Mountains and Moxie

I’m a lucky girl. I know that. Yet, in my real life, though not so much here or on social media, I spend way too much of my emotional energy on what I don’t have. This week has been a good reinforcement of what I do have.

While my work situation has been stressful to say the least, it’s also challenged me in new ways, which is a gift. This week I spoke truth to power, in a way I never have, on an issue that is international news, despite that doing so had the potential to put my job and reputation at risk. I am, as a rule, not confrontational, but I found myself in a moral quandary that required my standing alone in front of the tanks – tanks full of white men in power positions certain they understood the situation better than I. I am proud of myself and I transformed what could have been a disastrous outcome, changed minds, and protected students.

But boy did I need a little magic to shake off the adrenaline.

It all started with a sweet bubble that existed only in the wee hours. My plane landed late Thursday and I headed straight to the beach where my lovely friend Sean, who was leaving town less than 9 hours after I arrived, would be waiting with a thermos of mojitos. On my way, I visited my old apartment and workplace and my favorite spot on the beach, where I’d lost an irreplaceable earring (purchased from the silversmith himself in rural Iceland) after another tipsy night with Sean. We walked the starlit beach, talked til almost dawn, and hugged goodbye til the next time the magical Miami moonlight brings us back together.

After a quick nap, it was time for my real Beach homecoming.

My life in the Magic City began with its own bit of alchemy concocted by my sister. Karen hated my choice of where to live and made me look at one more apartment. Stray cats and a sweaty, shirtless man greeted us when we got there. “Hi, I’m Patrick” he said opening the door, “I live in 201 with my partner David.” My sis at least waited til we got in the elevator before she said “These are your people.”

I love Schitt’s Creek – it is a beautiful, supremely human show about family, friendship, and self-fulfillment, as over-the-top as it is sincere. There’s nary a character with which I haven’t related to at various points: the steadfast, oft-overlooked Johnny, who always lands on his feet; Moira, whose self-involved melodrama can’t overshadow her compassion; the flirty, flighty, free-spirited Alexis, who measures her value wholly through the lens of male attention, until she doesn’t; and, most of all, David, who undermines each step forward with over-confident self-destruction.

But in Miami Beach, it’s in the character of the sassy, lonely outsider Stevie that I found myself. Stevie’s life changed when the Rose family, especially David and Patrick, embraced her as one of their own, despite seemingly having nothing in common.

My life changed when my Patrick and David embraced me. My sister was right – they are my people. As are Carol and Raquel, other neighbors, whom I got to know a bit in my early days, but came to treasure on the November Thursday when I left my phone in an Uber and Raquel drove me an hour away – despite it being Thanksgiving – to retrieve it, for no reason except that she is amazing. Over the course of my three years in the Fairview (or Catview as we call it for our shared love of our feline friends – Gatsby’s neighbors included Mittens who lives with P&D and Miss Squiggles who lives with C&R), we gathered for weekly, birthday, and holiday meals, bike rides, theater and concert outings, played pickleball and cards, shared our good days, and were there for each other on the bad ones. We were joined by Marcia and her cat Croqueta (rip), Raquel’s mom Eva, who at 80 still runs a fish import company and, as the only non-vegetarian of our group, would gift me with delicious offerings of salmon or stone crab, Clotilde, a bon vivant who lived many lives including disc jockey in 1970s Paris, fashion photographer, illustrator, and travel writer, but remains iffy on cats, as well as a rogue’s gallery of charming pickleballers who would join our weekend games followed by drinks, snacks, and laughs. I struggled mightily in the decision to leave Miami Beach and it was 100% because of these friends who have become family.

Before you even ask, yes – it was hot. Really hot, really humid. But I’m generally not a delicate flower about these things. I drank a lot of water, wore factor 90 sunscreen, and talked way too much about my frizzy hair. I had a couple different thoughts about what I wanted to accomplish in this weekend, but in the end, it was going home to those special people in our lives around whom you’re comfortable helping yourself to what’s in the fridge, burping loudly, and not always being your best self, even though they always bring it out. Over blueberry pancakes and kombucha we caught up on all our recent travels and various activism (reproductive rights, LGBTQ rights, the environment, voter equity – we care about what’s right and we fight for it), and I checked a lot of activity boxes.

Movie, followed by drinks on the beach – check (you can guess the movie);

nearly four hours of pickleball in 90+ degree weather – check (in case you think its only a game for retirees, this is my pickle crew);

a competitive game of euchre – check;

snorkeling off the South Point pier – check;

bike ride to soak in the Art Deco delights of Ocean Drive – check;

sunrise yoga on the beach – check;

stray cat and house cat snuggles – check;

Cuban coffee – check (many); the world’s greatest fish tacos – check (twice); Harry’s spinach pizza – check; even Patrick’s homemade kombucha did not disappoint (it never does).

