Who are you? Einstein?

I had lunch with mom a few weeks ago at Hinsch's in Bay Ridge, one of the truly last bastions of the Brooklyn of my teens. After the wood paneling was installed many decades ago, Time had one last burger there and decided never to return.

Whereas I like Hinsch's for nostalgic (and, admittedly, camp) reasons, for Mom it's a comfort zone where she can be with people like her--aging, freshly blue-rinsed white ladies eating bland, heavily salted meat and whispering about how the [Chinese] [Mexicans] [radical Islams] [yuppies] [Godfather's Pizza chains] have ruined the neighborhood. Sometimes I wonder if this place is some Magic 8-Ball window into my future, and I lose my appetite.

Mom has been doing well since her mini-stroke last June. She claims to have not smoked since she left the hospital. I think she sneaks one every now and then, but I concede it's better than her former pack-a-day habit. Still, the effects of 55 years of smoking are etched in every cell, particularly her brain. Her short-term memory is all but gone. She has to write down everything the second you tell her or she doesn't remember. Her long-term memory is still intact, though, which is good if I'm stuck on a name from 30 years ago.

But there's something going on her brain that, to my knowledge, doesn't have a name. I call it Reverse Jeopardy! Tourette's. The game starts with my mother asking a question, immediately followed by an answer that is almost always incorrect.

At lunch at Hinsch's, for instance, the conversation turns to Andrea's boyfriend.

"I'm so glad Andrea has a boyfriend," mom said.

"Me too," I said. "And he's a chef."

"Whereabouts? SoHo?" mom said.

My little kid self takes over at moments like this, and I become insolent.

"Now, Ma," I said, "what made you say SoHo?"

"I don't know. I heard there are a lot of restaurants in SoHo."

"But there are restaurants everywhere...even on your block," I reasoned. Then, realizing that I was being an idiot, I calmly said, "He's a chef at a place in downtown Brooklyn."

On some subconscious level, I'm both afraid and irritated. No one likes seeing their parents age, especially when they're walking around with misinformation in their heads.

This was not an isolated incident. A month earlier, I'd brought mom to the office to meet my co-workers. "Mom, this is Lou. He lives in Bay Ridge, too."

"Oh, whereabouts? 91st and 3rd?"

Now, Bay Ridge consists of about 300 blocks. Why Mom chose that specific block was baffling.

Lou didn't quite know what to say but matter-of-factly said, "No, 72nd and Ridge."

There's something going on in mom's head where she reaches into her database of stored information and pulls out something that fits with the situation. Her answer is partly correct, in that she understands that 91st and 3rd is in Bay Ridge, but somehow she doesn't realize the key is still in the ignition and the car door is locked. She can't quite tell her brain to stop in time before it's too late. Or maybe she doesn't realize that she's even answering her own question aloud.

A few years ago, while in Tipperary, we met a British couple at a pub. The first words out of mom's mouth were "Where are you from? Manchester?" Why London, where the couple was actually from, didn't occur to her first was a mystery to me. Then, a few days later, while having a drink at Bunratty, an American we met mentioned that he'd gone to school on Long Island. "Where'd you go? Chaminade?" While Chaminade is a school on Long Island, there must have been something about the guy that made mom automatically answer. Turned out the guy was Jewish and did not go to Chaminade, a Catholic school.

The other day I told mom I was going to Andrea's boyfriend's house for dinner.

"Where does he live? Windsor Place?" I tried to figure out why on earth she chose that particular block. It must have been because she knows her boyfriend is Irish-American and Windsor Place is in Windsor Terrace, which is an Irish-American neighborhood.

I took a deep breath, and instead of getting annoyed, I said, "No. He lives in Carroll Gardens."

"Oh, that's what I meant," she said.

Who knows? Maybe that was what she meant.

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Bellissima too!

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Bellissima!

On the drive from London to Stansted Airport, the soothing, articulate voice of a BBC Radio 4 announcer read a string of random words that seemed to go on forever: "Viking North Utsire...southeasterly in North Utsire at first, otherwise southwesterly, 5 to 7, perhaps gale 8 later in Viking. Rough or very rough. Rain. moderate or poor...South Utsire...variable 4 becoming southwest 4 or 5, occasionally 6 later. Rough or very rough. Occasional rain. Moderate or good, occasionally poor..."

It was 5:20 a.m. I had already been awake for an hour, but this broadcast was starting to put me to sleep. I looked over at Luis, who was already sleeping. Niamh and Jan were quietly listening as the announcer kept going on as though reading some spy code that only British people seemed to understand. The suspense was killing me.

Breaking the mood, I said, "What the hell are we listening to?"

"Oh, right," Jan said, "it's the Shipping Forecast."

"And what might that be?"

"It's a weather forecast for sailors. It's quite big here."

"Oh, good," I said. "Because I thought I'd had a stroke and had forgotten the English language."

The Shipping Forecast was followed by a report on "Renaissance Mutton," a campaign spearheaded by Prince Charles aimed at reviving interest in dead old sheep. This broadcast confirmed that radio in the UK sucks just as much as in the US. Just as we pulled up at the airport, some Anglican bishop was concluding the Daily Prayer, which was good, because we were about to embark on a Ryanair flight, and I was bracing for the worst.

My fears were unfounded. We made it onto the plane without a hitch, though I was a bit put off by the lack of assigned seating. We ended up sitting across from a dad and his two little "angels," who took turns slapping each other throughout the flight and speaking in tongues.

Ah well. Three hours later, as the plane approached Sant'Egidio Airport in Perugia and I took in the the rich earth tones of Umbria and Tuscany below, my fears dissolved. Rows of stately cypresses, olive groves, and vineyards came into view. Even the pilot's organ-slamming landing couldn't break the smile on my face. Everything about Italy makes me smile. Che bella Italia!

Sant'Egidio is about the size of the waiting room at Penn Station in New York. There are only two arrivals and two departures daily. Even though I was operating on 4 hours' sleep, I was pumped and momentarily forgot I was traveling on my Irish passport. Going through passport control, which was two guys checking passports (one for EU, one for non-EU) I was ushered by a carabiniere to the EU line, which had 4 people.

The four of us piled into our Fiat Punto and took off for the town of Perugia, about a 15-minute drive from the airport. It was cool out, nice enough to sit outside and have a coffee. Perugia is a cute little medieval town, undeserving of its recent bad press as a murder hub and terror school. Five minutes after we arrived I had an unbelievably delicious prosciutto and mozzarella panino, and Perugia is home to Perugina, which hosts the annual Eurochocolate festival. So, how can that be a bad place?

We walked up Corso Vannucci, Perugia's main street. Mixed in among the trendy boutiques and department stores are chains like Timberland. It was hard to tell it was Christmas season. The only decorations on the street were understated strings of white lights shaped like stars and a figure of Babbo Natale (Santa Claus) climbing up the side of a building. How over-the-top extravaganzas like Brooklyn's Dyker Lights made their way across the ocean is head-scratching.

In mid-afternoon we drove toward Città della Pieve, about 30 miles south of Perugia. Italy has had centuries to perfect the art of beauty. Each tree and hill looks as though it was purposefully designed into the landscape, as though artists with imagination willed the pieces into place, every corner and passage placed to cast shadows and reflect light in the most splendid way.

Luis and I had bought a Garmin Nuvi 270 GPS for the trip. After our last trip to Italy in 2003, we learned that deciphering highway signs is not a simple matter. There are no such things as north, south, east, and west. To get anywhere, you have to know which major city you are headed toward. In Tuscany and Umbria, if you don't know where you are relative to Florence and Rome, you could be driving for quite a while. So the GPS came in handy, especially as we got closer to Città della Pieve. Even though we had programmed in the name of the street where Luis's mom lives, the GPS found it in four different locations, and every time we turned the GPS said "Recalculating...Recalculating" because it didn't know what we were trying to do. This was all because of one word: Vocabolo. In Italian, the word vocabolo literally means word, but geographically speaking, it means general area. It's kind of like "I know it's around here somewhere." Luckily, Luis called his mom and told her where we were and she ran to the bottom of the hill and flagged us down.

