Best Beaches to See Nude Volleyball & A Bride Swimming In Her Wedding Gown

Last time around, I told you about TripAdvisor's Top Beaches in the U.S. for 2012. Oddly enough, TripAdvisor didn't consult me when compiling their list. Given that I'm a big beach fan and I've been to quite a few, I thought I'd share my top three.

1. Folly Beach, S.C.

During the early 1980s, I lived in the historic district of Charleston. I rented an apartment for $175 a month from a curmudgeonly woman whose car I nearly crushed with an air conditioner. But that's another blog post.

On warm weekend afternoons, I'd drive out to Folly Beach, a 'Left Coast' enclave in conservative South Carolina. The Southern tip of the island is barren (but beautiful) and, at least back then, was mostly frequented by Charleston's small gay population. Nothing wicked, mind you. Just long, hot afternoons, hanging out with friends, reading, jumping in and out of the ocean (in August it felt like bath water), then driving home in my convertible Camaro, music full blast, climaxed by a visit to Wendy's drive-through window for a Frosty. We're talking good times here, people! I return to Folly Beach whenever I get the chance; I spent a couple of delightful hours there just last summer. And one day, I want some of my ashes spread at the very Southern tip of the island. That's how special this place is to me.

Nick going for a 'swim' at Folly Beach

2. Gray Whale Cove, California

This is a quiet, small, beautiful beach south of Pacifica on the spectacular coastal road Highway 1, about a 30 minute drive from San Francisco. Nick and I have spent many happy afternoons here, taking in the spectacular surroundings and the quirky inhabitants. It is, after all, a clothing-optional beach--a place where you might, say, stumble upon a nude game of volleyball.

For all its charms, Gray Whale Cove can be maddeningly elusive. As beaches go, it's like Brigadoon--the town in the Broadway musical and film of that name that only appears for one day every 100 years. I say this because on far too many occasions, we'll drive down from sunny San Francisco only to discover that Gray Whale Cove has disappeared in the fog. I'm not one to linger in fog, so it's back to the city we go, disappointed but determined to enjoy this beach again.

Now, I'm afraid we may never have that opportunity. As of last fall, the state of California was planning to close Gray Whale Cove and other state parks for budgetary reasons.

Gray Whale Cove

3. Monterosso Al Mare, Cinque Terre, Italy

I was torn between citing this beach town and Positano, also in Italy. Positano is the more interesting of the two places--a wildly vertiginous village that tumbles down steep cliffs to the sea. However, we're talking about beaches, and in this regard, Monterosso Al Mare gets my vote.

The beach at Monterosso

First of all, Monterosso Al Mare is on the Ligurian sea, one of the saltiest bodies of waters I've ever dipped a toe into. The salt makes you buoyant, and if you like to float on your back effortlessly in the ocean, you won't do better than this. The water is also very gentle here; no big waves. And incredibly clear.

When Nick and I were there in September 2011, the water was deliciously warm, but not too much. You can rent a beach chair, grab a cocktail and a sandwich, and watch with amusement the hot chaos of this Italian resort town. During our stay, for instance, a woman in full bridal regalia was being photographed all around the beach--and eventually, she jumped into the sea for yet more photographs. Nick thinks it was all a photo shoot, probably for a magazine. Someone else told me there's a new tradition of brides 'trashing' their gowns after the wedding in high style. I prefer to think that, like me, she was simply overtaken by the beauty of the coast, the romance, and, yes, a few Camparis.

The bride and groom in Monterosso's 'tunnel of love'

Bride and groom, on the rocks

The bride gets swept away

Top U.S. Beaches - With Apologies to Connie Francis

Earlier this week, I read an article by USA Today about TripAdvisor's 2012 awards for favorite U.S. beaches. According to TripAdvisor's users, seven of the 10 best beaches are in the South, one is in California, and two are in Hawaii.

Strangely enough, my two favorites--a nude beach outside San Francisco and a former 'gay' beach near Charleston, S.C., didn't make the cut.

I'll tell you about them in my next post. Today, let's focus on America's top 10 beaches, according to TripAdvisor's army of reviewers. Here they are, in order and annotated with my ramblings:

The Don CeSar Hotel in St. Pete

1. St. Pete Beach, Fla. Been there several times. I love the big pink Don CeSar hotel.

Who's sorry now, indeed. Connie Francis and two admirers.

2. Miami/Miami Beach, Fla. Nick and I once met Connie Francis there. She was signing copies of her autobiography, Who's Sorry Now? We had our photo taken with her (wouldn't you?) and used it as our Christmas card that year.

3. Myrtle Beach, S.C. As a kid, my family and I would spend a week at Ocean Isle, N.C. Inevitably, we'd pester our father to drive us to Myrtle Beach. I couldn't wait to shop at a trinket store called Gay Dolphin. I just Googled it. To my amazement, it's still there and it's still called  Gay Dolphin!

