Empty Buckets

Back in Aspen and watching the slow sunset of pink sky and orange clouds as lightning strikes into the cold September night. There is a crispness all about and the quietness of the offseason heightens the stillness of this sleeping giant. I puff small clouds of Macanudo smoke into the air. I look at the lights on Red Mountain where the tycoons and heiresses wait for their butlers to bring out dinner. From atop the Elk’s Club, an American flag wisps like a horse’s tail in a cold field.

The mountains that were once my home, and everything I once lived for, now seem like a foreign land, a place with nothing left for me but a place I once called home, be it Aspen or any mountain town in the world.

Mountain people drink beers at the bar, waiting for the snow to fall. Tourists shop for groceries and watch the same TV they watch at home. Somewhere someone arrives and someone leaves, for the first time or the last.  Dogs bark.

A sense of seasons is apparent more than other places. The clouds are dropping on autumn leaves. Summer has long gone early. There is a birth and death aura to it. The snow will be dirt thrown on a coffin before a springtime resurrection.

Aspen Shoot

I am here with my new life, showbiz…glitz and glamour and calculated dramatics played out in this stage, the trees the curtains and the boulders the stage lights bouncing sun up on our faces. We talk about feelings and the future, potential in opportunities.

Like anyplace I’ve been I miss things about it, the community, the lifestyle, the people; but it’s not home anymore. There hasn’t been a home for me other than a suitcase for so many years that any home is but a sand mandala waiting to be blown away after hours of carful crafting. Even the most thoughtful life built is temporary, be it a life spent in a week or year or decades in any one place with any set of people.

What makes me happy now are simple things, surprises. New things like new music, new tastes and experiences. I’ve become jaded in some things and my receptors have become burnished in regard to so many aspects of the world and it’s civilizing of it. Simple things done well are better than most things grandiose. More is not better than things done correctly. Or newly.

What is this experience but a great fleeting thing?  Life is needed to be lived with open eyes and heart and luck—made, borrowed, or stolen. Luck and an instinct for ambition to accomplish ones goals and never, ever give up. These are things that must be seen and lived and clawed for, because if we don’t claw our way to the top, or at least claw our way to happiness, the moment will be gone. The sand will be blown away.

Verdon Gorge

It’s one of those places you see in the magazines and say, “I wanna climb there one day.” Perfect limestone walls drop down to the river below in what is known as the Grand Canyon of France. There are routes of all types, from trad, sport, and aid climbs. The river offers canoeing, kayaking, and canyoning. Sainte-Croix-du-Verdon has beaches for swimming and sunbathing. The best part was the proximity, this world-class destination is only an 1.5 hours from Cannes, an easy day trip.

A View from the Lake

I recommend starting early as the sun is an energy-suck in the summer. Bring lots of water, a helmet, two-ropes, and some long runners for slinging trees. Even on the bolted climbs it’s nice to have a few cams and some stoppers, because while the cracks here are generally bolted, the bolts can be a bit far apart if you’re used to sport crags.

The gorge itself is 700 meters deep, so the exposure is amazing, even on the short routes along the rim. A lot of the routes under the parking lots seemed to be around 150 meters or so.

Florence

Forty-eight hours in Florence was up next. The flight was less than an hour, quicker than a drive to St. Tropez, and with a lot less traffic this time of year!

Feeling Presidential

We pulled up to the Four Seasons and checked into the Presidential Suite. It was like a room out of Versailles, murals stretched across the ceiling and a brilliant four-hectare garden was just out the window. The room was so extravagant I wouldn’t have been surprised if Robin Leach would pop out and start narrating my life of, “champagne wishes and caviar dreams.”

Omero

For lunch, a fifteen-minute drive brought us to Omero, a quiet eatery overlooking the Tuscan hills. We walked under the small sign that marked the entrance to the inconspicuous door, and into a store full of pigs’ legs and walls of different types of olive oil. There were also fresh pastas, cheeses, wines…it was a place I could really get fat at and not feel bad about it. From there we walked to the quiet restaurant in the back and were greeted by our waiter.

Now I must say, waiters in Italy are as professional as they get, they beam with pride while setting down every dish, and know at least twenty words for cured-ham. Ours was no exception. He was a small man with grey hair, and he ran around with plates of food and bottles of wine, talking conversationally to all the guests as he did so. The food was perfect, simple, local.

