Bye, bye belly

My pouch was visible when I visited Lipari, one of the Aeolian Islands in the Tyrrhenian Sea, off the north coast of Sicily.

Close your eyes and visualize this: A toothpick that swallowed a lemon.

Now open them and you will see how I see myself, which is why I have decided to have tumescent liposuction today.

I’m 50 years and three days old. But the decision to do lipo didn’t just hit me because of my age. Those of you who know me have put up with me complaining about my belly for years. When I texted the news to a girlfriend in Chicago whom I’ve known since the 80s, she texted back:

“Awesome Girl!!! I’m surprised you didn’t do this sooner because you never liked you (sic) “tiny pouch”. lol

I eat healthy 90 percent of the time, work out four to five days a week doing weight-bearing exercises and floor work for my abs and walk the hills of San Francisco to run errands since I have no car. I’m quite pleased with the rest of my body after dropping a dress size while researching The World’s Top Destination Spas story for Elite Traveler this spring. I can’t afford to lose anymore inches. My butt is practically non-existent. My boobs have shrunk. My pencil legs are now toothpicks. Still, my belly persists to the point where it is much larger than my ass. And everyone knows you can’t spot reduce.

What’s a girl to do?

I’m 6-foot-1, 152 pounds, reed thin. My legs are so skinny I have to get all of my boots taken in. Always have.

And I’ve always had a belly too. I’ve grown as adept at holding it in as I have at breathing.

When I was in my 20s, I popped laxatives before going on vacation to get rid of my bulge. Seven, 10, 12 at a time. Whatever it took.

By my 30s that no longer worked and I went to 90-year-old nutritionist Hermien Lee, who turned me into a lean, mean, machine.

And then came my 40s. I opted for more drastic methods such as the Master Cleanser or doing a raw diet with no alcohol for weeks at a time. Being that I’m a travel writer and part of traveling is eating then guzzling lemonade for several days at a time and not eating anything cooked can only work so long for me.

Everyone knows what a foodie I am and my stomach is a bottomless pit. The way I eat, I should be 300 pounds but I’m not because I exercise regularly — plus, I have great genes. Previously, if I needed to get my belly down, all I had to do was really watch what I ate and give up alcohol. Within 10 days, I’d be looking good enough to rock a bikini like I did in St. Tropez this summer.

I rocked this Trina Turk bikini in St. Tropez this summer, holding in my belly.

But age has a way of catching up with you.

When I returned from St. Tropez, I learned that the beau would have to endure six weeks of radiation. Before he began his treatment in September I offered to give up alcohol to support him. Oh how we both love our wine! He looked at me with the most loving eyes, for it was akin to me offering to shave my head if he lost his hair. (Thankfully THAT didn’t happen.) Outside of drinking at HBO’s Emmy party, during a business trip to South Beach and in Atlanta, where I went for a funeral, I stuck by my no-alcohol edict. After the beau’s radiation ended, his belly was gone and he was down 20 pounds. My belly still stuck out like a hump in a camel, a further indication that alcohol was not what was causing me to look four months pregnant.

During a visit to the beau’s dermatologist, I spotted a brochure for tumescent liposuction. Curious, I picked it up. I thought back to a recent lipo discussion with a retired dermatologist friend from my beau’s yacht club. He tiptoed around my situation but agreed that lipo wouldn’t be a bad thing for me. And I recalled a conversation from a couple of years ago with a friend from childhood, now a medical doctor with a weight loss clinic in L.A. She told me back then that I was the ideal candidate for lipo. The brochure in hand, I looked at these before and after photos and read when the procedure should be used, the risks, how it is performed and why a dermatologic surgeon should be used.

Liposuction is most effective for removing localized fat deposits that do not respond to diet or exercise. It is not intended as a substitute for weight loss; rather, it is a contouring procedure, and is optimally utilized in a program of exercise and weight maintenance.

I know a lot of you reading this may look at the before picture and ask “Where’s Waldo? Where’s the fat?” Not me! I looked at the photo and said, “That’s me!” I gave the brochure to the beau, who said if that’s what I want then fine, I could have it. But, he made it clear, he thinks I have a fantastic bod. We returned for a consultation with his doctor and scheduled my procedure for Nov. 30. This gave me license to thoroughly enjoy  myself during a decadent birthday trip to Las Vegas with several girlfriends to ring in my 50th.

Now, a bon vivant like me disdains buffets but Kitty Yancey, a USA Today travel writer whose opinion I trust, assured me in an email that the new, $17 million Bacchanal Buffet at  Caesars Palace was worth it and wrote that her story in USA Today didn’t give it justice. You have to go, she implored.

So off me and my girls went for my birthday lunch. With each plate, I reminded myself that everything I was eating would be removed on Friday.

After starting at Bacchanal Buffet’s seafood station, I moved on to Italy, pausing to pick up a slider during my birthday lunch at Caesars Palace, Las Vegas.

At Bacchanal, I took it upon myself to gorge on fresh East and West coast oysters, prawns, shrimp and grits, mussels, grilled salmon, pepperoni pizza, meatballs, sliders, French fries, chips and guacamole, Kung Pao chicken, edamame, low mein, crème brûlée and lots more. With more than 500 dishes to choose from, I couldn’t try everything – though I wanted to.

