Posts: 50

1. Provincetown Misfits: "The Lost Crook" of oddly content malcontents

   12.Aug.08, 14:16 IST
   
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   Though I had heard from many reliable sources that Provincetown, the crook like a bent finger at the end of Cape Cod, was a staunch bohemian wonderland, I never wanted to go.  I assumed I had missed its heydey.  That it was over.

   
   

   But friends of mine who loved the place in their 30's, still loved the place in their 40's.  And now they had the means to rent really nice houses for the summer, so with the offer of my own room in dog-friendly digs, I decided to add on a few days in Provincetown after a work trip to Nantucket.

   
   

   Weirdly, there is no way to get from Nantucket directly to Provincetown.  I flew to Boston on the little Cape Air 8-seat plane (about $180 one-way), then hopped on the Bay State Cruises ferry ($70 one-way).  It wasn't cheap.  Later I discovered I could have taken the ferry from Nantucket to Hyannis, then hopped on a 45-minute bus to PTown and saved $150, but oh well.

   
   

   When I arrived at the ferry, I flagged down a pedi-cab.  My driver was a handsome Jamaican from Montego Bay.  He informed me that there was a community of Jamaicans working in Ptown, along with a community of Bulgarians (both groups are allowed special working VISA's for the summer).  They add an interesting flavor to the setting, originally and Portugese fishing and whaling village, before the hippies, freaks, writers, artists, drug addicts and queers took over starting in the 1950's.

   
   

   To understand PTown better, you might pick up Peter Manso's book, Ptown, which is like the Hollywood Babylon of this seaside escape.  Its a speedy, page-turning read, detailing the colorful antics of long-time residents like writer Norman Mailer and filmmaker John Waters, as well as a slew of salacious gossip about regular residents like a local fisherman who tried to run a shipment of marijuana from Columbia.  The book also has some historical insight into the art gallery scene, local politics and the community activism.  Very cool, though a higher-brow read is Michael Cunningham's Land's End: A Walk in Provincetown.  Cunningham, my favorite author (best known for The Hours, but I like At Home At The End of the World), is a devoted PTown habitue himself.  

   
   

   Maybe it was something in the air, but I just woke-up feeling happy there.  I'd stroll about five minutes from my friends house on Willow Street to the main drag of Commerical Street, and run into people I knew getting morning coffee at the Wired Puppy.  I was shocked at how many people I knew from New York who just happened to be here, either because they were performing, or vacationing.  Apparently, there are some tensions between the NYC gays and the Boston gays, but typical New Yorkers, they pretty much just ignore everyone else, basking in their New York-ness.

   
   

   Next, everyone would just show up at the beach (either biking or just walking), in part to pass out flyers "barking" for people to attend their various shows.  Since it happened to be Family Week, the beaches, were full of kids with gay and lesbian moms and dads.  I was in the minority with just a dog, but was able to borrow my friends kids and blend in.  I can't say the beach was beautiful compared to my homeland of Hawaii, but the water was refreshingly brisk, and I appreciated the alternative family vibe (which was just as sexless as a straight beach full of middle-aged parents).

   
   

   Around 3pm, we'd answer the call of our empty stomachs and wander back into town to get some lunch.  I swear, you never had to make plans with anyone, you'd just meet up effortlessly.  I loved it.  For three days, you could abandon your Crackberry.

   
   

   At night however, I had some decisions to make.  Several friends were performing at the same time in competing venues, and I only had three nights to fill.  Stay tuned for details of the hysterical drag revue, Showgirls; the whip smart comedy trio, Unitard;  and drag superstar and potty-mouth lyricists and singer, Jackie Beat.

2. Preppy Nantucket: Alienated by Lilly Pulitzer without irony

   07.Aug.08, 14:12 IST
   
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    Though I am most definitely a person of color, it is not at all unusual for me to be surrounded completely by white people.  Bohemians, artists, and writers, yes.  Non-Christians and even atheists, oh yes.  Queers, honestly, most of the time.  And surprisingly, a lot of my friends are relatively well off.  About half of my peers are Ivy League graduates, own property, or have six-figure jobs, and among those who are broke, it would be tough to find an instance where it isn't primarily by choice.

   
   

   I was thinking about this recently as I wandered around Nantucket island, a sweet little spot just 30 miles out to sea and less than an hour by plane from New York or Boston.  Pretty as a picture with gray-shingled cottages dotted along numerous sandy beaches and bike paths, this is the idyll that inspired Nantucket Nectars, Vanessa Noel stilettos, and Plum TV.  So why did I find the place so precious, so smug, so awful?

   
   

   Then it dawned on me.  It's not the whiteness or the wealth I find so alienating; it's the oppressive preppiness.

   
   

   As a fashion aesthetic, I dig a splash of preppy.  The occasional Lacoste vintage polo, yes.  And a pastel Lilly Pulitzer print blazer on a hip-hop mogul is fabulous!  But preppy straight up without irony is so blah.  Like on a white button-nosed blond mom with four equally WASP offspring and matching husband, preppy seems totally flavorless and status quo, like a beige monotone in a sea of white noise.

   
   

   Though Nantucket is packed to the rafters with Americans who can no longer afford to go to the Caribbean, the locals tell me it's in crisis.  Speaking to a taxi driver (they sure love to blab here), I was informed that there are 350 houses for sale on the island.  That's a lot.  Apparently, the crisis is a combination of two demographics.  One is wealthy people who bought vacation homes here who have decided it was a mistake, perhaps because it's too expensive to upkeep or they've found that coming back here isn't as easy as it seemed (though the air time to Nantucket is under an hour from New York or Boston, flights are often delayed or canceled due to fog).  The second demographic selling are locals who can no longer afford their mortgages, just like Americans in every part of the country.  But it's a rotten time to sell. which means it's a great time to buy if you're looking for investment properties.

   
   

   Because Nantucket could change for the better, now that Europeans are starting to visit.  Why not, it's practically free for them, right?  And the novelty of chocolate-covered cranberries and a pair of Nantucket Reds from Murray's Toggery Shop must amuse them to no end, just because they originated here, not Europe.  There are a few edgy shops like Current Vintage (refurbished Lilly Pulitzer and other chic vintage dresses plus fine wines) and Posh (fine handcrafted jewelry).  Topper's at the Wauwinet resort is Zagat's top-rated restaurant in all of Massachusetts.  And if you can't afford to stay at the fanciest digs on the island, the Wauwinet, you might opt for the boutique hotel meets country inn Veranda House, or if you have a dog in tow, my favorite, the Woof Cottages at the Boat Basin.

