Educating Joe

Air travel is really getting on my nerves and all these new rules and regulations just make no sense to me. So, there I was at London Heathrow to catch my flight to Brussels and I had one of those e-tickets so I could avoid the check-in lines and just help myself. I am all for DIY customer service as I tend to get better service just doing it myself. So, after a gruelling 15 minute journey on the Heathrow Express from Paddington, I found myself in front of one of those check-in machines and without being asked my preference, I was issued a boarding pass for seat 15F. I may be old fashioned, but I prefer single digit seating. Do you think they care? No. Then, as though I had nothing better to do during my 3 hour wait for my flight, such as shop for all sorts of duty free goodies, I had to stand in a non-moving line to drop off what a few short weeks ago would have been my carry-on.

That line took 45 minutes, twice as long as the old check-in process where a real human used to offer mediocre service with a forced smile. At least you got to say if you preferred a window, aisle or single digit seating. Standing in line, I did notice a large number of rather plump, lesbian looking lasses, which made me feel suddenly safe. I figured if anything mechanical should happen to the plane, who better than a lesbian to get it sorted. Power tool Barbie who comes with her own beer belly, greasy fingernails and 24-piece socket set. I finally managed to check my cabin approved suitcase and then, as though I were at Disneyland, had to stand in yet another line, this time for security. I don't even know why I bother getting dressed. Take off the belt, shoes, ring and wristwatch, and toss out all grooming products. Asking a gay man to toss out his grooming products is unforgivable. What is a gay man if not properly producted? Productus ergo sum.

And then come the pieces that make no sense… A man is only allowed to take on one piece of carry-on. A woman can take two, provided one of them is her oversized handbag, or worse, infant child. I am sure my luggage is far less annoying on the flight than that 6 month old the mother refuses to check in. And then, as soon as one gets through the security check, there is a full Boot's Pharmacy just on the other side where one can purchase all the things they have just tossed out. I don't understand and am hoping someone can explain all of this nonsense to me. If we can't take toiletries, fine, but don't make me toss them and then allow me to purchase them in the departure lounge.

So the clock ticked and sands went through the hourglass and soon I was on my way to Brussels for the rest of the weekend. Joe picked me up and whisked me into the city where we were almost immediately summoned by Nik to have some pre-dinner cocktails, but Joe and I had to bring the basil and mint. Normally that's not a problem, but it was a bit late and the shops were closed. We knew that to fail could mean no cocktails, so we had to be inventive. Joe used his very best Egyptian at the local Egyptian place and they promptly gave him enough mint for 2 days worth of Mojitos. We went to a few night shops before we found one where we were able to purchase a wilting basil plant. We were now armed and ready to get dangerous. Once again Nik proved his mastery with a blender and we were soon clinking glasses and filling Joe in on our London excursion while passing time before our dinner reservation.

Dinner meant champagne and grappa, followed by Mojitos at Guru. I didn't like that place at all and made sure to be annoying enough as to get my way and soon we were just off Grand Place, having drinks in the street, running into friends from Amsterdam who were also unexpectedly in town for the weekend. This went on until the very wee hours and Joe and I took a taxi back to his place only to realize he had left his keys in the car which we had stowed outside the restaurant. That meant walking and complaining. I am very good at doing both at the same time, just ask anyone. After 3 hours of sleep, I was wide awake and ready for brunch.

We all met at Tea and Eat where we had eggs any style, coffee or tea and assorted fresh juices. I was in brunch heaven. We ate and ate and the hours ticked by so slowly and relaxed and before we knew it, it was time for post brunch cocktails so Joe, Graham, Robert, Kris and I found a terrace in the drizzle and promptly ordered Mojitos Barramundo (topped off with champagne) and made fun of people. I try not to be judgmental, I really do but I was told by Graham that one should always play to one's strengths. Wise words from a wise man.

Unfortunately, there was furniture that needed moving and so we cut the cocktails short and sped off to assist in relocating one rather large sofa. I don’t carry but I expertly laid the blanket down on the ground and made sure the automatic lights stayed on. I left the lifting to Joe and Nik and gave them oohs and aahs of approval. Actually, I made up cheers for encouragement… “One, two, three, four, get the sofa out the door…” I was actually convinced that they would get the sofa lodged in the stairwell, so on the first trip I made sure to go down in advance so as not to be stuck in a house with no tapas or lemon stuffed olives. Soon, the drama of moving that blasted sofa was behind us and we all converged on Nik’s place for Cosmos and Mojitos, gourmet pizza, Absolutely Fabulous and season 2 of Desperate Housewives. None of could believe that Joe had not ever seen one single episode of AbFab - He had never heard the names Edwina Monsoon or Patsy Stone. Who knows what other dark skeletons he has in his closet and I am convinced we have our work cut out for us.

