Chicago! Part One

Got a little break this past weekend, finally. Anastasia's birthday was coming up, and her daughter, Liza (you might know her from such blog posts as "Drinking Nancy's Wine"), had just started school at the Art Institute of Chicago. John had plans to meet them there and invited me along. Thanks to a Jet Blue sale and a rare free weekend, off I went!

Arrived Friday night and checked in at Ray's Bucktown B & B. Highly recommend this comfortable, friendly, modern and convenient place to stay if you're ever in town. Then off to a spectacular dinner nearby at the Bristol, where, after a moderate wait at the bar upstairs, we shared a bottle of Vietti Barbera Tre Vignes '07 and gorged on warm monkey bread, a salad with pumpkin croutons, bone marrow with red wine shallot jam, braised rabbit with artichokes and duck egg sammy. Liza came to meet us and after a failed attempt to get into the Whistler, found a great Spanish bar for tapas de la noche.

John and I had some time next day before meeting the ladies. Fab brunch at Hot Chocolate (although I've seen faster service at the DMV in Snailville) and off for a walk downtown. A beautiful, crisp fall day for a city tour, the river boat cruise was booked for the day, so what the heck, we got on a double-decker bus. Sober. Despite an irritatingly showy tour guide who felt the need to LOUDLY point out chain store ubiquitous shopping sites along the way, saw some cool building.

 

I was especially taken with the Aqua building, designed by Jeanne Gang. A truly feminine, elegant design, it evokes movement and undulation at every angle. Too bad we were moving so quickly as we approached.

We met Liza and Anastasia (just in from Seattle) at Liza's apartment in Pilsen before dinner nearby. The hood is mostly Mexican, with lots of public art and great food.

Waiting for the "L" Pink line to Pilsen.

Even the manhole covers in Pilsen reflect ancient Mexican art.

John on the Pink line stairs.

City view from the "L." Train arriving soon to take us to our Damen Ave. local, the Silver Cloud. Delicious Templeton rye from Iowa (not yet available in NYC) and "War Games" on the bar telly await.

Molly Ringwald At Lincoln Center

No matter how many times I've seen them, there are still two movie endings I cry over every time. No, not "Terms of Endearment" or "Casablanca" or even "Ghost." No. I cry for "Star Wars" when they blow up the Death Star and triumph over the evil empire. And I cry for "Sixteen Candles" when Samantha and Jake kiss on the kitchen counter over the birthday cake.*

And today I got to do that in a movie theater! Walter Reade at Lincoln Center has done a two-day John Hughes retrospective, and I chose to see a double-feature of that movie and "Pretty in Pink." Seeing those movies projected on a big screen, even though I'd seen them dozens of times on video and cable, still made me laugh and cry as always.

We got a special bonus too. Molly Ringwald was sitting in the next row in front of me, and spoke to the audience after "Pretty in Pink." "Candles" with it's wonderful gags, music, young Cusack sightings, Anthony Michael Hall's suave geek coolness and fast-paced yet authentic dialogue is still my favorite. But the emotion of the other movie still gets to me. Andie is the free-thinking girl from the poor side of town, who wears funky, home-tailored vintage clothes. Her best friend, "Duckie" (played by Jon Cryer) dresses in old zoot suits with plaid shirt layers and suspenders, pointy shoes and fedoras, has a pompadour and knows every lyric to old Otis Redding songs. And he's in love with Andie, but she doesn't seem to notice. Instead, inexplicably, she prefers the pale, wide-eyed, linen pant-and-jacket-wearing Blane (Andrew McCarthy), from the rich sector. And his best friend is the snide, linen pant-and-jacket-wearing Steff, played by the master scenery ingester, James Spader (this movie was his appetizer). Eventually, Andie and Blane get together, much to Duckie and Steff's horror (Steff is in love with her too, but pretends to hate her because she has refused his advances), class and family struggles ensue, and then everything comes to a head at the Prom ("What about Prom, Blane? NO!!! What. About. PROM????"). This is all fleshed out with terrific scenes with Andie and her eccentrically hip older pal Iona (Annie Potts) and Andie and her single dad (mom left them when she was a kid), Harry Dean Stanton. In the end, Andie goes back to Blane, who came to Prom alone, with Duckie's blessing. OMD ensues.

