Spontaneity and Diligent Pre-Planning

Back when I lived in Atlantic City, I spent as few weekends actually in the area as possible, usually finding my way to New York or Philadelphia for better times. So imagine my surprise this weekend when, only a few hours after waking up and not really knowing what I was going to be doing for the day, I found myself in a car on the way to Atlantic City. Yes, thanks to the wonderful devil-on-the-shoulder whisperings of a great friend, I made my first trip back into South Jersey since I was a resident there.

I didn't win anything, of course, but it's nice to get away every once in a while and also nice to see some of the changes made to the area for the better. The Boardwalk, at least the key sections of it, looks much improved since I was last there about two years ago. And those tacky elephants in front of Trump Taj Mahal are mostly gone! Also, it was strangely cathartic to do the trip I'd done so many times in reverse, having the late-night drive home be toward, not away from, the city I love.

Also of note this weekend was a great blogger meetup in Midtown, smartly organized by Esther of Gratuitous Violins. It was great to meet Esther and Steve of Steve On Broadway, along with a huge number of theatre-focused bloggers with whom I was not familiar, and I look forward to exploring their sites. Lots of great theatre chat at the table, or rasping in my case, since I have virtually no voice left thanks to a persistent cold. Here's hoping it becomes a regular thing!

This is shameful

It seems like all I write lately are excuses on why I haven't been blogging! Once again, I've been out of town, catching up with my father (who's doing much better, by the way). In addition, I've been working on one of my major projects of the year at work, which thankfully is over now. But no more travel for a few weeks now, at least, even though I very regretfully had to turn down a trip to Argentina next weeks.

But all excuses. As penance, here are one-sentence reviews of every show I've seen since I last wrote a show review:

Crimes of the Heart: Kathleen Turner makes a respectable directorial debut, the kind that an American Idol judge would call safe but just a'ight for me, dog.

Oroonoko: The show's already opened and closed with little fanfare, so all that really needs to be said is that there is a delightful riff by one of the female character on the uselessness of the king's penis.

Applause at City Center: I will never penny-pinch and buy the $20 nosebleed seats at this venue again, as the pole at the front of the balcony was the star of the show for me, although the dot that kind of looked liked Christine Ebersole sure sang pretty.

In the Heights: Even as a mere two-year resident of Washington Heights, I feel comfortable in saying this show is about as representative of the neighborhood as "Brigadoon" is of Scotland, but it still is a darn entertaining night at the theatre.

Dina Martina: Off the Charts!: After hearing my sister play it on the piano for years in the 1980s, finally someone made the theme from "Ice Castles" listenable again!

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof: Anika Noni Rose, as Maggie the cat, more than makes up for a mostly miscast everyone else, and hearing James Earl Jones boom out the word "poontang" more than makes up for the disappointment in director Debbie Allen's failure to include an interpretive dance number.

Paparazzo extraordinaire

Yikes! I've been silent for more than a week, largely because I was in Las Vegas on business and came back with a nasty, nasty cold. As penance, here are some exclusive celebrity photos shot by moi:

TONY BENNETT!


REGIS PHILBIN!


GARRISON KEILLOR!


OK, I'm officialy 80.

Photo distraction

I just got back from Texas yet again this week. I was there for some fairly major surgery that my father had to undergo. The recovery process is going as well as could be expected, considering that he's in his 80s, but of course, it's going to be slow. And it's all left me a little drained and tongue-tied for now. So, without much to say at the present, here instead are some photos from my trip to Budapest late last year, which I realize I never posted.

Click for the full image, of course. These were taken in and around the city's lovely Castle District, right on the Danube (crossed by the Chain Bridge). Oh, and doesn't the Hungarian parliament look a lot like that Thames Productions logo?

Didn't Malcolm McDowell kill some lady with this in 'A Clockwork Orange'?