Don't f--- with me, fellas! I'm fixin' to give some diarrhea!

4. Virginia Beach, Va. Been there once or twice. Saw Mommie Dearest there for the first time. It gave me diarrhea.

Doris Duke's Shangri La

5. Honolulu, Hawaii. I love big cities. I love beaches. I love Hawaii. Naturally, Honolulu is heaven to me. If you ever go, Doris Duke's former home there is a must.

What? There are no lines in this here road!

6. Daytona Beach, Fla. Never been. Never intend to go. Though I'm slightly intrigued by a beach that also doubles as a highway.

Before There Was Toni Basil and "Mickey," There Was Connie

7. Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Been several times. Like it, don't love it. Reminds me of Connie Francis and Where the Boys Are, though, so it's not all bad.

Mrs. P strikes a pose in Hawaii

8. Lahaina, Hawaii. It's on the island of Maui. Nick, his mother (Mrs. P), and I went to Maui in 2000 but we stayed at a resort on Wailea Beach. Thinking of Maui actually makes me sad, because Mrs. P, a Southern version of Auntie Mame and one of my soul mates, passed away two months after our trip there. The last restaurant meal we ever had together was at the Four Seasons Resort on Maui.

Marilyn at the Hotel Del

9. San Diego. I was just there for a conference; this is where I should have given a homeless woman a sandwich I didn't want. I didn't have the chance to go to a beach this time. On previous visits, however, I've stayed at the Hotel Del Coronado, a grand Victorian on the beach that served as a backdrop for the 1959 movie Some Like It Hot with Marilyn Monroe (plus Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in drag).

Larry Harvey

10. Key West, Fla. Nick and I vacationed here twice in the mid 1980s. I bought my first and last pale turquoise suit there. We toured the Ernest Hemingway home and were delighted by the endlessly entertaining tour guide Larry Harvey. Short and sassy in a Leslie Jordan Will & Grace sort of way, he told our tour group to "Pivot!" whenever we needed to make a turn. When it was time to go through a set of doors, he'd say, "Pretend you're Loretta Young and sweep through those doors!" Nick and I still fondly mimic his drawling pronunciation of Miami: "Mah-AH-mah."

I just Googled Larry Harvey. Apparently, he's still a guide at the Ernest Hemingway house! I'm elated to think that there are tourists in Key West who will soon be entranced by this witty, one-of-a-kind, deeply Southern character. If TripAdvisor ever compiles a list of the Top 10 Tour Guides in the U.S., allow me to be the first to nominate Larry Harvey.

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And now, my fabulous readers: What is your favorite U.S. beach? And what memories--goofy, strange, or poignant--does it conjure up for you?

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P.S. My buddy Erfert wanted to see a photo of me in that pale turquoise suit. I dug one up. It's not a terribly good shot, and the suit--now that I see it again--actually looks pale green. But here it is: 

My Crazy Obsession Flares Up Every Time I Check into a Hotel

Recently, I TiVo-ed an episode of My Crazy Obsession, which is essentially My Strange Addiction but with a more judgmental title.

The episode I watched featured a married couple obsessed with Cabbage Patch Dolls. The couple has spent over $1 million buying, maintaining, and housing their collection of 5,000 dolls. The Cabbage Patch-crazed couple has squandered, whoops I mean spent, over $2,000 for a backyard amusement park for their 'kids.' The park includes a hot-air balloon that sends Cabbage Patch dolls into the sky. (Oh, if only I could be there hiding in the bushes with a bow and arrow.)

Truthfully, I was appalled watching the show. Think of all this couple could have been accomplished with $1 million! Seriously, if you won $1 million in the state lottery, would you immediately jump onto eBay and do a keyword search for Cabbage Patch Kids?

But the show got me thinking. I suspect, if cross-examined by a district attorney, each of us would confess (perhaps in tears, for dramatic effect) to a crazy obsession. So here's my confession:

I'm obsessed with hotel toiletry mini bottles. Actually, let me be more precise: I'm obsessed with stealing hotel toiletry mini bottles.

I'm not entirely clear when this obsession began, or from which of my neuroses it stems. If I had to guess, I'd say the obsession combines my love of several things.

My Crazy Obsession with Hotels

I love, love, love to stay in hotels.

As a kid, I longed to travel but rarely got the opportunity, which may be the root cause of my hotel lust. On the few occasions when my family and I would actually stay in a hotel or motel, it was the Downtowner Motor Inn in Manassas, Virgina, near which my eldest sister and her family lived. During our Downtowner stays, I was crazed with delight. Perhaps in my fervor, I swiped a little bar of soap, thereby launching my life of crime. I can't be sure. I do recall my family was banned from staying at the motel after my sisters and I raced and screamed down the hallways like the kids fleeing the schoolhouse in The Birds.