A few months ago Luis's mom and stepdad rented a property on the outskirts of Città della Pieve. They are planning to retire to the area and are now in the process of getting their residency, looking for a place to buy, and figuring out what to do with their house in the States. I am very jealous.

The property consists of a main house and a casetta (guest house) overlooking a magnificent valley. A big well sits in the middle of the backyard. The flora is mainly cypress, pine, and olive. The hills undulate in the distance, lending the landscape a romantic dreaminess. You feel as though you could stand there forever, watching the light change moment to moment, and never be bored. It's not fair that Italy hoards such beauty.

The beauty, however, is tempered by daily life in Italy. At the house next door, the local telephone company had run a backhoe into the phone lines, cutting service, which won't be restored until 2008 because the outage was not "budgeted." Goods and services are mercilessly taxed. To me these are small prices to pay for the sight of Italian woman dressed in their finest frocks to fetch their daily bread or old Italian men sitting around the cafe reading La Repubblica and exhorting the pigeons to be calm and fly gracefully.


Italy is a siesta culture. Here it is called riposo (rest). Many towns in Tuscany and Umbria rely on agriturismo for economic sustenance. Businesses may open about 9 or 9:30 and close at 2:00, reopen at 4:00 and close again at 6:00 or 7:00. A few years ago while in San Gimignano we learned the hard way just how serious Italians are about their riposo. We arrived at a restaurant (recommended by Lonely Planet, by the way) for lunch at about 1:50. We asked if lunch was still being served and the maitre d' said yes. We were the only patrons, which should have been a tipoff. Next thing we know, we hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen and the spouting of many epithets. Seconds later, the cook stood in the middle of the restaurant smoking a cigarette and glaring at our table. One of our friends asked what we should do. I said I thought if we stuck around the ashes--or worse--might make their way into our meal, so we quietly got up, explained to the maitre d' that we were a little concerned, and left. We ended up having to eat bad panini at a local bar as penance for interrupting the flow of riposo.

In the evening we wandered into the adorable town of Città della Pieve, which, like most Tuscan towns, is full of passageways, ramps, arches, and stairways. Città is about a quarter mile above sea level, and at dusk the valleys below appear to make the town float. Passing the local church, I heard the strains of a choir singing "Ave Maria," and locals strolled the cobblestoned streets looking in shop windows. At the end of our walk we stopped in the supermarket to buy groceries for dinner. As I've written before, I always love shopping for food in other countries. When I lived in Jakarta for a month many years ago, the highlight of my day was perusing the spice aisles of the local market. On this outing, I was mesmerized by two things: the quantity of tomato products and the variety of Nutella jar sizes.

Luis's mom made a delicious pasta dinner and his stepdad broke out a bottle of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. We were all tired from the long day, but after all I'd seen I realized how important it is to savor the moment. Italians seem to have perfected that art.

In New York, beauty is relative; in Italy, it's absolute.

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A bad way to diet

This is only the second day since our arrival that it's rained. It hardly ever rains when I come to London, so I don't know why there's such a hoo-ha about London being rainy. I suspect it's a myth Londoners like to perpetuate to keep tourists away.

It's been 12 days since my last workout, and my new diet of alcohol, tea, meat, and chocolate is working just fine. I feel lighter than when I left and know it's just a matter of time before the scales start to tip the other way.

One of my favorite places to eat in London is Giraffe, conveniently located downstairs from our friends' flat. Their motto is "Love Eat Live." I decided I should eat something healthful. I always order the same "brekkie" item, smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Giraffe has a funky vibe; some Putumayo compilation is always playing in the background. I've already had two cups of tea this morning, which is already more than I ever drink at home. Tea is a way of life here. On a previous trip to London I worked out at a boxing gym and the trainer served me a cup of tea afterwards.

After lunch we took the DLR (the New York equivalent of Long Island Railroad) to the quiet Maida Vale section of London to meet my relatives at the Queen's Arms Pub: Jackie and her friend Billy, Sandra and her daughter Sandy (the ones who visited New York in October), Shonette and Jim and their son James, and Aunt Gladys. Willie and his son William (one of the boxing brothers) came later.

It's early, about 2:00, and I'm already having a Guinness. At home I would never drink before 5, but with the time difference I feel like it's OK. The pub menu has a cheese and tomato sandwich that looks tempting. When it comes, it is literally some hunks of cheese and a slice of tomato shoved between two pieces of white bread--no other condiments. Even my cousins are horrified.

It's strange how at ease I feel with them, as if I've known them all my life. I wonder if my grandmother would have approved of our meeting. But, as I've written before, I feel that she had a hand in this meeting from the great beyond.

Cousin Sandra is already giving me a hard time for not seeing them more often during the trip. Yes, we're definitely family.

"I'm trying to find a pantomime for us to go to on New Year's Eve," Sandra said.

"Great," I said, thinking, oh my God, is this what the English do for fun? And isn't Marcel Marceau dead? I figured I'd better ask, since I had no clue what a pantomime was.

"Well, it's like a fairy story, really," Sandra said. I looked puzzled.

"Like a gay story?" I said.

"No, silly, like Cinderella or Peter Pan."

"Oh, that kind of fairy story."

Shonette added, "All the female roles are played by males."

"Like a drag show?" I said.

"No, not really," Shonette said.

In the US, pantomime conjures up images of slim, white-faced clowns in berets and suspenders who play charades for a living. In th UK, pantomime has an entirely different meaning in the US. In the UK, a pantomime (or panto) is a holiday theatrical performance of a fairy tale (or fairy story, as my cousins call it). It's geared toward both adults and children, so innuendo and double entendre work much like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Female roles are played by men, not for camp value (allegedly) but in the Shakespearean or commedia dell'arte tradition. There's slapstick and audience participation (for instance, "Look out! The villain is behind you!") The pantomime is more desirable if a B celebrity (like Gavin McLeod or Joyce DeWitt in the US) is in it. The hot ticket this year is Stephen Fry's adaptation of Cinderella at the Old Vic Theatre (which is now under the direction of Kevin Spacey).

On the way back, Luis got a text message from Niamh saying there had been a murder in Islington, either on the Tube or near it. When we get out at Angel station, the whole area is cordoned off. The mist-filled streets are eerily quiet, and people line the streets to watch the forensics experts in hazmat suits look for clues. They look overdressed. I mean, Khandi Alexander on CSI: Miami just throws on some Prada when she examines dead bodies.

More sad news as we return to the flat: Benazir Bhutto has been assassinated. The murder scene we just passed was a double stabbing of two teens. London has been having a wave of gang-related killings, and no one knows what to do about it.

All four of us are off to bed early tonight. We have a 7:30 a.m. flight to Perugia to visit Luis's mom and stepdad at their new pied-à-terre. We have to get up at 4:00 a.m. That should be fun.

In Italy my new diet will be challenged by the easy availability of pasta and wine. The scales are sure to tip the other way, but I won't mind. Abbondanza!

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Spice girls

For most of my life I spent Christmas Eve at my aunt's house in Brooklyn, tearing my way through a seven-course fish dinner in the Italian tradition. This year things were more subdued but still a little spicy.

If you fancy garish, over-the-top seasonal displays mixing religious and secular icons like those in Dyker Heights (who doesn't love a manger scene with Santa and his reindeer riding on top?), London is not the place for you. Wreaths, trees, white lights, and the occasional Father Christmas are common, but not a lot else. England is neither a terribly religious or showy country.