That night, my birthday dinner took place at James Beard award-winning Chef José Andrés’ Jaleo in The Cosmopolitan. I devoured cured ham from the legendary, acorn-fed, black-footed Ibérico pigs of Spain, 18-month salt-cured Serrano ham, white asparagus with idiazábal cheese, grilled skirt steak with piquillo pepper confit, traditional chicken fritters served in a shoe and so much more, knowing that it would all be gone be in just a few days.

My yummy birthday dinner served tapas style at Jaleo by Jose Andres in The Cosmopolitan, Las Vegas.

Before I left for the trip, I went clothes shopping in San Francisco for a couple of new birthday outfits since it was Black Friday.What a frustrating experience that was! I looked longingly at dresses that I knew were not right for my body type because they hugged the mid-section. I was nearly in tears as I went from one store to another, unable to find anything despite the Black Friday sales. I admit I do a pretty good job of hiding my belly. One saleswoman convinced me to try on a dress that she said would hide the belly that she couldn’t see. I wiggled into the cute red dress and her eyes nearly popped out when she saw my belly protruding like a beach ball. Oh, she said, before finding the one dress in her store that hid a belly. But I didn’t care for the dress. I told her I was having lipo in a few days and she said she looked forward to seeing me back in the store in a few months. I waddled further down Chestnut Street and into BCBG Max Azria, where I picked up this darling shirt dress that hides my pouch, and a couple of other items that would suffice.

Me at Ghostbar, on the 55th floor of Palms Casino for pre-birthday drinks.

As much as I absolutely love, love, love this BCBG shirt dress, in a few months I won’t be limited to dresses that flow. Thanks to the beau and his generous birthday present. Even though he doesn’t think I need lipo, I do. And that’s what matters.

Check back later for updates.

Without health everything is nothing

The room keys at SHA Wellness Clinic in Spain do more than unlock doors of rooms.

I’m on what the beau calls my WST, or World Spa Tour. We’re not talking spas where people go just to get a massage, a facial and seaweed wrap. Rather where folks go to detox, lose weight, retain their youth and for medical purposes. My research is for a story that will appear in Elite Traveler’s September/October 2012 issue.

Yes, it’s a plum assignment but it’s also one that makes me focus much more on my health and wellness as I encounter the 1 percenters who can afford to stay at such places as SHA Wellness Clinic in Spain, Cal-a-Vie in San Diego County, Miraval in Tucson, The Ranch at Live Oak in Malibu, COMO Shambhala Estate in Ubud, Kurotel Longevity Medical Center and Spa in southern Brazil and Ananda in the Himalayas — just some of the other spectacular places I’ll feature. Rates can soar up to $10,000 for the week, which may seem rather astronomical to most of us, at some of these places. But really, can you put a price on health?

I’ve just left SHA, on Spain’s Mediterranean coast. It’s relatively new to the scene, having opened just a couple of years ago. People stay anywhere from a few days to usually a week  and sometimes longer. I met a couple of people who extended their stay by another week because it took nearly a week before their body adjusted to the program. I heard that one American man had stayed a whopping six months!

And why not? If you’ve got the money why not stay in swank digs with views of the Mediterranean, where you don’t have to think about what you’re going to eat that day because you know whatever they serve is going to be healthy and delicious, an array of lectures, fitness and cooking classes and activities are available daily, a fitness center and personal trainer await not to mention the spa and oodles of health professionals who can guide you with stopping smoking, sleep disorders, losing weight, stopping the aging process of Father Time, etc. Yeah, I’d stay for six months too if I could because I’m worth it.

The motto at SHA, “Health is not everything, but without health everything is nothing,” is on each room key. Reading that saying several times a day reminded me that one can have all of the money in the world but without good health, what good is being a one percenter? Take care of yourself. It’s the best thing you can do for your body.

SHA Wellness Clinic in El Albir, Spain

It’s time for a tune up

Me on a morning hike in El Albir, Spain while at SHA Wellness Clinic

Now that I’m several months shy of a milestone birthday, it’s time for me to get my butt in gear. I expect to look a certain way when that big day comes in November and I won’t accept anything less. We all have our standards and mine are high. I thought I was my worst critic until I saw the experts at SHA Wellness Clinic on Spain’s Mediterranean coast.

After hearing from Dr. Ken Prange that my nerves were frayed and that the excess of refined sugar I consume is apparent in my fingernails and tongue, I figured I would stop ordering “a muffin for my muffin top” during my occasional visits to Peet’s and Coffee Bean in the States And I really would make a concerted effort to cut down on my red wine. Although wine is available at SHA, I’m not ordering any. It’s not like I can’t go a few days without it.

Dr. Prange was just one of the doctors I saw during my stay at SHA, one of the spas I’ll feature in my story on the top spas in the world’s in the September/October issue of Elite Traveler. People don’t come to SHA because they’re perfect. They come in search of perfection. Therefore, there is no coddling by the experts, who specialize in a variety of areas.  Dr. Dolores Antón Rico, who specializes in advanced anti aging skin techniques, was generally pleased with the elasticity in my skin but nonetheless showed me a video on Thermage. Intrigued by it, I asked her if it could help my thighs, which had started to sag several years ago.

“Let me see,” she said.

I was still wearing the running tights from my morning walk and warned her that I wore no panties.