All good things ultimately come to an end and soon it was tearful goodbyes all around with promises to do this all again real soon.

Friends... Who Needs 'Em?

I was in London to see “Wicked.” I had been waiting so long and finally, the day had arrived. I check out of super posh hotel and checked into semi-posh hotel and sent a message to Paul who was meeting me in London to join me for the play that night. Well, not only was it raining outside, it seemed to be raining on Paul’s life and he had to back-out at the last minute, leaving me all alone in a big city where I had no friends. The violins were cued, the piano played steadily and I sulked and sulked. I would have done something productive to take my mind off of the situation, but I was concerned that 9am cocktails might give the wrong impression. I could have opted for some champagne with my eggs, but my inner Betty Ford told me to hold on for a few hours. I usually try to ignore her, but for some reason I caved in. I know, I’m weak. I have no willpower.

I frantically tried to find someone else to join me. I messaged Nik who was still in London for business, but he turned me down cold. That’s what friends are for. Joe, Ulco, Ann, Mark, I tried them all and all I got back was the cold stab of rejection. The excuses were unimaginative… “I’m in Barcelona”, “I’m in Tel Aviv”, “I’m in full body traction.” I saw right their feeble attempts to mislead me but decided I would be the one to act with dignity. There was one thing to do. I would go to the play and have an empty seat beside me. I would turn every now and again, holding an animated conversation with someone only I could see. We would laugh and gossip and I would forget the empty friend shaped hole in my heart.

I ended up selling my ticket for half price to a dodgy looking man in a trench coat and fedora standing just outside the theatre and he, in turn, sold it to this little Australian woman named Christine. She was, in a word, fantastic. We hit it off like a pair of Tiffany diamond earrings. She was almost as sparkly as I and I even gave her my restaurant tip and told her to just skip it all and go directly to the mash. The musical itself was amazing. I had all sorts of expectations and it blew them right out of the water. I have to say, Idina Menzel looks so good green, it isn’t even funny. I have never seen someone carry it off with her level of confidence. I won’t say too much about it, as I don’t wish to give anything away and spoil it – I know, I am feeling a bit charitable today – but I highly recommend it. Well, not to Joachim since he is strictly anti-musical.

After the play, I had a glass of bubbles and then tucked myself into bed as I had to be up early for my morning flight to Brussels… My weekend was just beginning and already it had been too fabulous.

Pass The Potatoes

Timing, like proper lighting is everything. I stepped off the airplane and right into the frenzy of London Fashion Week. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by celebrities, designers and supermodels. Not that I actually saw any, mind you, but that isn’t the point. The point is, while I have never been one to name drop, all the names worth dropping were there.

No sooner had I arrived at our luxury hotel, when Nik and I decided that a mad dash to Harvey Nichols was in order. We embraced the idea of fashion week and had soon turned the men's department into a cyclone of designer clothes... Galliano, McQueen and Lacroix. I came very close to buying a black Lacroix sweater if for no other reason than to be able to casually quote the often imitated yet never duplicated Edwina Monsoon. I too wanted to be able to say "it's Lacroix, sweetie" and actually mean it.

Nik is great to go shopping with as he gets soooo excited that his whole speech pattern changes. He suddenly exaggerates and emphasizes one word in the sentence... “Thaaaaats nice” or “Those are faaaaabulous” or even “that sweater is the quiiiiintessential must have item for the season.” I was informed in practically one sentence that cardigans and waist coats are in and that my current state of dress was most decidedly out. He never really came out and said such a thing, but I detected it in the undertones of his educational advice. Of course I tossed his advice out window the moment he bought those ugly beige cashmere gloves. I tried to tell him that gloves are only ever to be in black, midnight blue, dark grey or black. Beige is just soooo, well, it may be fashionable but that doesn´t make it right.

Then it was off to shoes... Prada, MiuMiu and the rest of the gang were all there just begging us to give them homes and a chance at a better life. I was scouting for a pair of casual Gucci winter boots I had seen, but they were nowhere to be found. I wasn´t planning on buying them, I just wanted to give them a bit of a cuddle. Before long the stress of labels, prints and cashmere got to us and we had no choice but to take the elevator to the 5th floor for a relaxing drink at the Fifth Floor Café. The Café had wisely teamed up with Vogue for fashion week to bring us all the "most eagerly awaited spring and summer 07 collections" which were aired minutes after they were presented at the shows themselves.