There were the usual Miami Beach moments – a sudden storm that passes as quickly as it comes, old men playing dominoes, an scantily clad bar-hopping co-eds; and salsa (music and dip) wafting through the air and I love it all.

The tanks are still waiting for me and I’m going to have to step back in front of them, but I’m fortified by my weekend. And so, to my Miami Beach family who make me feel so seen, understood, and loved for all my fabulousness and my flaws, I say – you’re simply the best!

I’m home with my cat, curled on the couch smelling delicious while my diy concoction of old banana, coconut oil, and honey works its magic on my dry, frizzy hair, since I didn’t manage to condition it last night. I think we all knew what I’d choose when the options were self-care or having a drink with an old friend in town for just one night.

Judge me as you will, but I think social media is a gift. It has allowed us to connect and keep track of folks from throughout our lives. Some people think that friends are like pairs of shoes, if you get a new one, you should get rid of an old, no long useful one. I’m not like that. (I’m not like that with shoes either, truth be told.) When it comes to the people in our lives, I think more is more and I’m pretty good at keeping in touch, and always grateful to know that people who have known the various versions of me are out there knowing this version. It was great to see my summer camp cabin mate. We once kayaked and shot arrows and short-sheeted beds together. Now she is a professor and gender advocate and whiskey drinker and I’m so impressed.

The past two days back at work were, as expected, very, very hard. Like many organizations, we were faced with the horrible decision to lay-off some of the staff. I’ve known for a little bit that this day was coming, and played a role in assessing who would be impacted, and it stinks. My job, after informing the unfortunate member of my team, was to manage the communications to the rest of the staff in a way that eased nerves and inspired understanding. It’s not possible, really, but I did the best I could. Of the senior team, I am the only woman, and am known as a strong mentor and sounding board. That’s flattering in most cases (not the lone woman part), but today it meant a lot of teary and/or angry colleagues in and out of my office. I hope I honored them and offered the support they needed, but time is the only healer that will really help right now, and the only one I can’t provide.

I’ve done a good bit of crisis pr ranging from the day someone dropped a box labeled “anthrax” off at the BSO, to pandemic communications, to MTT’s health, and currently a MeToo situation which has resulted in my getting quoted in papers from Cleveland to Chicago to Portland, Or. But nothing is as bad as layoffs.

Asking for sympathy for my hard day, on a day when folks lost their jobs, is awful, of course, and even I am not that narcissistic. But I’m happy to have a quiet night at home to feel the feels.

I’ve been thinking a lot about sliding doors. What if I never left the BSO or I continued to live with Emilio in the Bronx rather than move to Miami? There’s no changing the past, so the only thing we can do is have no regrets and look forward. But also backwards – I’m so glad I saw my friend last night and another friend passing through town last week, all my friends in the Berkshires, my old friends in the UK and new ones in Jordan. No matter which way the doors slide, I’ll be ok because of this wonderful chosen family around me!

And while I’m happy to be back home and on my couch, I’m not staying put for long, because….you know me. Miami Beach at the end of the month, back to the Berks in before the end of the summer, a West Coast trip is shaping up for the fall, and London in December. And another big adventure in the spring. I’m also toying with a bike trip from Vienna to Budapest in October – stay tuned for more on that one.

And maybe I’ll actually do my long-promised, oft-talked about, never-acted-upon attempt at turning this blog into something more real. Stay tuned for that one as well.

Thanks for coming along.

Ah – my final two days sort of break my heart – I think it’s clear how much I love this part of the world – but they did not disappoint.

I woke in Old Saybrook and rushed back for an aggressive 10am pickleball game at Simon’s Rock – Bard College’s outpost for college students who are matriculating at very young ages and which boasts alums including both Joel and Ethan Coen, Ronan Farrow, and Alison Bechdel, who originated the Bechdel test.

Later, at lunch at the fancy country club one of my companions mused on the idea that five years ago he’d never even heard of pickleball. “And 10 years ago I’d never heard of kale,” he added as I dipped into my delicious salad. “You’re a bad influence!”

After a much needed shower, I headed once again to Tanglewood, this time for the BSO opening night. I passed the house that was for sale forever and I’ve always said should be mine, but was purchased – and immediately went viral – by a Black dancer and entrepreneur who’s long renovation of the property is being documented by Oprah Winfrey. Seeing cars in the driveway, I figured what the heck and knocked on the door. No one answered, but the door was unlocked – which to me seems good enough. The renovation was in it’s early stages and all there was to see were sawdust and drop cloths, so I slipped out, once again foiled in my mission to meet the new owner.