“I’m a doctor,” she said with authority.

As I peeled my Brooks running tights away from my skin, she nearly gasped when she saw my bulging belly. I can’t remember if she asked if I was pregnant or had had children because her reaction to my muffin top caused my brain to stumble. Whatever she asked, it didn’t matter. The answer was NO! She examined my thighs, lifted my tush and told me Thermage could help both. But, she added, not the belly. As if I didn’t know. But thanks anyway doc.

My next stop was with the doctor who heads up aesthetics medicine at SHA Wellness Clinic. I pointed out the ever-so-slight lines that appeared in the creases when I smiled, asked if a little filler in my cheeks would help. She took it a step further and rattled off some other things I may want to consider as well.

I was feeling pretty good about myself when I came to SHA. Now I think I need to stay for about two months and rob a bank to pay for all of the work I need done that I didn’t know I needed done until I arrived. We tune up cars. We change timing belts around 100,000 miles. Our bodies are machines and need work too. Some more than others.

If Gwyneth can do macrobiotic then so can I

Dinner at SHA Wellness Clinic in El Albir, Spain

It’s easy to explain a vegan, vegetarian, pescatarian and even Mediterranean diet. But tell someone you’re going to a spa where only macrobiotic food is served and inevitably, the question is “What does macrobiotic mean?”

I know I sounded like an idiot when I told people had no idea. My only association with the word was through actress Gwyneth Paltrow, who did the macrobiotic thing for a few years, and M Café, a macrobiotic restaurant in Los Angeles that I had talked about a couple of times to Susan Irby on her The Bikini Chef radio show though I really didn’t know understand what macrobiotic meant.

All I knew was that I would be eating not just super healthy but exceptionally well at SHA Wellness Clinic because the chef Pablo Montoro had worked at Ferrán Adrià’s renowned restaurant El Bullí and in Martin Berasategui’s kitchen. I was eager to begin my “Discovery” program, the name for the uninitiated such as myself that flock to this clinic on Spain’s Mediterranean coast to detox, lose weight and learn how to take better care of themselves. I crammed my 36-inch inseam into what had to be seats with a 25-inch pitch on Iberia Express and jetted off to Alicante from Madrid.

My first introduction to macrobiotic food was breakfast, which I arrived just in time for after the 45-minute drive in a luxury sedan to SHA in the resort town of Albir, which has been overtaken by Germans and Brits. Breakfast started with a delicious mixture of carrot and fruit juice. Then I was served Miso soup, porridge, spelt toast, pears that had a hint of ginger and compote. I thought the porridge was steel-cut oatmeal but I was surprised to learn that it was brown rice and spelt milk. I had barely heard of spelt and had no idea you could make milk from it.

For lunch, I feasted on asparagus and zucchini soup topped with rice noodles, turbot paella, salad with sunflower seeds and almond crème brûlée with crumbled cinnamon. Then I was served kukicha tea, which is loaded with calcium and has tons of nutritional benefits.

Later that night I gobbled down pumpkin soup with caviar eggs, bread sticks, rolls and what appeared to be butter though I know it wasn’t, thinly sliced fresh vegetables that were so tasty that I might change my opinion of cauliflower being the worst food in the world and a white fish called “gill head.” A trio of homemade sorbet (orange, chocolate and strawberry) were presented for dessert.

Hey, I can do this macrobiotic thing for life. If it’s so good why does it sound so horrible?

The next day I met with Dr. Ken Prange, who presented me with a multi-page document on the macrobiotic diet, looked at my fingernails and tongue and suggested I cut down on sweets, or at least those made with refined sugar, and told me that my central nervous system was frayed. (“Could it be the economic conditions under which I live as a freelance writer,” I wanted to ask him?). He also suggested I eat Miso soup daily to improve my immune system after I told him I have way too many colds despite taking Spirulina, Chinese herbs and vitamin C daily.

I didn’t receive a textbook definition of macrobiotic from him so was eager to read the document he gave me. I still don’t know what it is but I’m thoroughly enjoying the dishes served at SHA Wellness Clinic.

Pumpkin soup at SHA Wellness Clinic in El Albir, Spain

Trying to understand Naomi’s bitterness toward chocolate

I’m always flattered when someone compliments me on my “chocolate” skin. Therefore, I don’t understand supermodel Naomi Campbell being upset at the Cadbury ad that refers to her complexion.

I would understand if the supermodel wanted to sue because the company didn’t pay her to use her first name, though I haven’t consulted an attorney to determine whether she would have a legit claim. But I don’t know when being called “chocolate” became a negative. Who doesn’t love chocolate?

For years my skin tone has been referred to as “chocolate” by Blacks and whites, even as recently as Memorial Day, and I can’t remember ever taking offense. I grew up in the “Say it loud! I’m black and I’m proud!” era.  I remember back in the 90s, one summer I wanted to see just how dark I could become. I spent seven days in Hawaii and never left the pool during daylight hours. When I returned home and looked at myself naked in the mirror, I looked like a zebra. My skin that had been exposed was about 20 times darker than the skin that my bikini covered. I loved it! (Yeah, I know I should do nude bathing not to have so-called “tan” lines.)