   
   

   Nantucket also has a surprising not-so-secret history that inspired the great novel Moby-Dick and the more revealing In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, which proves these people are survivors.  Turns out the locals on the island are the descendants of cannibals.  Apparently, all the men would go to sea on the whaling ships, leaving the women alone to run the island for two years at a time (perhaps this is why the females here tend to be sturdy and tough).  In 1821, the whale ship Essex was struck by a possibly vindictive sperm whale and the surviving crew were adrift and starving.  They resorted to cannibalism, eating crew members who died, but even that wasn't enough.  So they drew straws to decide who would be killed for food and who would have to kill him.  The poor lad to be sacrificed was Owen Coffin, the captain's young cousin that he'd been sworn to protect.  Not long afterwards, they were rescued and had to return home and face their families.  Seven men total were eaten during the 95-day ordeal.

   
   

   For more general information about visiting Nantucket, see the official Nantucket Chamber of Commerce website: www.nantucketchamber.org.

3. La Dolce Hamptons: Champagne, chefs & cougar Kim Cattrall

   31.Jul.08, 12:51 IST
   
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   As my pal Village Voice star columnist Michael Musto and I have often noted, accepting a press trip invite is always a spin of the roulette wheel.  Going overnight is more of a commitment, but even a day trip is iffy, given that once you get out to wherever it is you agreed to go, you're stuck.  Stuck with the other journalists (who may or may not be nightmarish), and unable to just hop into a taxi and whisk yourself home because you are bored, feel sick, or would just rather be watching reruns of Project Runway on Bravo.

   
   

   Case in point: This past Saturday, I accepted Michael's offer to go as his guest to one of my least favorite places, the Hamptons.  Why?  Well, going anywhere with Musto is fun.  He attracts a certain circus of self-promoters who attack him like ravenous wolves whenever he is at a public event, in hopes of getting a mention in his heady cocktail of the absurd meets the famous: the nearly two-decades-old column (now also a blog) La Dolce Musto.   Plus, when you are friends with Musto, this is what you do to have some quality time.

   
   

   I should also mention that due to the omnipresent economic recession, since May, my passport has been sitting idle and I haven't once left the U.S.  The upside of this is I've been able to spend a lot of time with friends and have an almost normal New Yorker summer.  However, that is all about to change, as I'm scheduled to leave for New Zealand (where it is winter) on August 9, and I won't be back until September 21.  So in anticipation of that, I am trying to have as much quality time with my peeps as possible.

   
   

   Musto and I boarded the Mercedes Benz coach, the Hampton Luxury Liner, on 40th and Lexington Avenue, and were promptly plied with free bottled water, trashy magazines like US Weekly and Vanity Fair, and a sappy movie, Definitely Maybe, that helped pass the three-hour drive to Bridgehampton.  Our destination was the Wolffer Estate Vineyard, which is trying to exceed the expectations of Long Island winemaking with a series of 20th anniversary wines.  

   
   

   In the heat of mid-day, we walked out to a little picturesque gazebo in the vineyard, which was set up for a tasting with winemaker Roman Roth.  We dove like starved banshees into the delightful cheese plate sprinkled with my favorite Rainier cherries. And then they brought out some of the owners' Arabian horses for us to enjoy: These tall, willowy creatures were like supermodels of the equestrian world. 

   
   

   The owner also names his wines after his horses: for example, the stellar Noblesse Oblige Rose Sparkling Wine, Extra Brut 2003.  With only four grams of sugar, it's a very elegant orange-rose-colored sparkling wine, that prepared our palettes beautifully for the real star, the Amarone-style Claletto Cabernet Sauvignon 2005.  This full-bodied red was the result of a freak storm that set into motion a dehydration of the slightly bruised grapes, and the result is some of the best wines the vineyard has ever produced.  As usual, I quite enjoyed the dessert wine, the Descencia Botrytis Chardonnay 2006, a golden elixir with notes of honey, pineapple, sundried peaches, and orange that's somehow not at all cloying.

   
   

   Musto, who doesn't drink at all, enjoyed smelling the wines, and we both chuckled at the foodies and wine geeks who raved in that rarefied language they speak.  We were anxious to get over to the giant white tents set up on the Wolffer Estate Lawn, the site of the main event of the day, the James Beard Foundation event, Chefs & Champagne.

   
   

   If you had to pick one event to attend in the Hamptons to really get a sense of who is here and what the essence of the place is, with the exception of the Mercedes Benz Bridgehampton Polo Challenge, this is it.  This year's event featured a lot of Long Island produce and 35 mostly local chefs, including Kerry Heffernan of South Gate, Kerry Simon of Simon at Palms Palace, Anne Burrell of Centro Vinoteca and Gusto, and even Harold Dieterle of Perilla (and former winner of Bravo's Top Chef), preparing dishes to complement champagnes and wines from Woffler, Nicolas Feuillatte, Lanson, and Henriot.

   
   

   We arrived for the private reception an hour before the public was let in, and walked from table to table, chatting with the chefs and sampling each dish (well, in my case, each meat-free dish). It was like a dream buffet.  My favorites were unexpected:  Gerry Hayden of North Fork Table & Inn's green grape gazpacho with Catapano Dairy goat milk yogurt and spicy marcona almond, and Michael Luboff of Mohegan Sun's cedar-roasted striped bass with succotash.

   
   

   The crowd was also exactly what I expect from the Hamptons:  people who get too much sun, perhaps because they have too much money and endless summers.  They dress in loud pastels, like Lilly Pulitzer meets Pucci, or pretentiously in all white, and are older (it takes some years to accumulate that money!), with a smattering of youthful beauties who have somehow managed to crash this scene.

   
   

   There were too many good outfits to detail here, but my favorite spotting was Kim Cattrall with her man of the moment, a younger version of Jason Lewis, who it turns out is a personal chef working out in the Hamptons this summer and is all of 28.  He's helping her expand her knowledge of food, and she looks amazing at 50 and is a role model to all present and future cougars throughout the world.

   
   

   As superstar chef Wolfgang Puck was presented with his award for starting the whole concept of benefit dinners like this in 1987, we left skipping away with a James Beard gift tote/shopping bag filled with mysterious foodie-type goodies I will happily hand over to my roommate, Lisa, a chef and graduate of the French Culinary Institute.  If I'm lucky, maybe she'll make me a home-cooked meal before I'm back on the road, living the nomad life.

