Angels in Black

A word must be said about the waiters here, because they are as much a part of the theater as the models and the certifiably insane; the two largest groups represented.
There are many of them: swarming army ants of men, silently putting things in front of you, taking things away, patting children, flirting with old ladies, laughing at the jokes of the daft and the drunk , enduring the needs of soccer players' girlfriends, and all the while they are the real stars of the show. Firstly, some of them are movie star handsome and all of them are, as Claus says, the absolute best in the world.
In the evening they are dressed up, with the head guys in black tie. The one that is in charge of our table (or rather the head guy associated with us...there are at least 5 other regular waiters who rush around the table as well) is this matinee idol, soft spoken thing that is impossible to talk to. He caught me outside once when I was in a full length, white semi Grecian number that is great, except from the back-it looks only good from the front. And I hear this silky voice behind me say Good night....and all I can think of is crap....I look bad from behind..why did I not hear him coming? and then I wonder if there is any significance to his saying Good night (notte) instead of the usual Good evening (sera) and by the time I realize I have not uttered any of my famous witticisms in any language, he is gone.
 In fact he had the same effect on Eloise because nothing smooth ever seemed to come out of our mouths around him. This is the way it works , at night, the head guy and only he, takes your order. He approaches quietly, at exactly the moment, somehow, when you have chosen. He calls me madam. (This hurts a bit because I think after all these years we are closer than that. But alas).
It is a sacred and private moment between you and him. More like giving confession than ordering dinner. No one else hears, and no matter what I ask for, it seems like he is a bit disappointed. Maybe it is my imagination....
Clearly there has been some training that they are not to fraternize with the ladies, unless the ladies are very old or really asking for it....no Ciao bella!! here. And my god, the women they have to pretend not to be looking at!
It starts to make you crazy. I mean come on! You are Italian!! I cannot do better than this! the other night I had what appeared to be a flicker of recognition that I was a girl when I really made an effort...wore red, wore lipstick, hell I  even brushed my hair. And this was all I got: I came around the corner, and his head went back just a tiny bit...and then I  am pretty sure he grabbed the tiniest peek down my little red dress. Basta. The I ordered pesto and he told me to say 12 hail marys.

The lunch guy is even worse, or better depending on your definition. He has this amazing, possibly broken nose and wildly colored eyes and he says almost nothing. It is terrifying...so much that i have had to give up arugula at lunch because of the risk it will be hanging  from my mouth when he inevitably comes by. There is not a thought that does not pop into my head, that he doesn't anticipate. He knows, even though we skipped last  year, what we drink, and how we eat. If he sees that I eat only one kind of cookie, the next time he brings only that kind. Thomas tried to pour some of his own water and he materialized out of nowhere before a drop could come out of the bottle.

But then of course there are the Sicilians. The one semi rogue element at the Cala di Volpe; the one group most resistant to the delicate, sexism training.  One in particular fell hard for Eloise, and sticks to me in the vain hope she will appear again, like Jesus, at my elbow. He calls me California and I call him Sicilia, and we have a little game-see if I can lift my own plate for the salad buffet before he shoots across the dining room to hand it to me.
How I love him. It is a perfect relationship; I mean it, we never, ever fight.
Today at lunch I went to order at the grill...one can have anything at this buffet, and the fish is strangely good. But I cannot decide.... I am discussing this with the lunch head guy who stands in front of the grill, because god forbid you should discuss these things directly with the cook....(forgive me father for I have sinned and I cannot choose between the swordfish and salmon...) and I hear this familiar accent from under a chef's hat, an accent straight out of a mafia movie: You are going to have the salmon, and I am going to make it for you, and it will be the best salmon you have ever had. Oh and what are you doing later.
I had the salmon.

Little Blue Swim Trunks

Thomas was musing the other evening about the possibility that the universe is expanding faster and faster, and is not in a pattern of expansion followed by contraction. I do not think he did this to seduce me (although lord knows I love it when he talks nerdy), but because, at 4% body fat, the idea of an ever cooling universe is depressing to him. At the time I was knee deep in bellinis and felt none of his concern. Einstein after all, maintains that the universe must be in balance (he does not offer proof, exactly; it is just the only scenario that made sense to him), and the Hubble quotient can't possibily be more than 1; (I don't know what that means). But it means AE thinks it must expand and contract equally. Stephen Hawking, by comparison, is a bit of a downer: he thinks we should not try to search for alien life because they could be hostile, and he thinks something can come out of nothing. In other words, there is a strong possibilty that no one-no higher power- lit the original match.

