Who goes to Florida in July (think hot) for the Fourth of July (think crowded) for a weekend (think crazy)? The pink suitcase came out of mothballs for precisely that purpose; and kindly, it took me along.

“We” flew down to Fort Lauderdale, hoping to avoid the Miami airport. But a menacing storm with wicked winds required our jet to circle cautiously for so long that it ran out of fuel -- well, almost. The pilot announced we’d have to make a run to -- ugh!-- Miami to refuel before heading back to our original destination. Once we glided down, two hours late, a giant rainbow drew a welcoming arc across the sky, while palm trees swished their fronds in a teasing dance urged on by an exiting gale.

Within 30 minutes I was settling into my chosen spot for the weekend: Hollywood. The other Hollywood. The one without movie stars, without an intersection with Vine, without Graumann’s Chinese Theater. It’s “old Florida” wedged between the cruise terminals of Fort Lauderdale and the overgrown and overpowering Miami sprawl. It’s unpretentious. It has some of the same hotel facades it had in the ‘60s (I know, I was there…). And best of all it had something I couldn’t have found in Ocean City, NJ, on a holiday weekend: deserted beaches.

I plopped my beach towel under a palm early on Saturday, and looked down the stretch of sand: quiet, peaceful, empty. People started to arrive as the day wound on, but there was never a feeling of overcrowding. Live music played along a beachside promenade called The Broadwalk (apologies to AC), and when the sun finally went down, glorious fireworks were shot up over the ocean from a barge plowing through the dark water.

Parties persisted at little beachfront hotels that hung welcome signs on thatched Tiki huts where rum punch was the libation of choice. And it was impossible to resist the urge to dance under towering royal palms. It felt positively tribal. Unrehearsed. Cathartic.

Ah, they’ve sung about the “Moon Over Miami,” but nothing beats the smiling face in the heavens above Hollywood. With its shimmering light illuminating ocean waters set to bathtub perfection -- 88 degrees -- a few fearless souls, myself included, took a midnight dip in the mighty Atlantic.

By Monday I was back in Pennsy pushing a pencil. But the pink suitcase remained packed -- with music, moonbeams and memories.

Time travel is one of the joys of living to “that certain age“….
Last night a quick trip into Philadelphia’s still-glorious Academy of Music at Broad at Locust streets gave me one of those yanks to the past that not only evoked old memories, but formed new ones as well.
The event was the Philadelphia opening of a tour of “Mamma Mia,” the smash Broadway hit built around the hits of 70s’ Swedish super-group ABBA. The show is part of the Cadillac Broadway series and continues through July 27.
My midsummer date with ABBA started with a light pre-show dinner on the 19th floor of the Bellevue, just a mini-stroll from the academy. A wrap-around balcony offered views of the city from under colorful orange umbrellas while the interior of the restaurant is exquisite, boasting a domed ceiling bedecked by what can best be described as giant strands of pearls dropping from the dome earthward.
Dinner was simple: A Caesar salad (fresh, heavy on anchovy and garlic, and deliciously sprinkled with hand-shaved Parmesan), pea soup (I know it sounds odd!) But imagine a white oval ramekin arriving at the table with just a sprig of watercress, 5 or 6 fresh peas and two crisp, fried onion rings resting on the bottom. Next came a tiny pitcher with a hot green elixir – fresh pea puree with a zap of spiciness, poured overtop the aforementioned ingredients. Ah, as heavenly as the smell of fresh cut grass in June. This was followed by a dessert of “compressed” chocolate cake --- a fudgy confection served with an intense Thai-inspired Café du Monde cream --- bitter coffee ice cream atop a froth of white chocolate seated next to the cake.
I mention this culinary start to the evening because I want to underscore the fact that “travel” can be to destinations as nearby as Center City. Long distance is not necessarily the path to discovery. And discovery is what my definition of travel is all about. So, during this gas-conserving season, think about a similar trip: Sweden, by way of the 70s, by way of Philly….. An exciting triumvirate of adventure accomplished close to home in a short space of time!
If you want to up the travel-ante, stop into Teuscher’s, Swiss chocolatier in the Bellevue lobby, and buy a decadent chunk of cocoa to take to the theater for an intermission snack. (By the way, the chocolate is flown in every day on Lufthansa! We’re talking traveling chocolate, here, folks…) But beware of the cost: It runs $75 a pound – so a little dab’ll do you….
In the academy, an able pit orchestra started the engine on that proverbial time machine… First a hard driving, demanding beat… then familiar, pervasive melodies… and finally the joy of sensory overload, heaped on by lights, costumes, bodies in motion!
So… here’s the deal. “Mamma Mia” in this touring edition absolutely rocks the house. Oh sure, it’s a guilty pleasure to admit that I love (L-O-V-E) this Broadway detour into the razzle-dazzle of Disco. I can already imagine some of you (Gordon? Gary? Kevin? John? Others?…) shaking your collective head and asking, “How could she have gone so wrong?”
Well, perhaps I am a wayward music appreciator, but I’m not alone! The Academy of Music was packed with similarly wayward souls who waved, raved and shook the rafters with cheers and applause as the ABBA power portfolio made itself known throughout a tale of lost love regained.
Part of the thrill of the estrogen-charged “Mamma Mia,” to those of us who happen to love the ABBA sensibility, is in discovering how this parade of worldwide mega-hits are woven into the context of a made-for-Broadway book.
Characters give a sense of increased meaning, humor and even intensity to music that might have otherwise been considered only a catchy toe-tapper. Standouts that come to mind are --- OF COURSE -- “Dancing Queen,” the ABBA anthem that to this day sends me into my own twirling reverie. In this show, it is performed by three mature women looking back to their own days in the spotlight of life. It’s joyful, humorous and ultimately the most hummable moment of the evening.
Surprising poignancy brings a dramatic thrust to the show when the lead character (a mature woman who is rediscovering a long lost love) performs “The Winner Takes It All.” Susie McMonagle in the leading role of Donna handles the potent delivery, crafting and shading the song with emotion wrought by a man she had love, lost, and then suddenly rediscovers.
If you have even a single disco move left in you, this is THE ticket for the summer. Oh yes, there are spandex moments, little white boots, even strobe lights. But there are also all the other youth-renewing numbers: “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)”, “S.O.S.,” “Super Trouper,” “Take a Chance on Me” and so many others. Oh, and one other thing…. When you leave the theater, very possibly you’ll emerge, yet again, “…the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen… Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine. You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life…See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen…”