I'm back! More on the travels and such later, but I'd rather get this poor, neglected blog started again with something lewd. What else? I go visit my parents at Thanksgiving to discover this in my mother's kitchen:


Apparently she found it stored away during a cleaning kick and decided to add it to the home decor. OK. So I'm told it's some sort of good luck charm to have a witch in your kitchen. But look at that thing REALLY closely. See if you notice anything unsettling about it.

Good luck indeed. And no, that Special K behind the witch isn't for a rave.

It better be worth a six-hour flight!

So, I'm off to San Francisco in, like, six hours. It's a business trip, but I have lots of free time while there. And, it's Fleet Week, so here's hoping I come back with at least something interesting to say. It's one of the last major U.S. cities I've never been in, so I have high expectations. Also, this is one of those nice business trips where they let me take a friend with me.

Too bad I missed the Folsom Street Fair festivities. Actually, not really. This same friend and I took a trip to Provincetown a few years ago, and unbeknownst to us, we went during Bear Week. At the same time, the Rosie O'Donnell cruise was in town. So, the crowd was mostly men in leather and lesbian couples with strollers. Fun times! But bears don't find me particularly attractive, and coupled lesbians were equally uninterested in my friend, so, that was a bust.

Back with all the news on Tuesday!

More vacation slides

I was going to review the show I saw today, but it was so awful, I don't ever want to think about it again. Instead, I'll show off a few photos from my very brief trip to Mexico City last week (as usual, click to enlarge):

This was in Zocalo, the central square in Mexico City. Although there's quite a lot to see there -- government buildings, a lovely cathedral and a giant flag -- I decided instead to show some guy selling food. I did eat some of that pepper-covered candy that I haven't had since I was a child in Texas, and I'm proud to say, I'm able to finish it, now.

This is a sunstone, or a Mayan calendar, at Mexico's National Museum of Anthropology. My only regret from hearing about these fascinating cultures of Central America is it makes me remember how dull my own ancestors were. I think they caught fish or something.

The quality sucks, but this is from the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico. Even after a 6 a.m. flight (meaning a 3 a.m. wake-up, which was actually 2 a.m. Central Time), this managed to keep me captivated. Even more fascinating was that I was even allowed to take this photo, but apparently photography was allowed. The flashbulbs were a bit distracting after a while.

The highlight of the trip to me, however, was visiting Frida Kahlo's house. They recently -- meaning a few years ago -- opened a bathroom that had been locked for decades, a door Frida herself had requested remain shut for a certain period of time. Once opened, it had all sorts of letters, drawings and photographs stored inside. Some bathroom reading! They're still going through and preserving all the documents.

Decitification complete

So, I suppose I should throw in a few photos from the Vermont trip, as I leave again this Sunday for yet ANOTHER out-of-town trip. This one will be pure business, but it should be fun. Hint: I'm hoping to be a true tequila expert upon my return. Anyway, here are a few shots from our great green north (click for full size, if you're so inclined):

This very cold waterfall that I can't remember the name of was quite refreshing to wade in, but the rocks were quite pointy and slippery. A sign at the front had the list of everyone who had died while climbing on the waterfall. The most recent one was a few months before I was born. My goal was to not trip, crack my head open on a rock, drown and break an almost 30-year safety record.

Seriously, why don't more towns have pedestrian-only main drags? This is Burlington. Lovely little town, save one pushy girl in the mall. (We were only in there to buy a quick pair of board shorts. Honest.)

I don't know why, but these cover bridges fascinate me. I'm sure Freud could come up with something on that. I never got to drive through one, unfortunately. This shot was particularly hard to get, because cars kept trying to get through.

I didn't shoot much during our day trip to Montreal, but this was the bar -- Le Drugstore -- where we caught happy hour. Very laid back and fun, but one quibble: The drinks came in large glasses, but they still only used one shot with the full glass of mixer! Somewhere among my gallon of cranberry juice, there were a few molecules of vodka, I guess. Oh, this would be, from right to left, Eric from Southern Boy, his boyfriend Brett and my dear friend Kristina from Houston. Kris had hell getting home on Sunday, what with all the canceled flights out of Boston.