I ate all of it up all over again, and still coveted much of Andie's cool cardigans and jewelry. I also wondered again how she could pick the boring, Blane, whose only interesting feature is his ability to seemingly dilate his pupils at will, over the awesome, funny, cool and cute Duckie. Apparently that was the original ending. But in test screenings, audiences wanted their Cinderella story with an escape to the castle, so there ya go.

Then Molly Ringwald (above, best my iPhone could do from the distance), adultly glammed in black and metallic heels, took the stage to speak and take audience questions. I wanted to ask her about the running theme in John Hughes movies wherein the lead characters usually have poignant conversations with Dads, but Moms are often absent or in the background. But I realized she'd have to answer for him and not herself. So instead I asked her, knowing at the time she was very into personal style and indie rock music, if she had any input on her P in P wardrobe and which outfit was her favorite. Apparently she HATED the prom outfit her character makes for herself out of old pink dresses (so do most people) at the time and kept everything but that. Now she looks upon it as iconic of the era and wishes she'd kept it. She says if it ever goes up for auction she wants to get it back.

Soon it was time to stop so they could continue the marathon, next up "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." Another gem. But it was time for me to head back to Brooklyn. As I left, I felt a real lump in my throat. Back when those movies came out, I was 13 and 15, daydreaming of what might be my adult life, somehow always knowing, in Wilton Connecticut, that I'd end up in New York City. But the life I was dreaming about wasn't much like the one I have now. As my tears dried on my cheeks while passing Lincoln Center's luminescence, the Met's Chagall paintings all lit up with the lovely new Das Rheingold poster hanging out front, the fountain spraying in the light, I had to stop and look. I'd known this very spot since my earliest memories. Molly Ringwald herself said she'd never imagined speaking in front of an audience here all these years later about these movies. And here I was going home. Here. My city. Not to the life I'd imagined, but still not a bad one. With great friends, family and fun places to go any time I want and a great apartment in a fab neighborhood I would have loved if I were Andie. Things could be worse. I could have all my hair stuck in a door jam and cut off by my drunken friends.

Well, for now, as Duckie would say, "I'm off like a dirty shirt!"

*OK. I also always cry at the end of "The Iron Giant."

Seven Years Ago: A Look Back To A Killer View

Seven years ago. Wow. Hard to believe I've since sold that apartment and switched careers. And that what we spent on the ticket I'd now blow on a meal and wine at Blue Hill at Stone Barns at a single sitting. I wrote this the day after the show and now I look back on what I then considered the height of my maturity, only to know now there was more naivety to burn.

August 27, 2003--New York City
My head is full of chopstick. And I like it.

I have to admit that when Jason announced he got the tickets, I did not want to go. I'm about to move into my first purchased apartment, which I'm going to officially name Murphy's, because everything that could is going hellishly wrong. The night before the show, I was hot from packing, exhausted from all the paperwork stress, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend hours and hours on my feet, in a room full of sweaty, Thirty Somethings reliving longed for or regretted youth, never mind the price of the scalped ticket. Let's just say my first born is now spoken for.

But Jason and I had made a pact. We shook on it. If we could get tickets to this show for $200 or less, we were there.

And there we were. And it was worth every. single. penny.

As soon as I reached the sidewalk outside Webster Hall and saw the sign DURAN DURAN LIVE AT THE RITZ, I felt my first surge of excitement. This was it. The dream show I'd never seen and thought
I never would. In two hours, the people whose posters use to cover my bedroom, floor to ceiling, would be standing twenty feet or less away from me. At that moment, despite all the headache I knew would return the next day, I knew my night was going to be perfect.

When Jason and I finally got past the security check (I half expected to find overly "friendly" female guard's phone number in my front jeans pocket the next day) and into the Room Formerly Known as Ritz, I felt the first contractions of screams and giggles from the crowd and we hugged each other. "We're HERE." We kept saying, "This can't be REAL." "Is this for real?" Here we were, thirty-two years old, me with a mortgage, Jason already refinancing his model haunted mansion, when a mere twenty years ago, we were innocent twelve year olds whose only responsibility was to do homework, empty the dishwasher, and learn to reinterpret "Hungry Like the Wolf" for classical piano (so I could get away with sneaking it into my weekly lessons). Then try and catch their videos on rotation on MTV as many times as possible, switching channels back and forth till one came on.

As Jason pointed out, that was always the main allure of this band. These well educated, gorgeous young guys filming these videos in exotic locales, riding elephants and returning to their yachts with hot, aloof, body-painted babes sipping cocktails and winking at the camera. This band brought tailored (no relation) elegance back to pop, the likes of which no one in our generation had seen before. These young lads with their hairless chests, eyeliner and fedoras going on about turning one night stands into paradise. At the time, I didn't fully understand what that meant, but if John Taylor and Simon Le Bon wanted to take me, I would pull on another rubber braclet and pack my bags.