At TWD, I walked reporters around the grounds, who got an bonus interview when Keith Lockhart popped out of a dressing room, though he wasn’t meant to be on the grounds that day, and bellowed “La Drohan!” That evening’s press reception was to introduce the new BSO press office after a year of change. As the new director went through the list of new employees I stayed as quiet as could be in the back of the room, but press kept gesturing towards me. Finally, she said, “we have a press office emeritus with us today, Kathleen Drohan,” which was met with a round of applause. Lovely for me, but I’m certain not the best way for her to establish herself in the department.

The opening night concert was spectacular, spectacular with works by Wynton Marsalis, Prokofiev and the bombastic Tchaikovsky #4. With seats near the stage, I caught the eye of several musicians I hadn’t yet had the chance to say hello to and they would tip a bow or dip a horn my way (the equivalent of a hug while they’re still on stage). The night’s soloist, Daniil Trifinov, was all flashing fingers in the piano concerto. I rarely sit piano side, and now I see why everyone wants to. Holy Cow! Daniil went to the Cleveland Institute of Music, so I zipped backstage for a photo and proved my worth to the org who let me work remotely all week.

I sat at the concert with a former colleague who left the BSO around the same time as me, and later brought me to Prague to do pr for the Defiant Requiem in honor of the victims of Theresienstadt. I documented that trip on this blog. He recently returned to the BSO proving that I’m not the only one impacted by it’s magnetic pull.

Saturday morning began with an early morning dip in Lake Mansfield. With no one else in the lake, and the trees surrounding it, it was meditative and fortifying.

Then a trip to the fabulous farmer’s market where I indulged my love of buying over priced condiments. There I saw a beloved friend, a drummer with the Boston Pops, who also serves as the president of the musicians union. He gave me a book called “How to be a Better Asshole” for my birthday once and created a “security team” of musicians to take care of me when an over eager fan of the Pops deemed me the person between her and them and sent some pretty scary letters. But most wonderfully, one year when I went to see the Pops do a holiday concert at a stadium in Bridgeport, CT, a musician had the great idea to prank Keith, who had not yet seen me, but seating me on stage. I asked if it was ok and someone said, “we should check with the union, PAT – we have an idea….” He delightedly approved, with a wicked grin and, in front of 20,000 fans, I played the sleigh bells in Leroy Anderson’s classical Sleigh Ride (arguably the most important instrument). Keith doubled over laughing when he realized I was there and even gave me a solo bow!

Coffee with one dear publicist friend and lunch with another got me caught up on their lives and the insudstry gossip and occupied me til mid day. Then it was time for Big favor.

I have a celebrity neighbor and friend up here with whom the Boston Pops would like to work. While he hasn’t done a lot in the past couple years, one could say he was Big. I arranged the meetings and my friend and I were talking about John Williams and his Star Wars scores, always a staple for the Pops. He asked me some nuance about Star Wars. “I dunno” I replied with wink. “I was popular, I didn’t have to know about Star Wars.” Which brought laughter and a slight wince from my Star Wars loving famous friend.

Later in recounting my wit to another friend, his young daughter pipped up “Don’t yuck his yum!” Ah such a wise little being. As one who counts among my yums murder podcasts, catchy pop music suitable for late night or early morning solo dance parties, and movies with meet-cutes, happy endings, and, as often as not, Hugh Grant, my yums often come under fire. I often say there is no value in devaluing, but I have new mantra – Don’t yuck someone else’s yum!

The Pops performed a stirring concert version of the show Ragtime followed by a raucous cast and donor party. Before I overstayed my welcome, I pirouetted my way to the edge of tent, planning for an Irish goodbye, but instead stopping to hug just about everyone. There were lots of I love yous (words I say easily and often and everyone else should too), email mes, and let’s get together soons, and Tanglewood 2023 was a memory (unless I come back this summer which I probably will).

This morning there were two things to do before heading back to the “Land. First up, coffee at “The Rectory,” Hilary Scott’s home. So named for the pastor who lived there before Hilary’s parents bought the place in the mid-60s, the house features hidden stairways, secret passages, and remnant’s from Hilary’s dad’s career as a vaudvillian and after that as Norman Rockwell’s photographer, Hilary’s fantasy inspired art, and many, many photos of Tanglewood and the artists who have performed there over the decades. Hilary opens his house to young BSO staffers in need of a bad, and the kitchen was full of energy. Hilary’s son, whom I’ve known since he was a small boy, proudly introduced me to his lovely new wife and boisterous puppy, offered me a nip of whatever was in his flask, and called me “doll.” Time is fleeting.