I promised you a trip report on my recent short voyage on the Queen Mary 2 (QM2 for the sake of convenience), and with a champagne bottle cracked over the side of my laptop, I'm ready to launch....
What a magnificent lady, this sea-faring QM2! I drove to a cruise terminal in Brooklyn early on a Thursday morning and saw this gorgeous creature lingering in the harbor.... Out past her bow and a confluence of ropes holding her to shore, was the Statue of Liberty, appearing to wave her torch as a welcome to this wandering soul.
I have never been on such a ship before.... In my explorations I discovered her library that rivalled my own Lower Providence Library; a theater with a stage that elevated, turned, and allowed for pyrotechnic and laser effects during nightly shows; a complete planetarium; a mini shopping mall; a pampering spa; pools indoors, outdoors, on top and down below; basketball court; golf simulator; kennels; hot tubs; 10 restaurants ; jazz clubs, pubs, discos and everything in between.
And F-O-O-D.
Good lord, there was enough food on that vessel to feed a small nation. Deck 7 was a perpetual buffet: Asian, Italian, British and American stations offered all manner of fare from morning until... well, I'm not really sure when. But I can tell you I was there having a little repast one morning at 3 a.m.
I have only brushed the surface of amenities on board. I am saving the best for last... In runner-up position: The Queen's Room. It is a veritable ballroom with what is touted to be the largest dance floor afloat on the seven seas. This is where unaccompanied women (such as I was) were entreated to dance by a cadre of willing, fleet-footed "gentleman dance hosts." Now that's just wrong in my book!! Oh, I suppose that some women were happy to feel an arm slip around their waists as a temperamental tango began.... But somehow I think the whole point of dancing is to make a human connection through rhythm and feelings and intensity of the moment. The dance hosts weren't quite my idea of "Love Boat" material....
The real enchantment in the Queen's Room came in late afternoon when her tables were layered with fresh white linens, and an army 0f waiters in trim white cutaways ceremoniously "waltzed" about the room with porcelain pots full of delicious English tea. Then came the dainty sandwiches (ah yes, cucumber of course... among others..), then scones with clotted cream and lemon curd, and a multiplicity of pastries. All of this was choreographed to the music of a live string quartet. The best of civilization in the light of day!
And in the final spot reserved for the Queen's crown: Wooden decks lined with wooden deck chairs, all equipped with tartan plaid woolen blankets. Just the place to get cozy against the wind, to cast your eyes to the unpolluted skies and to count the gazillions of stars to make wishes upon... to contemplate the vastness of the sea and the shorelines it caresses. And just the place to realize that dreams, however unreasonable or unlikely they may seem, really can come true....
Oh, yes, there were stops along the way. Halifax -- charming, Boston --- fascinating. But in the end, the most memorable moment was found in simply meeting The Queen. I bow before her utter majesty....

Time to share!

I'm going on a wonderful adventure in a matter of a few days...
I saw a posting on a last-minute travel website that was enticing, to say the least.