But this is why we were really here, right? Notice everyone had abandoned me except for my beloved pomegranate champagne.

Rats, roaches to run rampant over Houston restaurants

I'm back! Quite a lovely trip, but I'm not quite ready to put that post together yet.

So, instead, I'll just send fond wishes out to the family of Marvin Zindler.

He's not a familiar face to those who have never lived in the Houston area, but musical theatre buffs might know him better as the inspiration for Melvin P. Thorpe in "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas."

When I attended the University of Houston, I always enjoyed watching the Texas newcomers see Zindler for the first time. Their response was usually, "Is this guy for real?" Yes, indeed, Marvin was always Marvin. Only he could turn the fungus that grows on poorly tended icemakers into a catchphrase and eventual funk song. Truly. Watch this.

I actually had the opportunity to meet Zindler briefly not too many years ago. It was in my first days of working as a reporter for The Facts in Brazoria County, and I was assigned to do the "Seen and Heard" piece (basically, a short story with a bunch of posed shots of all the local muckity-mucks who attended) on a fundraiser -- a roast of longtime KTRK anchor Dave Ward -- for the local women's center. Zindler, along with former Houston Oilers coach and Blue Ribbon bacon and sausage hawker Bum Phillips, were among the roasters. I'd link to the story, but thank goodness, it's long gone from the publicly accessible Facts archives.

We actually chatted only a few minutes, so I won't pretend to have any inside knowledge of what a wonderful man I'm sure he was. But he did at least have enough of a sense of humor to auction off one of his wigs and a pair of blue glasses as part of the fundraiser. If I remember correctly, they fetched about $25.

At any rate, I knew it was grim when I heard about Zindler's pancreatic cancer a few weeks ago. Coincidentally, that same disease claimed another Houston icon -- furniture entrepreneur Robert "At your fingers" Finger -- not too long ago. Perhaps they're now somewhere enjoying a good game of golf. Or tennis. Or whatever makes them happy.

Time for a break!

I'm off to Boston tomorrow for a few days on business, followed by a few days of R&R in Vermont and possibly Montreal. I might be checking in occasionally, but no promises!

Meanwhile, to give this post a little substance, I stole a page from Rusty's Balcony and created a Simpsonized version of myself.


Rather than make it myself, I used the tool where the avatar is generated from a face photo you submit. Granted, the tool is VERY fickle. I won't say how many photos and tries it took me to get it to work. But, other than a quick adjustment to the hair color and style, not too bad! Although I think it makes me look like one of those environmental activists who convinced Lisa to live in a tree, I do own that shirt.

I also visited the Kwik-E-Mart replica near Times Square not too long ago. No photos, as it felt too touristy, but I'm certainly going back to buy some Buzz Cola sometime! Not to actually drink, mind you. There's ebaying to be done.

Tempered temper

As anyone who knows me will attest, I'm not a patient person. At all. Yet, even though I'm usually fuming if I have to wait longer for the A train than the time it takes for three songs to play on my iPod, I'm unusually serene whenever I fly.

Witness Friday, when my flight was about three hours late taking off thanks to severe weather in Houston. Sure, my initial reaction was one of disgust -- just ask my ex, who had the misfortune of being on the phone with me as I saw the delay get posted on the board -- but it only took me a few minutes to cool down. I just enjoyed chatting with my fellow passengers, including one crazy, drunk woman who told me at least five times about her having to rush over to LaGuardia after her flight from JFK had been canceled.

Perhaps it's because -- thanks partially to my work -- I know that most delays are far out of the airlines' control. Or perhaps it's because I just love to travel, even if it's just for a few days to the place where I spent the first 20-some-odd years of my life. And perhaps my attitude would have been different if I, like some of my fellow passengers, had a connecting flight to catch. At any rate, a three-hour delay doesn't even crack the Top 5 of my worst flights ever. Those would be, in no particular order:

1) A horrifically overcrowded charter flight from Istanbul to JFK. It was one of those double-decker planes that takes about an hour and a half to just board. I was in the center of a row of about seven people for the flight that ended up lasting more than 13 hours, thanks to an unscheduled stop in Bangor, Maine, because we were running low on fuel. I barely missed what was supposed to have been an easy connection at JFK. Although I usually wouldn't have complained about spending the night in New York, when you've been out of the country for three weeks, you're just ready to get home.