I know that being  this dark isn’t cool for some, including some Blacks who have told me I shouldn’t spend so much time in the sun. And trust me, they were not concerned about me getting skin cancer. Plenty of countries, especially those in Asia, still associate being dark with being a field hand. That’s why yachts purchased by wealthy Chinese might as well come with a cover-up deck rather than a sun deck.

High-profile people such as Isaac Hayes, Richard Roundtree, Cicely Tyson, Sidney Poitier, Iman and even Michael Jordan helped those who couldn’t have passed the paper bag test back when that insulting way to discriminate amongst our own was in effect appreciate their coffee-bean complexion. Later, women like Alek Wek and Foxy Brown, and even more recently First Lady Michelle Obama and Viola Davis, have helped people see beauty in our darkness. I’m thankful my parents didn’t hold back their love for me and my brother just because we came out so dark. I have Black friends who unfortunately have experienced rejection from their family because of their dark skin tone.

That’s about as ridiculous to me as Naomi’s complaint.

Or am I missing something regarding Miss Naomi? Is she overreacting?

Eat Pray Love: Take Two

Count me among the over six million people to buy Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love. And count me among the many who didn’t finish the  New York Times bestseller. My gold Oleg Cassini bookmark is right where I left it three years ago. On page 72.

It would seem that I, of all people, would be able to relate to Liz’s story for I too had moved to Italy on a quest. But unlike Liz, who embarked on a “search for everything” after her marriage failed, I went to eat, drink and pray for love. And she, unlike me, had a finite number of days she wanted to spend in the boot-shaped country before moving on to more serene pastures in India and Bali. I went in 2003 with the notion that I’d never leave Italy, which I ended up calling home for just two years due to the weak dollar and failure to find a Count worth marrying. Still, I was eager to read about her soul-searching journey and saved the book until a three-week sojourn to China in spring 2007. During a brief solo stay at the desolate Red Capital Ranch, where I hiked alone along a crumbling and non-restored Great Wall, I struggled to get into the book. Although I dog-eared some pages and put stars next to passages that resonated with me, it wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as I had hoped. Finally I gave up.

I thought it was just me who couldn’t get through the book but over the past few years oodles of people, mostly writers, have confessed that they didn’t finish it either. Just before the theater lights dimmed at last night’s screening, a colleague seated nearby told me that neither she nor her boss cared for the book either. (I’m sure Liz doesn’t care any more than, say John Grisham or Dan Brown, two commendable storytellers whose prose don’t match up to their book sales.) My failure to connect with Liz’s words didn’t stop me from wanting to see Julia Roberts, whom I adore, portray the author on the big screen for in the end it is the subject that fascinates me most.

Rarely is a movie better than the book on which it was based but even those who couldn’t stomach reading Eat Pray Love should enjoy the flick. I know I did. With my recent month-long stay in Tropea and few days in Rome still fresh in my mind, I salivated at the Italian scenes. The days of dolce far niente (the sweetness of doing nothing) and outings with female ex-pats and local men were reminiscent of my time in Firenze and Positano when lengthy dinners like the one in the photo above taken in Positano were common. Brava to Julia for nailing the Italian accent and the filmmakers for capturing the essence of my adopted country. (Although I’ve never seen such chaos in trying to order a cup of coffee anywhere in Italy.) Most of the dialogue isn’t memorable and another round of editing is needed. But the acting, characters, colors and cinematography captured my attention — and made me want to book a flight abroad.

Outside of my visits to several spas, I didn’t fall in love with Bali when I visited in 2000 but maybe that’s because I didn’t meet anyone as sexy as Javier Bardem.

I’m willing to give Indonesia another try. And despite having a visa for India in my passport, I never took the trip. I’m sure I’ll get there. Some day.

And maybe one day I’ll finish reading Eat Pray Love. I promised myself I would and now that I’ve seen the movie, I’m more inclined to do so. It says something that I moved the book from my Upper East Side apartment to Harlem then to L.A. If I didn’t want it, I would have tossed it when packing my belongings for each move. When I opened the book last night after returning from the screening I found the Oleg bookmark with the words, “To be well dressed is a little like being in love.”

Two people who can attest to that are Liz Gilbert and Felipe.

Attraversiamo.

How I (Never) Met Your Mother

I know some of you envy me for being able to enjoy a six-week holiday in Europe but at times it was torture. It’s like finding the ideal mate and knowing you only have a limited amount of time together. When I told friends I was going to Italy for a month, they wondered if I’d return. Well, sadly I did. I’m back in L.A., though more determined than ever to find a way to become an ex-pat once again.

Walking down cobblestone streets in Rome’s Trastevere section or through Tropea’s narrow streets and gazing at the bluish/green sea while lounging on the beach in Tropea stirred my desire to once again become a resident of the boot-shaped country. Not that the yearning ever left me after returning in 2005. I’m so fond of Italy’s small towns that I envision myself teaching English in a medieval village while continuing to write. I even brought up the topic with a couple of residents of Tropea, where I was welcomed like a local but don’t think is the place for me, and was encouraged by their responses. I realize money is tight in small southern towns like Tropea so while parents may wish for their children speak English, being able to hire someone to teach them is another matter.

