The Beach

What is it about the beach? What is it that makes it so restorative? The bjillion happy people? The seagulls leaving presents and presence on the beach blanket? The ability and God-given right to piddle in a massive body of water? The knowledge that no matter how bad you look in your suit there is someone who looks worse?

And there always is.

I don't know. Even with a back burned to look like a Picasso, I feel great.

And it's always been that way. Even throwing up hot Fresca on the black sand beaches of Fire Island, there was no place I would rather have been throwing up hot Fresca.

Even with a dead Pop, there was no place I would rather have been missing my dead Pop then on the beaches of Ravenna, Italy.

I don't mean soda pop. I mean Poppy Pop. Daddy. A week after he passed I had an engagement with Opera North at Il Festivale di Ravenna on the coast of the Adriatic. They told me I could skip it with my reputation intact and without being fined financially, but who in their right mind would pass up a trip to the Adriatic?

Not moi.

And there was no place else I would rather have missed Pop. Beach during the day, performance at night and some cultural trips in between...with a steady dose of pizza, pasta, pesce and gelato cioccolato. Okay...some vino.

And good friends.

If I had to live in a world without Pop (and I most certainly did and still do {unless there's sumpin' I don't know about}), the beach with its clear and heavily salinated water that keeps me buoyed (I just made a typo--"goyed"--ha!) is the place to do it.

Float float float. Piddle piddle piddle.

In with the good. Out with the bad.

Aaaaah.