Christmas Eve here is quite civilized. Even at midday the streets were quiet. After shopping at one of my favorite stores, Reiss, which had pre-Christmas Day sales, Luis and I had a tasty plate of bangers and mash at S&M Cafe (not what you might think). While Americans shop into the late hours of Christmas Eve, most stores in London close at 5 on Christmas Eve and don't reopen until Boxing Day or the day after. There's the occasional corner market or candy store run by non-Jesus-worshippers that remains open, but by around 7, at least in Islington, the streets were empty. It was tough to find a restaurant to book past 8:00. Luis's sister M and her friend L came to Niamh and Jan's flat for drinks, and then M and L and Luis and I had dinner at a wonderful Turkish place called Cafe Gallipoli. We ate many delicious dishes: grilled hellim (halloumi cheese), boreks (pastries filled with feta and parsley), and sucuk izgara (spicy Turkish garlic sausages).

Things got a little rowdy after a few glasses of wine. L started grooving to the infectious Turkish music, and next thing you know, she was up on a chair dancing, followed by M. The Turkish waiters started clapping and egging them on, then turned up the music and started dancing too. (They slipped a little, though, and accidentally turned on "YMCA".) Even the kitchen staff came up from below to watch the spectacle. Our waiter was very into the dancing, as you can see in the following video. (It's sideways. I swear we weren't THAT drunk.)

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Adding on the pounds

While relaxing by the pool at Luis's mom's over Labor Day weekend, Luis and I had a brilliant idea: let's avoid the holiday madness and go somewhere to avoid family drama. Several Cosmos later, we had economy tickets to London on Virgin. Granted, they were very cheap (under $300), but that won't make up for our hemorrhagic spending once we land. With the dollar at more than 2 to 1 to the pound, we're leaving plenty of room in our luggage for ramen noodles.

Lodging is not a worry, since we'll be staying with our friends. We decided that our trip was our mutual Christmas present. I plan to go to Dublin for 2 days to do some genealogical research and possibly meet up with some cousins. Two weeks ago hotel and airfare would have cost me about $300, but I waited a week too long and ended up paying $500. The euro is no bargain either.

We thought we might escape family gatherings altogether, but Luis's mom and stepdad are living temporarily near Perugia in Umbria, and what the heck, we'll already be on that side of the ocean. The Brits and Luis and I are going the weekend before New Year's. We'll be within drinking distance of wine regions Montepulciano and Montalcino. Ironically, the wine there will be more expensive than it is here!

The only thing more intimidating than the exchange rate is the prospect of flying from London to Perugia on Ryanair, a low-budget Irish airline that has fewer frills than a Mennonite church. The fares are so inexpensive I'm envisioning a Flinstones-like plane where everyone flaps their arms to make the plane run. I can't seem to find a good word about the airline; their bad-boy image makes Colin Farrell look like St. Patrick. France is in a lawsuit with Ryanair, customer complaints are rampant, and the EU is threatening to shut down its Web site for bogus pricing. Earlier this year, Ryanair unsuccessfully attempted to take over Aer Lingus, the national airline of Ireland, earning it the airline's enmity. I don't know if it's good or bad that I share the same last name as the airline's president. It will be anyone's guess whether we'll actually make it to Italy. I feel an I Love Lucy episode coming on.

Having said all this, I'm very excited about the trip. I haven't had a vacation since my last trip to London in March, and that was a trip to remember. At least I'll have stories to tell about this one. And if worse comes to worst, I have plenty of healthy organs to sell when the bills start coming in.

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A lot to Bear

When people asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving this year, I matter-of-factly said, "Nothing." That was the truth. Every year since I turned 21 I've done something different. Last Thanksgiving I spent in London with Andrea while Luis was at his brother's wedding in El Salvador. Nothing, however, compared to the year it took me 9 hours to drive from DC to New York. I have nothing against my family. We see each other often. We're just not big on the forced holidays. I like having the option to do my own thing. It leaves the door open for spontaneity.

Sometimes, however, spontaneity doesn't like having the door swing open too wide.

With temperatures in the 60s, it was a balmy fall day. Luis called me from the gym around 9 and said we should take a drive somewhere, maybe Upstate. I had thought the same thing even before he called. The question was how to find someplace to go.

I Googled "thanksgiving dinner upstate new york" and got a lot of personal Web sites about turkey dinners. I narrowed the search down to "thanksgiving hudson valley" and found some inns and hotels serving dinner, but nothing appealing. Then I noticed a link to OpenTable.com, a site where you can reserve a table at a decent restaurant at the last minute. I've been using it for years.

I looked up Hudson Valley and found a place called Monteverde at Oldstone Manor, right across from Bear Mountain. Bear is a big ski resort in the winter, hugging the western shoreline of the Hudson River. The restaurant, at an 18th century manor house near Peekskill, was right acros the river on the east side. We thought we might drive the '72 Mercedes to New Jersey, up the Palisades Parkway to take in the rich fall foliage, stop in little towns along the way, and make our way to the restaurant. It was a very romantic idea, and we were both excited about spending the day together, which is rare, and relaxing amid the scenery. Monteverde was written up in the New York Times this past Sunday, to rave reviews. Neil Ferguson, a former chef at Gordon Ramsay's New York restaurant The London, had taken over the helm of Monteverde and had turned it into a stellar dining experience.

I made the reservation at Monteverde for the only available slot: 7 pm. That would give us plenty of time to leisurely make our way up to Peekskill. According to MapQuest, the ride should take less than 90 minutes. Even with heavy traffic the worse estimate was 160 minutes. After making the reservation, I realized I hadn't looked for any user reviews. Zagat's had several negative reviews about the service, how inattentive and unresponsive the wait staff were. I don't take such reviews to heart, because when reviewers say things like "the least they could have done was offer us free drinks" I peg them as problem people.

We left Brooklyn in the Mercedes around 12:30, plenty of time to enjoy the scenery before dark. Traffic through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel was a breeze. I love driving in the Mercedes. People stare at car like they're cruising Angelina Jolie. Older men, especially Italian and black guys, give thumbs up or say things like, "She is SO byoo-tee-ful!" We were hot stuff as we headed toward the West Side Highway.

An hour later, we had moved four whole blocks.

Luis was visibly nervous. The Mercedes had been acting up lately, unpredictably, especially while idling. He was afraid we might get stuck in the boondocks on a holiday with no recourse. It was about 1:30 when we turned back to Brooklyn, sailing over the Brooklyn Bridge, and made it home less than 20 minutes later. Thankfully we have another car, an '88 Volvo wagon, which has also had major surgery but is far more reliable than the Mercedes. Around 2:00 we got back on the road to Manhattan. I checked the traffic reports, and every major thoroughfare was jammed for miles. Much of it was due to the Macy's parade, which shuts off Midtown from the rest of the city. The rest was local traffic, people trying to get to and from New Jersey, Long Island, Westchester. Luis was convinced that the West Side Highway had to have cleared up.

He was wrong.

Traffic was even worse than the first time, backing almost into the Battery Tunnel. We spent the next 2 hours, zig-zagging our way through streets, trying to outsmart other drivers who knew faster ways, but we weren't that smart. Finally we ended up on the FDR Drive, which was virtually clear...all the way to the Bronx at least.

At last we made it out of Manhattan and into Westchester. It was a little after 4:00. Ah well, at least we had 3 hours, but our hopes at viewing the brilliant hues of sugar maple, pine, spruce autumn were waning. The clouds were rolling in, and the temperature had fallen a good 20 degrees. We didn't make it to New Jersey, but the Saw Mill River Parkway, which we drove on, had a nice blend of yellow, orange, red, and green to keep us engaged.

