 Prudence McCoy My Diary. Again Wyoming (a stop along the way):My first introduction to local ‘culture’ was a rustic and rather charming little restaurant and club called ‘The Mesa’, a watering hole (see, I’m getting right into the swing of things out here, in the Wild West, drinking ‘hot joe’ and stopping at ‘watering holes’) frequented by locals. One of whom is a detective with the local police department, Eddie Duncan, who is recently transplanted from Boston. The quiet type, apparently, since I couldn’t squeeze more than a few words out of him and those weren’t that memorable. He was wearing a Red Sox hat that made him look like a bit of a wanker and he was clearly one of those obnoxious Boston fans who think their beloved Red Sox can walk on water. Please. There’s only one baseball team that walks on water – my beloved Yankees. The poor detective had a horrendous case of razor burn. I immediately offered a time-tested ‘PruPointer’ solution – a whack of oatmeal slathered on his face – but he seemed less than impressed. That’s makes two of us. Although, I must admit, Detective Duncan might be passably attractive if he were wearing a Yankees hat. I was a tinsy bit curious, though. Why would anyone from a city like Boston want to move to Wyoming? I’m guessing there’s a skeleton or two in his closet. We’ll see.Grey Wolf Lodge:Ruth delivered me to Jeffrey’s lodge – ostentatiously dubbed ‘Grey Wolf Lodge’ -- a modest little pied a terre nestled in the shadows of the Grand Teton mountains – and they are bloody grand, let me tell you. Go all the way up to the sky, they do. Took my breath away and that hasn’t happened since that night at the Hotel de Vendome in Paris with Francois, the absolutely mad French sculpture. Or, was he a surgeon? Who cares? He had a wonderful bedside manner… and such soft hands….Where was I? Oh, right… Wyoming. While it’s not the Vendome, the Lodge is nothing to sneeze at. The ‘great room’, with its towering ceilings and stone fireplace, makes Carnegie Hall look like a sodding broom closet. Even my poor, swollen feet (they don’t like to travel) relaxed when we walked into the lodge. It was like a thirsty man finding an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. Or Peter O’Toole finding that open pub at five in the morning in Chelsea. Another interesting night, that….and, no, I’m not going to write about that. I’ll leave it to your imagination: Peter O’Toole with a head full of that blazing blonde hair, me, a pub overlooking the Thames, a pair of swans, necks intertwined, floating nearby and the sun just starting to chase the stars from the sky…Grey Wolf Lodge (later): You’ll never guess who sent flowers! To moi! No, not Peter O’Toole… Doug Craig, local-lawyer-with-the-lovely-smile. I just met the man two hours ago and he’s already sending flowers. With a very nice, very proper card. Very impressive. I like a man of action. Especially a man who sends beautiful flowers. More on Mr. Craig, Esquire to follow. We’re having drinks tonight. Hugs to all, Prudence. Grew Wolf Lodge (evening) ***************************************************************** |