I love last-minute travel: it's spontaneous, reflective of the mood of the moment, and just as thrilling as a late breaking wave over your head on a body-surf ride into shore....

So.... here's the deal: I saw an ad for a cruise from New York -- one of the best ports in all of the world to sail from.. nothing quite like Lady Liberty at sunset --- to Halifax, Nova Scotia and Boston, Mass. It was for a quick 6-day roundtrip float up and back...

But the real thrill of the deal was the fact that the ship is the Queen Mary 2 (QM2 to her friends...) only the largest ship in the world, replete with the largest dance floor on the seven seas, which, in turn, is stocked with "gentlemen guests hosts" so that women, such as myself, traveling unescorted will have a partner for every rhythm. (Seems almost barbaric!)

And becasue it would be a last-minute booking the price was slashed 65 percent.... down to $768. Keep in mind that includes meals, royal formal galas, entertainment, transportation and dance hosts! (ha ha ha....)

I called and was told yes, I could book passage in the morning.... I was thrilled and mentally packing ball gowns and bathing suits (indoor spa pool!), and whatever it might take to fill-to-bulging the requisite 10 pink suitcases.....

But when morning came, the unthinkable happened.......

I was told that somehow, over night, the seven hundred-and-change fare had sold out and oh, by the way, the next available category would cost (are you ready?) $12,000 dollars!!!!!!!!!

After I came to, I got downright angry and dashed a letter off to Cunard Lines (of which the Queen Mary 2 is a proud vessel). How could this be? This takes bait-and-switch to new heights!

Withing an hour or two, my phone jangled. A REAL person, Sharleen Gordon, called from Cunard's California office. Like some benevolent tooth fairy she sprinkled fairy dust all over my disappointment. She said I would move onto the top of a priority list... that the first cancellation would come to me, and that the $700+ fare would indeed be observed.

And with a wave of her imagined wand, someone did cancel that night... and now my bags are all but packed..... I'm sailing this week, and will have my dancing shoes on, for sure.

I really want to salute Sharleen and the folks at Cunard for what I consider the best and most efficient customer service I have ever received in my years of traveling. This will be my first experience traveling Cunard and QM2, but given the royal pre-trip consideration I'm already shouting, "Long live the Queen!"

Next time: A trip report!

Forgive my prolonged absence!
Life gets in the way of the best intentions, but now I have a little item to share with those faithful readers who return to this would-be traveler's niche.
Early April found me flying -- in a little prop plane -- from Philadelphia into New York's Albany airport which served as gateway to a weekend in the nearby Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts.
The occasion was the first-ever Dulye Leadership Experience (DLE), a weekend retreat wherein selected Syracuse University students and DLE faculty (comprised of individuals from a diverse cross-section of arts and sciences disciplines ---myself included in the latter arts division) converged to share ideas on intellectual and professional growth, leadership, life lessons, the two-way dynamic of mentoring, and ultimately the value of expanding one's circle of friends to include old (well, a little older, anyway!) and young.
DLE was the lifelong dream of Linda Dulye, a proud Syracuse alum, and the human electrical bolt who funded then charged the weekend with excitement, fun, laughter, some growing pains, and ---by Sunday afternoon, pure exultation.
So.... one of the light moments came when Linda, her mother Ann, myself and another faculty member, Sue (whose last name I withhold "to protect the innocent") found ourselves with a dilemma. There were four grown women and only three available beds.
"You can share my bed," said Ann, innocent as dew on a rose petal.
Linda, Sue and I all shot glances at each other... Share a bed!!!!!?????....
None of us minded sharing a room, or sharing a meal or sharing an embarrassing, self-effacing story from the past! But SHARE A BED???
Visions of colliding cold, clammy feet, and snoring nostrils, and just that too-close-for-comfort body heat had all three of us running for the couch. Well, in the end it was Sue who ended up on a couch... a couch that dipped in the midsection and gave her premature osteoporosis and allowed possibly a single hour of sleep... if she was lucky.
Ah, dear Ann, we dearly love you.... but love has its limits!
In that giddy way that happens when there has been too little sleep and a dire situation has been relegated to the night before, Linda, Sue-the-Bed-Martyr and I found hilarity in the recent memory and shared a great big giggle as reward for that momentary fright (still laughing...............!!!!!).
So this traveler's advice: Never underestimate the great appeal of a sleeping bag, or better, an Aerobed! And at very least, be sure to pack a protective pair of warm socks.....

A reader urged me to reach back into the recesses of my youth (already distant enough!) and tell about a long-ago meandering. Well, the perfect subject came to mind with the recent reopening of The Plaza hotel in New York City.