Neptune Fountain

Another van, and another encyclopedic driver, took us back into Florence, pointing out churches, fortresses, and statues of statues (a bronze David). Back near the Duomo there were more statues of statues, and buskers dressed as statues sitting below statues, putting on shows whenever a coin was dropped in their tins.

But Florence is, once again, smaller than I thought an ancient European city should be. Compare it to cities in America that have been around for just a few hundred years, and are nothing but sprawl and high-rises, and you’ll be amazed that a city that’s been around since 59 BC only takes up 39.5 square miles. (Cleveland, for example, is 82.4 square miles.) I guess that’s part of its charm.

Most of our time in Florence was spent in the gardens of the Four Seasons sipping coffee and watching the world go by. On the way to the garden on our second day, I almost bumped into the guy from Law & Order, Christopher Meloni.

When he walked by us I thought he was just some American Joe-Schmo with a bad tattoo on his leg. He was big, in a football-player kind of way, and really just a normal guy on vacation.

Castello di Spaltenna

For a quick trip, we headed out into the Tuscan countryside to have lunch at Castello di Spaltenna, a beautiful castle and church built around 1030. The food was great, but the views and peacefulness are what really stood out (I could almost hear the grapes being stomped nearby!) The place wasn’t just a restaurant either, but a full hotel with 8 suites and 30 rooms, there was even a pool.

When I didn’t think it could get any better, I heard we were going to one of the best restaurants in the world, Enoteca Pinchiorri. The Michelin Guide gives it three-stars, which is rare; in 2008 there were only 68 three-star restaurants in the world, according to andyhayler.com. I figured it would be like heaven in my stomach, and it was.

What can I say stood out? Was it the service, the food, the ambience? No, it was the consistency of perfection. Everything was perfect, from the waitress who asked us which of four types of salt we would prefer with our salad (I went with the Himalayan), to the perfectly cooked scallops, to the beaming face of the sommelier, to the silver crumbing tray. They nailed it all, totally nailed it, and then they took us downstairs.

There were plenty of old bottles around, including beautiful bottles that had vintages from America’s dark-age of prohibition. There were also bottles and cases to the ceiling that were older than my grandmother, or great grandmothers, or great-great grandmothers, if they were alive.

As we walked around our friend told all of her daughters, “Don’t touch anything,” just as we came to the grandest of the grand-finales.

I’d never seen a bottle of wine from 1870, but in a place that has six sommeliers, and 145,000 bottles in their cellars of a 500 year-old building, I wasn’t surprised. The sommelier said the bottle had been re-corked, as it was so old the cork might break down. So would we open it?

No, but we did go upstairs for chocolate and cheese and talked to a man that knew more about cheese than the Pope knows about God. It was incredible, all of it. The wine, the service, the food, the cheese, and finally the coffee and cab…as in taxi-cab.

David

We had to get to the hotel somehow and after a meal like that we were all way to blissed-out to get behind the wheel, not to mention the small dent we made in the massive cellar. Amazing, it was the perfect way to end our trip to Florence.

Wellington Arch

Now in London, and it’s hot. I thought it was supposed to always be raining here but I guess I got the one summer day of the year and wishing for Bermuda shorts and flip flops. Instead I’m decked out to the upper crust specifications with a dress shirt and blazer. I guess that is why the Indian fortuneteller following me around Bond Street told me I haven’t found happiness yet. Happiness is a swimming pool and a margarita.

I’m writing from my room with a view of Hyde Park, where The Killers will be performing tomorrow while I head over to Reims, France. London itself isn’t anything like I’d thought. It isn’t raining, it’s not grungy and dark like NYC, nor is full of skyscrapers. Mary Poppins and the dancing chimney sweeps are missing as well.

We’re staying at the legendary Dorchester Hotel, which opened way back in 1931. Everyone from Brittany Spears to Yul Brynner have stayed here, Peter Sellers died here. But those are just entertainers, Winston Churchill, Lord Halifax, and Dwight D. Eisenhower slept here too.

Full Service

I can see why pop-stars or world leaders stay here, The Dorchester is what 5-star accommodations are all about, service upon service. Bellhops to bring up your bags and then offer to call a valet to unpack them. Three waiters come by your table while you dine, to check if you need anything; be it food, alcohol, or coffee. Tall men in top hats open the door for you and hail taxis. They make you feel like royalty, because the guest standing behind you just might be a king or sheik or princess!