2) A terrifying flight from Houston to Boston. About 20 minutes after getting the announcement that we'd be landing shortly, I looked out the window and noticed we were suddenly over Cape Cod. The captain then announced that we were circling because they weren't able to get the flaps on the wings up, but he was going to go ahead and try to land anyway. When we did land, the plane was going so fast I didn't think it would ever stop, and the firetrucks waiting for us didn't make me feel any better.

3) A Christmas Eve flight from Philadelphia to Houston via Atlanta. Actually, the flight itself wasn't bad. It was a little late, but that was to be expected, considering it was late at night on Christmas Eve. I even sat next to Santa Claus on one of the legs. What made it bad was the six inches of snow that the Texas coast was getting upon my arrival. Not only do Texans not know how to drive in the snow, but their roads are not prepared for that sort of weather, either. The 80-mile drive from the airport to my parents' house took six hours. I got in about 6 a.m. Christmas morning.

4) Yet another flight from Philadelphia to Houston. This time, we had to make an emergency landing in Lake Charles, La., because of a fuel problem. See, that's why I usually drove THROUGH Lake Charles.

5) A flight from Anchorage to Seattle when I was a kid. It was the roughest flight I've ever been on and the closest I've ever come to being airsick.

The best flight? That would be my return from Copenhagen a few years ago. As we were waiting in line to get our seat assignments, a particularly pushy couple behind us in line kept edging their suitcases to the front. When it was our turn to get to an agent, they darted in front of us. As it turned out, they nabbed the last available seats in coach, so we and everyone behind us in line got bumped up to first class. Aha! I think I just remembered the source of my patient attitude toward air travel.

Martha Stewart living much better than me

Martha Stewart -- who my dad used to affectionately call "that woman who makes stuff out of her garbage" -- spoke at an event I attended today. And it made me feel the most inadequate I've felt in years.

Her chat centered around her showing slides from her travels around the world. Call me crazy, but I was the one who never minded flipping through the dreaded vacation photos from other people. Only someone like Martha Stewart, however, could rattle off hikes up Mount Kilimanjaro and ice-climbing in Norway as a matter-of-fact as Aunt Fran's trip to Branson, in a tone as if these were valid travel options for a majority of the audience. Especially little details like -- "This was our visit to Russia. In the background, you can see a friend of mine taking off in a rocket to spend a few days in space."

It reminded me of the brilliance of Ana Gasteyer's portrayal of her. Gasteyer once described it as a playing a woman who thinks she's coming across as warm but in reality is as icy as that Norway climb. For some reason, I find it endearing, however.

What really won me over was when she rattled off her top ten pet peeves about hotels. Things like overfull gift baskets that you're unable to consume before your trip is complete, automatic upgrades to too-big penthouse suites and being put in a two-story room when arriving at a luxury hotel late at night.

Yeah, I hate when that happens.

Swoon over Miami

My trip to Miami this week was for business and lasted only two nights, but it was still my first time there, so here's a few thoughts:

1) At least I made it to South Beach for one night! The Lincoln Road walk was charming, and Delano's bar is absolutely lovely, even more so when you're drinking on an expense account.

2) You know that nutty skycap who just got fired for bleating Leviticus over the Fort Lauderdale airport intercom? I think it's an epidemic in South Florida. The day I was flying out of Miami, the airport saw fit to announce a mass in the nearly empty terminal. My cab driver on the way to the hotel treated my co-worker and I to a bizarre radio program in which the host encouraged a head-in-the-sand approach to sexual temptation, such as intercepting racy junk mail catalogues and turning off any beer commercials. And another cab driver ranted about Hillary Clinton trying to be more like a man than a woman, which made her a lesbian and...well, I had a few too many drinks to even bother following his inane logic.