Then to Mint, the best Indian restaurant on the planet and I’ve spent some time in India (perhaps I exaggerate, but I really love Mint), for their Sunday brunch buffet. An absolute must-do meal on my visits.

With my belly full and a handfull of fennel seeds, jumped on 90. 5 hours later I jumped off to break up the drive with an over night at Niagara Falls. Inspired by a friend who had recently made the journey, I tucked my passport away so I could experience the Falls from Canada. I spent a couple hours meandering and photographing, before jumping on a boat to watch. the nightly fireworks from the water. I love fireworks. I understand the environmental impact and I hate it, but I love fireworks. Because I was back stage with Brian Cox and JT on July 4, I missed the Tanglewood presentation and thought I’d have. to wait another year, but everything is coming up magic this trip!

Early tomorrow I head back to what is going to be a hard week for me – my crisis pr hat is ready for me to don. Tomorrow night I have a date with a good book and some deep conditioner (I know I talk about my hair too much, but I have a lot of it and it’s very vulnerable to weather and products which are not carefully chosen.) That could all change since I spotted a facebook post from a childhood camp friend at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and it won’t take much to twist my arm to meet her for a drink and catch up. But, what a time we’ve had.

Let’s recap – without even considering the added joy that in the past month I hiked my way through Jordan, saw theater in London, and cheered the Guardians at their home field – over this 10 day trip, I saw the BSO, the Pops, JT twice, Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe, Robert Plant, Allison Krauss, and the Berkshire Buskers; went to Jacob’s Pillow, the Farmer’s Market, and the movies; ate at the DreamAway, Red Lion Inn, Mint, Loebs, the Country Club, Mama Lo’s BBQ and Hilary’s house; climbed Monument Mountain, swam in Lake Mansfield, played pickleball, did pilates and walked a minimum. of 15,000 steps a day (except for the movie and wine day when I only walked 1,300); went to two fancy parties; hung out with half a dozen celebs (and brokered work for two of them); got a newspaper credit in the same paper which once printed bylines from my father and grandfather; saw waterfalls, fireworks, my step mom, sis, cousins, and uncountable friends; and even got another stamp in my passport.

I used to have 12 weeks like this every year when I worked for the BSO and oh how I miss that. But I am so aware of how lucky I am that I got a whole summer in a week and there’s still so much summer left!

I had big plans for the day couple of days between the chaotic fabulousness of the JT concerts and the delight of the BSO and Boston Pops opening nights. I was gonna be a Berkshire tourist.

And I was a little bit, but not all day. I started with my all-time favorite way to shake out the cobwebs when in the Berkshires – a hike up Monument Mountain. I have a love / hate relationship with walking uphill. I love the idea of it, I hate it while I’m doing it, I love it when I’m at the top (this blog was named for my desire to hike mountains I’m not qualified to be on). But Monument Mountain, which I have hiked many, many times, I alway love. It is not a hard climb, but it is a historic one. Herman Melville and Nathanial Hawthorne were once caught in a storm on the mountain, looking out at the peak of Mt Graylock, which resembled the humpback of a whale and gave Melville an idea for a book…

I always take the same route up the mountain, the long, rambling path that doesn’t get hard til the very top when you have to scramble up rocks to the summit, then the shorter, steeper route down. After two days of torrential rain, the trails were muddy, the rocks slippery, and the mosquitos hungry. By the time I was at the top, I was covered with sweat and dirt and bliss.

After returning to my car, I zipped to Leobs Foodtown, a longtime staple in Lenox for one of their famous sandwiches. I’ve only been eating them for 17 years, so I’m a relative newcomer, but they are an area favorite and I definitely have my preferred order. The Big Jim has ham, apples, honey mustard, and sharp red onions. I have one a summer and it was worth climbing the mountain for.

I spent some time doing press and just getting to know the BSO’s music director Andris Nelsons (I had already left when he was appointed).

He was, unsurprisingly, but yet surprisingly, delightful. Then sent the photo of the Taylors and Coxs out to media, which resulted in my first published photo credit, in my hometown paper no less, the Boston Globe.

Finally Gene and I were off to the tourist part of the day – dinner at the hard to find, possibly former brothel (which I don’t believe, because no one would work that hard to find a brothel), the DreamAway Lodge. My favorite, favorite restaurant. The food was…fine. It’s alway just fine, but holy cow the atmosphere! Then off to Jacob’s Pillow to see the Dutch National Ballet be brilliant. One piece actually made me gasp repeatedly. It was a great night.

