always been intrigued by this phenomenon. I like those that stretch beyond the obvious Bakers and Fishers. Anthony Weiner’s fate might have been different had he been born with a less ominous name.

There are two fine examples in the news right now—Helen Gurley Brown, who devoted her life to helping girlies; and Usain Bolt, who will be the first to tell you he is the fastest man in the world.

Please feel free to contribute your favorites.

24 on 95

(I wrote this in 2009 after our last trip to from Maryland to Maine.)

"24 on 95"

We recently took a summer trip from Bethesda to Maine.  I like to say it is a 10-hour drive, and this is the way I can talk myself into doing it again and again. But really, facing facts, it is twelve. Twelve there and twelve back--a commitment to take a full day out of one’s life and spend nearly every minute of it on our nation’s loveliest highway, Interstate 95.

Franky spent the drive up in some form of sleeping sickness. Having just returned from a so-called “sleep-away camp,” he was quite exhausted, and devoted the trip to sleeping through hundreds of miles and several states.  But once he woke up, his bladder was in overdrive and we had to make several stops for him to pee.  I guess the 10 hour itinerary could be achievable if we were to own the proverbial Piss Pot. As my son asked, when we couldn’t stop the car soon enough for his liking: “Can I just pee in a jar?” We considered the modern day solution while browsing at a Wal-Mart --Depends undergarments.  But I would like to research the availability of authentic piss pots, perhaps tracking them down at Ye Olde Antique Shoppes filled with wares from the Middle Ages.  We spent quite a bit of time discussing the piss pot with friends who had bested our torturous journey by driving all the way from Tucson to Maine, and they too had identified the tremendous need for this type of product.   Piss pots play prominent film roles and are oft fetched by boys in The Madness of King George and by various Month Python characters.  Where are they now when we need them? May I propose the introduction of a newly branded product-- The EZPiss©, an EZ pass for the bladder, eliminating, if you will, the need to stop the car or even slow down.

Speaking of the EZ Pass, this tiny white cube of plastic affixed to the windshield has to be one of the best new innovative technologies ever invented.  How many precious moments we saved by being able to whiz through the toll booths while a satellite magically recorded our every move and automatically billed the tolls to our credit card.  How retro to have to slow down and talk to one of those poor toll booth workers (whose jobs are always featured among the occupations-most-likely-to-lead-to-suicide), to scrounge around in your pocket, or paw through the now antiquated “ash tray” for change.  And whiz we did…until we needed to whiz.

Each of the rest stops had its own local color. The New Jersey Turnpike even names their rest stops after famous locals, dead of course, because what living soul would want this honor? Only Howard Stern craves such a distinction.  My older son was quite horrified to see a rest stop named after his high school, Walt Whitman.  By the time I got to the Molly Pilcher Rest Area, I was so punch drunk that I fell into an infantile form of humor. When someone stepped ahead of a woman in a sari and said “I’m sorry.” I told Franky I thought the woman should have said, “No, I’m sari.”  He told me it was the worst he has ever heard from me. That’s saying something.

There are many ways passengers can entertain themselves on a long drive in this day and age. One can read if one has the proper vestibular constitution, and the whole family is blessed with it. One can do puzzles, one can watch movies, one can listen to music or talk shows or comedians (the second prize in road trip technology, after the EZ Pass, goes to satellite radio).  Peter devoted himself to watching the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, figuring this would bite into a good nine hours’ worth of the trip.  The boys read, watched movies, did not complain of ass pain.  I was quite amazed at everyone’s ability to do so very little for so very long.   I told the boys about the sad old days of yore when my parents and I were on long car trips and I would be set up with one of those count-the-license-plate books. Despite the DVD player, IPods, a DS Nintendo game, CD’s and 240 satellite radio stations, my younger son longed for one of the activity books. Instead we instructed him to see how many pick-up drivers had mustaches. It was 100 percent.  As a child, I also used to devise bizarre self-entertainments like making the sign of the cross every time we passed a church (most puzzling to my two agnostic parents), a variation of holding your breath when you go past a cemetery, which the boys do to the point of hyperventilation.

I think that travel calories don’t count, so I always treat myself to an extravagance on the road, a king sized bag of Cheetos.  Fellow travelers we observed seemed have no problem with year round high caloric intake, and we witnessed a great deal of what a doctor in South Carolina calls “biscuit toxicity.”

