Memorial Day weekend on a private island off the coast of Massachusetts. High Wasp country. The Land of Gin and Triscuits.
This particular island, which is roughly 7.5 square miles, has belonged to the same Boston Brahmin clan for nine generations. A governor of Massachusetts died in the bedroom where Sam and I slept, and signing the guest book alongside just about every American luminary of the past 150 years is intimidating, to say the least.
I have nothing against Wasps, but they’re not exactly known for their culinary skill or ingenuity. Our hostess, a dear friend, is unfortunately stereotypical in this regard. A wonderful mother, a brilliant wit, an accomplished equestrienne, a crack shot and a deft hand with many a farm implement, she’s admittedly a lousy cook.
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I love US magazine’s “Who Wore It Best?” feature. However, they never include me. So I’ve decided to create my own, completely conceited version. Please take the time to vote. It’s vitally important (to me).
On Tuesday night, I was at the Boston Hot Pink Party, a fund-raiser for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, held at the Museum of Fine Arts. The dress code was “cocktail attire with a touch of hot pink.”
Custom-made suit and shirt, Chanel tie and pink pocket square from the Royal Bullring in Ronda, Spain
The following afternoon, I attended Party in the Park, a fund-raiser for the Emerald Necklace Conservancy, held under a tent on the Fenway. A luncheon to which the ladies traditionally wear hats, I decided to hold up the men’s side.
Hat by Empresa, Rome, decorated with peonies and purple stock; Ted Baker shirt; Trovata jacket; Rag and Bone trousers; vintage crocodile belt; scarf from a fleamarket somewhere
Which looked better?
Please vote by clicking on the headline above and posting a comment below. The results won’t hurt my feelings, no matter what.
The sun going down as the lights come up on St. Peter's Basilica, from the roof terrace of Patrick and Kristina's penthouse
At a cocktail party on Martha’s Vineyard last summer, nightlife mogul Patrick Lyons announced to me, with his trademark Cheshire Cat grin, that he and his wife Kristina were moving to Rome for the year with their kids. It was a sabbatical, of sorts. An adventure. 21st century American ex-pats in the Eternal City, following in the footsteps of Shelley and whatnot.
Recognizing a sybaritic opportunity when I see one, I said I’d be coming to visit, especially when I learned they’d be ensconced in a penthouse within spitting distance of the Piazza Navona.
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