In the hotel Promenade I spotted at least one teen heartthrob with a teenager beard (Chace Crawford) who talked about how different LA was from New York. After taking a walk in the park Spinal Tap was waiting at the door with their children. They were in full costume, wigs and tights, and ready to rock (or at least go to eleven).  They are apparently back on tour, in the UK to play at the Glastonbury Festival and a show at Wembley Arena. Of course it is called the, “One Night Only World Tour! [With] a second show added,” according to www.spinaltap.com.

The rooms are a bit floral for my taste; they’re something my grandmother might enjoy—with flowers on the wallpaper, bedspreads, and upholstery. But the rooms aren’t where you hang out, unless you’re celeb hiding from the media.

With one night only, we had dinner at Nozomi Sushi, went dancing, and were back in the room late enough to assure a hangover.

Since 1834

Waking in a stupor, we made a quick shopping trip to Bond St. and then to Harrods for a shopping experience right out of a Disney movie. Bright-colored rooms full of everything from make-up to jelly beans, cigars to sunglasses were on every floor. The staff wore many hats, quite literally, be it that of a sushi chef or ice-cream man.

One of each please...

With our jellybeans and bottles of wine in tow, we headed back for a final afternoon tea in the Promenade, complete with finger sandwiches and warm scones. Our plane was waiting to bring us to the heart of the champagne, Reims, for a private Dom Perignon tasting. The men in top hats opened the door for one last time, and we said goodbye to the Dorchester.

I had been lying low on the party scene lately, hiding in the mountains, climbing the cliffs above Monaco and working on my tan. Sometimes I have to step back and put things in perspective, and the cliffs of La Turbie tend to be the perfect vantage point.

Our little dog started barking, the phone was ringing, and I knew it wasn’t Commissioner Gordon (though I have been feeling a bit like Bruce Wayne—driving fast cars and now hanging from rope like batman). My girlfriend shouted up the good news as she lowered me down the cliff, we are off to Italy!

Arch of Constantine

Everything in Italy is old, older that history sometimes. Coming from a young country like the U.S. it’s hard to fathom something built before year zero. Two-thousand years is a long time, think about how long that is in TV season years!

Aqueducts, churches, and fountains were everywhere, and every once and awhile I’d catch a glimpse of Tom Hanks on the posters promoting Angels and Demons. “Many of the things are wrong in the movie,” said our driver. “And the church wouldn’t allow them to film in many of the locations from the book.” He pointed out a church that the production company apparently copied and build a façade replica of across the street from the real church. Contrived? Of course, it’s Hollywood!

We checked into the Hassler, located just above the Spanish Steps, and we could see the Vatican from our window. But we were only in town for 24 hours, so like Keifer, we off to save the world…by sightseeing.

I'm a Tourist

Our driver was encyclopedic in nature, pointing out the sights, telling the history, dates, people, and was in the know when it came to bypassing the lines to places like the Colosseum (there is such a thing as a velvet rope in sightseeing). Over the day we saw a few fountains, statues, unification monuments, just your run of the mill most-beautiful-things-ever. After awhile I noticed that there are more statues in Rome than hotdog carts in NYC.

We hit the other main sights in Rome (see below), but like any European city, the best thing about Rome was having coffee at a Piazza and watching the world go by.

The next morning, we hit some shops and did some more sightseeing, but our time was up, and it was back to Monaco for a day.

Top things to see in Rome in 24 hours: The Colosseum, The Pantheon, Spanish Steps, Piazza Navona, Vatican City, Altare della Patria, Trevi Fountain.

I’m back from Italy and I will be posting the story soon. But be ready for more as I’m heading to the UK, Belgium, and the outskirts of Paris next week. More articles will be posted on fr2day.com soon enough, and looking into expanding things here in the world of blogging. The season in St. Tropez is now starting up and the polo action has been great. I’ve been climbing again and totally blown away by the amount of rock around here. Stay tuned…

  Into the Canals

Usually a piano full of booze would surprise me, but after walking along the streets of Amsterdam on Queen’s Day, it was not unexpected. On the walk over to our boat, we passed the usual scenes of this national day of togetherness; massive stages, cafes full of people dressed in orange, and sidewalk sales where people sold secondhand cloths.

Did I mention the orange? I’ll mention it again. Everything was orange. Everything. Sunglasses, wigs, shirts, hair, dogs, even the air. All this to honor the Dutch Royal Family, The House of Orange.            