Another big difference between now and then: Now we can drink legally. All you purists (and my mother) are going to scoff at this, but I gotta tell ya, I needed at least two if I was going to make it another couple of hours on my feet. Oy, the back. So we downed our second shot, Dewars for me, Jason sailing with the Captain, and took our place in the crowd. We were close, maybe about ten rows back. Not quite a view to a kill, but good enough for now. I kept checking the watch, "Jason. Oh my God. Jason. Half an hour." Nervous gigglng. "Holy shit. Twenty minutes." Then it was five minutes, then one. The reggae song, "I Would Give Everything I Own" replaced the souless techno droning from the sound system. "They're starting to play good stuff. They have to be coming on after this song." Then "Adolescent Sex" by Japan. OK. Now. NOW they HAVE to be coming on. Then "Gimme Danger" by Iggy Pop. Suddenly Iggy goes silent and the lights went down.

We downed our last shot, hugged each other tight, and slowly turned to the stage amid the wall of screams. John Taylor was the first on stage, then Roger Taylor (we were half convinced it was all a ruse that the rumoured return of the notoriously, reclusive drummer was all a publicity stunt), then Nick Rhodes, then Andy Taylor, then... Simon LeBon, in all their forty-something hotness.

Then came the first drum beats of a song no one on this coast has heard live since 1982, "Friends of Mine." They said they were friends of mine. And thank god they weren't just passing time. A-mazing! Right then twenty years' worth of the calcified knots of tension that have formed between my shoulders suddenly melted away and so help me, I threw my arms high into the air, jumped up and down and screamed like my inner twelve year old.

They sounded great, and they seemed just as excited to be up there playing for us as we were to finally see them together again. From our vantage point, we couldn't see much of Andy and Nick, but John and Simon kept smiling and looking toward Roger, who kicked in full throttle as he smiled along and kept the beat. Say what you will about the pretty boys from Birmingham, but that is one kick ass rhythm section. John Taylor was and still is an incredible bass player, as was evidenced when they played his signature song, "New Religion." Yep, they played the good stuff. They blew the dust off tunes such as "Waiting for the Nightboat" (too bad my only source of lyrics for that track are printed in a Japanese language songbook that had pretty pictures in it), "Careless Memories," "Girls on Film" and "Planet Earth." Also on the playlist were modern classics such as "Come Undone" and "Ordinary World" as well as the torrid "Wild Boys," "Notorious" their cover of "White Lines" and two new danceable and catchy tracks which have been promised for a new album due out next year.

And how did they look? How many other Taylors was Simon hiding under his chins and jowels? I'll tell you this: I know what they did last summer. And it was spent eating protein, salads and working out. They. Are. CUT!!! Now whether Simon had work done on his face was hard to tell, but he was definitely sporting only one chin and you could see major muscle definition under his tight-fitting shirt. John is now very lanky, his features and perfect, square chin more rugged and defined, revisiting his eyeliner and highlight days, but having now traded the fedora for an interlocked double-D tattooo on his bicep. Roger looks as though not a day has gone by since his early retirement, Andy, oh nevermind, and a nearly makeupless Nick looks a little pale and washed out, but still as elegant and confident as ever. I'm seriously thinking about putting one of their posters up in my new bedroom.

OK. Now the bad news. Two MAJOR songs were not performed. It starts with R and ends with X, and it's about a "little friend" of Simon's. Maybe they couldn't afford to shower the audience in a waterfall? But the biggest crime? Folks, as Jason, who read an online preview had warned, you'll have to leave your lighters at home. No "Save a Prayer." You'll have to save it till the morning after. Perhaps with the new smoking ban clubowners thought people might be inspired to light up after? Well, maybe they were a few cents shy of being worth every penny.

But even so. Even when the lights came up and it felt as though the room was at least one hundred fifty degrees. Even though I had pools of sweat in places where I didn't know I had places, with my hair frizzed out to Jersey and the shots long ago warn off, this was, hands down one of the best nights of my life.

This afternoon I called Jason to tell him I'd be writing this. Was it real?

Yes. It was real. We were there.

And you should go too when they return for the arena tour. Don't let the rain hold you back.