Spending my last night in Italy with five ex-pats and one hopeful at a charming enoteca near the Colosseo, or Colosseum, was the ideal way to end my sojourn. Perhaps through osmosis, the will, courage and spirit of these fantastic women (as well as my other ex-pats friends like Layne and Elizabeth, who couldn’t make the girls’ night out, ex-pat gathering) will inspire me to get my butt in gear. The euro is a bit kinder to the dollar than in 2005 when I was forced to pack my bags after 26 months in Italy. However, one still takes quite a beating earning in U.S. dollars and spending in euro, which is why I need to focus on making euros. A report released by Manpower Inc. the other day listed Italy among four countries with a negative employment outlook. (Greece, Ireland and Spain are the others.) But I can’t let depressing statistics, or reality, deter me. Layne, whom I met when we both lived in Florence in 2003, recently landed a job as an international attorney at Fendi. So there!

Plus, the women I hung out with Tuesday night, some new acquaintances and others old friends, are positive examples of how ex-pats can make it work even if they don’t have a major fashion house signing their paycheck. I had invited the other ex-pat hopeful Lynne, whom I had met the previous night through Layne. Over bottles of Nero d’Avola, the ex-pats told me they would help me in any way they could should I decide to return. As the group dispersed (not me because I was staying for more vino and a real meal since I hadn’t eaten yet), we met a woman from Chicago and her Italian husband. This couple was a hoot and what fun I had chatting with the two of them. But it wasn’t just the laughs we shared but the seriousness of our conversation as well.

The husband told me and Lynne, who had stayed on to keep me company, how he encouraged his Caucasian wife to introduce herself to us when he saw our group, which consisted of six women of color and one Caucasian, because he had never laid eyes on a collection of beautiful, sophisticated black women in Italy.

Sadly, too often the image of women of color in Italy is of us as a puntana, or prostitute, in Naples. We offer nothing except sex. And it’s constantly reinforced. On Layne’s seven-hour bus ride from Tropea to Rome, she was appalled by a movie about a Senegalese family that moves to Italy. The African wife/mother begins an affair with a married Italian man. She’s shown nude, moaning and screaming during their multiple sexcapades. And this was shown on an early morning bus ride with about 15 senior citizens, who were riveted. When the Italian wife learns of the affair, her family tells that for African women, “sex is like water. They need it to live.”

It’s these kinds of stereotypes that the women I hung with last night are able to break down. And it’s not just in Italy. Four years ago I traveled solo through Croatia and met a local on the island of Hvar who told me how much my presence in his country was doing to educate Croatians about Black people for I showed that we can be intelligent, classy and professional. That country has such a bad reputation when it comes to racism that an editor of a black travel magazine wouldn’t give me an assignment about Croatia because he was reluctant to promote such a place. It turned out to be one of my best vacations.

But back to Italy and my oh-so-fab group of ex-pats that I want to join. There’s Bunmi, who is from the UK, married to a New Zealander and is the mother of two. Courtney, who is married to an Italian and approaching her second anniversary. Charmaine was divorced from an Italian when I met her several years ago but she wed another Italian about a year ago. I didn’t have a chance to ask Arlene, who moved to Italy in 2008, about her relationship status. Nancy, the lone Caucasian, dates John, an American sportswriter in Denver whom I have known since my days covering sports. Nancy and John had moved to Italy together and left due to finances shortly before I arrived in April 2003. Now she’s back and hoping John returns as planned. When living abroad is in your blood, it doesn’t leave. And there’s Lynne, who like me would like to live in Italy and is traveling solo on holiday. I wanted her to meet these women so invited her. Lynne, also like me, never can get a date and can’t figure out why.

That brings me to Paolo. Some of you have wondered what became of the Italian who fell madly in love with me on first sight and on our first date invited me to his house to meet his mother and called her on the mobile so I could speak to her. No, I didn’t meet mama but she did call me on my final night in Tropea to tell me what a pity it was that we didn’t get together and that she hopes that the next time I come to Italy that we meet. I told her that I was sorry that it didn’t happen either, even though I wanted very much to meet her.

Layne and I scream with laughter trying to figure out what happened with what looked like a promising start to something, although I wasn’t quite sure what. But something more than what I ever have going on in the States. Maybe it was my lead pencils, my vacation hair, my strong deodorant or writing “ciao amore” that put the brakes on Paolo’s fast-moving train.

Let me explain in detail:

CIAO AMORE
As you may recall Paolo, a single attorney with no kids and who I found out is 46, lives 120 kilometers from Tropea and came for a weekend to hang out with his brother and another friend, both of whom live in Rome. That’s when we met. Thanks to a mid-week holiday in Italy, Paolo returned to visit me a couple of days later.

Before he left his city he asked if he could stay overnight with me since it was a long drive back. I told him of course, but he had to sleep in the extra bedroom. He scoffed at this so I relented and told him he can sleep with me in my room but we are NOT having sex.  Once he arrived, my self-control didn’t stop me from wearing a revealing baby-doll nightie with a thong to bed because hey, a girl’s gotta feel sexy even if she has no plans to give it up on the second date. Being that he’s a man, and Italian at that, of course he brought up sex when we were in bed. (We always spoke in Italian but I’ll write in English.)

“I don’t know you well enough,” I said as to my reason why he wasn’t getting any.

“How long do I have to wait?” he replied.

“How long do you usually wait?” I asked, knowing that he had dumped his girlfriend of 10 years just three weeks prior.

No answer.