Miniatures and Why I Love Them

I love miniatures of things. Why do I love miniatures? Maybe it goes back to my days as a kid, playing endlessly with Matchbox cars. Regardless of the origins of this obsession, it continues today. I have a miniature of my Mini Cooper on my desk, which I suppose means I own a Mini Mini.

The other day, when shopping for birthday cards in a gift shop, I came across a small box containing tiny martini glasses and a cocktail shaker. I wondered if the martini glasses would fit in my miniature Mini, so I could create a teensy "Drink and Drive" tableau? Years ago, during my Titanic craze, I purchased a miniature blow-up Titanic, which of course came with a small blow-up iceberg. I put the items to good use one Halloween by affixing them to a white hat and christening myself "Shipsinka."

A Kleptomaniacal Kid

As a kid, I loved pinching candy from the grocery store. But before you alert the authorities, please be assured my kleptomania is apart of my distant past--until I'm confronted with an unattended housekeeping cart in a hotel, that is.

In that moment, something comes over me. I scheme, my heart pounds. I case the hallway, trying to determine where there may be maids or hotel guests lurking. I calculate which cart is a) closest to my room and b) farthest from the main traffic areas (like the elevator). Briefly, I stand next to the cart, trying to differentiate between shampoo and conditioner. I don't really use conditioner often, so why steal something I don't need? I mean, one must be practical.

When the moment is ripe, I swoop in, grabbing as many miniature bottles of shampoo and body gel as possible. If the hotel also offers small bottles of mouthwash, I'm nearly catatonic with happiness. And if they're like Hyatt Place and have colorful pens, they too, are snatched. In volume.

I walk back to my room as casually as possible, pockets bulging, and deposit my bounty. In extreme circumstances, such as during a stay last year at the Drake Hotel in Chicago, I go back--and back, and back--for more.

The Drake, which is part of the Hilton chain, now offers Peter Thomas Roth toiletries that are unique to the Hilton chain. You can't even buy this stuff if you wanted! And so, by the time I'd sated my obsession, the housekeeping cart was nothing more than a pile of embers. I had amassed a cache of toiletries so large that even our friend Tim, who earned the nickname "Scofflaw," gasped when he saw it. I considered putting my loot in a box and asking the hotel concierge to ship it to me. I thought this might be pushing my luck, however. So I took the box to a nearby UPS store and shipped them home myself.

Have I used these toiletries? A little. But the vast majority sit nicely organized into plastic shoe drawers from the Container Store, a store with which I'm kind of obsessed.

As I write this, I realize I've revealed more than one crazy obsession. In fact, I think there are enough here to keep a SWAT team of psychotherapists busy. But obsessions are what make people interesting, right? Obsessions are the fertile soil in which eccentricity blooms, and my goal is to one day grow into a genuine Southern/San Franciscan eccentric.

Now enough about me. Let's pretend you're under cross-examination by a district attorney. What are your crazy obsessions and why? And where were you on the night of January 16th?

Is Y'all a Word? Find Out What the Dictionary Says

Y'all is one of the best words in the English language. And the dictionary will back me up.

Sure, a lot of people see y'all as hopelessly hillbilly. In the purist's mind, if a word could wear gingham, spit tobacco, marry its cousin at age 14, or have a few teeth missing, that word would be y'all. In recent years, y'all has also been usurped by the gangsta culture. Do a Twitter search on y'all and you'll see what I mean.

I love y'all because it's inclusive as well as precise. Let's look at an example from everyday life. When you're talking to more than one person at a time, would you ask, "Would you like some crinkle-cut french fries?" You might pose this pivotal question in such a way if you were trying to be proper. But then you'd have to make eye contact with everyone, to make sure each person understood that crinkle-cut fries were in their future. (Everyone should have crinkle-cut fries in their future.) If you said, "Would y'all like some crinkle-cut french fries?," then everyone would know they're included and you wouldn't have to make all that eye contact.

I'm not alone in my defense of y'all. The word  actually fills a linguistic void created when thou and ye fell out of favor. Here's what The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language Fourth Edition (page 1997 of the hardcover edition) says about you-all, of which y'all is a contraction:

"You and you-all preserve the singular/plural distinction that English used to have in thou and ye, the subject forms of singular and plural you, respectively (thee and you were the singular and plural object forms). The distinction between singular thou/thee and plural ye/you began to blur as early as the 13th century, when the plural form was often used for the singular in formal contexts or to indicate politeness, much as the French use tu for singular and familiar "you," and vous for both plural and plite singular 'you.'"

The dictionary goes on to say that "the distinction between singular and plural you is just as useful as that between other singular and plural pronoun forms, such as I and we."

Let me recap: Though its usage is "chiefly Southern U.S.," as the dictionary states, you-all and y'all serve important functions in our language. So now y'all bitches can stop hatin' on the word y'all.