So we arrived at our party boat, with the booze piano, in a canal near the city center and started loading in the speakers and amps. Random people walked by dancing to random music coming out of random windows as our posse began to trickle in.

It was about this time that someone tried to kill the queen. A man tried to ram the royal family’s bus with his Suzuki, but instead, crashed through the crowd, and into a stone monument. None of the royals were killed but seven others were (including the attacker), twelve others were injured. I didn’t see it firsthand as it was in Apeldoorn, just an hour east of Amsterdam. We saw it on the news at a nearby bar and heard updates along our boat ride. It was tragic, but it didn’t stop the party. (Queen’s Day brings about 700,000 visitors into Amsterdam, which already has over one million inhabitants, all of it mixing for a large party momentum that is unstoppable.)

Our Host Michel

Back to the posse: the whole gang was Dutch, except for myself and a couple of German girls. Poshness was a theme, with orange polo shirts and designer sunglasses being the norm. The captain, piano player, and sound techs were all straight out of a piano bar, literally.

Canal Party

Setting sail into the mayhem, I had no idea what to expect, as so far, the day was already like Mardi Gras, Spring Break, and the Fourth of July rolled into one. I was pleasantly surprised to see all walks of life floating along with us on everything from inflatable rafts to massive tourist cruisers. It felt like we were in a parade, with people along the sides laughing and dancing and people shouting from the bridges we passed under.

Orange Craze

We drank from the piano as the musician played on it’s other end and spun techno on CD turntables. Other boats would float by and we would have massive dance-barge gridlock. Smoke was everywhere; after all, it was Amsterdam. But this smoke was orange, like everything else; and while passing through the fog of Queen’s Day, it didn’t seem like the party would ever stop.

Out to Sea

Eventually the canals opened up into a large shipping lane and we docked. The party patrol was winding down, and for our afterparty we moved to a three-story yacht just as the sky turned dark. It had been nearly nine hours of drinking and dancing. Coupling began and the couples moved to different parts of the boat as a few of us could only think of food. The day was done, for us.

Afterparty Yacht

We left the yacht that would continue the party until the next morning and headed for downtown, the orange smoke ahead our North Star.

 

 

Monaco

Life has settled down a bit, and I’m finally back from the Caribbean to another sea, the Mediterranean.

We have been getting our apartment set up in Monaco and things are like they are anywhere, just more expensive. We go to the store, buy groceries, figure out which cabinet we’re putting the plates or the glasses in. Take away the Aston Martins and Baby Dior stores, and everyone is still fairly normal here. The only strange thing is that everyone seems to wear a suit everywhere, all the time.

Our place has a great view of the water and of the surrounding limestone cliffs. There are supposed to be over 500 routes in the area, with even more around Nice. Cool Med breezes, two-finger pockets, clippin’ bolts…yeahhhh, no more life on the glaciers for me.

Went to a tennis game last Sunday between Nadal and Djokovic, very intense. They both grunt on every hit like they’re punching a heavy bag (boxing). The crowd was very serious, very attentive. There was always a hush before each serve, each game point.

It was difficult finding parking for the match, but some local kids that we bought scalped tickets from helped move a fence back to create a spot. (Monaco is only about .75 square miles TOTAL. You can image that parking is a bit of a problem.) Nadal won overall, with Djokovic winning the second set (I think its called a set?). 

Speaking of driving…I now understand why all of my Euro friends drive so fast, everyone here drives fast. If you don’t feel like you’re about to fly off the S-curves, you’re going too slow. There isn’t really a highway patrol either, and I think I’ve seen one cop on the freeways over the last two weeks.

Cannes

Cannes is what I expected, designer boutiques, and even the bag ladies wear nice sunglasses (not that there are any bag ladies, I’m just sayin…). The Med is a beautiful calm blue that stretches out long enough to where you can see the curve of the earth. To all the Black Rock City people out there, it kind of looks like the playa around sunrise, it has a purple mist that floats up into the hills making the place seem otherworldly. The streets are narrow, confusing, and labyrinthine.

Gutterball?

Today we went bowling. It was like any other bowling ally I’ve been to. Like I said, its just life like anywhere, just with a different language. 

The biggest thing about settling in is trying to find work, since I don’t yet have papers, and I speak only enough French to get around and buy food. There are a few websites to help out, babbel.com is a nice (free) alternative to buying a language program, and escapeartist.com has some great articles and links for expats looking for work or advice on relocating.