The drive got more relaxing as we went on. I had my iPod playing, and I tried snapping photos of the leaves with my camera. We were certainly making good time. It was about 4:30 now. We I checked the map to see how far away we were.

Now, even with my 20/15 Lasik-corrected vision, I can't see up close very well, and I haven't yet invested in a pair of drugstore glasses. The New York State maps we had didn't show Westchester roads very well. They were mainly concerned with real upstate places like Buffalo and Schenectady. Plus the maps had been from the Mercedes, when Luis's elderly aunt owned it, so the roads stopped at about 1970. When I looked up at road signs and saw Katonah, I knew we were in trouble.

We were only about 20 miles east of where we needed to go, but neither of us was familiar enough with the ares to figure out which westbound road to take. I pulled out my cell phone and started the navigation program, and just as I was about to get the map, my battery died.

It was getting pretty dark now, at around 5:00, and we had to pull over and try to figure out between us the nearest route to take. We finally figured it out and headed on the road. My original MapQuest directions had long since become useless since we hadn't followed any of the roads. (Later, when I looked at the photos I'd taken on the road, I'd inadvertently snapped a picture of the split where we should have gotten off.) By some miracle we ended up on Route 202, which would take us straight to the restaurant.

At about 5:20 we stopped for gas. We figured we were close but decided to fill up in case things went horribly wrong. Back on the road again, we passed a diner on the left that looked open. We both looked at each other and said, "Plan B." Even though we were close and we had plenty of time, we still weren't sure what lay ahead.

Driving through the town of Peekskill, I was shocked by how run-down and seedy it looked. The only other time I'd been there was in 8th grade, when we took a class trip to the Peekskill Dude Ranch (now an orthodox Jewish seminary), and I rode a horse for the first time.

We followed the street according to our directions: a dead end.

The way things were going, we weren't sure we were going to find the restaurant. Luis remarked that even McDonald's was closed. But along the way we did pass an Art Deco-y looking diner, and I said, "Plan B."

About 20 minutes later we found Monteverde. It looked really charming from the outside, and I'm sure it would have looked stunning in the daylight.

"Mmm hmmm," Luis said, "it's gonna be us a bunch of ultra-whiteys."

"Yeah," I said, "and the homos will probably be lynched."

We looked at each other and said, "Let's eat!"

The problem now was not whether we would arrive late but that we had arrived more than an hour before our reservation. It was 5:40 and no longer balmy. We decided to walk around the grounds for a few minutes. Even in the dark we could tell it was beautiful in the daylight. A brilliant red sugar maple was illuminated against the gibbous moon. A glass-enclosed gazebo jutted out on one side of the restaurant.

It was getting cold. We decided to go to the bar and stick out the wait. We gave our names to the hostess. Before I could even tell her how awful our drive was and how early we were, she said she had a table for us. The table was in the gazebo, right by the window, overlooking the lake. We looked around at the other guests: a Chinese family, an interracial couple, a group of Hispanic friends. Two women were seated right behind me.

"Oh, look, we're in the same-sex section," Luis said.

Our waitress, Ramona, appeared a few minutes after we were seated. She was quite pretty, a cross between Paula Abdul and Phylicia Rashad. I explained to her, as I had to the hostess, that it had taken us 4 hours to get here. I'm sure I'll be a joy as an old man.

We got drinks and looked at the three-course prix-fixe menu, which read like this:

Appetizers

Terrine of smoked ham knuckle, chicken and foie gras, pickled beet salad
Garden salad of seasonal fruits, vegetables, herbs and pickles
Butternut squash soup, wild mushrooms and parmigiano reggiano
Smoked trout fillet with a salad of avocado and green apple, crème fraiche

Entrées
Butter poached turkey,confit leg,potato puree,cranberry compote and cooking juices
Potroasted, glazed ham, spiced red cabbage, parslied, honey carrots, port sauce
Roast salmon fillet, sage gnocchi, chestnuts, wild mushrooms and shaved pecorino cheese

Desserts
Pecan pie, maple ice cream
Chestnut parfait, milk chocolate and pear
Slow roasted gala apple, rum and raisin ice cream and golden puff pastry
Artisanal domestic cheeses

Chef Neil Ferguson

We were just the right amount of starving. We finally got a chance to relax and absorb the atmosphere. It was a pity we hadn't seen the grounds in the daylight, but it was still beautiful.

I ordered the terrine, Luis got the butternut squash soup. Portions were just right, and both were delicious.

For the second course we had the traditional turkey dinner, and for dessert the chestnut parfait.

What Gordon Ramsay lost Monteverde gained. The food was wonderful, the service attentive, and the venue beautiful.

We drove back to the highway, passing the Deco-y diner we'd passed earlier. We were both glad we didn't have to resort to Plan B. Traffic home was a breeze. We made it home in an hour and 20 minutes. Congestion aside, the day was exactly what we had both wanted. It had not gone quite as we had expected, but the destination was worth the journey. And we were thankful for the beautiful meal and for having each other.

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Tour de force

I haven't blogged in over a month, not for lack of things to say, but for lack of time in which to say them. Work has tested the limits of my sanity many times over the past few months, and I've been working late hours and barely making it to the gym, so by the time I get home I usually retreat into a catlike state, or, more accurately, catatonic state, and the last thing on my mind is writing. If I weren't able to hit something, I just might be making license plates in a Mexican prison. My idea of fun now is tracking down long-dead ancestors and trying to figure out how many degrees separate me from Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Just out of curiosity, you know.

As my faithful readers know, my late grandfather, Fred, whom I never knew, was a bit of a cad--OK, a big-ass cad. By "accidentally" reading a letter she thought was addressed to her, my grandmother found out that my my grandfather had abandoned another wife, whom he was still married to, and their three kids in Dublin. Although they stayed together till grandpa's death in 1948, the marriage was effectively over. For the rest of her life, my grandmother shoveled bushels of Catholic shame and guilt onto herself, and the mystery of the other family was supposed to remain a secret forever.

Then I was born.

I always liked the Nancy Drew mysteries (although really I was just interested in the Hardy Boys), starring soon-to-be Dynasty heiress Pamela Sue Martin. Nancy would use her teenage powers of deduction to solve a perplexing situation. As soon as she'd say something like "Professor, do ghosts leave footprints?" I knew the mystery was solved. In my case, I started sleuthing about a year ago to track down Fred's Dublin family. One clue led to another clue to another clue, and finally I had all the pieces of the puzzle--except one: the married name of the only person I could track down. That was the only clue that escaped me. And then, miraculously, this year, Nancy Drew came to the rescue in the form of Anne-Marie, who found all the puzzle pieces online and gave me the last clue I needed for the picture to emerge.

In March I met the Dublin family, who now lives in London. I felt as if I'd known them all my life. And in some way, I felt that my grandmother, Fred's second wife, wanted me to know them.

Sandra, one of the London half-cousins, called in September to say she and her two girls, Sandy and Cass, were making their first trip to New York at the end of October. It so happened I had a few days off coming up, so I decided to meet them at the airport and play tour guide for 4 days.

A few days before their arrival, I asked my mother if she wanted to meet us in Manhattan for lunch. Her voice had a hedgy quality, as if I had just asked whether she would prefer cow lips or pig's ears. Finally I said, "You're not really interested in meeting them, are you?" She hesitated, then said, "No, not really." I asked why, and again she hesitated. "I don't know. I just don't think I have anything in common with them." No, I said sarcastically, I guess not--except for one little thing: your father.

I could understand her feeling that what's past is past, but I was nonetheless bothered by her attitude. My aunt called me a few hours later, and she was bothered too. "I told her how selfish she's being," my aunt said. "You've done so much for her, and you put all this work into finding them. The least she could do is give you an hour." My mother had even asked my aunt when "Kieran's relatives" were arriving.

