31 is the magic number

my weekend in Los Angeles with Greg was lovely and perfect.
it was possibly, probably, sadly, my last visit there with him- he landed in NYC a few hours ago, and there he will stay. We spent a lot of quiet time on the porch with martinis, looking at the garden and the flower boxes, contemplating the end of an era, and talking about how soon I can make it to New York to visit.
Friday we went to the Getty and had a sumptuous lunch outside (oh, the view!) before wandering around the grounds and the garden. We looked at a lot of art and got totally overstimulated. the collections aren't particularly magnificent, but there's a lot of stuff to see. What stands out in memory are the Lee Miller photos (the shot of her in Hitler's bathtub after the war is pretty unforgettable) and the illuminated manuscripts- not the most stunning collection, but always my favorite thing. Holbein's "An Allegory of Passion" was fabulous, too.

E cosi desio me mena (And so desire carries me along)

I don't want to like the Getty so much, but I do. The last time I was there the garden wasn't even complete. the grounds are spectacular. it was a gorgeous day, though the marine layer ended up obscuring the sunset we hoped to see.
At the bookstore Greg had to tear me away from a copy of Albertus Seba's Cabinet of Natural Curiosities. I settled for a few postcards.
Saturday was my birthday, and we went out for dinner with the rest of the boys (my boys- important to say it like Roxie Hart) at Chameau in Silverlake- we love that place, yes we do, especially the lamb.
then we were off for some booty-shaking, which I haven't done in years, and oh, I'm still sore. all those silly back bends and- what was I doing exactly?
photos to follow, eventually.