4. Do the Cliff Walk: Keeping up with The Vanderbilts and The Astors in Newport

   24.Jul.08, 18:13 IST
   
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   No where is the concept of  "Keeping up with the Jonses"  better illustrated than when strolling along Cliff Walk in Newport , Rhode Island.  It was along this three and a half mile strip bordering America's first resort town that the Astors and Vanderbilts battled it out starting in the Gilded Age (1878-1889) for who among them could erect the grandest summer "cottage".  

   
   

   Really, these cottages were huge, ostentatious mansions, built in a mish-mash of European styles that again reinforce the idea that people with money don't necessarily have any intuition for good taste.  

   
   

   I've long argued that the concept of "good taste" is overrated anyway, and I rather enjoy the foibles of people's personal vision of luxury.  Thanks to heiress and style icon, Doris Duke, who founded the Newport Restoration Foundation in 1968 that has restored upwards of 80 historic homes in the area, you can oogle them too.  The public can promenade past and even take tours of the more eccentric mansions on Cliff Walk, though one half of the properties here are still actually rich people's private homes.

   
   

   Before I detail the gilt and opulence of a few of the estates I saw, let me just give former Newport resident Claus von Bulow a Cliff Walk shout-out here.  As you may know (if you saw the Glenn Close and Jeremy Iron's movie, Reversal of Fortune), Claus von Bulow was tried, convicted, appealed and overturned the verdict of the attempted murder of his ex-wife, Sunny von Bulow, in the mid 1980's.  He now lives in London, is remarried and writes art and theater reviews, and Sonny is still comatose in a facility somewhere in the US.  But it turns out that as Chariman of the Cliffwalk Committee, Claus von Bulow was critical in overseeing the Army Corps of Engineers make critical reinforcements at Cliff Walk from 1970-1976.  I'm not saying that makes him a saint, but it adds some dimension to his public profile.

   
   

   Camel-shaped topiary greeted me on the lawn of Rough Point, Doris Duke's Newport Mansion (formerly the home of Frederick. W. Vanderbilt).  Tours are offered five days a week roughly from 10am to 4pm, and limited to 200 people per day.  Though much of the appeal is to see the house just as Ms. Duke lived in it (if you saw the recent HBO movie Bernard & Doris, you know she only passed away in 1993), Rough Point now operates as a museum, emphasizing different art collections and themes in Duke's life. The current exhibition,  "Zoo in the House:  Animals in the Doris Duke Collection", showcases an earthernware camel created during the Tang Dynasty; a bronze lion sculpted by Barye in the French Romantic period; and several Audubon prints.   There are an endless array of impressive antiques and paintings by Renoir, Reynolds and van Dyck (mostly collected by her father), but my favorite space in the house was Duke's private boudoir, where she has an entire Mother of Pearl vanity and bedroom set unlike anything I've ever seen.  Its like furniture covered with organic disco mirrors!  Still, Rough Point doesn't hold a candle to Duke's Hawaii home, Shangri-La, that is now also open to the public as an Islamic Museum of Art (yes, in the middle of the Pacific, go figure).  i must say, the more I know about Ms. Duke, the more I adore her.

   
   

   The other mansions of note on Cliff Walk are:  the Italian Renaissance style mansion, The Breakers, built in 1895 for Cornelius Vanderbilt II;  the Astor's Beechwood, built in 1851 for Mrs. William Backhouse Astor, who made it the center of American society for the eight weeks she was in summer residence; and also, Marble House, built by William K. Vanderbilt and modeled after the Petit Trianon at Versaiiles.  It contains 500,000 cubic feet of marble and cost 11 million dollars to build in 1892 (!).

   
   

   Stay tuned for more of my adventures in Newport.  For general information about visiting Newport, see the official website: GoNewport.com.

5. In The Saddle: My Horse Kodiak Helps Me Cowgirl Up

   10.Jul.08, 20:20 IST
   
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   There were a lot of firsts for me as I prepared for my trip to the Paws up Resort in Montana, the most interesting was a document I had emailed to me called "You and Your Horse".  This three-page brief detailed how the wranglers would match us to our assigned horses based on our "riding experience, physical size, and attitude".  We were instructed to let our new horse smell us first, and to give friendly, reassuring pats on the shoulder and neck.  

   
   

   The document also said to avoid ponchos (horses are afraid of these fringy fashion faux pas).  Interesting.  And my heart sank after I read this line:  "All clothing should be in dull colors with no neon or bright colors that can easily spook horses."

   
   

   Horses had always spooked me.  Closer to elephants in size, I had no dewy-eyed romance about their towering frames, bony appendages, hard-shelled feet, and reputation for being bad-tempered.  Volumes of literature have been devoted to little girls and their desire for ponies, and young women, on the verge of ripeness, who have special feelings for their horses.  But being a city kid, I was never in a position to have or ride horses, and thus, I've never known or loved one.

   
   

   In my last blog, I detailed the treachery of the 10 hours I spent on horseback, but what I didn't mention was how much I liked and learned from my horse, Kodiak, for the three days and two nights of that adventure.

   
   

   Dark brown (almost black), Kodiak was a hearty-looking draft horse (strong, shorter legs, thicker around the middle), obviously quite well-fed, with kind, curious eyes.  The first thing about him I related to was that, much like my 5-pound Chihuahua, his entire existence seemed to be motivated by the pursuit of a unexpected snack.  He was docile and took direction well except when a nice patch of grass or a river stream caught his eye.  Then he would go his own way, animal instincts and nostrils flaring.

   
   

   I learned from the wranglers that horses live 25 to 30 years (Kodiak is all of six).  If just standing around in a pasture, they need 20 gallons of water and 20 pounds of hay just for maintenance.  If they are active, they need 35 pounds of hay, thus the expense of keeping one.  Apparently, the grass they love to graze on provides little by way of nutrients, so one must buy them quality hay.

   
   

   But I think I learned the most from just watching the backside of the horse in front of me during the long trek up to and down from Encampment at Bull Creek.  First of all, being around horses means being assaulted by the constant smell of horse poop.  The horse in front of me would shake a bit when he was about to let go, then he would lift his tail gracefully, and bombs away, barely breaking stride.  Other times, he would just lift tail and let out an blast of gas.