Obviously I couldn't force my mother to do anything, so I just let it go. My aunt was excited about meeting them and had even bought them welcome gifts. Why was my mother so ambivalent? Was she jealous? Resentful? Bitter? I mean, after I found the other family's names, mom was the one who handed me the page of the Dublin phone book she'd ripped out so we could start calling all the Masons who lived there.

Maybe it was one thing for her to wonder about the other family all these years, quite another to know they were real--and that my grandmother's shame might be validated. But, really, all I wanted from mom was for her to show up for lunch for an hour, say hello, and, leave. After all, if anyone should have have been jealous, bitter, and resentful, it's the family overseas who had been abandoned.

Luis and I picked up Sandra and the girls at JFK on Wednesday night. I hadn't seen them since March, but it felt like I saw them yesterday. We keep in touch by e-mail regularly, so I really feel like I know what's going on with them. Sandra's mother, Gladys, my mother and aunt's half-sister, was unable to come. She was recovering from an infection caused by a spider bite on her leg, and at 83 years old her recovery time is slow. Although a meeting of my mother and aunt and Gladys would have been a big Oprah moment, it will have to wait for another day.

The look of awe on the faces of Sandy, 12, and Cass, just 17, as they walked through the terminal was priceless. As a birthday present, Cass pleaded with her mom to come to New York. As we passed through Queens on the way to Manhattan, Cass said excitedly in her British accent, "I can't believe I'm in America." We drove through Jamaica, and I pointed out that we were in Queens. "That's where 50 Cent is from," Cass said. Indeed.

As we drove to their hotel, they chattered away about what they wanted to do. Number one on their list was shopping, which was wise given the strength of the pound. But that was not all: the Empire State Building, Madame Tussaud's, Ground Zero, Macy's, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, a helicopter ride. I pointed out the Empire State Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Chrysler Building to them. Their heads whipped around, trying to drink it all in while drowsily battling the effects of an 7-hour plane ride and a 5-hour time difference. They were staying 4 full days. If they were going to see all those things, I was going to have to get a good night's sleep and pull out my good walking shoes.

On Thursday I met them at Niketown in Manhattan around noon. The girls were busy trying on every pair of trainers in the store. Sandra's cell phone wasn't working, so I had to use my intuition to find them. Once the salesperson told the girls that they could order custom-made trainers, well, it was like an early Christmas for them. This option wasn't even available to them in London. They made an appointment with a "custom shoe specialist" for 2 pm.

Despite my repeated warnings to not eat at their hotel, they ignored them and had breakfast there. "The bacon was inedible," Sandra said, "and the pancakes were rubbery. And it cost $60 for the three of us!" I looked at Sandra. "I know," she said, "you warned us." Eating in a hotel isn't so bad--if that's your only option. When we dropped them off from the airport I pointed out a perfectly respectable, inexpensive diner right next door to the hotel. "We learned our lesson," she said. "Good," I said, "because there's no reason to eat crappy food in New York City."

We had some time to kill. What would they like to do? Empire State Building! Madame Tussaud's! Macy's! they cried. "Hold your horses!" I said. "We only have an hour until your appointment." Plus, it was rainy and chilly, and there wasn't much outdoors we could comfortably do. We went into St. Patrick's Cathedral and Rockefeller Center. I showed them where the Christmas tree would soon be and said that several TV shows like "Scrubs" were filmed there. We went to the Sony building to see we if we could find PlayStation games for their 13-year-cousin James. Then it was time to go back to Niketown.

We met my aunt at 3 at Ellen's Stardust Diner, which I thought would be fun but turned out to be irritating. I wondered what was going through my aunt's head as she met her half-niece for the first time. No worries. They started chatting away, competing with the singing waiters who tried to engage us in their performances. The food was pretty bad. I had chosen the restaurant poorly, but it didn't seem to matter. Later my aunt called me to say she felt like she'd known them her whole life. Sandra said the same thing about my aunt.

After lunch I checked my voice mail. Mom had called during our lunch: "I just talked to your uncle, and he said my sister was having lunch with the cousins in Manhattan. I knew nothing about it. I'm sorry. OK, dear, bye."

I scratched my head. Hadn't I asked her to join us? Hadn't my aunt told her when we were meeting? Was this a pang of guilt, or was mom's memory that bad? I decided to not call her back. I'd deal with it later.

Taxi rides for four are much cheaper than four subway fares. The girls were inclined to cab it everywhere, but I said if they wanted the New York experience, they should get used to walking. Their mother agreed. Still, I knew we wouldn't be able to squeeze everything into four days, so I got 2-day passes for those ubiquitous red Gray Line double-deckers. I'd never been on one before. As we sat on the upper deck of the night loop bus, I looked around at the dazzling lights of Times Square and felt awed myself. So often I dismiss touristy things, but seeing the city from above was pretty thrilling. The girls practically got whiplash trying to take it all in. When we got to Brooklyn and passed through Fulton Ferry Landing (in my opinion the finest view of Manhattan you'll ever get), the girls gasped. "Oh my God!" said Cass, who had not been demonstrably effusive about anything so far, "That's a view I'll never forget. It's brilliant!"

After the 2-hour tour, I put them in a cab at Times Square and took the subway back to Brooklyn. I thought, being a tourist in New York is grueling. And that was just day one.

Friday was wet and cold, a perfect day for shopping. Sandra's cell phone still wasn't working, and I had train problems. When I got to their hotel they had left. I asked the bellman if he'd seen them. He recalled that they had gone to their left. Great. How was I going to find them? Then I remembered the diner. I passed by the window and didn't see them. Then, as I turned away, I spotted them in the furthest corner.

"Better?" I said.

"Much better," Sandra said. "You were right."

"Don't ever second-guess a New Yorker," I joked.

We spent about 5 hours at Macy's, which is more time than I've collectively spent there in my life. The girls were superexcited to find their favorite brands, Jay-Z's line Rocawear and Baby Phat, headed by Russell Simmons' wife Kimora. Sandra was on the hunt for boots.

Macy's offers an 11 percent discount to anyone showing an out-of-town license or passport. The pass lasts 30 days. Coupled with a fantastic exchange rate, that meant big saving for the Brits.

Sandy was eager to eat at the McDonald's at Macy's. Her sister wasn't so keen on it, but their mom caved in. I couldn't believe they would want to eat the same food they could get at home, but I guess if I had traveled abroad at 12 I would have wanted something familiar.

When we left Macy's it was dark and still wet. We took a cab back to their hotel. Sandra still hadn't been able to get her cell phone to work. I discovered that she hadn't changed the band to work in the US. Once I changed the band, the phone worked.

I asked them what they wanted to do. The nice thing about New York is that everything stays open late. They decided on Madame Tussaud's. It was open until about 1:00 a.m., and when we arrived, the place was virtually empty.

I wasn't sure I was going to enjoy a wax museum, but the girls got right into the fun, posing with just about every figure, starting with The Hulk. I took pictures of them with Oprah, the Osbournes, Jessica Simpson, The Rock, and Charlie Chaplin. (Cass said she used to be scared of him.)

Two days down, two to go. I wondered how we would fit all the things they wanted to do into 48 hours, especially with the bad weather.

On Saturday Sandra and the girls went off to find things for their pug, Muffin. Sandy missed Muffin terribly and had brought with her a Muffin photo album. I met them in the afternoon at Century 21, a shopping must for natives and out-of-towners alike. Century happens to directly face Ground Zero. It's still a shock to finish shopping and enter the street to a giant void where the world's tallest buildings used to stand. Cass was visibly stunned. Sandy spotted Burger King on the corner, where, it occurred to me, we had a bird's-eye view of the construction site. Cass took a lot of photos of the site, which is now starting to take shape. For years it was literally empty, and now that cranes and bulldozers are working on the new structures, the site looks somewhat like it did after 9/11. I started getting a little teary myself looking at it. I guess that feeling may never go away.