The states largely flew with the exception of the New York City metropolitan area;   it demanded to be observed in all its glory by deliberately bringing traffic to a standstill.   A well-timed one hour special by Bruce Coburn on Sirius intervened on the way up, but going back we just had to grimace and endure it.

Maine’s state motto is The Way Life Should Be. By the time you get there and see that “Welcome to Maine” sign, you believe with all your heart that getting off 95 is the way life should be.  But when you arrive, after 12 hours on the road, with leg cramps, white knuckles, and headlights and red lights seared into your retina, you really feel like it’s the way life could have been and should have been had you been there.  But that day you missed it.

The Goose Gets Gray; Maine Plays Misty for Me

Okay, it was long overdue, a gray foggy day. This is Maine, after all, and we had six continuous days of sunshine which is unusual to say the least. Secretly, we all wanted a day like this. So we got it. I started the morning playing tennis with a woman I met at the round robin on Wednesday.  During the middle of a point she stopped the game because a caterpillar was crossing the court. She got a leaf, carefully wrapped up the caterpillar and took it to a grassy area, saying: "I want you to turn into a butterfly."  This is all you need to know about this woman. Talk about random acts of kindness.  We are friends now.

We went to the Wells National Estuarine Research Reserve for a couple of trail walks, one to the densely foggy ocean, one through the ferns and marshes and birches and maples. The main feature of the outing was a density of mosquitoes so thick we had to run back to the car for Deet and cover ourselves in poison just to save our hides.

We drove around, the boys did some candle pin bowling, we went to a bookstore, we stopped for lunch at a place where the sign advertised the best lobster rolls in Maine and were told by a crusty old lobster man that they weren't making lobster rolls today.

We made up for it at dinner where the boys bibbed up for the final crustacean crescendo.

Tomorrow...back to crabby old Maryland.

Glamour tips for a week at the beach in Maine

The Maine Event--You've Earned It!

1. Do not get a manicure before you go. Your first (if not second, third or fourth) lobster dinner will completely trash it. There is a lot of crustacean excavation required on site and manicures have no business here.

2. Do get a pre-trip pedicure for color but the beach is going to offer lots of supplemental pedicure treatment for free--exfoliation, smoothing, soothing; you can get your feet warm in the sand and then plunge them into the ocean or a little tidal pool to cool them off. Such services could get a little pricey at Elizabeth Arden but here they are just another beach benny.

3. Do not use tan in a can products before the trip, especially the partial leg shorts tan. When the real tan catches up with you in your real bathing suit, it just looks stupid.

4.  Do not bring your hair straightening iron and your smoothing gels. These things are useless in the face of the sea air. Surrender to the waves and the waves.

5. Do not take much jewelry. You won't need it.

6. To avoid gaining weight on your vacation, do the following--sleep late, exercise soon after that, eat breakfast late and SKIP LUNCH. That way you are not only deserving of but ready for the Maine event, the lobstah dinnah.

7. Do not over pack. You won't need as many outfit changes as you think. You may succumb to the purchase of a local t-shirt or sweatshirt. It is perfectly acceptable to wear the same outfit more than once. We are at the beach on vacation for God's sake.

Eating reds and blues...in my coffee too

On the menu: lobster, lobster and more lobster

We spent our last night with Joe at Nunan's Lobster Hut in Cape Porpoise where the menu consists of one small lobster; two small lobsters; one large lobster; two large lobsters; lobster stew and lobster salad. Decor-lobster buoys up above; lobster bibs down below. I bibbed up for the twin special, which strictly prohibits sharing but we dodged the lob cop and I slipped a couple of claws to the boys.  

The next morning after some blueberry coffee, which is only palatable in Maine, we bid adieu to our Traipser only to see him return when he realized that he forgot his laptop. Despite his concerns about guests and fish, we insisted he stay a third night; we were having fish anyway.

We have exhausted the house supply of watchable DVD’s-Our Man Flint, which Darr said would explain Austin Powers and Rainman which I said would explain "I am an excellent driver."

We located the local tomatoes leading to a conversation in which we said they just need a little salt and “that’s all,” which we realized is “that sal” in French and Spanish.  