Stephen Colbert: My Knight in Terry Bathrobe

 "Last week, evidently, the Labor Department reported that we lost another 125,000 jobs--and I'm pretty sure the guy who created that report was then fired."

I love you, Stephen Colbert. Now more than ever.

Last Monday, July 5th, FINALLY, someone who people actually listen to and respect spoke up about Republican Congress' unwillingness to act quickly to extend unemployment benefits. While the bill has gone through the Senate to extend terminated benefits to countless citizens without jobs despite their every best effort in this shitty time, Congress went on Independence Day vacation without voting on it. This means no one whose benefits have expired has been paid in weeks. Some have only been receiving them for a couple of months and suddenly got cut off, while others from the first bad jobless wave in 2008 are still struggling. Republicans are arguing that there has been too much government spending lately, and cuts have to be made SOMEWHERE. Yeah, because these are considered "free handouts," right?

Handouts we pay taxes on like any other source of income. Handouts that at least allow people to pay their minimum expenses and keep the economy moving in some capacity. And handouts, that, in the scheme of things, don't really have that much of an impact on the budget. Not like, say, an unnecessary war or two.

But the mainstream media has given this story very little coverage. It's been upstaged by the spill in the gulf and even World Cup "fever" (this phrasing makes me picture bed-ridden children with tiny, itchy soccer balls sprouting all over their bodies).

Until last Monday, when an apparently flu-addled Colbert, who did his whole show from a big leather chair by a fire in a robe, blanket and fuzzy slippers, addressed the issue and gave it what for. He went on to say, "Thank you, Scott Brown," singling out an especially evil anti-extension GOP lawmaker who argued that Americans need to eat less anyway, "When you're starving, that is the best time to go on a diet. You're already used to no food."

He then brought on a special guest, NY Times Columnist Paul Krugman to elaborate. He made the excellent point that well off Americans will attempt to save their pennies in this economy, not spend and give back to the system. It's people who have much less that will have to spend whatever they can earn. So why aren't we giving people what they need to at least sustain some semblance of economic structure?

I'm lucky. Despite being cut off for the past three weeks, I have a part time job and *some* money left from various sources, though it's dwindling faster than a tribe of Mohicans.

(No thanks to my lifestyle. Ahem. But at least my food, wine and cocktail habit is giving back to our country. Right? Helloooo? Stimulating the economy here! What will happen if I don't have anything left? It's not far away, kids. I'm sort of joking-but-not-really).

In all seriousness, so many others lived on only $430 a week or less, and now it's gone, with absolutely nothing coming in for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever if the GOP has its way. Maybe they think if they hold out it makes Obama look neglectful, which it does, because he has said little or nothing on the subject to argue and they count on him not to. But honestly, at this point, no one needs to point out how ineffective his position has been. Sorry. I still have faith, but it's dwindling like, well, my savings account. But not voting before the holiday weekend was just plain selfish, rude and hurtful. To everyone.

So I'm hoping this little segment will wake some people up and stimulate discussions. The Daily Show followed up the next night with a bit on it. I'm hoping for a big media snowball, even in this heat, by the time everyone comes back from vacation on the 12th. Stephen Collbert starts things up and gets shit done. Let's hope he can do it again. I mean, look at what he did for US Olympic speed skating! You are a true American hero, man.

Here's a link to the full segment. Enjoy. And speak up when you're done.

Luck Be A Lady

Summer sure is coming in like bridezillas at a gown sale this year!

Was going to do my usual woe-is-me-I'm-getting-older-and-still-a-total-failure post on my birthday Sunday. Thankfully a late night of boozy and delicious fun with friends and a World Cup brunch prevented that. Which is good, because for once, I'm actually feeling lucky.

I'm lucky because I had six amazing friends, John, Jason, Stephanie, Rob, Malaika and Ricardo take me out for a fantastic Brooklyn howl. It was a warm, but dry and comfortable night. We started on the roofdeck at the Rock Shop in Park Slope, pretty chill and roomy, listening to the unknowing crowd squished around Mission Dolores beer garden below. From there we went to dinner at one of my new favorite places, Palo Santo, a Park Slope neighborhood sleeper on Union Street that specializes in local ingredients turned into eclectic Latin American fare with a well selected list of South American and NY state wines to match. After that, a breezy walk along the fragrant Gowanus Canal to my local, the Jakewalk. Then, perhaps ill advised but who's counting, kept the momentum going at Boat until we emerged at last call around 4am. People wrote me really heartfelt cards and I was overwhelmed by the amount of Facebook messages wishing me happy birthday. Jack Benny was so right. If that night was any indication, "The best years of a woman's life are the 10 between the ages of 39 and 40."