It was getting late, and the Statue of Liberty was now out of the question. But suddenly I had an idea: We could take the Staten Island Ferry, for free, to Staten Island and back. That's about as close as you can get to the statue without going to Liberty Island. The timing was perfect. We got on the 6:00 boat, just as the sun was starting to set over Jersey skyline. The girls were fixated on the shoreline as the boat moved further away from The Battery. We also passed Ellis Island, the gateway to America for millions of immigrants, and it was easy to imagine their excitement and anticipation as they headed toward a new life in a foreign land. We sat on the outer deck facing the statue, and even I felt a sense of awe. There are so many things I take for granted as a native New Yorker. Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to lend a new perspective to familiar surroundings.

The boat landed at St. George in Staten Island, and we immediately got off and got on the next boat. We were far from alone. A tour guide holding up a magazine shepherded a whole gaggle of people back onto the same boat.

It was dark and chilly as we headed back, and the city took on a whole different aspect. So many bright lights imbued the island with a sense of mystery and excitement. "You guys ready for some walking?" I asked. Sandra was very excited about our next leg of the journey; the girls were not so keen, but they soon warmed up.

We took the subway up to City Hall and began our half-hour walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. It was nippy, in the 40s, but still a beautiful, clear night. The girls were buzzing about the views. "I will remember this view for my whole life," Cass said. She would say the same thing once we got to Fulton Ferry Landing in DUMBO.

To make up for all the bad fast food we'd been eating, a trip to Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn was in order. One third of the Holy Triumvirate of Cheeses and Marinara (along with Lombardi's and DiFara's), Grimaldi's makes a simple, tangy, chewy pie baked in a coal-fired oven, something that's hard to come by in Manhattan (new coal-fired ovens are prohibited, and existing ovens were grandfathered in years ago). Luis said he would meet us about 8:15. The line was not terrible. Normally on a Saturday night it can snake around the block, but there were only three parties ahead of us. After about 10 minutes it was our turn, and Luis hadn't shown up. I texted him, "batter up," and then we were ushered inside. Normally we wouldn't have been seated without the whole party, but some miscellaneous person entered with us and the host figured he was with us. Just as we sat down, Luis burst through the door, just in time.

The pizza didn't disappoint. The Brits said it was the best pizza they'd ever had. I nodded in a told-you-so sort of way. I couldn't help myself.

After dinner we headed to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, another hidden treasure, for some decadent handmade scoops. It was around 9:30 and Luis suggested that we should go to the Empire State Building, which is open until 2:00 a.m. He even said he'd wait for us. Again I was thankful for the clear weather. The previous night we had tried to go to Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center, the second best choice for a panoramic view of the city. Visibility was so poor they wouldn't even let us go up.

We drove into Manhattan and took a little spin before going to the ESB. Scores of people were dressed in Halloween costumes, on their way to parties. The girls were tickled, since Halloween is not as big a deal in London as it is here. Some costumes were really lame, but others, like a guy dressed up as tissue box labeled "Blo Me," were pretty clever. Then there were costumes we couldn't really identify, and in some cases those weren't costumes. "Some people just slap a pair of heels onto anything and call it a costume," Luis said.

I'd bought tickets to the ESB online, so we breezed right in past the ticket line. The line wasn't that bad, but it would have added an extra half hour or so to the visit. I'd only been to the top once before, in the mid-1990s. It's another one of those things I'd never do myself, but when accompanied by excited newbies, it's a giddy experience.

We spent about an hour in the building. Luis very sweetly waited for us, then drove them back to their hotel. I felt like we had put a very big dent in the list of sights. The next day we were going to see "Chicago," courtesy of our family friend Steven, who's the stage manager.

On Sunday morning I got a call from Mom, asking what we were up to today. I said we were going to see a show and then having an early dinner at Junior's in Midtown. Mom asked if she could come. I was shocked.

"I thought you wanted nothing to do with them," I said.

"I never said that," she said.

"You may not have used those words, but you didn't seem the least bit interested."

"Well, it's..." she struggled for the words, "I don't know. I can't even explain it....But I would like to meet them."

"OK," I said. "It's up to you. We're meeting at Junior's around 5. If you want to join us, you're more than welcome. After dinner we're going to take a horse and buggy ride around Central Park, and you can come on that, too."

I met the lovely ladies at the Ambassador Theater at 2 to see "Chicago." The male dancers were brutally hot. "Dressed" in fishnet and leather or spandex, they looked like they'd come straight from Folsom East. During the show I started to wonder if the adult content was too risque for a 12-year-old and 17-year-old. I mentioned this to Sandra at intermission. "Are you kidding?" she said. "They could tell you a thing or two."

After the show we went back to Fifth Avenue and did some shopping, then met my mother at Junior's. As with my aunt, things went very well. There was no awkwardness, and it was as if they'd known each other forever. After dinner my mother stopped a pedicab driver to ask where we could get a horse-and-buggy rides. He, of course, wanted to take us there, but we would have had to rent two pedicabs and it would have taken forever to get there. We took a cab instead, and the cab driver took us right up to a line of available carriages on Central Park West. I hadn't taken a carriage ride since senior prom night 30 years ago. Our hopes were almost dashed when the driver said he couldn't take 5 people in one carriage; the law allows no more than 4. But since Sandy and Cass were small, he finally relented. We took the long route, up through Strawberry Fields, Tavern on the Green, and Wollman Skating Rink. I'm embarrassed to say that I know little or nothing about Central Park. I live right near sister Prospect Park, so I have little reason to go to Central. It was chilly and we were all wrapped up in a heavy blanket. It was the perfect way to end the visit. About an hour later, we ended up where we started and thanked our horse, Walter, and his driver, Jose, for the ride. We said our goodbyes and put the Brits in one cab, while mom and I took another back to Brooklyn.

On the ride home, we talked about everything I'd done with them during their visit. "We did pretty much everything they wanted to do," I said. "It was exhausting, but fun."

Mom said, "I had such a good time. I'm so glad I met them. They're really nice."

"See?" I said. "Look at what can happen when you open your mind."

Parenting is such a hard job.

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When laughing cows turn

It was hot out yesterday, and I totally enjoyed relaxing in the air conditioning at home after a busy day of sweating yesterday. At about 5:00 I got hungry, but I didn't want to eat much because I knew we were going to dinner at 7:30. I went to the fridge, and there wasn't much to choose from: some pickle relish, strawberry jelly, one egg, and some dried up grapes. Hmmm, what's in the deli drawer? Some week-old boiled ham, some week-old cutup chicken, and...ooh, some Laughing Cow cheese wedges.

There were three wedges left, and I had some whole grain crackers in the pantry, so it seemed like the perfect snack. I sat back down on the couch, peeled open a wedge, and spread it on a cracker.

Mmmm, stale crackers. Delicious. If only I could motivate my lazy ass to the store to buy food made in this millennium. The cheese was fine, and even though I had fresh crackers in the pantry, I was too damn settled to get up and walk the 10 feet to get the new box.

I made my way through two wedges of the "French Onion" flavored Laughing Cow cheese, which tasted pretty damn good. Suddenly I felt like I'd had enough.

I remembered that the cheese had been in the fridge for a while. In fact, I couldn't remember when I'd bought it. I looked at the label, and the expiration date was October 2006.

I made it through dinner without a hitch, but when we got home, my stomach felt funny and stayed that way all through the night into this afternoon. That's what I get for being lazy and giving in to the Laughing Cow.