   
   

   Kodiak was extra gassy, which I was told was my fault for giving him my green apple cores.  But especially when we were snaking along narrow mountain trails with steep drop-offs down a couple hundred feet to the river, I wanted him to have a reason to keep me alive.  Luckily, Kodiak had no suicidal tendencies: in fact, I sometimes saw him looking down the sheer drop with the same panic I felt.

   
   

   Kodiak wasn't the smartest horse.  That award might have to go to Tigger, who the wranglers called the ugliest horse they had ever seen.  He was a muddy brown color with a kind of random Jackson Pollack-effect splatter of grey, but he could scratch his butt with no hands, by rubbing up against a tree.  He also liked to cool off by letting his big business hang out for all of us to admire, unfortunately, it was an unappetizing sight during our lunch break.

   
   

   As far as riding Kodiak, I learned the first day, to sit up straight: to bounce along with him and not clench his sides so much with my knees.  Also, I figured out that it would have been less painful if I'd had a protective layer between my denim jumpsuit and my skin.  And long socks that went over the knee to provide an extra layer there, would have been smart too.  And it's important to work with the horse by sitting in the middle back groove, leaning forward when you go downhill, and leaning back when you go uphill.

   
   

   The horse wranglers taught me a things too, like how to perfectly toast a marshmallow in a campfire (get it smokin' but never let it catch on fire) to make "the last, best s'more": graham crackers, toasted marshmallow, peanut butter and a squirt of Hersey's chocolate sauce.  Yum.  And they also tried to teach us to play horseshoes.  It's a simple enough set-up: you stand behind a line and pitch the horseshoe.  It's 3 points around the stake, 2 points leaning against the stake and 1 point if the shoe is within a horseshoe distance from the stake.  And they spoke about lonely nights without female company, near escapes from grizzly bears and their favorite huckleberry milkshakes.  They also spoke fondly of the old days in Montana when there was no speed limit and you could drink a beer and have a loaded gun in the car.  They also told me any person could officiate a marriage in Montana, as long as they were deemed suitable by the couple.  It was like a non-gay version of Brokeback Mountain. Even if they did have to reluctantly help pick ticks off each other.

   
   

   But back to Kodiak.  I came to see him and his kind as large dogs, with varying personality traits.  When treated well, they could be absolutely lovable, but cost and arm and leg to keep, especially if you had no practical use for them.  I certainly  appreciated the fact that I didn't have to walk the 26 miles up and back from the camp, even though at times, I thought I might have preferred it.  And the wranglers told me it was mules who were ornery by nature, not horses. 

   
   

   When I said goodbye to Kodiak at the end of the trip, it was a bit rougher than expected.  I was pleased he lived here at Paws Up, I told myself.  I certainly couldn't keep him in my apartment in New York City, and I thanked him with the gift of one last, gastronomically distressing treat -- a whole Granny Smith.

6. Five-Star Glamping: Into The Wild of Montana

   08.Jul.08, 20:23 IST
   
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   About five years ago, I randomly purchased a book called How to Stay Alive in the Woods by Bradford Angier.  Given that I found it in a fancy home decor store, I think the green rubber-bound volume with safety orange print was meant to be ironic, aimed at a dedicated urban dweller, like me, whose absence of knowledge about the natural world is profound.  

   
   

   As a New Yorker, I can perfectly navigate the maze of Manhattan streets and bus routes, sizing up potential predators (hostile crackheads, speeding taxis, pitbulls) and prey (cafes with excellent lattes, sample sales, clean-ish public restrooms).  But if Internet/cellphone/GPS civilization as I know it suddenly crumbled, it's doubtful I'd be able to last very long "living off the land".

   
   

   Knowing this, however, has never been enough to prompt me to change (the aforementioned book remains unread).  And though I'm not a mandatory high-heels and make-up wearing kind of gal, I would definitely put camping high on the list of "Not My Idea of Fun".  Perhaps then, it was an over-abundance of city hotels and beach resorts that recently tempted me into the wilderness of Montana by the promise of five-star camping or "glamping".

   
   

   Paws Up, "the last best place," was as pretty as its website pictures: lots of tall, spindly trees, rolling green plains, and the expected big sky (it really does seem bigger in Montana).  Owned by a family who made some of their fortune via Fredericks of Hollywood and SuperCuts, it was a tad tedious to get to: a two-hour flight from New York to Chicago, followed by a three-hour flight to Missoula, one of the state's progressive hubs (as evidenced by the popularity of "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers).  From there, it was about a 30-minute drive to the resort's 60 square miles of adventure, where one could stay in River Camp or Tent City (a dozen 270-square-foot tents with real beds, electricity, and butlers); get rubbed down in Spa Town (10 treatment tents); or drive ATVs (this is apparently what the Rolling Stones did when they stayed here), fly-fish, repel, go tubing and white-water rafting (in summer), or go dog-sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, and ice skating (in winter).  The site of the resort is a working ranch that was once owned by the son of Charles Lindbergh.

   
   

   Montana itself is sort of intriguing as well.  Though rich people from California love to buy second homes here, the state is fourth largest in size, but ranks 47th in terms of density of people per square mile (the total population is not even a million).  Why is a place this lovely so unappealing?  Well, the winters are very long, rumored to last from October to June.  Also, the state isn't very developed -- which is why it's so pristine, preserved in time as it must have looked when Lewis & Clark traversed it -- but there aren't a lot of job opportunities.  This explains why there is no sales tax in Montana.

   
   

   But back to "glamping". Well, apparently, I didn't read the fine print on my invitation.  My first night at Paws Up River Camp was fine, except for the fact that I had to share my tent and my one place of solace, my bathroom (which was chic with modern plumbing and heated floors), with someone else: namely the publicist for the resort.  At night, you fall asleep to the soothing sound of the Blackfoot River (this is the river that inspired the famous Montana novel, A River Runs Through It).  Also, with a price tag of $675/night, though everyone who worked at the resort was friendly and attentive, I was shocked that the food (included in the meal plan) was lackluster, and nothing ran smoothly (we waited until 4 p.m. to check into our tents).  Still, had I stayed there, I probably would have enjoyed myself.

   
   

   But instead, the second day we had to pack up and head out on a Paws Up excursion to Encampment at Bull Creek, an adventure that started with a five-hour trek on horseback.  It would have been one thing if we were a bunch of journalists from Outside or National Geographic Adventure, but as it were, there were four of us who had never spent more than an hour on a horse our entire lives.  The dead giveaway were the fashions we donned for the day:  one had a pair of black boots with 4-inch heels; another wore a pair of $500 Cole Haan soft calfskin boots in whiskey brown; and, not being a big fan of jeans (the suggested attire), I decided on a vintage '70s denim jumpsuit.