Day six started with a Pilates class with Gene in which I found myself getting very competitive, to the surprise of no one. Pilates actually was refined at Jacob’s Pillow where Joe Pilates spent much of his later life, so it is always special to do it in the Berkshires. Then I hit the road to Connecticut to see my step mom and sister. I don’t love the state of Connecticut, but I do love the little town of Old Saybrook, where my mom lives. We went out for a seafood lunch (lobster roll number two for me, with a bloody mary) and then they indulged my great love of a summer blockbuster, and we went to see the latest Indiana Jones flick. It was great because I will always love Indie, but they did John Williams dirty with the scoring. My favorite of J-Dubs music, Indie’s Theme, was all but missing from the movie. A small quibble, but it must be said.

After my sister left for home, Linda and I decided to sort out her closet. With a bottle of wine, we sat in our bras and leggings trying on various items which she’d keep, give to me, or put in a pile for Karen (don’t worry, Kar, you did well). We shared deep thoughts and silly ones. I told her about a recent visit with an old love, she told me about one who had contacted her recently after 60 years. Drohan women are hard to get over!

Then she said, “I think it’s time,” and handed me the thing I’ve coveted my entire life – her vintage Louis Vuitton purse. Though it was obtained in the late 60s for less than $200, I spent my childhood thinking it was the height of luxury, and, of course, now it is. After some tears and hugs, I sang some Meghan Trainor a little too loudly “I could have my Gucci on, I could wear my Louis Vuitton, but even with nothing ohhhooooohhhnnnnn, I made you look”. I’m sure if we wanted to, we could make Kevin Bacon and his daughter look like amateurs!

Tomorrow it is back to work with the BSO, but oh what a great couple days!

Days 3 and 4 in the beautiful Berkshires were July 3 and 4, and, as is my tradition, I spent them working with Team Taylor and the now-a-tradition James Taylor holiday concerts at Tanglewood.

The days were much like the ones before – filled with fun reunions, catch up sessions, and hugs. I once read that for proper serotonin levels, we need five hugs a day. I take that seriously, sometimes to the annoyance of whomever is nearby when I realize I’ve only had 4. This week has put enough hugs in the bank to last me at least through the summer.

I said last time, that people commenting on my dancing along the pathways might have been the best compliment ever. That was before a beautiful former colleague, whom I know a bit and like a lot, told me that she has a “Drohan rose” (actually a Drouhin rose) and, like me, it always appears when the weather get warmer and brings with it great joy. She said she always knows she’s going to see me soon when she starts seeing her roses and it makes her smile! (it made me cry).

A rainy July 3, was night one of JT. There’s always many friends and family in place for the concerts and we had an impromptu party in the room where press gathers that included my cousins, and various friends including Gene, our friend Joe, Hilary, the great sculptor and Tanglewood photographer, and Roberta, an organizational psychologist I worked with in a previous life and her husband, as well as some press guests for the evening and the tone was set for a light and lovely night. Later I enjoyed the concert arm in arm with my friend Stan, whom I’ve known and loved since we were college freshman. As a JT concert does for so many people, there were tears and cheers and more hugs!

This morning, July 4, I had a long brunch with a friend at the historic Red Lion Inn. Over lobster rolls and dry white wine we pondered life, love, and letting go with out coming to any solutions, but with several more lunches scheduled. Then it was back to Tanglewood for one more night of JT.

I walked the grounds before and after a torrential storm, one that would not discourage the 13,000 people sitting on the lawn for the concert. There is a green at Tanglewood, when the sun and blue sky shine through the maple leaves that only exists there and it is my absolute most favorite color an so adds to the magic of the place.

I have seen James perform north of 25 times, and yet, I find something new I love each time. This year I got a little misty as he sang Fire and Rain, thinking of a lost friend who loved a JT concert and danced happily in the aisle to Smiling Face.

After the concert, I had the special treat of bringing my last summer’s landlords backstage to meet James and his wife, Kim. They’re no ordinary landlords, of course, Brian Cox is known for many things, but most recently and significantly for his role as the patriarch in Succession. Nicole Cox is an amazing actress and feminist activist.

Every once in a while I’ve been lucky enough to introduce two heroes to each other- I’ve introduced Buzz Aldrin to Deval Patrick, John Williams to Carl Yastrzemski, Marin Alsop to the legendary editor Marty Baron, and Ted Kennedy to so many musicians – it’s always a heady thing. But when I brought Brian Cox in to meet James Taylor, he said in the most Logan Roy way imaginable, “I’ve been waiting 50 years to see a James Taylor concert and it was FUCKING worth it!” and I dissolved into a thousand pieces on the floor.