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A pleasant surprise

For mom's 65th birthday, my brothers and I devised an elaborate plan for her surprise party. Our friend Steven, who is the stage manager for the Broadway show "Chicago!" would invite my mother and aunt to a benefit at an Italian restaurant in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, featuring the entire cast of the show. Not only did mom not ponder that a Brooklyn restaurant was a little low-rent for a Broadway cast, neither did she wonder why the cast was playing hooky on a Saturday night. When mom walked in and saw her entire family, as well as friends whom she hadn't seen in many years, we knew we had pulled it off. The look on her face made the effort all worthwhile. My brothers and I had prepared jocular toasts to her, but by the end of each we had practically dissolved into a pool of tears.

At the time, mom's previous health problems were still rather fresh in our minds. She'd been through a stroke, a mastectomy, and a heart attack all within the space of a year while dad was slowly withering away in the hospital. The fact that she was still with us and he was not hit home the realization that maybe she was not long for this world, either. The tears were not so much tears of sadness but relief and celebration that she was still around.

Here we are, 5 years later, and mom is in better shape than ever. By staying active and eating better she's down to the weight she was at about 30 years ago. Her blood pressure and cholesterol are under control, and even her memory seems to be holding steady. Although it was minor, the mini-stroke she had a few months ago finally shook her up enough to make her quit smoking. When one of us suggested that she might want to go on the patch to make quitting easier, she said, "I don't want to put that crap in my body." These kinds of paradoxical statements endear her to people.

For her 70th birthday, my brothers and I devised another surprise party, this time much more low-key, at another Italian restaurant in Bay Ridge. This time there was no promise of a Broadway cast, just my aunt and uncle. Since mom's birthday fell on a Friday, she didn't suspect that 20 of us would all show up for dinner at 5:00 p.m. My brothers and I had told her earlier in the week that we would take her out for dinner on Sunday night instead, so that she wouldn't decline her sister's invitation.

I'd bought mom a Coach pocketbook, a simple black purse with a flap and a shoulder strap. I knew she would like the particular style. When she opened it at the restaurant, her eyes lit up. "My God," she said, "Eileen [my aunt] and I were at Macy's the other day and we were just talking about Coach." My aunt chimed in, "She said she really liked them but would never buy one for herself."

As mom struggled to blow out the 10 candles on her 70th birthday cake, Brian said, "Ma, giving up smoking is supposed to make your lungs stronger." She laughed, and I think she looked the happiest I've ever seen her. This time there were no toasts and no tears, just a simple dinner with her family. We know that mom still has a lot of life left in her.

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Circles

How blissful he looks, I think, as I watch the priest mark little Derek's chest with chrism, a mixture of olive oil and balsam used to anoint one who is about to receive a sacrament. The next time little Derek is likely to have chrism applied is when he's about to die--the circle of life.

Derek lies peacefully in his mother's arms next to me in church. He sucks his thumb, oblivious to the priest's blessings and gestures over him. The creases on his tiny, shiny head move up and down as original sin is extricated from his soul. Later, my aunt says she "disagrees" with the removal of original sin, asking how a baby can be born with sin.

Original sin, I explain, remembering my ingrained catechism, is derived from the sin committed by Adam when he gave into temptation in the Garden of Eden. According to church doctrine, this sin (the "original" sin, not extra crispy) is passed down to all descendants of Adam and Eve.

"You know," Luis says, "like herpes."

I'm surprised my aunt doesn't know what original sin is. After all, she's my godmother, and one of the godparents' duties is to ensure the child grows up a good Catholic. I was both flattered and uneasy when my brother and sister-in-law asked me to be Derek's godfather. I'm not exactly the model Catholic, at least according to Pope "Eggs" Benedict. I've already got a nonrefundable one-way ticket to the Seventh Terrace of Purgatory.

So, when the priest asks us, the parents and godparents, to renew our vows of commitment to Jesus, I have to use reason, which the Church assiduously frowns upon.

"Do you reject Satan?" Of course I do, especially if he shows up at my house uninvited, but I'm not so sure the feeling is mutual.

"And all of his works?" Hmmm. I have to think about that one. Rosemary's Baby is one of my favorite movies.

Little Derek is abluted with holy water. It doesn't even faze him. Kim, his mother, says he probably thinks he's just getting a bath.

We stand at the altar, the parents, godparents, and Derek. The priest lights the baptismal candle and gives it to me to hold. Poor Jen, the godmother, gets the box the candle came in. As we witness the claiming of a newborn child who can't vocalize his thoughts by an agent of Jesus, I feel the hot wax from the candle drip onto my hand. I try to ignore it, but it keeps dripping. I remind myself that mortification is a Catholic's lot.

Poof! Original sin, all gone. Derek now has a squeaky clean soul. Over time it will get soiled and require a tune-up in the confessional, or in some cases, a therapist's office.

The ceremony is blessedly short, less than an hour. The reception goes on for about 4 hours. The reception is at an Italian restaurant called Marco Polo. Its stone facade and tinted windows are forbidding. I've always thought it was the kind of place I'd get whacked in if I went in.

The room upstairs has a stained glass skylight, reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel. Godfather. There are about 10 tables and 100 guests. I wonder to myself when events like christenings and communions became extravaganzas. Even when I graduated from high school the most we had was a close family lunch at a catering hall in Flatbush. Now it seems every milestone in a child's life is accorded the same importance as a wedding: a sit-down dinner, a DJ, and a big-ass cake. The only difference is the clown.

With about 20 kids under the age of 11 in attendance, it is only fitting that they be entertained during the event. I just wish they hadn't had to have a clown. Clowns scare the bejesus out of me. This one looked like something out of the Uncle Floyd Show. (You will only know this reference if you are 40 or older and grew up in New York or New Jersey in the 1970s.)

It's not encouraging when you see the clown getting drinks at the bar, but I had to sympathize. Facing 20 screaming kids hopped up on sugar calls for something to take the edge off.

My brother Brian comes over to the table and asks me if I have a speech prepared for the champagne toast. I look at him as if he'd just told me he had ax murdered Kim. It would have been nice to know about the champagne toast beforehand. Again, I wonder when (and why) these enormously expensive events became the norm.

I tell Brian that I'll be happy to make a toast. My mind goes blank. Do I thank the Academy for giving me this honor? Or do I talk about the groom's wantonness? Oh, right, christening. Luis tells my family that I am thrown off and will need to go home and get my computer. He knows me too well. In the end, I decide to wing my toast. But first, I drink several glasses of white table wine that tastes like furniture polish but delivers the buzz.

"For those of you who don't know me, I'm Brian's brother Kieran," I say. "This is probably the first time this restaurant's seen an Irish godfather. [Laughter, thank God.] I'm so happy for Brian and Kim and very honored that they chose me to be Derek's godfather. I'm very lucky to be blessed with three beautiful, wonderful nephews. And I'm even happier that I can visit them, spoil them, and then go home at the end of the day. [More laughter. Whew!]"

The clown disappears and is replaced by a short Latina DJ. She gathers all the kids in the middle of the room and starts playing music games: Name That Tune. Hot Potato.
Freeze Dancing. Little Tytony, who turned 4 a few weeks ago, looks so handsome in his little tie, shirt, and pants with his hair slicked into a 1950s newsboy style. He is so excited by all the activity, he doesn't know what he's doing so he jumps up and down a lot. He grabs another little boy's hand as a dance partner but doesn't get the concept of rhythym or tempo. He just looks like he has ants in his pants. It takes several verses of the Chicken Dance before he realizes he's supposed to flap his arms like wings and move his fingers like a beak. During "YMCA," Tytony loses complete interest. I tell Brian that he has no worry--little Tytony will not make it as a homosexual.