"Join us," the card read, "in the Café for breakfast, lunch and dinner, or just a leisurely latte, and be one of the privileged few who get to see the new season's trends first." That all sounded well and good, but we skipped the leisurely latte and headed straight to the more necessary and well deserved cocktails. A few glasses of champagne later and we were ready to tackle the grocery section. I hate grocery shopping, but the food department at Harvey Nichs is one of the most amazing places I have ever been and I found myself suddenly driven by a mad desire to buy spices... Chinese 5 spice, chopped lemon grass and even some cracked black pepper. And as if that wasn't enough, I also picked up fig infused balsamic, Singapore sweet hot chilli sauce and, saving the best for last, lemon stuffed olives which will be put to full employment during the next round of lemon martinis. Exhausted but ecstatic, we made a mad dash back to the hotel to change into something a little more black for dinner.

At last, black is the new black so off we went properly attired to the hottest place in all of London, L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon. We waited outside the hotel for 15 minutes before managing to flag down a taxi only to realize we were right around the corner, but then one should never arrive on foot. Our shoes were made for looking at, not for walking. For some inexplicable reason, we ended up arriving early and were promptly shown the door. The door to the elegantly appointed elevator that is... The very same elevator delivered us to the third floor bar where we were immediately deposited on a blush black sofa. The bar itself was done in a Gone with the Wind brothel circa 1980’s look and feel. You know, the kind of place where you would expect to run into Lola, still in that dress she used to wear, that faded feather in her hair. Thick, lush red velvet curtains, black crocodile skin tables, a golden carved bar dark red walls and the necessary lighting that reduced the obviousness of facial wrinkles while at the same time creating just the right atmosphere for a chat over one of their many original cocktails.

And what cocktails they were… We decided to embark on our epicurean adventure with pomegranate martinis accompanied by champagne granite (pronounced gran-i-tay) and blackberry and basil caipirinhas which in a very Dickensian moment, we raised and clinked to the ghosts of supermodels past and future, taking a moment to briefly reflect on how truly fashionable we truly were. See, L’Atelier is so new and so hip and so incredibly faaaabulous that it is not in any guide or even on the radar screens of the wannabe fashionistas that littler London like the yesterday morning’s coffee grounds. Getting back to that caipirinha, I want it known here officially that it has become my new signature drink. Or at least it should be, but I have no idea where else I will ever be able to find one. Nik says he can make it, I say he better get cracking as there’s a friendship at stake here. Two cocktails later and we were taken to the 2nd floor for dinner. Where the bar was all red velvet and black lacquer, the restaurant was black and white tiled and contained the largest collection of Rosemary plants I have ever seen in my life.

No sooner were we seated than the champagne was thrust upon us and not wanting to be rude or offensive on our first visit, we accepted using that nonchalant tone that says “we are so bored with champagne, but ok” while at the same time saying “bring it on and keep it coming, baby.” The menu was amazing and our first nibble was a tiny glass, at the bottom of which was foie gras crème, followed by a rice-paper thin layer of berry compote, topped off with a cloud of parmesan mousse. I didn’t even know one could mouse parmesan. I do try to learn something every day and suddenly and quite elegantly the mission was accomplished.

Next came one of the most delicious meals I have ever eaten and the best part of the meal was the mashed potatoes. They weren’t so much a dish as they were a sexual experience which teased and taunted all the senses. A sort of heroin for the tastebuds for lack of a better analogy. One taste and you will forever be wanting more. They had an enoooormous amount of crème and butter with just a touch of truffle. These ingredients were lovingly whipped into oblivion so that their whole consistency was like thick butter. In other words, a heart attack in a dish and Nik and I almost got into a fist fight for the right to lick the bowl clean.

We spent an hour or so basking in the afterglow of our shared potato experience, ranting and raving about them over Cointreau and Sambucca, feeling the waves of pleasure washing over our bodies. Totally spent, we left the hotel and hobbled back to our hotel where we decided to jump into a life of crime. We were like a gay Bonnie and Clyde, only better dressed and without any weapons. But I will say that we were the victims in all of this, and I am sure after catching up on all the details, you will agree with me.