Sorry about that; I just had a gangsta moment.

Of course, some people take y'all to the extreme. Years ago, when Nick and I lived in Atlanta, he invited a friend from work over for dinner. The friend, who I believe was from Alabama, asked, "What time should I come over to y'all's house?" In that instance, I'm pretty sure your house would have been sufficiently inclusive. Then there are those who have forgotten the purpose y'all serves, and who, as a result, say things like "I love all y'all so much!" (Usually a sentence like this is spoken after too much bourbon and branch water.)

And there you have it. You should say y'all with pride. It's inclusive, it's precise (well, sort of), it's charming, and it's one of the few things left in our increasingly homogenized culture that is "chiefly Southern U.S." At a minimum, don't you think y'all sounds much nicer than you-uns or youse guys? And while we're on the subject, is there some interesting regional slang you use or hear frequently? I want to hear from all y'all!

Bless Their Hearts: Five Favorite Famous Southern Women

Why didn't someone freeze former Texas governor Ann Richards' brain before it was too late?

People like her don't come along every day. Richards was smart, spunky, deeply Southern and proud of it. Who could ever forget her "that dog won't hunt" keynote address to the 1988 Democratic National Convention? Not me, that's for sure.

I was thinking of Richards recently, perhaps because I'd love to see a Southern woman with her fire and spirit out on the campaign trail this year, elbowing out some of these tired presidential candidates. And thoughts of Richards led me to ponder the famous Southern women, past and present, I've greatly admired.

Frankly my dears, Southern women are my favorite type of female--and not just because I grew up in a house full of them. Here are five of my favorite, well-known Southern women, with more to come in future blog posts.

Lillian Hellman, born in New Orleans, didn't really have a strong Southern sensibility, though she wrote beautifully of her Southern roots in her autobiographical works such as An Unfinished Woman and Pentimento. Her play The Little Foxes is a grand piece of Southern melodrama, and the Bette Davis movie version is superb. Hellman's 1934 play The Children's Hour was perhaps the first Broadway production to tackle the highly taboo topic (at the time) of lesbianism. She fought with lots of other writers (most notably Mary McCarthy), she had an off-and-on relationship with Dashiell Hammett for decades, she was accused of fabricating her memoirs. I guess she was pretty Southern after all.

Holly Hunter, Georgia-born, is one of my favorite Southern actors ever. She's excellent in every film or TV show in which she appears, most notably Broadcast News, The Firm, The Piano (she won an Oscar), Copycat, and Living Out Loud. She still has that thick Southern accent, she still talks out of one corner of her mouth, and we don't get to see her nearly as often as we should.

Pearl Bailey, from Virginia, had a hit cabaret act decades ago known for its playfully randy songs. Pearlie Mae, who called most people "honey," had style to spare. She exuded warmth, humor, and a slight air of mischief. And honey, girlfriend had pipes. Her rendition of Supper Time was one of the best I've ever heard. Pearl won a Tony for playing Dolly in an all African-American production of Hello, Dolly! in 1968 and injected some real emotion in that show's rousing show stopper, Before the Parade Passes By. At age 67, Pearl received a B.A. degree from Georgetown University, and she wrote several books. Note to Queen Latifah: Please play Pearl in a movie. I'll even write the screenplay, honey.

Dixie Carter, Tennessee born, was due to appear in a cabaret show in San Francisco shortly before she passed away in 2010. I'd love to have heard her sing, to have basked in her awesome Southern womanhood. Designing Women, for which she was most famous, wasn't a terribly good sitcom, in my humble opinion. But when someone crossed Julia Sugarbaker (Dixie's character), and I pity the fool who did, you sat back and watched Dixie have at 'em all. "And that's the night the lights went out in Georgia!" was the climax of one of Dixie's most memorable tirades. If you've never seen it, treat yourself to the clip below.

A Southerner in San Francisco is on Twitter

I'm writing or contributing to a total of six blogs, four Facebook pages, several YouTube channels (I've lost count), one Tumblr blog, two Google+ profiles, one LinkedIn page, and three Twitter streams. I've started pinning goofy stuff on Pinterest, and I've also started a WordPress.com blog; or did I just dream that?

I'm beginning to feel like a contestant on one of those grocery shopping game shows. Let's see how many items I can put in my cart before the buzzer sounds!

Nonetheless, the other day I had a fabulous idea: Start a new Twitter account! Yes, that's what's been missing from my life.

And so, if by some tiny chance you haven't had enough of my ramblings and ruminations, A Southerner in San Francisco is now on Twitter. It's already on Facebook, too.

On Twitter, my goal is to share goofy, offbeat things I encounter in San Francisco, of which there is no shortage of material. Like the naked guys who hang out by the Creme Brulee cart, for starters. I'll also tweet about Southern food, culture, and quirky characters. Like the woman I saw on the treadmill at a gym in Greensboro, her hair fully coiffed and sprayed, her face completely (and overly) made up, her perfume wafting into my nostrils. She turned to me at one point and complained that the treadmill had no ashtray. I believe she was joking. I wasn't entirely sure.