After lots of mutual admiration and joyful getting to know each other, we walked into the night under the full moon planning future dinners, coffees, and theater breaks. My final hug of the night was long and sincere and from Brian Cox and I felt showered with love.

I started this blog to write about my travels, and while there’s a lot of travel content in here, nothing I’ve done post-pandemic, and post my pretend culinary road trip in included, but I’m trying to get back in the writing habit.

Lockdown was the same for me as it was for everyone else who didn’t get sick. Long and lonely, with surprising slivers of fun and treasured opportunities to connect with loved ones in new, meaningful ways.

Post pandemic, I got back on the road – Montana, Tulum, Northern Norway, and, most recently, a magnificent journey through Jordan, with a quick stop in the UK and another planned for the end of the year. I have slept in deserts, done yoga as the sun rises over ruins, taken two unanticipated swims in the Arctic Ocean, hiked so, so much, and seen old friends and made new and wonderful ones.

I’ve also, once again, chosen to call a new city home – this time Cleveland, a place where I’ve found an unexpected sense of belonging. And I was beyond lucky to be able to spend two full summers in my favorite place on earth – Berkshire County in Western MA.

And I’m happily back in the Berks now, though for a much shorter visit. I arrived on Friday after a long, but easy and uneventful drive. I turned left and then right from my Cleveland loft building to get on I-90, then drove in a basically straight line (with a slight right at Niagara Falls) for eight hours, then another right turn and just like that, Great Barrington, MA.

I got in in time to catch a bit of one of the most vibrant new arts festivals – Berkshire Busk – and soaked in the musicians, dancers, magicians, and happy audiences. I reunited with my friends and had a celebratory toast, then a dip in the hot tub under the stars, before sleeping til late the next morning and starting the crazy week pr-ing for the BSO.

Saturday morning took me along the oh so familiar streets to my spiritual home, Tanglewood. It has been a long time since I was a full time BSO employee and I thank the universe daily that they still turn to me for support when they need it. I partly credit the universe – I also credit my extreme hard work, reliability, and likability.

I’ve always likened Tanglewood to Brigadoon – it emerges from the mist every June, gathering music lovers of all stripes, and then fades away when the leaves start to turn. But it always returns. I’m not a spiritual being in any way, but as I walk the grounds – the same grounds where Leonard Bernstein walked with Aaron Copeland, before that Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville strolled, and more recently Wilco relaxed on the lawn and listened to the Boston Symphony – I feel like I am part of a continuum of creativity and collaboration.

I probably hugged 20 people in the first hour I was back. And so many more over the past two days. As I was traipsing up a hill from one side of the campus to another, one of the many senior citizen volunteers stopped me to introduce me to her companion, “You’ll like her – she’s always very smiley and spins on the pathways.” A nicer compliment I could not think of.

Night one at Tanglewood was Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello and was so great. Nick Lowe exuded charisma and whimsy. Costello came out looking like a battered Irish fisherman and wowed with a 2plus hour set. Night two was Robert Plant and Allison Krauss. I did not know a single one of their songs, but I now have every one of them on my spotify list.

Days one and two also included reunion lunches with Berkshire, Boston, and New York friends, a walk around the local lake, and some light shoe shopping!

Life is good. Next up, two days with JT.

Like so many of my previous entries, I’m writing this while sitting on an airport floor, hoping to get enough charge into my cell phone that I will be able to listen to three hours of true crime podcasts though the flight and will have enough battery to call an Uber upon my arrival at my destination.

In this case my destination is not some far flung locale but to find a home in a place where I never imagined myself – the “land or the “mistake by the lake” depending on your inclination and my mood. And I am heading there from the tropical island I have called home for the past three years. While I never expected to live in Miami Beach (cue the Miami Vice soundtrack), I came to love the weather, the ample blue sky and, most of all, the magical building in which I found myself living and the magical neighbors amongst whom I found myself.

When a job in Cleveland began recruiting me, it was during a particularly challenging time at what is now my former job. I decided to proceed with the interviews with the intention of a short term ego boost from strangers. As the conversations persisted the ego boost became more robust and their pitch more compelling – a literal seat at the table, freedom to hire, and a salary that would be enviable anywhere in the world, but especially so in a city with a particularly low cost of living. There were great benefits too – engaging leadership and very smart colleagues. But still, I hesitated. Two weeks of anxiety went by – days filled with unhealthy eating, tears, and elevated heart rates. Cleveland patiently waited, telling me I was worth waiting for. It was only after a conversation with my manager in Miami, in which she crushed my hope of advancement within the organization, and my sister’s analysis that, as I always do, waiting for the cute guy at the bar who gives me just enough attention to keep me holding would cause me to lose yet another kindhearted nerd who really wanted me, that I decided to take yet another professional and personal leap.