Yesterday we went to the Rachel Carson’s National Wildlife Preserve where we had to explain to the boys that Rachel is largely responsible for the environmental movement of today. Too bad she died in 1964 and never got to see Al Gore’s movie.  We found a driving range where Franky could practice his driving without a permit.  

These tide charts are amazing, and much more reliable than bus schedules. We got up today for the morning low tide-10:18 a.m. achievable even in a house of big sleepers. The shape of the beach completely changes at low tide and allows you to walk to what appear to be distant land masses during high tide.

Today I was wearing my “I am not a tourist. I live here” t-shirt on the beach which made people smile. If only they had seen the back they would have realized it is a promotion for Washingtonian magazine. But as my mother once wisely told me: "They can’t see you coming and going, dear.”

Off to the Ladies Round Robin to play my favorite sport with women who I imagine will be in good spirits if not good sports.

The glory of Goose Rocks Beach

Visiting dignitary



Joe Rhodes and his Traipsmobile (in Bethesda)

Quite unexpectedly, we have been joined by our dear friend Joe Rhodes whom we met in Tucson when he was a writer for the Arizona Daily Star for just one year, 1979-1980. We then bonded for life. Joe is a brilliant writer and hilarious human being and for the past two years has been on an odyssey traveling the country in a tricked-out former TV news van which now serves as his home complete with satellite dish, fridge and all of the amenities of home. In fact it is his home. And in it he follows the sun, or rather the lack of sun in the summer and the presence of sun in the winter, to be in optimally pleasing climes year round. That is why it is no coincidence that he finds himself in Maine in August; and came here from Newfoundland, which he says is basically Ireland, full of highly extroverted party-hearty fishermen. He says it is the first time he had to sneak out of a bar because so many people wanted to buy him a drink. Check out his blog Traipsathon. Joe keeps everyone updated on his whereabouts through Twitter and Facebook and if he finds himself in a place where friends live, he is likely to drop in, park the Traipsmobile in your driveway, perhaps do a load of laundry, sleep in a "real bed" and then move on. This is our third visit by the Traipsmobile. He sustains this existence by filing entertainment stories for The New York Times. Speaking of entertainment, Joe has a quite personal connection to the movie Bernie--the story of the meanest woman in Carthage, Texas who was shot dead by her mortician boyfriend and stored in a freezer. That woman, played by Shirley McLaine, was Joe's aunt. Really. Read his NYT Story How My Aunt Marge Ended Up in the Deep Freeze.

Meanwhile we set achievable vacation goals for the day--mine was to do a morning run and then go the beach. Darr's was to find a fresh produce stand. Peter and Franky's were to sleep late, go to the beach and then go on a family-fun-filled trip to Walmart. Going to Walmart is something we would  never do at home, so these trips are strictly associated with mirth and girth.

Native Fruits!

...from this fine establishment

Goose Rocks Beach, Maine

The view from my desk

Goose Rocks Beach really does not want you to know that it is here. There are no neon signs indicating its presence from the highway (Route 9). There are a few wooden signs in the shape of arrows with various commercial enterprises on the main road leading into the community, but it is easy to miss, as evidenced by my attempt to find it a couple of weeks ago on the Thelma and Louise trip. We blew right by it.  GRB has a Kennebunkport mailing address, but all they really share is a zip code.  Goose Rocks Beach has a small town sweetness,  hundreds of summer cottages, all tightly packed on quiet, bike filled streets. The toddlers can ride their trikes and the teens their bikes. And ringed by the prize, a three mile stretch of soft sandy beach featuring your friend and mine, the Atlantic Ocean.  The beach is lined with a variety of ocean front manses from ostentatious new builds to old cottages and behind them the houses that have grown vertically to get a view of the blue. That's where I am...on the third floor of a year-round residence rental (as opposed to a cottage) looking out a porthole window at the sea. "Sixty yards from the beach," as advertised.

During one of my stays in nearby Biddeford Pool I discovered the Goose Rocks Beach Community Center, which has four lovely tennis courts and an active group of players. It is run by an old former high school coach named Mike, whom everyone calls Coach. He was still there, even though we have been away for the past two summers, he pretended to remember me. Maybe he did. So did the tennis captain. There is a lot of continuity here, families who own houses and have been coming their entire lives, and many repeat renters, the kind who sign the lease for next summer the day they check out.