That's the kind of Earth-moving insights to expect. I hope you'll join me--and share the goofy stuff you encounter, too.

"The Help," The Oscars & Movies Set in the South

On Oscar night, I doubt The Help will win Best Picture. It was a page-turner of a book and, all told, a pretty good movie, one I'm sure I'll watch again at some point. For whatever reason, though, it's not among my most favorite movies set in the South.

If there were an Oscar for Best Southern Picture of All Time, I'd nominate the following:

* A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) Tennessee Williams (playwright) and Elia Kazan (director) were a combustible combination on Broadway, and this film (set in the French Quarter of New Orleans) captures their powerful collaboration at its best. Although this famous play's subject matter was slightly white-washed to suit Hollywood censors, there's no denying the sweaty, claustrophobic, jazzy, sexy, raw-nerves aura of this movie. Sixty years later, Marlon Brando is still magnetic (and mega hunky, even by today's standards). Vivien Leigh is a bit campy at times ("Stella, run out and get me a lemon Coke with chipped ice"). But oh man, that final scene? I can see it anytime in my head without having to watch the movie. If you love this movie, read When Blanche Met Brando, a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at the making of the play and film. 

* Big Fish (2003) One of my favorite Tim Burton movies, it's an ode to Southern Gothic storytelling--which is usually long on entertainment value and imagery and mostly devoid of actual facts. The large cast includes Albert Finney, Ewan McGregor, and Jessica Lange, all at their best. Warning: The final moments pack an emotional wallop. 

* Loggerheads (2005) A little-known gem I caught at a San Francisco film festival, Loggerheads tells three different but interlocking stories, all set in North Carolina. Tess Harper, Bonnie Hunt, and Michael Learned are among the strong cast. The stories involve a young gay man who loves loggerhead turtles and his adoptive and birth mothers. I'd tell you more, but I think this movie is best experienced without a lot of upfront explanation and backstory. 

* Junebug (2005) This independent feature filmed in North Carolina gets the local atmosphere and accents right--there's even a mention of Cheerwine, as I recall. Plus it co-stars a charming Amy Adams in her breakout role. 

* Body Heat (1981) This is the kind of sexy film noir thriller Hollywood would have made in the 1940s had it not been for all that tedious, Hays Office/studio censorship. Set in Florida during a heat wave, this movie isn't particularly Southern in flavor (other than all the sweat). But it's a hugely entertaining showcase for Kathleen Turner as the ultimate femme fatale and William Hurt as her not-so-bright man toy.

* The Little Foxes (1941). No one did evil better than Bette Davis, and she was rarely better than when she was directed by William Wyler, who directed this film adaptation of the Lillian Hellman Deep South melodrama of greed. If nothing else, this movie is a showcase for black-and-white "deep focus" cinematography. Need an example? Watch the scene in which Bette, in the foreground, waits expectantly as her dying husband, in the background, crawls up the steps to retrieve the vital medication she has cruelly denied him. Both the foreground and background subjects are in clear focus--something you just don't see in color films. Gregg Toland, the cinematographer, also did the camera work for a little movie you may have heard of called Citizen Kane. BTW, as much as I love Bette Davis in the role, Tallulah Bankhead originated the part on stage and was said to be a sensation. Would she have overpowered the screen? Maybe. I'd still like to have seen her do the role. 

And the Oscar goes to: A Streetcar Named Desire. It's still a knockout of a movie.

Others that could have been contenders (to paraphrase Marlon Brando): 

* Fried Green Tomatoes (1991). I didn't add this to the main list because a) it's such an obvious candidate and b) it's rather schmaltzy and sentimental. Even so, it's funny, touching, and absorbing. It stars Jessica Tandy, always a treat to watch and Kathy Bates, in one of her first great performances ("I'm older and have more insurance!").

* Steel Magnolias (1989) Sally Field in the cemetery scene is reason enough to watch. 

* Norma Rae (1979) Once again, I loved Sally Field, especially when she stood on top of a table holding that "Union" sign. She had some great lines, too. When Rob Leibman, as a Yankee unionizer, trips and falls onto a cow pie and is all undone, Sally just sighs and says reassuringly: "It's only grass and water."

Others I used to love but frankly, my dear, I'm kinda tired of: 

* To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) I know, this is practically everyone's favorite Southern movie. I loved it as a kid and for many years after. And I still find it admirable and nicely acted. But here's a little secret: The book is even better. And if you think you don't need to read it because you've seen the movie 12,000 times, think again.