3) While I found Miami itself aesthetically appealing, the outskirts in which we were staying -- Doral -- resembled the bastard child of Galveston and Houston. Strip malls and palm trees. I say this as an observation, not a judgment. Some might find that to be a positive.

4) The old-people-in-Miami jokes? Retire them! Not only are they the equivalent of airplane food or VCR programming jokes, they're also becoming less accurate, as one of my convention's speakers told us. Thanks to increased longevity, the oldsters' pensions are running out, and they're leaving Florida to move back in with their families. So dust off those old-people-in-Hartford jokes.

5) Speaking of old people, I had that damn song Dorothy and Rose wrote on "The Golden Girls" stuck in my head the entire time. "I have to say what I feel..." Actually, Blanche wrote that line. See, she was upset about Big Daddy -- never mind.

6) Judging by the hors d'oeuvres at Bongo, I'm guessing Fidel Castro's longevity must be the perfect storm of cigars and Cuban food that has the grim reaper completely befuddled. I couldn't find anything that wasn't fried.

7) Overall, I judge a city by this criterion: If I couldn't live in New York, would I mind living there? From what I saw, the answer would be a yes. And I won't even say what I found out about rent prices in Fort Lauderdale. I might start packing now if I think too hard about it.

Gonna deaf you up with my love

I didn't spend all my time in Texas playing blackjack, of course. I made it back to one of my old haunts in Houston -- the gay club South Beach -- for their annual Madonna-rama. Yup, an entire night of Madonna music.

But I'm getting old. While I had fun, I left the club almost completely deaf. I don't ever remember that happening at South Beach before. Is it the daily destruction I do to my ears by listening to my iPod at high volumes every day? Or is Madonna a special ear-piercing decibel that shouldn't be listened to for long periods?

Never mind. Here's a cruddy cell phone video I shot of a Madonna impersonator at the club. I'm giving her the attention because she tossed me a Jagermeister T-shirt. Enjoy!



Seriously, though. If there are any entrepreneurs out there, Houston needs a new gay dance club. South Beach is fun, but it's the only game in town now, it seems. For the country's fourth-largest city, that's pathetic.

The dewussification of gambling

Not counting the one time I won about $300 playing blackjack at Caesars, the casinos in Atlantic City always ultimately depressed me. While the casinos in Las Vegas were always full of the tourists who were either somewhat savvy or too rich for me to care whether they won or lost, the Atlantic City patrons always seemed to lean a lot more toward the type of person who wasn't going to make their rent if the dice didn't come up as seven or if that third plum didn't turn up on the reel. But even that seemed like a laugh riot compared with the final moments on the Texas Treasure.

Yes, as part of my brief trip back to the Lone Star State, I joined my parents, my eldest sister and her husband on the gambling boat that makes trips into the law-free Gulf of Mexico from the Corpus Christi area. I'm not sure what causes one to get to the point in which dropping about a thousand bucks on slots seems like a keen investment, but Lord, I hope I never get there.

Don't get me wrong. I had a lot of fun on the boat. But I think what makes gambling boats a bit of a downer is that last half hour or so, when the boat is too close to shore to allow gambling to continue. There's not much to do but watch the defeated folks doze in the lounge and make some frightening attempts at karaoke.

There was one boat patron, however, who upped the coolness average considerably. Glancing out the window at dinner, my family and I noticed a mustachioed man, dressed mostly in black including a black cowboy hat who was chomping on an unlit cigar. It turned out to be Kinky Friedman. I saw him a few other times throughout the night, but I have no idea if he won or lost. Pity, however, that he never made an appearance during the closing karaoke moments.

Iceland/Paris blogging: Part 5 -- Final thoughts

As I walk away from the subject of the trip -- another Kristina photo from the Champs-Elysees, this one that she so cleverly titled "can a diva strut" -- here are just a few closing observations:

1) There are very few morbidly obese people in Europe, and those you do see, odds are that they are American.