My job in Miami was shiny and I like shiny. My team liked me and they appreciate me so much more now that I’m gone, with as many calls from them as days I’ve been gone. But I was uninspired and somehow, despite some pretty high profile successes, unable to inspire the management. I could have stayed there mostly happily for all time. But Miami Beach – that is a whole other story.

My life on Miami Beach is perfect – or at least it feels that way on most days. I have four friends and they all live in my building. Two men about 25 years younger than me, who are a couple, let’s call them The Boys, and two women about my age who are a couple, The Girls. Recently a fifth friend moved into the building and joined our circle – much younger than me, she is the most like me, single and straight, I’ll call her The Beauty, because she is. We all have cats and we love each other’s cats, we see movies, celebrate birthdays, have drinks together, and we have a weekly pickleball game that is the highlight of every week for me. Sometimes those games are capped with dinner and a few hands of eucher. After which The Boys and The Girls live their couple lives, planning their futures together and The Beauty goes on dates and lives the glorious life full of the possibilities of youth. I go home to watch tv. I go home happy in my life, having enjoyed my day, but I am alone.

As I look forward to my future in Miami, it remains the same. I am both too old or too young to be appealing to the single, straight men of Miami Beach (of which there are few) and I have not built community beyond that of my building or weekly pickleball games, and I know that The Boys and The Girls, and especially The Beauty, will move on in their lives while I, without effort, will remain in place. Yet, life in Miami Beach feels magical in the moment. My dear friend The Playwright told me I had become a Lotus Eater.

As Homer’s Odysseus made his epic journey, the wind blew him to a beautiful island peopled with contented inhabitants who spent their days eating the blossoms from the lotus plant. These blossoms instilled feelings of happiness, with no desire to think beyond the moment – no thoughts of work or home, responsibilities or the future. Some of Odysseus’s men also ate from the lotus plant and they too fell into deep, lazy happiness. Odysseus forced the men, who fought and screamed, back onto his ship and sailed away towards home. The further they got, the more the men returned to themselves and remembered their missions.

As I fly towards Cleveland and away from my magical home, my heartbeat is slowing, I am looking forward to the new opportunities, and I am even eager for snow. My heart is longing for the lotus from my beautiful beach, and I know that longing will never go away, but I know it is time for me to look to the future and what might come from leaving my beach.

It’s finally happening – I’m on my way out into the world again. I did actually make it to Tulum, Mexico to ring in 2022, but this -this is a trip! I’m sitting in an Uber on my way to the Miami airport, an arctic parka in my lap since it was too big to fit in my pack with my heavy boots taking up all the space. In about 40 hours I’ll be about as far north as one can get and still be standing on earth. The thing about the arctic – the wifi and cell service isn’t great (that’s why you have to write Santa letters). I’ll do my best to check in, but watch this space – snowy adventure photos coming soooooooon.

I wanted to end big. Wyoming is big. And you know what’s there? Buffalo! I’ve never been to Wyoming, but I yearn to go and see where the buffalo roam and skies are not cloudy all day.

I’ve had a buffalo burger or two in my day, and I basically know how to cook ground beef, so I figured I’d go all the way. Buffalo prime rib. I actually ordered the meat direct from Wyoming! Cooking a prime rib seems so scary, but it’s actually super easy.

The first step is a rub of olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic, and thyme. After a little massage, leave the meat in the fridge to absorb the yumminess.

When you’re ready to cook, low and slow is the way to go (rhyme!). Throw the beast in a 250 degree oven for about 25 minutes per pound (a bit more for a fattier cow). At the very end, up the temperature to 500 degrees for the last 15 minutes for a nice criso . Let the meat rest for about 10 minutes and enjoy the deliciousness.

It was super tasty, but actually, I think that beef prime rib, beef might be better than the leaner buffalo. There were no yummy pan drippings from this guy. I had considered making Yorkshire puddings a whole roast dinner, but in the end, I just had a nice thick slice of meat and the cat and I watched a documentary about my boss, MTT.

WHAT I LEARNED!

It’s interesting to be thinking of this as we celebrate the most American of holidays, and my most favorite one, Thanksgiving.

First and foremost, I learned how to cook. Or at least learned a bit of confidence in my cooking. I can deep fry or slow roast, braise and baste with the best of them. I’ve ordered in a few times in the last few weeks (I didn’t at all in the early days of quarantine) and I have to say each time I did, I thought, I could have made myself a better dinner.

But more than what I learned about myself, I learned a bit about us as a country.