* Gone With the Wind (1939) I'm sure if someone sat me down in a movie theater and this movie began to unspool, I'd find it difficult to leave. But left to my own devices, I'm not ready to devote another four hours of my life to this film anytime soon. Then again, I can't resist Mammy, especially when she accuses Scarlett for waiting for Ashley Wilkes "just like a spid-ah."

Which movies would you nominate for Best Southern Picture of All Time, and why? I'd love to know. 

Learning How to Lie to My Mother -- Again

As a teenager, I frequently lied to my parents, especially my mother.

"No, that wasn't a bag of pot you found in my jeans, Mom; that was oregano. My girlfriend and I were cooking spaghetti at her house."

"Yes, Mom, I have a girlfriend."

"No, Mom, I'm not gay!"

In my 20s, I decided not to lie anymore to my parents; it was too painful. This meant telling them I was gay. To be more precise, I told my mother but not my father. I was too chicken to tell him, too afraid of his disapproval. I figured she'd tell him anyway.

Being honest (within reason, of course) has many rewards. It deepens relationships, gives you a satisfying sense of integrity and authenticity. Over the past few years, however, I've had to forfeit those rewards. I've had to start lying to my mother again.

Ruth, my mother, has Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia (it's rarely easy to know unless you do an autopsy). She's forgotten I'm gay. And so, in almost every conversation, Ruth asks, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

I wrestled with this at first. I hate lying to her; but does it really make sense to 'come out' again to my mother, especially when she won't remember it the next time I call? So I've developed a pat answer: "Yes, Mom, I have lots of girlfriends," which is true.

"Good!," she always says.

Sometimes she'll ask if I'm ever going to get married. "I'm working on it," I lie. Truth is, Nick and I are married.

The day my sisters and I had to move Ruth into an Alzheimer's facility, she was fixated on my marital status. I decided to take it a step further that day and show her a photo of me with Natalie, one of my best 'girlfriends.' My mother was thrilled.

While I've developed some routine 'white lies' as answers, as have my sisters, Ruth still throws questions at me that I'm not prepared for. Too often, in the past, I've told her the truth, which only upset her.

My conversation with Ruth yesterday was a turning point.

I could tell at the beginning of our conversation that she was more confused than usual. "I haven't seen your father in a while, I wonder where he is?"

My father died in 1993, and in the past, I might have reminded her of that. "He's always working late," I responded, without missing a beat. "You know how hard he works."

"I think he wrote a book or something," Ruth replied.

"Yes, it's a book of his photographs, of downtown Greensboro over the years," I lied. "I'm so proud of him."

"Me too!," she answered. "I don't know where the children are either."

"I think they're upstairs, probably playing hide-and-seek," I lied.

"When are you comin' to see me?" she asked.

"I'll be there tomorrow," I lied.

And so, at long last, I was able to easily play along in this excruciatingly painful game. One thing sustained me throughout our conversation, however. With her husband still at work and her children upstairs playing, I hadn't heard my mother sound so happy in years.

Ruth and me, July 2010, Greensboro

Wherever I Go, There I Am

You can leave your hometown, but you can never escape it.

That's one of the themes of the National Theatre of London's production of Travelling Light, which I saw yesterday in a movie theatre broadcast in San Francisco. (If you're a theatre buff, you should catch one of the National's broadcasts; they've all been excellent.)

It's a story line with which I strongly identify. As a kid and teen, I couldn't wait to leave my hometown of Greensboro, N.C. The homophobia I encountered at the time was a particularly strong motivator for getting the hell out of Dodge. But there was more to it than that. I was enamored with the idea of living in a Big City (particularly one on a coast), and I knew Greensboro could never deliver.

In my 20s and 30s, I traveled as often and as far as possible. At 29, I moved to San Francisco, about as far away as you can get from Greensboro (geographically and psychologically) and yet still live within the continental United States.

And then, in my 40s, something curious began to happen. I realized the majority of my travels were no longer to Big Cities and other lands. Most of the time, I was flying back to Greensboro and sometimes spending a full week there. Even more surprisingly, I discovered that I often looked forward to those visits.

It wasn't the sights and sounds of Greensboro that compelled me back; it was spending time with family and reconnecting with old friends. (Of course, the Cheerwine, Chick-Fil-A, and Stamey's Barbecue didn't hurt, either.) Finally, I'd stopped dismissing Greensboro for what it wasn't and appreciated it for what it was, and what it offered me.

I guess that's what happens to most people as they mature. We discover the truth in that old cliché, "No matter where you go, there you are."

(c) Carol W. Martin

By the way, the photo above of downtown Greensboro in the late 1950s was taken by my father, Carol W. Martin of Martin's Studio. Originally from Roanoke, Virginia, he once told me that as a young man, he'd never intended to stay in Greensboro; he'd only gone there for a job on the newspaper. My father had originally set his sights on living in a bigger city, just as I did years later. But then he fell in love with a beautiful young woman named Ruth, married, had five kids, and had built a successful business. Did he regret never making it to a more exciting, bigger city? I've often wondered that, but I believe he found contentment in his adopted town. And ultimately, isn't that what most of us want?