I started my day with the Tennis Round Robin which I know the GRBC hosts every Sunday at 9 a.m. And as the haze turned to sunshine, I hit the beach. There was a breeze coming off the ocean, there were kids throwing seaweed, playing paddle ball, building sand castles. All of the things you are supposed to see at the beach. They don't call it a day at the beach for nothing. I feel restored and refreshed and reminded of my childhood summers in Maine, when I used to sleep until noon and then spend the afternoon on the beach reading and writing.

This made us fforget the 11 hour drive

We are not going to discuss the eleven hour drive here because it all forgotten now. But we are going to discuss what our second stop was, after getting the keys from the realtor--O'Reilly's Lobster Coop. Much like Goose Rocks Beach, Mr. O'Reilly doesn't really want you to know he is there, and once you arrive, he will amble into the pound when he is good and ready while the customers look longingly at the crustaceans fated to die for their enjoyment. One year Frank and Jane Beiser visited and tried to photograph Mr. O'Reilly and his establishment and he didn't allow it. But Peter snuck in this one:

O'Reilly's: What else matters?

Blogger Sleeps in the City That Doesn't

The Way Life Should Be

We bid adieu to the state which is the way life should be and headed for New York City where there should be life, fully expecting to be there in five hours. When we stopped in Connecticut the GPS told us we would arrive at 3:40 p.m. We pulled in at 6:15 p.m. For more than two of those hours we were in a deadlocked traffic jam. If there were a cliff jumping moment, this would surely have been it, but cars and trucks all around prevented us from acting out on our suicidal frustration.

The Way Life Is

But then The Big Apple has a way of putting everything right, especially checking into the luxurious Phillips House where my friend Michelle's family owns two condos. Everything about this place was deluxe and soothing right down to the Frete bathrobe.

Central Park Runners

That night we had a rousing reunion with the Hughes family and my beloved Cousin Fred.  We wanted to see The Clock(http://lincolncenterfestival.org/index.php/2012-the-clock), but time did not permit. Dinner at PJ Clarke's and sitting on the fountain in front of the Lincoln Center eating gelato sufficed. I went running in Central Park the next morning, becoming an unofficial participant in an existing race, I had everything but the number. Lovely.

Sunday brunch with Lina and Michelle, Fred and his friends at The Druid in Hell's Kitchen, and then back to the pick up point in New Jersey to rescue Franky whose campsite on Lake George had been attacked by raccoons. He said they sounded liked terrorizing zombies.

Embarking on a merciless drive to Bethesda, permitting no food or bathroom stops, we made it in record time. We were all ready to be home.

This Plant Makes Me Sad

Crepe Myrtle Makes Me Sad

This is a crepe myrtle bush, they bloom in early July and they foreshadow the anniversary of my father’s death.  And here it is:  7-27 (1991) when we lost Mortimer Personya Warren who went by “Pete,” but I called him “Day.”  He was tall, 6’4”, and slim, and handsome; he was unfailingly polite and kind, fun, classy, a real gentleman.  How fitting to be in Maine today.  Day was a Mainer through and through, a man of few words, a man who picked wild blueberries for a summer job, a man who wouldn’t eat tomatoes unless he was here for the summer.  He wore Brooks Brothers’ suits in the summer in Tucson. He never shed his formative years in Maine especially his beloved time at Bowdoin (Class of '38) where his best friends were people like “Bunny” (Bass) and Bill “The Fly” Inman.  Nor could he lose his accent. “Cam down,” were the words that echoed throughout my childhood. 

He has missed a lot, primarily meeting his two grandsons, Peter Warren Beiser and Franky Warren Beiser.  He is missed a lot. I have him to thank for everything, my introduction to the music of his era; my surgical precision in picking apart a lobster and getting every morsel.  He was the guy everyone in the office liked, all of my friends liked, my mother and I loved.  He was pure goodness. There was nothing not to like about him. You’ll just have to trust me on that.

I spoke to him by phone in the hospital a few days before he died. He said: “You’ll never guess who’s here…my brother John.  He is just down the hall.” Uncle John had died in 1973. My father had neither a shred of religious upbringing nor any sense of spirituality. But I was glad to hear that Uncle John was down the hall and I hoped his parents were there too, and that my mother had joined them a couple of years later. I hope they are all sitting around laughing in big easy chairs, drinking and smoking with impunity and listening to Benny Goodman on the radio.