   
   

   I am going to devote my entire next blog to my horse, Kodiak, but suffice it to say that after just the first two hours, snaking up the mountain on a rubble trail with steep cliff drop-offs, I was rubbed raw in a place on my body I didn't even know could hurt (inner upper thigh near your anus).

   
   

   When we finally made it to camp after nearly a whole day of dead silence (all of the participants, including our cowboy guides, were either too exhausted or mortified to speak), we arrived at the camp site.  To be fair, with real camping, we would have had to set up our own tents and cook our own food, and we wouldn't have been sleeping on such comfy cots.  That was taken care of for us by a really lovely woman who stayed up at the camp site for the whole summer season (bless her).  But given that people pay $1,200 for this 48-hour experience, I was expecting something better than the second grader school lunches (Doritos, white bread with ham and cheese, and Oreo cookies anyone?); the stinking long-drop outhouse (two of my colleagues later confessed to me that they didn't poop for the whole two days we were there); and having to pick ticks off myself.

   
   

   I would compare the endless trek up on horseback to Encampment (or Internment, as I would come to refer to it) to an 18-hour flight to Johannesburg in coach.   But even exhausted, I didn't sleep peacefully because nature continued to test me.  I awoke twice with a cricket on my face.  Also, I had to pee badly, but rather than gather my Bear Bell (yes, a bell to prevent sneaking up on bears, but which I thought might rather alert mountain lions to come attack me) and head up to the horror-show outhouse, I decided to pee into a cup and pour it out a few feet away from my tent for the deer (we were told the deer were stalking us for our pee: They needed the salt).

   
   

   The next day might have been okay if we had been able to rest, but instead we were rallied for a three-mile hike to a glacier lake the locals call Dead Horse (nice).  Three miles didn't sound too bad: I mean, I go to the gym and do that on a treadmill several times a week.  But I didn't realize the climb would be 2,000 feet straight up to an elevation of 7,300 feet.  I was huffing and puffing, my head was pounding with the onset of altitude sickness, and I was so miserable, I thought I might actually expire.  Again, no one said anything.  We walked in silence, at some points through the snow, at some points sweating like marathon runners, feeling like we couldn't complain to our cowboy hosts who already thought we were a bunch of soft city fillies.

   
   

   The weird thing is that once we got to the glacier lake, it was a non-event.  Sure, it was pretty, but there weren't even blankets to sit on, just the dirt and patches of grass, as we dug into day two of all-American crap foods.  We had each paid $25 for a fishing license, so our guides talked us through hooking a few tiny trout (all of them released back into the river).  At one point, I was lying down and trying to relax when the guide hooked me right in the armpit.  When he came to take the hook back, he ripped it out of my shirt, only afterwards asking, "Oh, was it in your skin too?"

   
   

   I know for a fact that I was the biggest complainer on the trip.  I was sick of me too.  It just wasn't what I thought I had signed up for and my mind boggled.  How did I end up here?  Yes, Montana is quite beautiful, but the idea of paying $600 a day to be tortured and made miserable seemed ludicrous.  I think I could have managed to do it some other way in some other locale Rachael Ray-style for $40 a day.

   
   

   I'm still picking ticks off myself back in NYC, but I will say this: After the five-hour ride back to Paws Up (the horses were anxious to get home so they started trotting -- double ouch!), my first hour in a modern bathroom with a flush toilet and a hot shower was simply DIVINE.

7. Land Rover, Come Over: Getting muddy temps me out to the dreaded Hamptons

   03.Jul.08, 15:55 IST
   
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   Gosh, I just never got the appeal of the Hamptons.  Its like all the social status obsessed people I dislike, who clamor to get into Manhattan restaurants, bars, parties and clubs, and make it impossible for me to enjoy myself, concentrated on one thin strip of oceanfront.  And since there are only two or three hot spots in the Hamptons, like Dune, the Pink Elephant and The Country Club at Conscience Point (site of the infamous Lizzie Grubman backing her SUV into 30 people incident, that occurred on July 6th in 2001 and brought so much attention to the souless-ness of this summer playground for the rich and famous and their wannabes), they get to over-charge in a way that makes the Meat Packing District scene seem like a budget-friendly destination.

   
   

   Plus, if you've ever been stuck in the two-lane highway traffic that can take up to one hour just to crawl a long from East Hampton to Sag Harbor, you really have to question whether it is worth it to go out there, even if you've gotten an invite to a fabulous private estate.

   
   

   These were my thoughts as I pondered an invite from Land Rover to come test drive their cars on a mud and ruts track at a major spread in East Hampton.  They were also offering free seminars with "experts"  including: one of Architectural Digest's top interior designers, Roderick Shade; chefs Tom Schaudel and Michael Ross from Jedediah Hawkins Inn (on Long Island in the North Fork); and adventurer and conservationist, Nicholas Bougas.

   
   

   The drive out there on a Thursday, mid-day was a breeze (even though I had a crap rental car and the GPS was broken).  And the estate was very elegant -- a tasteful white house, Martha Stewart perfection, with a pool and manicured lawn.  But driving the Land Rover was really fun.  I'm not sure, but I think these gas guzzlers are maybe one step above a Hummer in terms of miles per gallon.  The first ridiculously luxurious thing:  my seat had a temperature control.  Soon I felt a chill spreading under my rump and worried that I might have wet myself (but I liked it).  It helped keep me alert too as I drove almost sideways through crazy man-made valleys, and up one very steep incline.  My driving instructor (yes, a Land Rover expert who was in the car the whole time, thank stars) made me stop at the top of the hill, and it was just like that moment on a roller coaster when you climb and climb up before the big drop, and there's that pregnant pause as you are about to go over the falls.  After putting the car in first gear on the Mud and Ruts setting on the toggle wheel near the gearshift,  he said, "I know this is going to be hard for you, but I want you to take your feet completely off the pedals as you go down this incline.  Just let the car take care of it."

   
   

   I digested that info intellectually, then I just did it.  Gave it enough gas to get over the hump and start rolling and lifted my feet.  The car shifted into auto-drive and controlled its speed all the way down.  Cool.  It did weird, subtle adjustments the whole time we were on rocky terrain and its an amazing machine, but I wondered as I sped up and splashed some major mud on the perfectly polished grill, what percentage of Land Rover owners actually go off-roading?  I mean, I always associate them with the Real Housewives of Orange Country and rich MLFs.

