You should try the ravioli di zucca

Night before last Trish and I stayed up late talking about books; she was an English major at USC, and her book club recently read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Last night she had me watch the The Bachelorette with her, an episode in which the woman whittled the field from three to two men. Overnight I dreamed I was on a similar show. In this one, though, there was an equal number of men and women, about a dozen of each. I was the Old Guy. James was the producer and his wife was Nicole Kidman and they had two small red-haired boys. At a garden party Nicole attached herself to me, and together we walked the grounds of a Beverly Hills mansion talking about children. She reached out and held my hand, which was nice but worrisome. Nicole was more appealing than I thought she would be.

Sunday evening James and I drove up to Los Angeles, and cruised such well-known streets as Wilshire and Sunset Boulevards and Rodeo Drive and Melrose Avenue, and I ogled the posh shops and beautiful people. We rode in an Astin-Martin Vantage F-1 Roadster, a convertible with paddle shifters on the steering wheel (James manages the Astin-Martin store in Newport Beach and drives a demo); I would've have called the body color gray but James said actually it's "meteorite." At James's urging I drove the $150,000 sports car, and I sort of enjoyed it but I was nervous too.

We ended up at the small, immaculate apartment of a friend of James', a half block off Melrose in West Hollywood. With the friend, also named James, we walked to a nearby hipster restaurant named Taste. James II asked the waiter about his accent and if he was from Australia, and the waiter laughed and said, no, England; the waiter tried not to show it but I could tell he was offended. James II is a tall, fit man in his mid-forties, who works in "product development" for an insurance company, though he used to work at "the studios" after he first got his MBA. He wore expensive jeans and an expensive t-shirt and looked at least a decade younger than his age. In the late eighties he and James worked together as stockbrokers and, according to James at least, lost lots of people lots of money.

For dinner I had orange and ginger pad thai with shrimp and snap beans; the whole fusion thing was interesting, but not as good as the original.

The following night, last night, we ate out again, James and I, this time with Trish at Poggio, a small Italian restaurant in their neighborhood. The waiter's name was Carlo, and he was from Rome, and every time he set a dish on the table he said "empreggo" (which might be how the word is spelled but I'm not sure). We sat outside on the sidewalk, and there was a white table cloth, and it was easy to imagine we were in Europe. I had ravioli di zucca; here's the description copied from the menu: "house made ravioli, filled with butternut squash, raisins, walnuts, and ricotta cheese, sauteed in sage and spicy tomato sauce, finished with shaved parmiggiano." It sounded good and tasted even better, one of the very best pasta dishes I've ever eaten.

Tonight I go to the airport and fly to Melbourne, traveling west sixteen or so timezones, and south from summer to winter. I also shift from van to backpack, which means no small reduction in gear. I'll arrive the morning of the third, so the second will be lost to me, though I'll get the day back on the return.... So here it goes. When I write again, it will be from the Antipodes.