Manifold Memories in Maine

The Cliff House, Ogunquit, ME

Finally, finally, we reach "my" state, Maine, where the welcome sign says "The Way Life Should Be."  Indeed. I am posting from a genteel lobby with jazzy standards as background music, atop a 100 foot cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean as far as the eye can see. We are staying at the 140 year old Cliff House in Ogunquit, Maine. During my childhood my mother would take me to the sweet old Ogunquit Playhouse to see summer stock, and encourage me to go backstage and get autographs from such luminaries as Peggy Cummings. Then we would have dinner at the Cliff House. I always wanted to stay here. Now I can. And tonight we are going to see Damn Yankees at the Ogunquit Playhouse. It's never too late to start your childhood over again.

Walker's Point, Bush Compound

Yesterday I had the honor of introducing Lina to Margo's Maine, much like Sophia's Roma. We went to Kennebunkport so I could show her Walker's Point. I have always insisted that if I owned that house I wouldn't need to be President of the United States. All my dreams would already have been fulfilled. But some people are just greedy, I guess. 

Our old house in OOB

OOB house "Front Yard"

Then I took her to Goose Rocks Beach where we will be staying in August; and to Granite Point in Biddeford Pool where we spent so many happy hours in the Googins summer cottage; finally onto Old Orchard Beach where I spent my early years in an oceanfront/summer boarding house inherited from my grandmother, full of wacky regular guests such as Madame Beauchamps and her "companion" May; and a hot dog and candy stand to feed the hungry Quebequois who descended on our "front yard," the beach.

The real deal

From there to Camp Ellis where our friends the Wolfes are staying while they handle the press credentials for their client the Beach to Beacon race coming up next week. We ate at Huot's and I got my hands on my first real lobster dinner. Hell on your manicure but heaven on your heart.

By the way, there were hardly any moments of "Non Compass Mentis" yesterday. My primal rat brain kicked in and guided me to all of my childhood haunts and kept me on the Maine roads with hardly a bit of trouble.

Non Compass Mentis

This is a term I coined to describe my friend Judy's driving back in the days when I threw my Latin education around a little more liberally. A lay translation is "no sense of direction." A more literal translation is there is no compass in the mind. I am similarly afflicted. I must report honestly that this trip has been full of "non compass mentis" moments. That means missed turns, wrong turns, U-turns, overshot and undershot exits.  Even technology fails if you plug Davis Road in Falmouth into the GPS when you mean Ben Davis Road in East Falmouth. My Garmin's annoying "Nuvi" woman refused to take the entry. At least she didn't say "Re-Kal-Ku-Lating" in that annoyed tone. She simply gave up on me. Fortunately my travel companion is unflappable and the world's most patient person. She has been a kind and faithful co-pilot and I am glad to have her in the cockpit.

Breakfast with the Brainiacs

TI began my day with a visit to the concierge desk, where, as is my wont, I asked for a local running map. They handed me a small colorful card, almost Tarot-like in its prediction of my fate. I was to run down Dartmouth Street to the banks of the Charles River, cross the Harvard Bridge, run by MIT and back over the Longfellow Bridge and find my way home. Nothing like having to run by the ominous chrome dome of genius at MIT before breakfast. On the Harvard Bridge I espied various markings of "Smoot." The duck tour guide had told us that many years ago the MIT geeks, so offended by the name Harvard Bridge for the route to their college, had taken some poor freshman of short stature, Fred Smoot (5'7") and laid him across the bridge, end to end, again and again until they could measure the bridge in "Smoots" thus marking their territory and claim to the bridge. The Smoot is a measurement in use to this day, or so said our duck tour guide Shakespeare. My husband says you can never believe anything any tour guide ever says. The bridge made a believer out of me.

Harvard admissions office

Not having had our fill of egghead, we set out to Harvard for breakfast. Egghead was not on the menu, but Lina chose eggplant for her sub..okay we were a little late for breakfast. I went to Harvard Summer School in 1987, so it was familiar but still dauntingly impressive.  I saw so many tromping, troubled Ivy hopefuls marching their way through the orientation tours that I had an uneasy little flashback about the summer of our college tours. (See Washingtonian article below.)