Here's me (taken via Hipstamatic iPhone app) at dinner. I always like to have a bday flower in my hair.

There's John (front), Rob and Malaika on one side.

Stephanie (front), Jason (hidden, but he'd be happy about that) and Ricardo on the other.

One of the top two great pics of John and me ever taken. Second only to us in our furry Kimpton hotel robes from a couple of years ago in Portland, OR.

Cheers!

Malaika gave me this book. She knows me so well.

The following day, I awoke around noon, magically hangover free, and it all started again with a margarita brunch watching the World Cup Brazi vs. Ivory Coast with Rob downstairs at the Lobo. Then my parents came in for cocktails with some of the mischpucha at Clover Club before dinner at Saul, then post parents back at Clover Club, rejoining the group for one more before plotzing.

The luck continued next day with a Summer Solstice/extended bday treat to a Brooklyn Cyclones vs. Aberdeen Ironbirds game with John and our friend Norm. And the Cyclones won!

Moon over the Parachute Drop with the Hipstamatic setting again. I thought I heard Norm, a contractor, say it was a "good height" when in fact he said it was "bright." So for the rest of the night, we joked about whether the moon's height was correct.

John and Norm.

The field and Cyclone-themed score board. Great seats!

But the biggest bit of luck came yesterday. Cue song from "A Chorus Line." I need this job. And I got this job. I start working in the NY Philharmonic Archives Monday! Will have to get used to an early morning, long commute and crap pay, but it'll be worth it. Cheers to new beginnings. And hopefully my karma keeps a wide birth around the ladder for a while.

Hank II is Dead, Long Live Hank III!

This is something you NEVER want to see when you turn on your computer.

Now, I KNEW this was going to happen someday soon, but still. As you might have read last year in a previous post, I did a bad thing. I accidentally spilled water on Hank II and, in a panic, called Apple, which you just should never do in such situations. Once they know about the exchange of fluids, so to speak, your Applecare is toast. Luckily the machine came back on OK a couple of days later, but without knowing for sure the extent of the damage to the hard drive. My friend Max, a.k.a. The Mac Whisperer, had been able to restore him on a couple of occasions and extended his life by many months. But last week, as I was cooking a fab dinner of whole wheat penne with fresh pea and mint pesto, while listening to music from iTunes, Hank just up and quit. Froze solid. After a hard reset, the above is all I ever saw of him again. That blinking question mark.  Like he'd been possessed by The Joker. Max did what he could, charged paddles, but we couldn't bring him back. Luckily I'd done a major Time Machine backup just that day, and almost everything has been saved. Small favors, right?

So Max built a nice, new, shiny, metallic machine for me online and we went ahead and ordered. It was an incredibly sultry day, so Stephanie was over too for some A/C and margaritas. After a couple of really excellent home made ones with fresh lime juice and agave syrup (thanks, lady!), Max left and we moved on to the Lobo downstairs. I was gulping tequila and the resignation of impending, massive debt pretty hard. It was all I could do.

Well, here's the new toy, stacked redneck style over the other ones, with all my various wires everywhere. So far he's pretty rockin'. Long may you live (please?), Hank III. Don't worry. This one comes with a restraining order. No fluids within 6 feet.

Scotland Part Four - Edinbra

I didn't get much time to see this beautiful city, but what I saw really won me over.

I had one full day there between our visit to Auchentoshan and our road trip to the Highlands, and again after being on the road before I headed home.

The day we went to Auchentoshan, we passed this scene on the way to the train to Glasgow. Someone had a drunken laugh the night before!

The weekend was atypically warm, dry and sunny. The locals are used to rain and cold, so everyone was tilted to the sun like plants. The view from Dan's apartment, looking out onto the lush garden and letting in the warmth.

People in Edinburgh seem to be optimistic about the weather despite the usual wet reality, lots of flowers planted everywhere, and many people with convertible cars! On days like this, they can finally break out the shoe pots.

We wandered around town and sat in the park as we contemplated our next move, eventually heading to the Royal Mile for some whisky shopping. See that winding hill on the upper right? Yep, we walked straight up it on a path.

Winded, here is the view we were rewarded by at the top.

We had a stroll down the Royal Mile, stopping into Royal Mile Whiskies and Cadenheads where I did some damage. Here is St. John's Cathedral, which is also where all the city ghost tours can be picked up.

