I was finally able to break away from work for a while this weekend and go down to DC to visit my ex, Shaun. I couldn't really get any time off work, so I decided to go down Thursday night (on Acela, for the first time - very chic), work from our Maryland office on Friday, and again on Monday, and come back Monday night.

Thursday night, I got into DC around eight, and was greeted by a smiling Shaun at Union Station. We ate a light dinner at the restaurant attached to Results Gym; the reason for not overindulging was because of our next destination, a bar called The Green Lantern. D.C. has some odd little habits in it's nightlife that you don't find most other places, one of them being places like the Lantern, where you receive an empty plastic cup as you enter. If you go shirtless you can use your cup to receive an endless flow of free drinks. So, of course, most people go shirtless, though I think the free drinks are only part of the incentive.

I feel like I've had the same conversation with most of my unattached gay friends (i.e. most of my friends) lately; how is it that we're all single? I'd had the same conversation over dinner with Shaun before going to the bar, and Shaun had reminded me that you only live once, and you should act upon the opportunities that come your way. But like so many good principles, you tend to forget to put them into practice. That's what happened at the Lantern; I made eye contact with a great-looking black guy throughout the evening, but didn't follow through. It was only when we were leaving, our feet already going down the stairs, that he reached over and grabbed my hand. Too late. Shaun wanted us to go back up again, but I thought it would be too embarrassing. That's zero for opportunity lost, and one for abject cowardice.

It was a fleshy weekend all together. After leaving the shirtless Lantern, Shaun persuaded me to go with him to another DC peculiarity called "Wet", where naked men strut and squirm above you at the bar, while you stuff their socks with dollar bills.

Since Shaun lives an hour out of DC, in Frederick, Maryland, we didn't get home until two. I'm not used to having such a late night before going to work the next day. And since the Maryland office was half an hour from Frederick, we ended up with only about five hours sleep. We'd planned to drive to Philly in the evening, on a kind of nostalgia trip. We'd never been back there, to the city where we met, together since we broke up over thirteen years ago. It proved to be a long, tiring drive in the rain. Still, as we approached the outskirts of Philadelphia, and started recognizing landmarks, we both perked up.

We were staying at the recently built Hyatt Regency ($49.00 per night via Priceline!) on Penns Landing, right on the Delaware. Mind, we didn't spend much time in the hotel. We headed out for dinner. The streets of Philadelphia at night seemed even quieter than I remembered, and it was a little sad to see evidence that Philadelphia's cafe and restaurant revival of the last few years had petered out; there were some shuttered restaurants in prime locations. After circling through the wet, cold streets, we settled on a restaurant on the corner of Locust and Broad called Upstairs at Varellis. At least we started upstairs; we consulted the menu offered us by the hostess, and decided it was a bit too pricey. So we headed out to the street and into the restaurant downstairs, which, for some reason, we'd thought was cheaper. It was only when we were sitting and the waitress brought us the menus, that we realized that downstairs at Varellis had exactly the same fare, at the same prices, as Upstairs.

We stopped by Woodys, the Philadelphia main stay, which was as unappetizing as ever, and then, for old time's sake, visited Key West, the bar where we met. It hadn't changed a bit in fifteen years, apart from in its clientele (now mostly black) and the entertainment. Several extremely hunky young men in briefs were walking around, practically making out with customers for those dollar tips. I blush to say that both Shaun and I had various young men writhing against us while we stuffed their socks and underwear. We got into conversation (while we fondled him at his invitation) with one particularly studly Italian-American guy from South Philly with perfect skin, who proved, of course, to be 100% heterosexual.

Our evening ended at the supposedly exciting nightclub Shampoo, over in the architecto-industrial wasteland North-West of the convention center. This is where I remembered why I left Philadelphia in the first place. When I left (by myself, since Shaun wanted to stay out dancing) at 12.30 or so, I couldn't find a cab to save my life. There wasn't a soul to be seen, as I trudged South, in the dark, rainy night through the raggedy, decaying relics of Philadelphia's former glories.

In the hotel, next morning, after another late night.

Despite the late night, I was determined to go out running in the morning, to remind myself of the many good aspects of the city I'm still very fond of. One of the things I like about it is how compact Center City is. In fact, you can run across Center City East to West and back again in forty minutes. Well, you can if you have long legs like mine. And the traffic is so light that you barely have to wait at any of the lights to cross the road. The streets just South of Market Street are utterly charming; I ran up Spruce Street, and then back down Delancey, with its large, impressive brownstones, and then Pine, with its antique and design stores. There was a crisp, Fall bite to the air.