Two Hungry People in San Diego, One of Them a Jerk

Last week, walking from the San Diego convention center to my hotel, I passed a homeless woman. She was sitting on a low-lying brick retaining wall, not far from Petco Park. I didn't think much about her then--but she has been on my mind almost every day since.

That's because I was a jerk to her, though she didn't know it.

I'd been attending an online marketing conference. As a conference attendee, I was entitled to a free boxed lunch every day. That afternoon, my intention was to get the food, take it back to my hotel, and eat it poolside. It was a cloudless, warm afternoon, and I couldn't wait to absorb the sun.

En route to my hotel, I saw the homeless woman. She was in the same position I'd seen her in when I passed by her that morning, except now she held a plastic bag up to one side of her face to block the sun. Next to her was a small cart of assorted belongings. She took no notice of me, and I gave her only a quick glance.

And yet, in that moment, my instinct was to stop and offer her my boxed lunch. Instead, I second-guessed myself (an expertise of mine). Giving homeless people food and money only encourages them to stay on the streets, right? Since I give money to homeless organizations every year, I shouldn't have to surrender my sandwich too, right? And how do I know she hadn't eaten? How do I know she would trust food from a stranger?

In my hotel room, I opened the box and suddenly had absolutely no interest in it. It was the same conference-quality sandwich I'd eaten the previous two days. So I dropped the sandwich in the trash and proceeded to the pool.

To my dismay, I discovered the hotel wasn't offering food or beverage service at the pool, nor could you have room service deliver lunch there. Instead, I had to go to my room, find the hotel restaurant menu, call in my order, have the restaurant call my cell phone when it was ready, then go down and pick it up.

How ridiculous and unaccommodating the hotel was being, I thought, irritated. And then it hit me: This wasn't just an inconvenience. This was payback time, a life lesson. I was having to work for the food I wanted, and rightly so, because I hadn't even bothered to offer the food I didn't want to someone who probably could have used it. Instead, I had callously discarded it.

I'm not proud of this, by the way. However, I'm glad I realized what I'd done, and I decided to start making amends right away. Before checking out of my room, I left a large tip and a thank-you note for the maid. I realize this wasn't the same as offering food to a homeless person. But it was a start. And it's my hope that in the future, I won't second-guess any act of compassion.

State Fair Foods - Hey, That Pound of Butter Really Looks Like You!

"What would you like for dinner tonight, sweetie?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something simple. How about a Krispy Kreme cheeseburger?"

"With fried Coke?"

"You betcha. And for dessert..."

"Deep-fried Twinkies!"

"Took the words right out my mouth!"

I don't know if such a conversation has ever occurred. I certainly hope so, and preferably, it was between two elegantly attired people in the back of a long black limousine.

The aforementioned delicacies are what's known as "state fair food," which, if it isn't indigenous to the South, has certainly been perfected there. My sister Mimi, who writes a delightful blog entitled Messy Mimi, forwarded some links about state fair food to me recently, after she read my blog posts about Paula Deen.

Strictly in the spirit of research, I visited a few web sites and blogs Mimi recommended. Among the things I discovered:

* Chicken-fried bacon -- an award winner at the Texas state fair.

* A deep-fried latte (another award contender at the Texas state fair), which is actually a fried pastry topped with cappuccino ice cream, instant coffee powder, caramel sauce, and whipped cream.

* A butter bust. Just in case you haven't completely turned into fat after eating these foods, you can have a bust made of yourself in butter at the Minnesota state fair. 

I've not been to a state fair in years, though I've certainly overindulged in the calorie department from time to time. (The recent dinner of lasagna sandwich, chocolate cake and ice cream comes to mind.) What's the biggest calorie bomb you've consumed, and why on Earth did you do such a thing to your poor body? Please share your stories. Defibrillators are standing by. 

Finding an Iguana in an Airplane Seatback Pocket

Can you imagine discovering a baby iguana in the seatback pocket of an airplane?

It happened—but not to me, thankfully, or I wouldn't be alive to tell this tale. 

At dinner the other night, an airplane pilot friend was talking about his former pet iguana. He explained that after a plane landing, a member of the cleaning crew had discovered a live, baby iguana in a seatback pocket. Apparently someone had intended to bring the exotic pet with them to the plane’s final destination, thought better of it at the last minute, and abandoned the reptile.

The pilot thought it would be cool to have a pet iguana and took the creature home. The iguana lived with the pilot and his partner for several years—until the beast bit down on his arm one day. The pilot showed me the circular scar on his forearm.

Did I just hear you faint? Or was that me?