Courtesy of Edward Perry Warren

Next up on the culture dish was the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. The Warren WASP lines run long and deep here in Boston and I went in search of the Greek artifacts donated by Edward Perry Warren, an antiquities collector of some renown, and the man who helped my grandmother furnish her Portland house, and eventually my house. We eat dinner at a 16th century refectory table good old EP selected for her in England. And in the museum section on the ancient world we found a few of his finds. We were also delighted to come upon a Sargent portrait of another famous distant relative, Mrs. Fiske Warren. So my sliver of Boston Brahman offset the humbling at Harvard and the MIT mystique that had so colored my morning.

Headed to the North End tonight for some real Italian cooking. That means another morning outing to run off the ravioli.

Boston at our feet-the view from our room.

"Ya Wanna Have a Refreshaah?"

The Swan Boats

So reads the blackboard in the Copley Center Starbucks whence I post. So I will provide a refreshaah of our day.  Just in case you do not encounter the authentic spoken Boston accent, the menus do the job for you-- at lunch at I was forced to order "clam chowdah." Ok we get it. We are in Boston. We had a full-on Day of the Cliche when it came to touring. In a city as steeped in tradition as my Calm tea is now, there is no reason to go rogue. So we backed out of Back Bay and strode down Newbury Street and before we knew it we were in the Boston Gardens (Gahdens) taking a ride on the swan boats, and bearing witness to the scene that spawned what our tour guide referred to "that non-stop thriller" Make Way For Ducklings.

Cheers-where nobody knew our names

From there through the Boston Common to follow the red brick road, The Freedom Trail, a two and half mile tour through Boston's historical high points. The Trail was lacking in freedom from hordes of tourists, campers, group tours. We ended up at Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, ate at "Cheers" where nobody knew our names. A performance artist did a great job of finding two balding men in the audience to use as his foils and capped one with a road cone and the other with a toilet plunger and declared the Tin Man had met Teletubby.

Duck Tour led by man in tights

Best of all the Duck Tour, where our tour guide, named Will Shakespeare, ran onto the bus/boat saying he was wearing tights, but they were really leggings and there is a distinction. I learned more about Boston than I'd ever known despite numerous visits here. We crossed the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Wait until I tell my running group.  I learned that Boston was the first in chocolate, jelly beans, the Boston Creme Pie, and the Parker Roll. Oh, and a lot of historical facts too. Best was that you can have a cold Sam Adams at the Beantown Pub across from the cold Sam Adams buried in a cemetery across the street. As we disembarked, Will cranked up Monty Python's Men in Tights, forever endearing himself to me.

The Cape Crusade

Okay, so we lost a full day to driving Saturday. it took us a full 12 hours to get to Cape Cod from Bethesda. By the end of the day all I could see was red--red brake lights, red street cones for the accident in New Haven that slowed us down, and red traffic lights when we finally got off the highway. Richard Russo's That Old Cape Magic, a highly relevant audio book, helped ease the pain.

But our mood greatly improved when we arrived in Jerry and Susan's beautiful home in East Falmouth on Cape Cod and they helped us decompress immediately with salty snacks and salt air; and a candlelit dinner of steaks, salad and sorbet.  A quick tour of the house revealed that one door led to an airplane hangar. Jerry and Susan live in an "airpark community" designed for people who want to have their plane handy and a runway nearby. in this case, literally in their back yard. Jerry is a pilot with a single engine plane and a second plane he is building, now in progress. I slept like a baby, in other words for eleven hours. I woke to a very loud noise. Was it a leaf blower? No.  Was it a lawn mower? No.  It was a plane, boss! A plane! This happened a series of times as people took off for their Sunday jaunts to the Vineyard or Nantucket or Boston or the airshow in OshkoshToday, I couldn't have been happier to be in the backseat and leave the driving tour to Susan. She took us to Woods Hole. where I saw a sign for "lobster tacos."  While this is is the marriage of my two favorite foods, it just seemed wrong to me. Wrong. We went for a lovely lunch at Landfall with cool ocean breezes where I had my first lobster roll of the trip. We cruised around Falmouth proper, and North Falmouth where oceanfront manses abound; we strolled around cute little shops with crustacean covered curios; we went onto Osterville, where things were wrapped up tight by 5 p.m. on a Sunday; but we had to see a certain store with my name on it. What do they mean "practically unusual" anyway? I am fully unusual.