First of all, we are all locavores. The food system gets a bad rap these days, but in fact in a lot of cases, the food we cherish is local to where we are. Buffalo in Wyoming, salmon and filberts in Oregon, seafood in New England, and corn in Iowa. We love the tastes of home and we are loyal to them. I had my Thanksgiving dinner this year with friends from Tennessee and there was no pumpkin to be found on the plate (a carnal sin among my yankee kin), but abundant banana pudding.

Next up – we love our immigrant history. Rhode Island Italians, the Basque in Idaho, Scandinavians and Germans in mid-America, and Mexicans along the southern boarder. We have embraced and absorbed the cooking, and with it some of the culture, of the countries of origin of so many Americans. It is what makes us American.

And above all else we love to gather. Big casseroles, snack plates, and healthy, hearty family meals dominate our food culture.

Having joyously consumed the country bite by bite, I can tell you that if we are what we eat Americans care about each other and our environment.

I’ve never felt so proud of my country!

I’m so behind in my writing, but not in my cooking. I finished my last three states in mid-October, but haven’t managed to sit down to write them out. Work has started, that’s part of it. And also I’ve been a bit sad. Coronapression? Depression-19? Anyway – I’ve been struggling a bit. Like all of us, but it hit me this past month. Nothing clinical or serious, just generic malaise. It’s been a long pandemic and I feel far from home, and not yet able to make Miami home.

I’m better though. For starters the election went my way, and even better, I was invited to a wonderful, socially distant party to watch the country turn blue.

As we move into Thanksgiving week and the most wonderful time of the year, I can’t help myself from getting happier. Even while I’m alone, even thought it won’t be a white one for me this year, I love this season.

West Virginia surprised me when I went looking for it’s iconic food. Pepperoni Rolls led every list. Wikipedia says it’s the food most associated with the state. So pepperoni rolls it was.

For the dough you heat up a cup and a half of milk, 3 tablespoons of butter til the butter is melted and the milk is just past warm. Then you whisk in 2 tablespoons sugar, 2 teaspoons salt, and 2 teaspoons yeast. Then leave that for 7 minutes or so for the yeast to “activate” – get foamy. In a separate bowl add 3 and a half cups flour and one egg. Mix those and add them to the yeast mixture. Incorporate – a new word for me, food-wise – the mix, it will be loose. Then cover and let rest in a warm place for a couple hours or so to til it doubles in size. Then you punch it down and knead a bit and let it rise again. Luckily, I live in Florida and my balcony is a warm place for dough to rise.

Once it’s all risen, you divide it into eight pieces and roll each out to a flat disk on which you place three or four pieces of pepperoni and sprinkle with a little mozzarella.

You roll them out up like a burrito and line them on cookie sheet for about 30 minutes for them to rise one more time. Then you cook them at 350 for about 30 minutes. I served mine with a side of spicy tomato sauce and a beer.

They were good snack food, but sort of boring in the end.

The next day, with a bunch of pepperoni rolls left over, I was trying to think of a fun way to eat them, which led me to my research for Wisconsin!

I’ve only been to Wisconsin once with, you guessed it, the Boston Pops. We had a day off in the lovely college town of Appleton. It remains my favorite day of any tour I’ve ever been on. In large part because of my exhilarating trip with my tour bestie Amanda to the Houdini Museum. While there, Amanda and I took the opportunity to perform some magic for none other than Santa Claus (he was under cover as a civilian by day, but by night he spread holiday cheer at our Pops concerts.)

Here we are for your viewing pleasure. You can’t see Santa, but that’s his voice. I will never not be proud of this!

On on particular night out with the Pops Dream Team (minus Amanda, alas)

We discovered the bizarre and irresistible beer cheese made from Wisconsin’s two favorite things. Turns out, they can even take it further and before I knew it, I was making beer cheese soup.

Beer cheese soup is easy. First you make stock – chop up carrots, celery, onion, and garlic and heat it up in a stock pot. Add in a bit of cayenne, salt, pepper and pinch of hot sauce. Plus 3 cups of chicken stock. Let it simmer til the veggies are soft.

In another pot warm up a third of a cup butter and whisk in a third of cup flour til golden brown (a roux!) Then add in four cups of milk. When it is all warm, but not scalded, remove from the heat and cut in the cheese. (HA! Cut the cheese).

When the cheese is melted, combine the two pots, add a beer and let it all simmer together. Then blend it til smooth.

It was delicious for about four spoonfuls. It was even better served with some pepperoni rolls.

But in the end, it the pepperoni rolls and soup may just have been the trigger for my depression!

Wyoming though, that was great. I’ll tell you about that soon.