   
   

   Next up, the experts.  I learned to prepare Duck L'Orange with chef Tom Schaudel from Jedediah Hawkins Inn, which is really not so hard if you have an assistant who shops for you and chops everything up like he had it for the demo.  I don't eat duck, but I'm happy to know I can prepare it "Hamptons Style" for my next French paramour.  Also, I was impressed that nothing was wasted.  The duck fat was saved to make duck fat croutons (like pork rinds), and the orange peel was thinly sliced, soaked in simple syrup and baked to make orange peel candy: both used as garnish.

   
   

   Decorator Roderick Shade was fabulous too, saying there was really no wrong, its all about what you like.  And really, we all do know what we like: colors, style of furniture, etc.  Just look at the stuff you already own and want to keep and incorporate into a new space.  Now, if only I had a six room beach mansion and budget to hire a interior designer! 

   
   

   And then I was utterly charmed by Nicholas Bougas, a British ex-pat who now lives in Belize and runs an eco resort called Gracie Rock Reserve.  He's been working for years now to conserve this area of jungle lands and protect the species that live there, and apparently he's succeeded in having all but one central plot declared conservation land.  That one plot, unfortunately, is owned by Taiwanese businessmen who want 4.5 million dollars for it.  So, he's trying to raise that money by offering tours to foreign visitors and getting them invested in the solution and the beauty of the wild.  Great guy.  I assured him 4.5 million wasn't really that much:  the right celebrity could raise it in a night, but that is a fortune in Belize.  Bougas will also be leading a new Abercrombie & Kent jungle safari in Belize.  This is like the Rolls Royce of adventure companies, so if you can afford it, this is the way to go!

   
   

   Bougas had a great Land Rover story too: he once lead a group of visiting journalists on a jungle safari during an unexpected flood, and the Land Rovers literally drove through rivers.  I believe it.  I was in a customized Land Rover while stalking animals in the bush in South Africa a couple years back, and not only was it totally silent, but I sweat that car could drive over anything, even the tops of trees.

   
   

   I still left disliking the hell out of the stuffy Hamptons, but I enjoyed my day of mini adventures in spending money I don't have quite a lot.

8. Gay Summer Camp: The Pines, Fire Island

   01.Jul.08, 15:57 IST
   
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   "Traitor," a gay acquaintance hissed at me as I entered the Fresh Market, the gourmet grocery store that opened in The Pines, Fire Island, last summer.  As a dedicated fag hag, I've been going out to the Pines since the mid-'90s, but times are a changin' in more ways than one.

   
   

   A dozen years ago, I would stay with my struggling 20-something gay male buddies in a group house -- seven bedrooms split 14 ways.  This allowed a revolving cast of 28 people total, each with a half share, to come every other weekend.  I think people paid about $2,000 a summer for this arrangement. If you do the math on that, that's $48K total for the whole house, and yes, landlords get away with it because The Pines community on Fire Island isn't just another beach town: It's like the gay utopian summer camp most of these men never had.  The costume parties and the canapes and the cattiness do sometimes get out of hand (every house seemed to have at least one major scandal and one major relationship drama), but it's like a big homosexual fraternity party.

   
   

   Don't get me wrong: The Pines also has many natural charms -- big sandy beaches, wild deer, and battering surf.  And I love the process of getting out there: taking the LIRR train from Penn Station in New York to Sayville Station on Long Island, then getting a $5 shuttle bus to The Pines Ferry, then sitting on the roof and sunning during the $7.50, 30-minute jaunt across to Fire Island.  Once you arrive, its a picturesque land of wooden walkways with no cars.  Everyone walks and transports their stuff in old-fashioned red wagons.  It's always 95 percent gay men, some young and beautiful, most older and wealthy, with just a handful of heteros who got smart and like it better than The Hamptons, and fag hags like me.

   
   

   BTW, though "fag hag" has a negative connotation to many, it does not to me (though I once tried to spearhead a movement to call women who are best friends with gay men "fruit flies" instead).  It's just a fact that gay men, from Andy Warhol to my Uncle Flloyd (who had a glass eye and a penchant for green velvet jumpsuits), influenced me in my formative years.  I have a similar aesthetic and sense of humor to many gay men, and find their company comfortable and yet stimulating.  That's just how it is.

   
   

   I digress, but flash forward to the present, summer 2008, and yes, I'm still hanging out with fags and summering in The Pines.  Now my gay best friend has a private house with four bedrooms (one of them is mine all the time, whether I'm there or not) right on the sand with a pool facing the ocean.  It's occupied by three dogs and their doggy "manny," Raoul.  And according to my best gay friend's boyfriend, who defected for many years to the Hamptons, a house in The Pines is still a steal at $60K for the summer compared to $200K in Amagansett.

   
   

   And we're different, too, in our thirties. Instead of heading out to High Tea at 5 p.m. each day, we are on the island to mix and mingle. We cook, read, play games, watch DVDs, banter, and flip through The New Yorker, New York, and Newsweek by the pool. We rarely leave the house, except to maybe get a Starbucks in the harbor. Yes, this is progress and related to my original point -- there's some new retail blood in The Pines.

   
   

   Literally for a dozen years, it was just The Pantry grocery store, the bar where Tea happens, the Sip and Twirl bar (frequented by older gay men), a few clothing boutiques, and a pizza joint.  But now one wealthy gay man (rumored to be a bit of a megalomaniac, but what guy worth dozens of millions isn't?) has bought the floating "Boatel" and the adjacent retail strip and is shaking things up.

   
   

   The Starbucks is inside a little cafe with the slowest service on the planet.  But the Fresh Market is the biggest change. At first it was rumored to be a full Citarella, but they just get produce from there.  But it's almost as good, with campy sandwiches with names like the Brad Pitt, the Johnny Depp, and the Leonardo DiCaprio, and a lettuce wrap called the Mary Kate Olsen (hysterical).  And there's all that gourmet foodstuff that I like eating as long as someone else knows how to put it together and serve it up.  As for the prices, they are no worse than The Pantry, which serves up petrified Boar's Head deli-meat sandwiches.  And over the years, I never felt like the people who worked at The Pantry really liked gay people or even went out of their way to stock the food that people wanted. 