After a very long brunch at a place called Mixto in Antique Row (great food and atmosphere, lousy service and long waits), we faffed around for a while, looking in the stores on Pine Street. It was a beautiful day by now; sunny, and pretty warm.

Outside Giovanni's Room on Pine Street

We wrapped up our visit to Philadelphia with a workout at the 12th Street Gym. When we came out, the sun had gone down far enough to cast the streets into shadow, apart from the tips of the roofs, which still caught the ruddy yellow late afternoon sun. I got Shaun to speed around the streets along the West bank of the Schullykill, while I tried to capture the Fall foliage, the skyline and the Art Museum in the sun's last glare. But it was mostly too late, apart from the unfocussed snap of the musuem, below.

The Art Museum, above the Schullykill

Mind, it's difficult to get Shaun to do anything with speed. He and I are complete opposites in that regard; I'm impatient, lazy, restless, while Shaun is slow, methodical, absent-minded. When I pull my car to a stop, I'm already outside, the keys in my pocket while the engine is still shutting down. Shaun, on the other hand, is looking around the car to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, surveying the outside of the door, checking himself in the mirror. Meanwhile, I'm half way down the street. But we get on famously, despite our differences. He's a great travel companion, since he's almost always in a genial mood; he's quick to laughter, and curious in his surroundings. And since I still love him, in that special way that you always love your first love, I naturally reign in my own self-centeredness when I'm around him. All in all, we're better friends now, perhaps, than we ever were when we were boyfriends all those years ago.

For some reason, rather than drive back to Frederick, Saturday night, we drove into DC and went to a late movie, "Runaway Jury", an overlong, schematically plotted, overwrought courtroom drama. I only really wanted to see it because I'm continually charmed by Gene Hackman. I have no idea, on the other hand, how Dustin Hoffman gets work, he seems such a hack. So anyway, we had our third late night in a row.

Sunday was an even more beautiful day than Saturday had been. It was t-shirt weather all day, and a perfect day to walk around the Dupont Circle neighborhood, touring historical homes. It was an event that drew mostly gay men and nice little old ladies. You start off the tour at the grand masonic temple on 16th Street, tucking into tea and tiny little cakes. Once fortified, you head out to see the houses in the guide that take your fancy. I let Shaun chose, since he has a professional interest (being a real-estate agent in his latest career).

The masonic temple on 16th Street. Same architect as the Jefferson Memorial.

The staircase at the Colonial Club, a social club for congressional spouses.

The porthole was there long before the deck was built atop the neighboring building that afforded this rather intimate, accidental view

The buildings were a mixed bag. I don't have great skill with interior design, so I picked up a few ideas for things I could try myself when I get back home to San Francisco. But there was also plenty of proof that lots of money doesn't necessarily mean lots of style. One mansion was decorated throughout in high Victoriana with every wall filled with overblown, ornately framed reproductions of the works of the great masters. It would have been much more at home in Los Angeles than Dupont Circle.

Shaun recouperating at my favorite cafe, the Starbucks in Dupont Circle

We seem to have packed so much into our weekend. After dinner at the Laureyal Plaza (I think it was called), we lined up to get into Reel Affirmations at the Lincoln Theater, D.C.'s gay and lesbian film festival, where there was a program called "Best of the Fest", a collection of eight shorts. If this was the best, then, well, you get the rest. As usual, I felt encouraged that I might one day esily get my own efforts into a film festival.

We ended our hectic weekend, in yet another late night, at the Lizard Lounge, a club I enjoyed last time I was in D.C. No shirtlessness this time, but I finally took the bull by the horns. While I'd been dancing with Shaun, I'd noticed that the statuesque, hunky, handsome Phillipino boy I'd been admiring seemed to be sending occasional flashes of his dark eyes in my direction. It seemed unlikely (I suffer from that common gay disease known as "why me surely not" syndrome). But then I remembered my conversations with Shaun, to live for today. So I mosied over and shook his hand. After talking with him for a while, and enjoying his strategically placed hand on my back, I felt he was quite a sweetheart. This proves another gay rule, that you always meet the best available men when you're in a city a long way from home. Oh well. I walked him to his car, where we spent a few enjoyable minutes, before we exchanged numbers and I returned to the club. Just time to meet up with another handsome man, a tall, intellectual, muscular African-American man, with whom I'd been playing eye footsies for much of the evening. Got his number too. How does it happen that I can be in New York for months, and meet no eligible men, then come to DC and meet two in the space of twenty minutes.