I bring this up because I believe I have found something close to cosmic understanding simply by looking at Chico in baby blue Vilebrequin bathing trunks- bought in bulk by his grandmother. This particular pair is a shorter style- really uncool in California:  Laird Hamilton doesn't wear short blue pants that cost 300 euros. But I made him wear them because his grandmother is so kind to shop for us, and somethimes he just needs to just suck it up. Then I took him to the beach.
The beach after lunch here is really quiet... Everyone is comatose after the famous buffet; even jolly German hockey sticks move more slowly. Anyway, after we swim together in this incredible water, F goes out to a little float and dives off while I lazily hold up scores for the dives from my lounge chair. I have a lot of power, and very little mercy. 
And while we were playing this silent game, mother and son, sand and sea, I realized just how young he still looked in those baby blue, extra short, shorts. There is nothng like the sight of knobbly little boys' knees to soften one's perspective;  but out there on a tiny white float, in the middle of a turquoise sea, those knees led me to one incontrovertible truth: It is all going to be ok.

Below is a short video of him in the shorts. see if you can still believe in a cold, empty universe after seeing it.

BIG news to report tomorrow: F lost 2 teeth... Oh and we went on the Oligarch's 300 foot yacht(!!!) words cannot describe ...it appears 20 billion dollars makes for a very nice boat budget.

Now I must collect the Germans from water skiing so we can go jogging in 97 degree heat. You see why Poland never had a fucking chance.

Looking out of F's tiny, perfect balcony

Proof of the Divine in knees

Thomas at work 

Sardinia

 Back to the wacky C d V hotel where the Ws have been coming every year since 1980. June is a quiet month here-so lots of Germans and not as many B list celebrities. Amazingly, almost nothing changes-the waiters, the guests, everything is the same.
This picture was taken after dinner during our usual walk. We are already considered total lunatics for the amount of exercise we seem to do....we are the only ones with tennis rackets, or baseball mitts, and certainly there is no one speaking Italian in the little gym.

Anyway, we take a walk after dinner wherever we are, so off we went. We were on this pier in the dark looking at a strangely flat sea (it is really windy here, so it was surreal); almost immediately, some guy with a flashlight comes up and wonders what the hell we are doing...he was polite, but confused. He could understand if we had taken our clothes off, but walking...that is kinky. This place is all about not moving. Famous blueberry..the Crazily tanned American (have not yet seen him) stays here for a full month and does nothing, and i mean nothing, but lie in the sun, eat, then sun, then eat. He makes me crazy....I almost want to ask him how he can stand it...no shopping, no sightseeing, no sailing, no jogging in the heat, nothing.

There is a name for our affliction-the English call it Jolly Hockey Sticks, a person who is always doing something, and with an irritating amount of enthusiasm. And we are even worse due to the Protestant influence.

Occasionally I see a kindred spirit: a person who is antsy for some action...Like the Russian grandfather who organized a swim meet with his huge family. Keep in mind the only other people I have seen in the pool are Wehlens and children. Russian girlfriends don't want to break a nail.
But my  most favorite memory of other restless people cracking under the ennui of suntanning,  was the year before last when the Italian soccer players were here.  Sure enough, after a few hours in the sun, they ran to the kids' tiny soccer field and starting playing in bare feet. Like children. They were playing Russia against Italy, with an Austrian skier thrown in, and I could not take my eyes off of them. Frederick was playing tennis and missed everything, but some of the kids of the people who work here ran in like it was normal. It was all I could do not to run in myself screaming: USA!!!! and if I knew how to kick a soccer ball, I would have.

By the way, below i was in a sequined top and four inch heels and white pants, and that is as casual as one can get here....All the rest of the things i brought are more uncomfortable and show more skin...I am telling you this place is exhausting. One does pine occasionally for a night in short pants.

Frederick has graduated to the single most romantic room i have ever seen for an eleven year old. It is on our floor, but a pretty good distance away from us....and it has the best view in the hotel. When you open the door, there are immediately stairs going up, like a very tiny house. Then his room, which is small, perfect for a child, with a delightful balconey (see his blog for pictures) and an enormous bed and enormous TV.