Anyhow, during his stint as a hideous houseguest, the iguana had free reign of the pilot’s home. Sometimes they’d find the iguana in a bookcase, for instance. The iguana was particularly fond of running water and would often join the pilot or his partner during their showers.

Is there still such a thing as smelling salts? If so, where can I buy some?

One day, the pilot and his partner had a houseguest. She was staying in their home while they were away. She knew they had a pet iguana and wasn’t particularly thrilled at the idea, even less so that the reptile was uncaged. So imagine her reaction when, unexpectedly, the iguana joined her in the shower. The screams that resulted were reminiscent of the shower scene in Psycho.

Hang with me, y'all, I'm almost done with the horror parade.

The pilot then told a story about how, during a cocktail party at their home, the iguana made an unexpected appearance. One of the guests, whom the pilot said was “a nelly queen,” took one look at the beast and bolted for the doorway.

Let me just say that had I been there, I'd have beaten that nelly queen out the door. Despite my attempts at alligator hunting with cocktails, I have a morbid fear of reptiles—especially one that might show up unexpectedly without a leash and has two penises. (Yes, it's true; iguanas have two thingies.)

As a boy in Greensboro, my earliest memory is discovering a garter snake in the driveway. I shrieked for so long, so loudly, that a concerned neighbor appeared with a hoe. To stop my screaming, he chopped the snake into two. When both pieces of the snake continued to squirm, my shrieks blew out every window on the block.

Geckos used to make me jump every single time. Finally, I came to terms with them (more or less) when I realized they like to visit the same places I do—especially warm, tropical islands.

But iguanas? I can barely look at a photo of these prehistoric prowlers without wanting to flee. (In fact, you may have noticed this post has no photo of an iguana. This was not an oversight on my part.) 

I know I’m not alone in this. One day years ago, my friend Bob and I were walking along a San Francisco street on our way to a movie. There was a homeless guy on the corner with a pet iguana on his shoulder. I turned to remark upon it to Bob, but he was no longer there. Almost immediately, I heard car horns honking and tires squealing. Bob had dashed into the street with little (if no) regard for the traffic in order to reach the opposite side of the street as quickly as humanly possible.

After my recent Night of the Iguana with the pilot, I was sure I’d go home and have horrific nightmares. Oddly enough, I had no memorable dreams whatsoever. Could it be that I’m getting just a teensy bit less fearful of cold-blooded creatures?

Probably not. From here on, when I’m on airplane, you can be certain that my hands will not venture inside a seatback pocket.

25 Years as a Southerner in San Francisco

The day I arrived in San Francisco to start a new job, it was cold. The rain was monsoon-like. I picked up a rental car at the airport and drove directly to the office where I’d be working.

“Welcome to sunny California,” a co-worker greeted me.

That was 25 years ago today, on Feb. 2, 1987. And although the flight from Atlanta that day was bumpy due to weather, it was nothing compared to the turbulence I’d experienced in the months before my move from Atlanta to San Francisco.

Let’s quickly rewind to August 1986. Nick and I were living in Atlanta and came to San Francisco for vacation. I loved the city's spectacular hills and bay, its quirky culture, and how different it was from anything I'd experienced on the East Coast.

Less than one month later, my boss told me of a job opening in the company’s Silicon Valley office, just south of San Francisco. Was I interested?

The thought of such a huge move was fairly terrifying. And yet, Nick and I had grown bored with Atlanta. So with trepidation I told my boss “yes,” and soon enough, the job was mine.

I wasn’t looking forward to telling my parents about the move. My mother, never one to hide her feelings, said, “I feel like you’re moving to the moon!” She despaired over never seeing me again; I assured her I’d be home every two or three months. My father, who rarely showed his emotions, simply said, “I suspected you’d end up in New York or California one day.”

The next big hurdle was the gnawing fear, which escalated the closer we came to moving. What in the hell were we doing, moving all the way to San Francisco? What will happen to our friendships back in the South? Can we really afford to live in San Francisco? What if we get there, hate it, and can’t afford to move back? What if there’s a huge earthquake? These questions were on our minds every night as we struggled for sleep, every morning when we awoke, and practically every minute in between.

Fast forward to today. Those particular anxieties I carried with me to San Francisco on that cold, rainy Monday in 1987 are gone. New ones have taken their place, of course. Can we still afford to live here when we’re elderly? If we can't, where in hell would we go? What if there’s another huge earthquake? 

I’m a bit of a worrier (in case you haven’t noticed). No matter where I live or what I do, I’m usually anxious about something. But by moving to San Francisco, I didn’t give in to those worries. I made a bold move. And my goal is to continue making bold moves for the rest of my life. Without them, there is only worry and boredom. Life becomes stagnant.

On this morning, 25 years after arriving in San Francisco, I’m looking out our dining room window at the city skyline. It’s sunny and mild, and I’m grateful to be a Southerner in San Francisco.