Anyway, the sex, or lack thereof, didn’t turn into an issue during his two-night stay. At least not then. Interestingly enough he brought it up after returning to his city. At his request, I emailed him photos of us and began the email “Ciao amore,” or “hello love.” He wrote me back and asked “how could I write ciao amore when nothing happened.”  For Christ’s sake! I say “ciao amore” to cute Italian babies on the street who I don’t know. Was it really that big of a deal?

And we had gotten along swimmingly during the two days together. I was thrilled to discover how health conscious he is: he works out at a gym three times a week and jogs — and I’ve taken up running because of him; we both drink soy milk and abhor cigarettes. And he’s clean. When he returned from our morning run, he washed his workout clothes in the sink and hung them out to dry. This was huge because I consider him a mammone, an Italian mama’s boy who lives at home and relies on his mother to do everything for him. He does live at home but he explained that it’s in a palazzo with five apartments on the bottom.  I can overlook this as it is not completely atypical in Italy. Plus he’s affectionate and thoughtful. We cuddled on the beach and when my iPod froze, he offered me half of his earphones so we could listen to his music while soaking up the rays.

We took in sunset from my terrace while drinking Martini Bianco, my favorite apertivo, he cooked dinner for me both nights, and when we walked Lucia at night we stopped for after dinner drinks.

In just two days my Italian improved exponentially because I took my dictionary and notepad everywhere, looked up words he used and jotted them down so I could remember them. I also looked up the word “rebound” and showed it to him as I figured he was on the rebound, which he denied since he was the one who called off the 10-year romance. During his visit, he called home to check in with his family and tell them how he cooked dinner for me. They were shocked because he NEVER cooks.

I talked to Paolo’s brother Dino (for the second time) as well as Dino’s girlfriend Gabriella. Everyone had seen my photos on my website and agreed that I was bella. Lucia was a little cautious of Paolo at first but she became his little buddy, curling up at his feet when he watched TV and staring at him as he shaved. We don’t get many men spending the night so this was an unusual activity for her.

LEAD PENCILS
When Paolo returned home, he told me his mother continued to ask when to expect me for dinner. I never received a formal invite and couldn’t take the train three hours and show up on my own. After he returned home, Paolo also repeatedly complained about the stress he was under at work and home but provided no details. While Skyping one day, he asked if I noticed how he didn’t sleep during his two-night stay with me. Sure I had, but I figured it was because of me.

My bed, which I had slept like a baby in until his arrival, squeaked with him in it. Every time he moved, it creaked. And he moved constantly because he hasn’t slept in a while. He periodically dozed off and when he did, he snored something fierce, which awakened me and pissed me off. So for two days I barely slept at night. (Earplugs don’t stay in my ears so are not an option.) Thankfully I slept fine on the beach and my ability to fall asleep anywhere on a moment’s notice became a running joke between us.

Because my bed, like most in Italy, was only a double, we slept VERY close. Okay, he wrapped his arms around me and our legs intertwined, if you need details. By the second night, he told me my legs were heavy. I pulled them away but stayed in his arms because when I rolled out of his grasp before, he asked if it was uncomfortable being in his arms. No, I like being in a headlock. No problem. Deal with my legs. Heavy, I thought to myself. My tooth pick legs? How can they be heavy? Now Layne and I jokingly call my legs the lead pencils.

STRONG DEODORANT
During another point in the middle of the night Paolo told me my perfume was strong. I was 99% asleep and therefore very proud of myself when, without thinking I need to speak in Italian, I replied, “Non ho usato perfuma.” (I didn’t use perfume.) He then made a comment about my deodorant being strong. Yeah, I wear Secret, which is strong enough for a man but made for a woman. But it’s powder-fresh scented. Strong as it may be, my underarms still smell fresh. Dude, be glad I don’t come to bed smelling like a goat.

VACATION HAIR
When Paolo initially called his mother to tell her about me, he told her that I am as tall as him and have curly hair. When he later checked out my website, he saw photos of me with longer, straight hair. He commented about the different hairstyle and said “piu bella,” telling me that I am more beautiful with long, straight hair. I replied that I agree but it’s shorter and curly now because this is my “vacation hair.” And I left it at that. I didn’t feel like explaining/couldn’t explain in Italian that I’m wearing a weave during this trip because I can’t deal with my natural hair while traveling for six weeks. I’d have to explain what happens to my natural hair when it gets wet, how I didn’t want to wear it in its natural state for six weeks because maintaining the spiral curls requires lugging around a lot of products,  define a hot comb and pressing, tell him about my aversion to creamy crack relaxers, convince him that I really do have thick, shoulder-length hair like my website shows but it is braided for now and I have some Indian chick’s hair attached to the braids. This is complicated enough to explain to a non-Black person in English, let alone an Italian in Italian.

Paolo sometimes caressed my hair and I’m sure he had to feel the tracks. But he never said anything so I adhered to the military’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Most black women who wear weaves impersonate a boxer by ducking and dodging when a man reaches for their hair. But not me. Go ahead, cowboy. Touch my weave. It’s not coming out and your hands aren’t going to get caught in the tracks. I am most positive Paolo never felt tracks before so he had no idea what he was feeling. Maybe he thought I had growths on my scalp and couldn’t bear to fall deeper in love with me and then lose me to some outlandish skin condition.