I told him, as I always do: It is downhill from here lovee. I know Mommy, I know.

On the dock before the security guy came

Photos...etc

Greetings loyalists. We are just back from a short business trip to Geneva, which was surprisingly fun. Stayed at a nice hotel with a perfect view from our room, ate Indian, ran along the lake, and generally behaved like people without a care in the world. We even came to our business meeting with the tiniest of hangovers...tres chic.  Also we were 5 minutes late (me! yes!) and our client did not turn up for another 1/2 an hour. 

We are clearly out of the German area. 

As far as I could see, there is nothing but piles of money and no stress whatsoever: the next guy we saw leaves his office by three after a day of telling soccer players the difference between a stock and a bond. 

Below are some pictures from Zurich and Geneva. Tomorrow, Sardinia with C and E where we will endure the Cala di Volpe and all those profiteroles.

PS I hope you are watching soccer! 

xxxoo

This guy I had to photograph because he would never win an election in that outfit in the US of A. Kills me these people...too cute

 Family portrait: Frederick with his beloved Italian uncle and various Wehlens...find Aunt Dorothea if you can

Thomas in front of Russian Orthodox Church

 Ellie in front of Greek consulate (Thomas could not resist) 

Ellie in front of Geneva fountain...very funny...lots of laughter from the assembled,  but Thomas said i would  not get my dessert if I did not stand there. ("you need a foreground, a focus and a background....")

Me looking toward dessert.

Writing from lounge at JFK...said goodbye to Margaret and Kate early in the morning in front of a sleepy Carlyle hotel. K was back to her old self: traveling in pyjama bottoms and flip flops, holding her blanket and sucking her mildly dirty thumb.
I asked her how she was feeling, and she said: sad, but I am coming back next year, so it's ok. F is as usual beside himself at the prospect of being holed up in an airplane for many hours (amazing to me that it never gets old for him...)
Below: Kate choosing chocolate mousse the first night: Empire State: in front of a restaurant downtown with view of Statue of you-know-who

Next stop London xxx

New York New York!

Katharine Meriwether has landed in the big city with a very large suitcase of assorted sponge bob t shirts and vintage kimonos, as well as a new hairstyle. She looks like a very small supermodel in a gray sparkled sweater (thin people need sweaters in new york summer-it is an elite group of the super thin) and linen cargo pants. To top it off, she has adopted a low pony tail with a side part. See Below

Best of all she eats like a horse. Margaret took her for dinner at 5 to a diner where she ate ravioli stuffed with cheese, jello and whipped cream. Then one hour later had her weight in pasta bolognese, and a plate full of broccoli that she ate like it was bon bons. On the streets her mouth is agape. We took her to the planetarium and she was the only kid out of hundreds who kept lifting her hands in the air to capture the planets...I am not making this up- she thought it was three d and she could hold the sun. Only trouble was, I was tired and trying to nap (I have seen this exact show many many times), and she kept gasping and oohong in my ear.

We have ridden on a wild and crazy and frankly dangerous bicycle rickshaw, seen the planet show, gone to the top of the empire state building, taken a boat tour around the statue of liberty (clearly her favorite), visited Dylans candy store, gone to lunch at the Norman Foster designed Hearst building, had a play date in central park, ridden the subway, learned how to dance, taken fat booth pictures of strangers, eaten our way down madison avenue, been kicked out of a cab, and still, still we have not scratched the surface. Woody Allen is playing DOWNSTAIRS as we speak, and I am here writing this stupid blog.

As you can see from the Chinese jacket at top, we really have reached a new level of chic. This is not to say that all has been a linear, progression: today she had a set back as was seen in her fuzzy bear slippers and pyjamas bottoms at breakfast in the hotel. Her mother and i think she bears, at these times, a resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor in some of her drunker roles, and one woman in blond bouffant and face lift did give her a glare, but no major damage was done to her psyche.

K is still not sure which is better for her: Paris or New York, but if they will let her live in the Eiffel Tower, then Paris is will be. She has also said she will trade a week with us at Le Bristol in Paris for a week on the QM2 (I told her they have a pool and a three star restaurant in the lobby). 
So sad...off we fly tomorrow, and unlike in years past, we have no joy of getting on a big ship. Just BA to London.
alas.
We will miss her little pony tail more than we can ever say.