East Falmouth on Dwellable

Thelma and Louise Redux

 

Tomorrow my friend and I are going on one week road trip--from Bethesda to New Jersey to drop off my son at "cousin camp" and then onto Cape Cod; Boston; Maine; and New York City. Finally, back to New Jersey and Bethesda on the last day. Ambitious? Yes. But we like to "pack a lot in" on a trip and we don't mean luggage. Unlike Thelma and Louise, the only cliff we hope to encounter is the view from The Cliff House in Ogunquit, Maine. But who knows.  Follow along and I will keep you "posted."

College Search Article-Washingtonian May 2012

I was published in the May 2012 issue of Washingtonian:

A Mom's Temp Job as College Headhunter for Her Teen

Visiting the Ivies and safeties, dealing with ditzy student guides, and more.

Margo Warren

In a migration pattern common to many Washingtonians, after my husband and I had kids we left DC, moving to the suburbs to take advantage of Montgomery County's renowned public-school system, where we landed in the Walt Whitman High School "cluster." During my older son's junior year, I found myself with a new job.
Job description: Assist client, 17-year-old boy, in college search with more than 2,700 possible choices; select itineraries, routes, hotels, meals; set up appointments for orientations and tours; ensure that client arrives on time, rested, prepared, appropriately dressed.
Relevant qualifications: Must have a strong ability to hold your tongue. May not offer thoughts about a college, its geographic desirability, or its student body until client has formulated his own.
Travel requirements: Extensive.
Compensation: Zero.
Time frame: Job to begin in spring of client's junior year and be completed by fall of senior year, when client must create wish list of schools consisting of a mix of "reaches," "probables," and "safeties."
About client: Likely to be taller than you. At the beginning of your work with client, he is unlikely to know the difference between West Virginia and Wesleyan or even between a college and a university. He may be hard pressed to define "liberal arts."
Caveat: When job comes to an end, you may experience prolonged period of weeping and, in some reported cases, even mild clinical depression.
I take this crazy job. Client is very likable and easy to work for, though he can be, like his grandfather, "a man of few words." In our initial consultation, he states an interest in studying music and sets his geographic parameters as "north of Bethesda--or California."
Springtime Slog
New York University. A friend's father is a professor of government at NYU, so he takes us on a personal tour. We get to see the library, and he points out the balcony from which a student jumped. The professor wants our client to go there because, he says, "I need the money." Client registers no discernible reaction to where he is. I suppress my urge to say: "Look around, man--you're in New York City, the best city in the entire freaking world." It's rainy. Very urban, not much of a campus, but as our friend the professor says, "The entire city is your campus." That would be New York City. But I say nothing. Client also says nothing about NYU itself.
Off to Beantown. I suppress all urges to say, "This is one of the greatest cities in the world. Don't you love it? Isn't it fantastic?"
Tufts University. I want client to love Tufts. The elephant mascot, the extraordinary facilities. The prestige. The admissions office is handing out rain ponchos; we are drenched. The tour ends on the roof of the library for the alleged sweeping vista of Boston. We see nothing but gray skies, zero visibility.
Dripping client is eager to get into the car and says little.
Boston College. I subcontract this visit out to my husband, reasoning that it would be better led by a Catholic, even if a lapsed one. My husband loves BC; he loves the nice students and the Doug Flutie statue. I think the client likes it, too.
Berklee College of Music. What a place--our tour is led by an aspiring country singer. Berklee has everything a musician could want plus a dozen majors--production, engineering, movie scoring. Tour guide scares me when discussing the liberal-arts requirements: "You only have to take 40 hours and maintain a 2.5 grade-point average; the rest is music all the time." John Mayer went there, Quincy Jones--amazing alums, great facilities. Serves as a valuable field trip for a musician, kind of like going to Graceland.
Client feels underqualified but intrigued.
Boston University. School is urban, but there is a patch of greenery, the "BU beach" along the Charles River. Lots of Emmys and Oscars in the library. The tour guide is a ditzy pre-med whom both client and I agree we wouldn't want to see at our hospital bedside anytime soon. Off to the music department. Once again client seems daunted by the audition process, though impressed by the high-tech practice rooms.
While in Boston, client shows superior mastery of the public-transportation system and seems quite comfortable in the city.
Connecticut College. The fifth day of spring break and the weather is finally perfect. The sun is out; the campus looks like something from central casting--free private music lessons for all! Friendly students, everyone out on the lawn, an arboretum on the grounds, sledding on cafeteria trays. It's Connecticut College, for God's sake--no SATs required. Not a single strike against this visit.
Client says: "There was something off about that place."