See, we became obsessed with the “do not disturb” door hangers at the hotel. What made them so special? Well, instead of the usual boring text, these read “getting ready for a fashion show, please come back later.” So our dilemma and alternative lifestyle began when we realized that we not only had just one of them between the two of us and there was no way we could share, but to make matter worse, there was a bend at one corner. It was blemished and this being fashion week and all, there is simply no room for anything less than perfection. So, we did what anyone in our designer shoes would do, we started at the top floor and worked our way down to our floor, taking each and every one of the signs we could find hanging on the doors. The hotel is built around a courtyard, which facilitated our daring activity. Of course, we were always moments from possible detection and had to be extremely careful not to be seen by some unsuspecting guest or staff coming around the corner, but also we had to make sure we didn’t make any noise at the door. It was a hair-raising ordeal and suddenly I felt alive like I hadn’t for days. All in all, we managed to collect 24, which considering the size of the hotel, wasn’t very many, and we figured that 24 upset people wasn’t really a lot of extra work for reception.

After the excitement of the evening and the late hour (it was now about 2:30) we exfoliated our faces of all guilt and debris of crimes past and settled in for a short sleep before starting our Friday. Nik was leaving early for work while I was planning on acting out my own version of Pretty Woman, taking a bubble bath followed by a healthy dose of high street shopping. I was not about to pass on an opportunity to possibly run into Kate, Elle, Giselle or Naomi and I can imagine they were in bed thinking the same of me. Who am I do deprive my potential public?

Just Another Day

My four favorite words in the English language? “Previously on Desperate Housewives…” That means 40 minutes of pure indulgence have just begun, affording me the opportunity to swim in a pool of decadence, debauchery and dysfunctionality, yet all the while maintaining a Bree like code of picture-perfect morality while wearing enough designer labels to make Gabrielle Solis blush. I spent the evening yesterday toasting the diva’s with a nice glass of wine and stuffing my face full of Carpaccio pizza from Mano Mano in Brussels. I was there for the evening to hang out with Joe, who graciously and perhaps out of a deep feeling of guilt, decided not to toss the details of Barcelona in my face or show off his new and improved tan line. Oh, the occasional indulgent detail did pop out every now and again and I would let out a weary sigh while a little tear would well up in my eye giving me that puppy expression that has been known to break hearts around the globe and then I would hang my head as though in shame and adopt the posture of the weary and downtrodden.

But I am not bitter, no sir… I feel perky, upbeat and full of new reason to live. I am off to London tomorrow for an evening of drinking and dining with Nik. Hmmm… It just occurred to me that he is perhaps the most mentioned person in my blog. In case you have noticed this too, let me assure you and put your troubled minds immediately to rest by stating emphatically that there is nothing Freudian about it, I just feel he needs a lot of publicity and I am trying to get into heaven by doing a bunch of good deeds. My good deed for tomorrow? Letting Nik take me out to dinner to apologize for his recent transgressions which are still too painful to elucidate on at this moment in time. I know, it is quite selfless of me, but I pride myself on my spontaneous acts of random and senseless kindness. On Friday, Paul and I have tickets to see ‘Wicked’, a musical that I have wanted to see for 2 ½ years. Finally the London engagement has begun and I have been listening to the soundtrack so I can sing along to all my favorites. I sincerely believe that the cast will be overjoyed to have a real fan like me n the audience?

And how could I mention Paul without bringing up his stage performance last Monday evening? It was a kabuki-esque interpretation of ‘Basic Instinct’. Let me begin by saying I did not agree wit the foul language or the sexual innuendo. I thought they were irrelevant to the story in general which is about a young, virginal woman and her fondness for ice picks and bondage. They could merely have taken turns tying each other up but instead they went for the gratuitous crotch shot that Miss Stone herself had been horribly tricked into. Seriously, I thought it was amazing and it was also very exciting to see such a great and wonderful friend on stage for the first and I hope not for the last time.

And going back to my earlier topic of musicals, I have been having a few ‘My Fair Lady’ moments recently. My friend Joe lives in Brussels on a quaint little street. Not just any street, but the very one where on May 4, 1929, a little girl named Audrey was born. I had often walked down that street before, but the pavement never sang beneath my feet before and in one moment I was several stories high, just to be on the street where she lived.

There was one point this morning where I imagined I had been on the street here she lived for the very last time. In a mad dash to the train station, Joe almost got in a fight with a truck driver whose vehicle was rudely blocking the tiny street, after which he almost ran over 2 dogs that an unsuspecting old man was walking, only to seconds later slam on the brakes as the Mercedes came barreling down on us causing my very short yet action-packed life to flash before my very eyes in muted and rather bland tones of beige which I did not find at all amusing or impressive. Finally, after 5 hair-raising minutes I was deposited at the central station and violently shoved onto my train where I settled in for the long journey to Amsterdam, ready for another day at the office.