So it could have been the vacation hair, strong deodorant, lead pencils or “ciao amore” that kept me from meeting mama and prevented him from returning to visit me on the weekends, when I know he was free because we talked all the time. Maybe Paolo, whose is not without faults but is workable as no one is perfect, didn’t see the point of getting wrapped up in somebody who would soon depart (especially after breaking up with someone after 10 years) and doesn’t live in the moment enough like me to enjoy hanging out only for a few weeks. Although we stayed in contact daily through Skype and SMS while I was in Tropea, I was thrown for a loop when his mother got on Skype my final day.

So although I didn’t meet the mama, I return with fantastic memories of new experiences and having fallen in love – all over again with Italy. Baci!

Did Publishers Weekly lose its cotton pickin’ mind?

My mouth dropped open when I saw this image on the Dec. 14 cover of Publishers Weekly. While I love the creativity of the Lauren Kelley image itself, it has no place on the cover of a trade magazine touting what’s new in African-American books.

In an article titled PW’s African-American Cover Image: Black Beauty or Big Mistake, Calvin Reid, a senior editor, explained his reasoning for selecting this image, the back story on the image and writing the questionable cover line.

The image was reminiscent of the 1970s and appealed to me, someone who grew up in the middle of the 1970s-era wave of black pride, black power and big afros with big afro picks stuck right in the back. To me it is a sweet, tongue-in-cheek funny and striking image of quirky black hair power. And while it never occurred to me that anyone would be offended by these images, I was very wrong and I have to acknowledge that. Quite a few people were offended by it and outraged by what some perceive as a disparaging or degrading image of a black woman. I certainly regret offending anyone and while I still love that image, I intend to think long and hard about whatever  image is chosen for next year’s cover.

I’d be curious to know how PW illustrated its annual African-American issue in previous years. This image, called Pickin’ and taken by Lauren Kelley in 1999, is included in Posing Beauty: African American Images from the 1890s to the Present, a photography book compiled by Deborah Willis. It is clever as a work of art. While Calvin notes that, for him, the Afro is symbolic of black hair power, I think for many others it is deemed as being rebellious and militant. The whole hair thing is a separate subject unto itself and one I’ve shared my thoughts on previously.

It’s hard enough to get other races to read our books, see our movies, watch our television shows, visit our art galleries, all ways to help us understand one another in today’s multi-cultural society. Therefore I don’t think using this image on the cover is a way to draw even the readers of PW into Felicia Pride’s article, which is more about what sells and today’s economy.  Slap the words “Afro Picks” above the picture and it demeans what I think is indeed a thought-provoking and beautiful image and does a disservice to the article. Would NBC, for example, use “Afro Pick” when weatherman  Al Roker announces his pick city of the day as he does daily on Today? Would ESPN super impose an image of an Afro pick behind Michael Irvin’s head before me makes a prediction for Monday Night Football? No. That’s why I cry foul for Calvin’s choice.

And this is why it’s important to have diversity throughout the workplace. Granted, you’ll never  please every member of any race all of the time but a reasonably intelligent person should be able to discern whether a particular race would be offended by something like this by asking around.  I have no idea how many minorities PW has on its staff but numbers can be misleading anyway. I remember when I first walked through the headquarters at People in the late ’90s when I started working out of the magazine’s Los Angeles bureau. There were so many chocolate faces looking back at me. Little did I realize they were the support staff. I can’t recall a Black being in a decision-making position and attending key meetings. And that’s the way it is throughout mainstream publishing. This is how come offensive images, or in this case an inappropriate image and words, continue to pop up every so often.

When I worked at the now-defunct Pittsburgh Press back in the late 80s, there were a few unnecessary instances where the paper ran less-than-flattering photos of blacks. I finally said something to an editor and it was as if no one had ever noticed. I also had to speak up in defense of then University of Pitt basketball star Charles Smith. If I remember correctly, there were some rumblings about whether Pitt had violated NCAA rules by providing him certain things, like a car. I explained to my editor, perhaps rather naively, that it is possible for black parents to buy their college child a car. Heck, I had a car in the 11th grade and so did many of the Black teenagers from my neighborhood.  The idea seemed so foreign to my editor. Really??  It was as if it had honestly never occurred to him that a Black family would be in such a financial position. And as I recall, Charles came from a middle-class background. BTW, no violations were ever found to have occurred with Charles and the university.

As for PW, well, that was a major violation.

When only a wig will do

The other day I Tweeted ” A bad hair day…even for me. No time for taming of the ‘do. This is when a wig comes in handy.” My Tweets go directly to Facebook and one of FB my buddies wrote “Don’t do it, Kel. Wear your hair like it is.” Of course it was a man.

So easy for him to say. I sometimes think men are absolutely clueless when it comes to a woman and her hair. Maybe he thought I was going to wear plop something outrageous, like an Elvira or Tina Turner wig, atop my head. Not hardly. My Beverly Johnson wig is short and, I think, so cute. It’s not wiggy (as you can see from the photo above) and even has natural bounce when I walk. How could I not wear it when my own hair was so out of control and would only be tamed by a shampoo and conditioner, which I didn’t have time to do because I was on my way to the radio studio? Most days I wear my hair natural so we’re talking at least three hours of air dry time before I even untwist it after shampooing because I try to control its wildness.