Summertime Swing
University of Southern California. We visit during a gray and gloomy period in July. The tour guide apologizes and promises 333 days of sun a year. A film crew is on campus. We learn that graduates will be forever helped by 300,000 USC alums--Trojans helping Trojans--among them George Lucas. Randy Newman's "I Love LA" batters my brain.
Client says: USC is cool.
Next--upstate New York for a college blitz intended as my grand fireworks finale: six colleges in 3½ days, covering hundreds of miles. Conundrum of what to do with the little brother is solved by offload with the New Jersey cousins.
Cornell University. The famous Ivy on the hill lives up to its reputation for beauty and academic excellence. We see all of Ithaca below, the famous gorges. Tour guide discusses The Office, something both prospective students and their parents can enjoy. Mentions that Andy is a Cornell grad.
Client says: Cornell is probably a reach, but he might consider it.
Ithaca College. Newer and starker than Cornell but with a focused tour related to the client's stated interest--the School of Music. Serious prospective students, one carrying his violin case on the tour. We get the lowdown on applying to a music conservatory. We are handed a list of audition requirements--percussion instruments the client has never played, arias in languages he has never spoken. But we hear the magic selling point: "Music-education majors from Ithaca College have 100-percent job placement."
Client interacts with tour guide! Seems to like Ithaca College but remains confounded by audition process.
Colgate University. Named among the ten most beautiful campuses by the Princeton Review, and good friend went there, so why not? The grounds are lovely, but we start out with an orientation session that leaves us rather cold. Young and dopey admissions officer "is like" for every "says." Tour guide further slaughters English language: "When me and my roommate go sledding . . . ."
Client describes admissions officer as "annoying."
Hamilton College. Every reference on the tour is a chance for a dig at rival Colgate. Hamilton is classy. The admissions officer tells us that one of her favorite answers to the supplemental essay question "Why Hamilton?" was a single sentence: "Like Aaron Burr, I want a shot at Hamilton." The college focuses on teaching everyone to write well, which appeals to me, but oh, yeah--it's not about me.
Client begins assimilating knowledge: Says he likes Hamilton better than Colgate. Says a music degree from Ithaca College would be better than one from Hamilton.
On to Saratoga Springs, where at the height of "the racing season" the town goes from a population of 30,000 to 100,000.
Skidmore College. Everything goes right at Skidmore. The tour guide attended the client's rival high school, Bethesda-Chevy Chase. He is a music and government major. Client mentions he is in a Beatles cover band, and we learn there is an annual Beatlemania weekend featuring cover bands of the Fab Four.
Client says: "I think it's a good fit."
If the college fits, you must quit. But we do not. We race down the highway the next morning to Poughkeepsie.
Vassar College. Tour guide takes us to the drama department first. It's famous, apparently--Meryl Streep went there. Mix of old architecture and new, not well integrated. Original buildings stately; library looks like a Gothic cathedral with stained-glass windows. But a visit to the common room in one of the dorms does us in--sofas with stuffing coming out, dusty wires underfoot, lampshades cracked and askew. Music building "too far" to be included on the tour.
Client wants to leave so much that he is eager to head to New Jersey to see his little brother.
Final Report
Client has seen a total of 20 colleges or universities. Extensive organizational support required in the final phase.
Client wants to take piano lessons, rent a piano, take vocal lessons, prepare for music auditions. I write checks, prepare files and spreadsheets with deadlines. He writes essays, takes the SATs twice, and receives early-action acceptance from Boston College. Whew!
But it doesn't stop there. He cuts his list down from 14 schools to eight. In April he gets the nod from Skidmore and smiles in a telling way. He accepts its offer. He still has miles to go before he sleeps . . . in a dorm. I just wish I could accept that he has to leave home to do it.
I don't know if I'd take this job again, but there's a high-school sophomore in the house and something tells me I may have to.

Margo Warren lives in Bethesda.
This article appears in the May 2012 issue of The Washingtonian.