The Royal Mile is called such because at the top is Edinburgh Castle, and a mile down the same road is Holyrood Palace, where Mary Queen of Scots lived. I was really jonesed to go into it after being shut out of Stirling. Alas, this is all I was going to see of it. There was a "royal visit" till mid June and the Palace is shut to visitors. I mean COME ON. They open the White House when the First Family is around... Man, this trip is all about the timing, isn't it? Well, maybe this just means I'm meant to return for another opportunity to do some Mary geeking.

That evening, Dan and I set out for some pubs, starting in the Grass Market (former square of public hangings, now a thriving, mostly Irish, bar and restaurant scene) and had another long walk. Dan's girlfriend, Yvonne, lives in Marchmont near the Meadows Park. That was my home base for most of the trip. That night, everyone was still out enjoying the weather. Lucky students had just finished exams and were ready to party. The town was thumping! And it would stay light till after 10pm.

A pretty high stone walkway on the way to the park.

The Elephant Cafe, where J.K. Rowling wrote much of the first Harry Potter book, is in Greyfriars. Here is the school that was the inspiration for Hogwarts.

I spent a lot of time in Greyfriars cemetery, both that night and when I returned to town a few days later. Wish I'd had time for a ghost tour like these people in the distance with their be-caped guide. 

Stone relief, one of many.

Here's a skeleton relief taken on a different visit.

This is the tomb of Greyfriars Bobby, who was a Skye Terrier who, legend has it, spent many years protecting the grave of his owner, John Gray, until his own death in 1872.

This is the legendary pub near the entrance. Keep walking up the road to the right and you'll hit the George IV Bridge and then the Royal Mile, just past the pub and down and you're in Cowgate and the Grass Market, so this was also my landmark corner that guided me.

As I mentioned, I unexpectedly had Tuesday night and all of Wednesday to myself since Dan had to tend to Yvonne and her family for her grandmother's funeral. I ended up having a fab chippy take away near Yvonne's, then took a long walk and eventually ended up back in Marchmont at the Argyll pub, watching Tom Jones on Jools Holland and understanding how much better Guinness really does taste across the pond. Here's a shot I snapped on my walk. The little chapel in the far distance has been converted into a theater. Wish I'd been able to see something there.

The following day was spent shopping in my new very favorite store of all time, Marks and Spencers and taking a haunted underground tour in the South Bridge vaults. This really cool company called Mercat puts together these very clever ghost and history tours around town. Our guide, Kimberley, was a pip and so much fun to listen to. There were just three of us in all. And I have to say, there were a couple of times I was pretty spooked down there. I kept expecting someone to jump out at us during the tour (someone who worked there). When that didn't happen, I swore I felt drafts and smelled wafts of things like leather polish that weren't really there. When I emerged, I was definitely needing something to calm my nerves. Luckily, the Albanach pub was right there.

The Royal Mile looking down.

Looking into one of the many ornate "Closes" (corridors) up and down the Mile. One could spend a whole day, and get a good cardio workout, wandering up and down these.

And here's a city view taken from the George IV Bridge.

That evening, under Dan's recommendation, I decided to take advantage of the pre-theater dinner special at Sweet Melinda's in Marchmont. Gooooood call. Really fresh and delicious seafood, great ingredients, excellent preparation, super cheap deal. I was one happy Jew. Especially after rhubarb and vanilla custard tart. A couple of night's prior, we had gone out with Dan's roommate, Dave and his friend Nick from Inverness. I decided to revisit the couple of places I really liked that night in Stockbridge, Hector's pub and the Raconteur cocktail bar, and take a long walk and snap some photos getting there.

Here's Edinburgh Castle as seen from the Grass Market.

Now looking up the Royal Mile.

And now farther up.

Walking on the pedestrian bridge by the National Gallery, I saw this scene. The Scott Monument and the Balmoral Hotel clock tower.

This is from Princes Street looking toward the Castle, that's Royal Scots Greys' statue.

Here's a cool shop window on Deanhaugh Street on the way to Hector's pub.

After a pint at Hector's and a couple of cocktails at the Raconteur (which well lives up to its name. Great place for someone on their own to hang out and chat), it was back to Yvonne's. Couldn't believe I'd already be heading home the next day!

A parting, moonlight glimpse up Marchmont Crescent, which had been my home all week. Fare thee well, Edinbra. Can't wait to see you again!