We're served an antipasto of stuffed mushrooms, baked clams, and fried zucchini. My mother and brother eat the clams and ask me if I want the rest. God forbid anyone in my family touches a vegetable or a fungus.

Floating above the tables are blue and white balloons bearing Derek's name. Each table has homemade sugar cookies shaped like a crucifix. We gave them to our Jewish friends when we got home.

The final reminder of the occasion is a giant cannoli cream cake shaped like a cross, bearing the icing inscription "God bless Derek." I hold Derek as pictures are taken. He looks up at me and smiles. I smile back. He is definitely making eye contact. I'm sure he thinks I'm his father, but he's probably smiling because he has more hair than I do.

When we get back to the table, my brother Liam starts asking me about my "hair."

"What are you holding on to those patches of hair for?" Liam says.

"What do you mean?" I say.

"Afraid to go all the way?" he says. Liam shaves his head completely.

"I never really thought about it," I say.

My cousin John, who is also completely bald by his own choice, joins in the fray. "Oh, come on," he says, "do it."

I look at Luis, who has had a few glasses of wine. "Maybe you should try it," he says.

I suddenly feel self-conscious. Have I been deluding myself that my fuzzy-wuzzy head looks good? Is there a crater-sized crown deficiency I don't know about. I decide that I am going to go home tonight and shave my head to the shiny core. Only, I am starting to get a headache from the wine. Maybe tomorrow is soon enough.

The DJ is making cotton candy for the kids. More sugar! Mainline! Mainline! Just in time for the previous sugar rush to wear off. Tytony is spinning around in the middle of the floor like a toy with self-charging batteries. Little Derek is peacefully sleeping in his mother's arms, oblivious to the racket around him. My headache is getting worse and my eyelids are getting heavy. Luis and I say goodbye and leave Marco Polo, which has been demystified. I'm not going to get whacked after all. We go home and pass out from the sugar, bad wine, and maelstrom of child activity. In my dream little Derek is smiling at me, looking at my fuzzy bald head. Free from original sin, I think.

But not for long.

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Church and steak

I spent my Saturday at the two places you're likely to find an Irishman: church and the pub. By church, of course, I mean Trinity, my boxing gym, which is conveniently named like a church. I did a heavy workout because I knew I'd be taking in a lot of calories later. Andrea and I ventured to Woodside, Queens, to meet Cathy and her twin daughters Cathy and Emily, at Donovan's Pub. I hadn't been to the pub in more than 20 years. My dad grew up in Long Island City and for my grandfather's 75th birthday we had a big celebration at Donovan's, the year before he died.

Donovan's has both a true Irish clientele and a Plastic Paddy one. The pub proudly boasts the prestigious title of "number one burger in New York," an arguable distinction claimed by many. I live around the corner from Bonnie's Grill, which also claims the best burger title (and in my eyes, they're right).

We were at Donovan's to toast my becoming an Irish citizen. Cathy the mom, born in the U.S., became an Irish citizen a long time ago, and both her daughters are Irish citizens. Andrea said she was reminded of the Sesame Street lyric "One of these things is not like the others..." but the one thing we all have in common is a Latin connection: the twins' father is Hispanic, Andrea is half-Puerto Rican, and I have Luis.

Cathy the mom showed us photos of the family property in County Cork and of the twins with their cousins as kids and as adults. I wish I'd been more interested in my Irish relatives way back when, since it's nice that they've kept up their relationships throughout the years and have such a close connection with Ireland. Cathy regaled us with Irish tales full of romance, kinship, and lack of indoor plumbing.

I thought while at the pub I might have a flashback to my childhood, but I didn't. I spent many of my formative years in bars, being dragged there by my father and plopped into a corner while he drank himself into a stupor. Maybe he thought I didn't notice, or maybe he didn't care. Well into my adulthood I couldn't go anywhere near a pub, bar, lounge, or wedding reception. That's probably why I never went to gay bars when I came out. I couldn't stand to be around anyone drinking.

But all that's changed. This was a joyous occasion. The burgers were delicious, the Guinness smooth, and in the company of delightful lasses, I was happy to celebrate being Irish.

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To love salmon

So far my salmon cravings have been amply satisfied in Vancouver. First Scotland, now Canada. Since I was alone, I had no choice but to dine out somewhere. The thought of room service was too depressing, and there was lots of salmon waiting to be eaten. In the morning I had salmon hash for breakfast at the hotel restaurant. The big chunks of smoky salmon were mixed in with a delicious hash brown mixture of potatoes, onions, and peppers, and two poached eggs sat on top. It was gigantic. I rarely put a dent in it, but I didn't feel so guilty about not finishing it. As hotel prices go, it was not expensive--only C$12 (about US$10). The waiter said he'd put the rest in a container in the refrigerator and I could call room service when I wanted to eat the rest of it. I ended up not eating the rest of it. I was afraid overnight it would expand, like The Blob.

You can find smoked salmon just about anywhere, even at Sears. To my delight I discovered Salmon Village on Thurlow Street, mere blocks from my hotel. When I was growing up, you wouldn't get me anywhere near the fish. The only salmon my parents ever bought was pink salmon in a can, which resembled cat vomit. I didn't know what lox was, other than that you ate it with bagels. For some reason I thought salmon was herring, so I lumped all smelly, oily fish in the same category. My mother once served Vita Herring at a party and I had to run to the bathroom. I don't know when I had a salmon epiphany, but once I dove in, I've been swimming upstream with it ever since.

The Canadian government encourage visitors to bring home salmon products with them--if they're cooked, of course. They don't let you travel with dead fish on the plane, though I'm sure there are some people who would consider their fellow passengers such. You can buy salmon caviar, salmon paté, salmon turnovers, and sliced salmon filets. Any fishmonger that sells salmon will pack up fresh smoked salmon in ice for you to take home. Three kinds of salmon are popular here: pink, king, and sockeye. Sockeye is the premium salmon, the most salmony of the salmons. The others are progressively milder. There's also something called Indian Candy, which is smoked salmon marinated with maple syrup. That sounded a little too much. I bought two packages of smoked sockeye lox to bring home with me. It's vacuum-packed, so it will last unrefrigerated for 3 years, a week refrigerated once it's opened. No way it's gonna last that long.

For dinner I went to a quiet, out-of-the-way place called Parkside, located on a quiet residential street in the West End. It was only a 15-minute walk from my hotel, and it was still out of the way. Time Out Vancouver gave it an understated good review. The customer reviews online were effusive, so I decided to give it a shot.

The restaurant was about a 15-minute walk from my hotel. Initially I couldn't find it, since it was well hidden in the basement of a residential building. But once I entered I knew I had come to the right place. The interior was dark wood, low-ceilinged, warm, intimate, with a garden view, very elegant and inviting. There was almost no one else inside, which can be worrisome, but I attributed that to the hour (7:00) and the day (Wednesday).

The staff there treated me like a regular. They made me feel very welcome and comfortable. Charles, my waiter, tall and GQ handsome, asked if I wanted something to read, but I said I had brought a book with me. Besides me, only one couple was dining, a gay couple celebrating one's birthday. They were having a deep discussion with the sommelier about wine and the Loire Valley.

I ordered a Bourbon Sour. I rarely order mixed drinks, but I thought, what the heck, this seemed a Bourbon Sour kind of place. As I looked at the menu, it became even more my kind of place. These guys are serious foodies. One of the appetizer specials was smoked sockeye salmon (woo hoo!) with capers, marinated baby asparagus, Spanish onion, crème fraiche, salmon roe, and a homemade blini.

This dish beat the giant mound of salmon hash this morning by a mile. The salmon melted in my mouth, and with all the other accoutrement