2) The Paris Metro comes by every few minutes and has a display showing the approximate time of the next train's arrival. Hello, New York? Catch up!

3) The president of Iceland was on my return flight, probably coming to the city for the UN festivities. That made me sad. Doesn't the poor guy have his own plane? Is there no Iceland Air Force One? I'll bet Bjork has a private jet.

4) Reykjavik nightlife might be hopping on the weekends, but it was certainly dead on the evening on Sept. 14, 2006. Had I gone to the cafe I wanted to visit, it would have been me and the bartender. Still, it was more exciting than Wilmington, Delaware's nightlife.

5) Travel tip: If you want to try the local Icelandic delicacy of reindeer, try not to do it on the night after a day-long horse ride. Trying to eat an animal very similar to the ones you've been bonding with all day is tough. I went vegetarian that night.

6) Travel tip II: If you want to try the local Icelandic delicacy of dried fish -- don't.

7) Travel tip III: If you want to bring pork sausage back from Paris for a friend, even if it's dried, don't declare it. I hope the customs official who snatched it from me enjoyed it.

8) I'll miss hearing the hold music -- an Icelandic version of "On The Street Where You Live" -- that Icelandair uses.

9) It's pointless to arrive three hours before a flight at Terminal 7 in JFK. The Durango, Colorado airport was more crowded than that terminal.

10) Paprika-flavored potato chips from Norway rock.

Iceland/Paris blogging: Part 4 -- Lesbian Paris

Having been to Paris several times before, there's not much to say as far as the touristy stuff goes.

I had gone to visit a close friend who has been working there for several months (and she's the one who shot the photo on the right, at Rue Cler near her apartment). My previous trips to Paris had been either whirlwind tours (Hey kids! Let's go visit the Louvre -- for 45 minutes, then back on the bus!) or not more than day trips, so it was nice to actually have some time there to concentrate on partying and eating.

So since I've already seen gay Paris, this time, I had the chance to see the Paris that Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas saw -- if they had liked dancing to Madonna, that is. I got to visit my first Parisian lesbian dance club, and even though they almost didn't let me in -- my friend, Kristina, had to explain that I was gay and not there to gawk -- the music was the best I'd ever heard in a lesbian bar. It wasn't that dreary mix of country and hip hop that seems to be common in most of the bars. It was actually music I could dance to -- and to which I could watch one poor, spastic girl give her best shot at dancing.

OK, so I did do a little touristy stuff. We climbed the Arc de Triomph for the first time, since I could write it off as exercise. Here we are at the top:

Yeah, I'm wearing the same clothes as in the first photo. That's because it was the same day, fool! Here's one final look at the Champs-Elysees from the top of the arc.

Iceland/Paris blogging: Part 3 -- Riding as the vikings did

I'm indebted to two gorgeous, strapping Icelandic boys who added a ton of pleasure (and pain) to my trip. Here's one of them:


Meet Algud, one of the more than 1,000 horses owned by the Ishestar horse tour group in Iceland.

Much like the Icelandic language, Icelandic horses are a glimpse into the past. The common thought is that no horses have been imported to the island since the 1200s, and while Iceland does export its horses, once they leave Iceland, they're not allowed to come back. In other words, the horses we see today are pretty much the same as what the vikings had centuries ago. So naturally, I had to ride one for myself.

Look! I managed to shoot nothing but horses' asses!
And the landscape is that moss-covered rock I was talking about.

I chose the day-long tour, which came with caveat of "some riding experience suggested." Now, I've ridden before, but that was mostly on lazy Texas trail rides. And, as I found out, European riding is a bit different than Western riding, although Iceland does have a bit more in common with the West than, say, the U.K. does. My two horses and I got along fine, however.

Besides the breeding, there's another unique trait to the Icelandic horse: the gaits. As my ass would attest, I had the trot down pat. There's a better gait known as the tolt, however, which is fast yet smooth and therefore much more comfortable. Unfortunately, perfecting that requires quite a bit of rapport between horse and rider, and there's only so much I could do in a matter of hours.