I subscribe to the Tyra Banks school of thought and am not ashamed to say I own a wig or two (okay, girlfriend probably has 100). When I wore a weave and folks complimented me on my coif, in a New York minute I’d respond, “You can have this hair too because it’s a weave.”  I remember being in Cap Cana in the Dominican Republic on a press trip. The humidity wreaked havoc on a hairdo, but not mine . By day two, the other female journalists (none of whom was Black) asked me which hair products I used because they wanted them. Please! It’s my Indian weave that is not affected by the humidity, I said.

Some women are embarrassed at the thought of such a confession. Get over it.  To me, hair is an extension of one’s style, which for me changes from day to day. Just like I stand in my closet and decide if I want to wear skinny leg jeans, bell bottoms, a wrap dress or a mini-skirt, I should be able to stand in the mirror and decide do I want to straighten my hair with a hot comb, use a relaxer, rock a natural style, wear a wig, add in pieces or have a weave sewn in, which is the best thing for a travel writer who is constantly on the go and can’t bog down luggage with hair products.

For most women, changing one’s hairstyle takes a bit more time than selecting an outfit to wear. And this is when a wig is most appreciated. I don’t imagine I’d wear a wig if I expected to get busy. I can just imagine being all good to go and saying, “Wait.” I slip off my wig to reveal a stocking cap covering my 12 twists. Talk about spoiling a mood. Maybe my male FB friend had this happen to him so now he’s against women and wigs. I have to ask him. One thing he should know is that more women wear wigs than he thinks. Check out Nia Long on the November cover of Essence. When promoting the movie Good Hair, Nia said this wasn’t her hair. Did any man have a problem with her in this photo?

You can’t cheat the Master Cleanser

In case you’ve wondered how come I haven’t Twittered or Tweeted about or posted a photo of my latest, greatest dish while on L.A.’s dining scene, it’s because I haven’t eaten since Tuesday. Well, that’s not entirely true.

I started Stanley Burroughs’ Master Cleaner, a.k.a the Lemonade Diet, last Wednesday so I could get rid of my nagging belly — again. I did it two years ago and loved the results. And I was soooo good two years ago. I never cheated. This time? Well, not so much.

Day 1: I grew a little hungry at night and since I hate to throw food away with so many formerly middle-class people starving these days, I decided to have the last tomato and avocado in the house. I drizzled a little olive oil over it and that was it.

Day 2: I grew a little hungry at night while reading. I had to interview Isadore Sharp, the Founder, Chairman and CEO of Four Seasons  Hotels and Resorts, the next morning at 8 o’clock and figured it would be wise for me to read his book, which was quite fascinating, in its entirety. Ever trying reading a 278-page book in one sitting without eating? It’s hard. A third of the way through I went to the kitchen and microwaved a small bag of popcorn.  Two-thirds of the way through, I went back in the kitchen and found a small box of raisins. As I neared the end of the book, I wanted to jump in my car and go through the drive-thru at the 24-hour McDonald’s near my house even though it was 1 a.m. But I reached deep down and found my discipline. I could deal with cheating with a 100-calorie package of popcorn and 130-calorie box of raisins. I would have beaten myself up if I ate Mickey D French fries and a cheeseburger while trying to cleanse.

Day 3: I grew a little hungry at night. By now I figured if I just stuck to the box of raisins and maybe added a handful of raw almonds that my stomach would still be flat in a few more days. So I indulged.

Day 4: Now I was hungry during the day.  No surprise considering I went to the gym in the morning and did 20 minutes of ab work then a 60-minute turbo kickboxing class. Maybe it was imagination but while watching myself in the mirror at the gym, I think I saw the abs I’ve known all along were hiding under my belly fat. Hoorah! I was on my way. When I got home, I knew I’d be on my feet for a concert all night and figured, well, maybe I should have my box of raisins and TWO handfuls of almonds while I worked on my book in the afternoon instead of waiting until nighttime. So I did. After all, I didn’t want to pass out at Common’s concert and have to have that hunk of a man give me mouth-to-mouth.

Day 5: By now I’m convinced I have completely fooled the Master Cleanser. I ate two boxes of raisins and two handfuls of almonds while writing.

Day 6: Today is the day I should have a flat belly, based on how long it took me to achieve my desired results the last time I did this crazy thing. I got up this morning, looked in the mirror and gasped. I look like I’m five months pregnant again! Where did this belly come from? I’ve eaten nothing except an avocado, a tomato, a small package of popcorn, a few boxes of raisins and maybe a cup or two of almonds since Wednesday. I haven’t consumed any alcohol since the pomegranate margaritas at Rosa Mexicano’s a week ago. Only water, my lemonade concoction and my morning salted water for cleansing purposes.

Now I’m back to where I started and I’ve learned my lesson. This morning I vowed to be good. When darkness falls tonight, I am not giving in to cravings. I put the remaining raw almonds and raisins in the cabinet so I can’t see them. I was looking forward to getting off the Master Cleanser on Wednesday but judging by the way I look, I think I better stay on until Thursday or Friday.

Of course Saturday I’ll be at Wolfgang Puck’s annual American Wine & Food Festival at the back lot at Universal. I doubt any of the booths will have raw almonds and raisins but I’ll eat wisely. Or at least I’ll try. For now, it’s time for another glass of lemonade.