It has undergone a $400 million (isn't that the budget of a small nation somewhere?) renovation, and has been returned to past glory. And it occurs to me, maybe The Plaza hotel that welcomed me into its palm-lined arms back in the late 60s was, indeed, the hostelry during its halcyon days.
Well, that's how I remember it, anyway.
The year is fuzzy, but I was wishing I were a teenager -- wasn't quite there. My older sister and her friend, Bonnie had already made the transition from girlhood to young-lady/prom-queen material. They wore stockings and pumps, and I was still gangly in socks and saddle shoes. They had developed that something extra --- you can use your imagination for the meaning if you wish -- and I was still the admiring child.
I admired everything the older girls did. I thought their hair, worn in long flips or pulled up into French twists, was strikingly sophisticated. I though the Jean Nate cologne they doused on was quite heavenly. And the fact that they poured their trim selves into tight, STRAIGHT skirts --yep, I was wearing pleats --- was just to-die-for.
Well, on one glorious weekend in October my parents announced that they were taking the three of us for a weekend in NYC. It was my parents wedding anniversary, so it was a special trip.
To make it REALLY special, they bought for all three of us --- YES, even moi -- a fake fur leopard skin jacket with leather trim! I died and went straight to heaven at the sight. I was wearing the same fuzzy, jungle-printed cropped jacket that the older girls were wearing. Could life get any better?
When we got to Manhattan, my parents spared no expense. We checked into The Plaza hotel, and had a suite -- a private room for them (still wondering why.... after all they were PARENTS... geez), and an adjoining bedroom/parlor where the three of us shared quarters.
But first we went to Trader Vic's and had Shirley Temples (also called Roy Rogers if you happened to be of the male persuasion) decked out with little paper umbrellas skewered through a multiplicity of cherries. And we ate itsy bitsy puu-puu platters... tiny spare ribs served over a little fire pot. Oh, how glorious.
Then we went to the Latin Quarter --- a big splashy night club -- where we saw a comic --- Corbett Monica -- and what seemed like a billion gorgeous chorus girls decked out in feathers, Las Vegas-style. The weekend also included a Broadway show. The late-great Bert Parks pranced up and down the stage reprising his role in the second cast of the former monster hit "The Music Man." (I can still hear him bellowing, "You got trouble... right here in River City....").
Now you might think all of that would be hard to top. But the absolute best part of that long ago weekend was the night (when we should have been sleeping) in The Plaza hotel. After my parents had "retired" for the evening (that's what they used to call it back then...) the three of us girls waited until there was silence. A ha! The parents were asleep.
Up we jumped, and traded nightgowns for the dresses that we had packed ,and on top of the dresses we plunked those completely obvious leopard-skin jackets. What a sight! Three inexperienced jungle princesses (well, two princesses and one half-pint) on the prowl in The Plaza hotel.
First stop was the Persian Room. A woman named Hildegarde was there, playing piano with gloves on! How odd! (I later became familiar with this legend of "the room"... and learned that playing with gloves on was her calling card to fame.)
When we had heard enough of the ivories, we moved on to a ballroom where, lo and behold, a raucous wedding reception was under way. I suppose the sight of three pre-pubescent girls in party dresses and leopard jackets was enough to make the door attendant's heart soften. "C'mon in girls," said he. And in we went. After all, surely we could just fade into the crowd ---- WEARING LEOPARD SKIN JACKETS AND PARTY DRESSES........ hahahaha!
No matter, we danced the night away.... polka'd until my socks were down around my ankles and my sister's French twist released into a pony tail. And as for Bonnie, well, she always said that was the greatest night of her life.
I don't know what time we got to bed. But we were there, sleepy "angels," when my parents checked on us in the morning.
The Plaza hotel may have been home to that rascallion Eloise. But she had nothing on the girls from Philly dressed like an endangered species.
Raaaaaawl........

"Where or when" ... that's the title of an old song..
It went,
"It seems we stood and talked like this before...
"We smiled at each other in the same way then,
"But I can't remember where or when..."
Very lovely, romantic ballad... the kind they played at high school proms, toward the end of the night... she'd snuggle her head into the turn of his neck, the embrace would tighten a little, heartsbeats would be palpable, and there would be a warm human electricity in the moment....
Well, that's the feeling I still get from a foreign encounter, human or simply atmospheric. Take me to some distant shore, where dreams run wild and fluid and exotic, and I am again in the arms of that end-of-prom emotion.
Where and when?
Where to go and when to go there; they are always the questions that stare me down as vacation time starts to come into focus.
So tell me, if you are out there and entering this little portal of inquiry: Where are you going this year? Any good suggestions for a woman (and her pink suitcase) with wanderlust? I would love to hear some ideas.
The when...... hmmmmm....... I could be ready in five minutes.....