Here's me and my second horse, Fengul -- and in breaking a cardinal rule of journalism, I have no idea if I'm spelling either horse's name right. I know I look hideous and fat, but keep in mind that this was near the end of the ride and that I had been outside in the mud and rain for five or six hours.

During Fengul's leg of the trip, one of my fellow riders, an American (and the only fellow rider who wasn't speaking Swedish) who had lived in Iceland for several years and now runs an agency booking tours to Iceland in the U.S., asked me where I lived. When I told her that I live in New York but was originally from Texas, she said she could tell I had ridden quite a bit because I seemed comfortable and had a good rapport with Fengul. I think, however, that says more about Fengul than it did about me.

If I ever make it back to Iceland, I'd love to take one of the longer horseriding tours that last for several days. Fengul has my phone number, and like all the other gorgeous men I meet, I'm sure he'll call. But in the meantime, I'm open to any exercises known to thicken the skin on one's ass. I was cut, bruised and sore for a few days afterward.

This reminds me of one little Iceland factoid with which I'll close this portion of the journey. A good portion of Iceland's energy comes from geothermal sources, and this includes how the country's water is heated. The average visitor would notice this because warm water from the faucet has the slight odor of sulfur. I learned this by a totally different method, however, because when that warm water comes across an open wound... Let's just say I hope the people in the next room weren't trying to sleep when I took that shower.

Iceland/Paris blogging: Part 2 -- Fantasies and nightmares

Just a few more photos from the Blue Lagoon:

This kind of gives you an idea of the size and surrounding landscape of the lagoon. And a side note: I saw the guy in the bottom left corner naked. Yikes!

Not so with the guy on the bottom left here, however. I remember at the time thinking he was really hot. Looking at the photo, I now realize that might have been the jet lag talking.

This is moi underneath a truly fabulous waterfall at the lagoon. It was a great way to wash off the mud and a much cheaper massage option than the messeurs who had their own portioned off area in the lagoon.

Iceland/Paris blogging: Part 1 -- Steam Heat

There's absolutely nothing like going for a swim in 40-something-degree, rainy weather.

Iceland is a pretty short jump from JFK -- not even a five-hour flight, in fact. The downside is that it gives you even less time to toss and turn on the plane before a 6:30 a.m. arrival. This was probably my least jet-lagged trip, however, because my flight was so empty that I was able to stretch across an entire row of seats to sleep. It was the first time I've ever slept for any period of a time on a plane.

The perfect trip for the arrival day, I was told, was the Blue Lagoon. It's a geothermal spa about 40 minutes outside of Reykjavik. The landscape around it is particularly striking, almost alien: volcanic rocks without a hint of grass but still green because of the moss covering the rocks.

After stripping down as far as you feel comfortable, you have to somehow make that run from the outside into the water. Walking half-naked when it's 48 degrees and raining is one thing; doing so after stepping out of a sauna is something else entirely. And lest you forget what the weather was like as you're bathing in the warm water, there are plenty of these guys who look like they're dressed up for a nuclear winter walking around to remind you.

I did miss one opportunity at the Blue Lagoon. I noticed the snack bar served a rather bizarrely topped hot dog, served with remoulade and fried onions, among other things. Having already seen enough KFCs and Dominos Pizza joints from the bus on the way there, I shrugged it off as another unfortunate American infusion. Little did I know that the local hot dogs, or pylsur, are actually one of the island's culinary highlights. Damn! I missed a legitimate excuse to cheat on my diet.

I didn't miss out, however, on the silica mud treatments, available via scoop at several troughs along the lagoon. I was able only to exfoliate my face, however. I couldn't keep any other body part out of the water long enough to keep the mud on there. The Blue Lagoon sells it's own line of cosmetic products, but as is the case with virtually everything in Iceland, they're ridiculously expensive. That's one of the drawbacks of living somewhere that requires almost everything to be imported.