Other than that, the strangest thing is suddenly living in Europe unplanned. I still get my news updates on the computer through cnn.com and nytimes.com, and I keep in touch with the Aspen crew through aspenspin.com. The major dotcom bummer is that hulu.com and pandora.com don’t work outside the U.S. unless you are a techgeek and can fool their servers into thinking you are still in the U.S.

I’m still writing, and the new novel is in the works. The old one has been shelved for a full re-write. The past eight weeks have been very inspiring and provided a lot of material for my imagination.

Off to the Milan Furniture Fair tomorrow to check out the latest and greatest.

Back in the City

When I tell people where I’ve lived they ask me why I’ve moved around so much. I often say it is because I was a climber, but that’s only half the story, there is life after climbing. 

It’s funny the way life turns out, I don’t want to call it fate or destiny, but I might call it chance. Sometimes opportunities, choices, present themselves, and you go with it.  So far I think I’ve made the right choices but there’s definitely been some luck in the process.

Also, there seems to be some sort of universal mind, or at least common circuit, and a lot of my friends travel on it. When I was climbing it might be winter in Jackson Hole, spring in Yosemite, May in Alaska, July in the Bugaboos, October in Zion, Thanksgiving in Canyonlands with Heavy Duty, and one last trip to Joshua Tree in December. 

Nowadays I live among the jetset, urbanites, fashionistas, scenesters, and luxury adventurers; and somehow all of them seem to know each other. Is Facebook the culprit in connecting everyone, or maybe a travel article about Marrakech or NYC, or maybe I just know a lot of other nomads from all walks of life. Either way, life on the go doesn’t really ever get that lonely.

Aspen Powder Day

I’ve been based out of Aspen for the last year or so. Living there, you meet people like Salamin Rushdie or Bill Clinton, the world really comes to you (if you’ve lived in a place that special, you know what I mean). The people that choose to move there, tend to come from the same cloth, i.e., movers and shakers. Be you a mover, or a shaker, you tend then to stay in touch with fellow shakers or movers along the way.

In the Pool at PS1

I was recently back in NYC after a year and a half. Some things had changed, mostly the bars. Everyone wanted to know the new phone number for Milk and Honey, and I somehow ended up at one of the hottest new clubs in town, Greenhouse, just by chance. PS1 had a lousy collection up (except for the pool), and the real action was still the graffiti across the street known as 5 Pointz. Megu seemed to be topping Nobu, (Hi Hero if you’re out there), and RDV was the place to be in the Meat Packing District. Williamsburg was still full of hipsters, but now the drink prices have caught up the Manhatten prices, and there are far fewer waxed mustaches around. I even had time to see the Statue of Liberty with my parents who were visiting from Minnesota.

cock-a-doodle-memories...

A week before that…I was back on the other coast. Somehow I ended up at Barbara Streisand’s house, there were chickens (live, egg-laying, chickens), hanging out next to a replica barn, and a great view of Malibu. Abbot Kinney was still my favorite place to shop in the U.S. (screw SOHO), and I was challenged to a drunk dance-off at The Brig. The next morning I woke up on the couch of some Jackson Hole friends who’d relocated to Santa Monica, and I could still smell the vodka sweating out of my pores. I got in the elevator in a daze…and I think Larry David thought I was going to rob him.

Larry

He didn’t seem nearly as neurotic in real life, although, with the way I looked and smelled, I think he really did think I was going to mug him. He was wearing sweatpants and he told me he tore his hamstring when I asked him if he was going jogging.

The Peninsula was very nice, great breakfast. The room was nice too.

We had some tiki drinks and Trader Vic’s but were let down that it had been moved inside, next to the pool. It felt like we were at a MTV Spring Break party. Lame. 

Somewhere in there I was in Vegas. I think a week before. There was another party next to the pool at the Wynn. It also seemed like a MTV Spring Break party. Also lame.

So… my point. 

Somewhere Near South America

I ended up texting most of my friends in NYC before getting on a plane to my now undisclosable location. That’s how it went. But at the airport I bumped into some other fellow globe-trotters (you can always spot a Pelican Case a mile away). They were some National Geographic TV guys also having trouble getting where they where going, we even had some mutual friends. 

But how did I (being in NYC, recieving a call to get on a plane, and then going to the airport) end up at the same place in time at the same time as these fellow travelers who I will undoubtedly see in the future?

I think it’s just plain luck, or it could be that the world is just that small.

But who knows…