   
   

   So, in short, go ahead, call me a traitor.  But I think having some competition and some motivation to be better only helps make The Pines, my fag hag paradise, even more sublime.

9. Niagara Falls: Monsters, fireworks and wine country too!

   26.Jun.08, 15:51 IST
   
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   When I discovered that one of the wonders of the world, Niagara Falls, was a mere two hours drive from Toronto, I felt compelled to go.  I was perversely curious.  A friend who grew up there had once told me that the U.S. side of Niagara Falls had fallen into disrepair and was economically depressed.  But, she said, cross over to the Canadian side (an easy 10-minute drive on the Rainbow Bridge if there's no traffic; just bring your passport), and it was another world -- a booming resort town with some of the kitschy charm that inspired our grandparents' generation to make Niagara Falls one of their top honeymoon destinations.

   
   

   Like most things in Toronto, renting a car from Avis in Union Station was a breeze, and driving in the city and on the highways was amazingly stress-free.  The drive to Niagara Falls was pretty bland: sprawling suburbs and malls and then, lots of green.  But I was shocked when we finally emerged upon the manicured park that borders the falls. Niagara Falls themselves were stunning: Just like in photos, a massive, powerful, drop shrouding the river below in mist.  Definitely a turn-on, though the place is overrun with families and there's a well-maintained but tacky strip of hotels, casinos, wax museums, arcades, and restaurants along Clifton Hill that is hauntingly like the old Las Vegas.

   
   

   The funny thing about the Canadian side of Niagara Falls is that it feels just like being in the U.S.  The absence of advertising and colorful stimuli sending out subliminal and not at all subtle messages to BUY! EAT! CONSUME! that I noted in Toronto was gone: We were back to the hard-sell, amusement-park glee.

   
   

   Of course, there were things I chuckled over, like the Criminals Hall of Fame Wax Museum with John Wayne Gacy in a full clown outfit standing in the entryway, and the Nightmares Fear Factory Haunted House.  And of course, one has to go on the classic Maid of the Mist ferry, where you venture almost into the falls wearing a rain poncho. Or you can opt for the Journey Behind the Falls experience, a series of elevators and platforms that take you down 150 feet, close to the base of the falls.  Either way, make sure it's a warm day, because you will get soaking wet.

   
   

   As for places to eat in Niagara Falls, I loved the look of the Burger King with a giant Frankenstein on top holding a Whopper. But if you want quality, I would say opt for the Watermark restaurant in the Fallsview Hilton Hotel (which, yes, has a killer view of the falls and the fireworks over the falls at 10 p.m., as well as a direct connection to the Casino Niagara).

   
   

   If you're looking for the best hotel in Niagara Falls, I would go with the newer Marriott Fallsview Hotel, which has rooms with views of the falls as well as the Serenity Spa By the Falls offering a signature "Cascade" massage/hydro-therapy bath treatment.  But be warned that the honeymoon vibe that once dominated Niagara is gone: This is a place for people with children and grandchildren.  In fact, I was shocked to see a very large family of religious people in Little House on the Prairie-type dresses enjoying the Clifton Hills strip.  I guess God approves of throwing hard-earned money away on arcade games and candy.

   
   

   If you want romance, I do have some good news.  Just 30 minutes away from Niagara Falls (and 90 minutes away from Toronto) is the wine country of Ontario, Niagara-on-the-Lake.  I was skeptical, but sure enough, after a few twists and turns along winding roads, we found our way to the Peller Estates vineyard, nestled among the 140 or so other vineyards in the area.  They have a very good restaurant, open for lunch and dinner daily, where the chef incorporates their best-selling ice wines into the cuisine, and also does a lovely pairing menu (so it's like a wine tasting with food!).  The estate also offers a Extreme Wine Weekend Boot Camp, to take your knowledge of wines from 101 to 201 through a series of barrel tastings, blind tastings, wine training, and vineyard meals. 

   
   

   But you can't stay at the Peller Estates.  You'll have to book lodging for yourself in the cute-as-pie little town, where there are a number of options, including the charming Oban Inn & OSpa, where I happily decompressed.

   
   

10. Distillery District Toronto: A hopelessly hip community with soul

    19.Jun.08, 18:43 IST
    
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    Usually, when someone starts talking about a planned community, I see images from The Stepford Wives in my head and am instantly creeped out.  But leave it to Canada to take a sketchy concept and turn it on its head.

    
    

    Welcome to the Distillery District of Toronto, a historic site of the best preserved Victorian industrial architecture in North America, that yes, was actually an ale distillery (the drink of choice back in the 1800's when people feared water-born diseases).  But since clever developers got their hands on the property in the post 9/11 real estate confusion (remember, no one knew what was coming so people bought and sold for under market value?), it has now been turned into a pedestrian only "village" of hopelessly hip condos, shops, restaurants, bars, cafes, art galleries and offices, as well as the elements that actually save it from souless-ness: schools, performance spaces and artist studios.

    
    

    A third of the available space here is saved for educational institutions and artist studios in the hope that this planned community will actually sprout something organic -- a Toronto-based arts scene, that developers hope will make the hood the premiere arts, culture and entertainment center of Canada.

    
    

    Leave it to earnest Canadians to turn a money-making venture like this into something that seems almost like a good deed, I mused as I toured the site (you can opt for a group tour via Segway, we chose to walk).  

    
    

    My first moment of seduction was an iced latte from Cafe Uno, possibly the most satisfying one ever.  It was there I first noticed the ridiculously good-looking artist Carlito Dalceggio, though I had no idea it was him until after I was delighted by his colorful Mexican-inspired work inside the Thompson Landry Gallery, and happened to see his photo.  My colleagues were equally impressed, so we had to call him in to pose with his work.  The best thing about him: he could have cared less and did nothing at all to try to charm us in his morning ruffled and scruffiness.

    
    

    Next we made a few stops among the retail outlets selling one of a kind pieces by artists from the studios including silk scarves, raku pottery and vegan handbags, all of which were high-quality and tempting, but the ultimate stop was at SOMA, a place to eat, drink and WORSHIP chocolate. Using an artisan approach, they make small batches of single origin chocolate from the bean and create unusual handmade truffles. A shot of their famous Mayan Hot Chocolate will fuel you up for the whole day and inspire amorous thoughts (yes, chile plus chocolate is a powerful aphrodisiac), so beware if you have no outlet for your affections.

    
    

    Randomly, a full Brazilian ensemble from Bahia was drumming and singing wildly in the courtyard as we settled in for lunch at Pure Spirits Oyster House & Grill, set inside a 130 year old barrel shipping room.  A marvelous blackberry mojito was followed by an enormous  plate of the best fish and chips ever.

    
    

    I was reluctant to leave this little utopia until the developer mentioned they were hoping the area would eventually have the feel of Chelsea in New York.  Wait a gosh darn moment: that's home for me!  Where I actually live! Oh, right,  the real thing.

11. Woofstock: Welcome to the Canine Summer of Love

    17.Jun.08, 16:53 IST
    
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    "Don't go down to that neighborhood if you don't like dogs.", a friendly Toronto native said, after I asked for directions to the St Lawrence Market.  "They are having a dog festival around there this weekend."

    
    

    Little did she know, I had a pocket-sized dog of my own: my Chihuahua, Carlos, lounging inside his stealth but stylish demin bag.  We were heading there by design to roll around in the proverbial mud at Woofstock, the largest dog festival in North America.  Organizers could not have known that June 7th & 8th would fall during the surprise heatwave that hit the northeast, but they were prepared: the first thing we saw as we approached was a doggy swimming pool.  Owners were lining up their furry charges to take advantage of the diving board.  Splashes were heard followed by swimming and vigorous shaking once the dogs who took the plunge reached the far deck.

    
    

    Other Woofstock activities included: Extreme Doggy Makeovers, Doggy Fashion Shows and Costume Parties, Stupid Pet Tricks competitions, "Because Dogs Can't Talk" behavior sessions, a fundraiser for Doggy Cancer, and the slightly suspect, Mr & Mrs Canine Canada contest.  But mostly, the event was a street fair consisting of dozens of booths along closed to traffic Front Street, hawking everything from organic Paws-itively Raw Foods, to fashions from Dolce Dog, to Dyson vacuum cleaners (hey, when you have a furry pet, you need a good one).

    
    

    Carlos had a blast watching a Great Dane play group (he understands the joy of finding dogs his own size), and sampling from the many food booths, and all the dogs were pretty cute.  But the unfortunate thing about attending the largest gathering of dogs in North America, is its also the largest gathering of dog owners in North America.  And as much as I love my dog, I have a healthy distaste for people who take it a step too far, such as outfitting a dog in a visor and sunglasses that make the poor thing miserable.  Dogs are a part of your life, they shouldn't be your whole life.  I have the same philosophy towards children, and their sometimes overly precious parents.

    
    

    But the irony of Woofstock is that it takes place in one of the already most dog-friendly cities in the world.  Year-round, Toronto offers dog owners an abundance of dog-friendly parks and beaches, including 29 spaces where dogs can run off the leash.  The city even publishes a guide to these locations.  And dogs are welcome on all public transport with their owners, including the trolly cars and ferries to Toronto's beaches (the most dog-welcoming includes a unique dog labyrinth at Kew Gardens), and islands (we like Hanlan Point's nude beach -- Carlos loves being nude!).

    
    

    We also found some fun establishments like Urban Dog (an indoor dog fitness playground), Barkingham Palace (a dog spa), My Pet Boutique (store in Yorkville), and a dog and human canoe and kyak outfit called Dog Paddling Adventures.

    
    

    Hotels aren't a problem, many of them, especially on the high end like the Four Seasons Toronto in tony Yorkville, allow dogs and provide amenities like dog walkers to owners.  The only tricky thing was finding dog-friendly restaurants.  There are a ton of them, don't get me wrong.  Its just that not every one with an outdoor patio allows dogs, and there's no way to know except to ask.  A sure bet is Cafe Uno in our favorite haunt in Toronto, the awesome Distillery District, but more about this trendy nabe in my next blog.

12. Lovely, if a bit Beige, Toronto: Something is missing here? I think its the hard sell!

    12.Jun.08, 16:50 IST
    
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    Toronto (say it like a local, "Tee-ron-no") is the largest, most bustling city in Canada. The rest of the country takes great pleasure in deriding its citizens, the same way everyone in the U.S. who doesn't live in Los Angeles or New York City loves to roll their eyes at the alleged crackpot ways of kooky Californians or neurotic Manhattanites.

    
    

    Just as a basis for comparison, Toronto's total population is approximately 4.7 million; that's about half as many people as New York City's total population of 8.3 million. (FYI: Los Angeles's total population is 9.9 million; Chicago's total population is 3 million; and  San Francisco's total population comes in at just 750,000.)

    
    

    But just the fact that Toronto is spread out over 244 square miles (as compared to New York City's density of 304 square miles) doesn't fully account for the serenity one feels here, whether walking down a crowded street or lining up to see a sold-out show of Mark Morris's Mozart Dances in the Luminato festival.  There is a marked absence of anxiety.  And attitude.

    
    

    I mean, there are hipsters, bouncing along Queen Street West with their shaggy, asymmetrical haircuts; there are boutique hotels with gilded bars like  ONE inside the Hazelton in Yorkville, filled with beautiful, fashionable people; there are taxis driven by recent immigrants; there are nightclubs, like Peter Gatien's CIRCA, a pantheon to his pre-prison and deportation haunts, the Tunnel and the Limelight in NYC; and there are garbage trucks and homeless people and superstores, like my favorite, Winners (a designer discount chain akin to Daffy's).  But it's not crowded and it's not exclusive and it's not at all snobby, anywhere.

    
    

    Even at the gala opening night party for the Luminato festival inside the Royal Ontario Museum, or ROM, sponsored by L'Oreal and Armani, socialite types looked you in the eye and smiled.  Good-looking men even did that, unafraid that you, an average non-model woman, might think they were hitting on you.  How very strange ...

    
    

    And I never had trouble getting a taxi, getting a reservation (even at Jamie Kennedy's Wine Bar), or even using a public restroom in a restaurant where I hadn't bought a thing.  Also, people were always volunteering directions, the minute you looked confused or pulled out a street map.  Plus Toronto is a city with seamless public transportation and easy access to beaches and islands. And it's so dog-friendly that there was even a dog festival going on around the St. Lawrence Market called Woofstock.

    
    

    But as I wandered with my Chihuahua, eating a green tea gelato I bought at the dog-friendly organic cafe Solferino, I couldn't help but feel something was missing from this fair city.  For all its harmony, Toronto -- designed to function well, not for fashion -- seemed a bit beige.  I felt like a real asshole for saying it, but then it final