Peter, as we all know, does not like California. But when a state provides luxe accommodations, balmy weather and fine food, you can bet I wasn’t complaining. Sri Lankan tastiness in Santa Cruz. Armenian fantasticity in Glendale, thanks to Ashley and her way with the cabbies; too bad we weren’t dressed classy enough to stay for the floor show. A welcome at LAX involving fresh-squeezed OJ from Peter’s parents. The Santa Monica farmers’ market–where, alas, I made not a single celebrity sighting. And excellent catering by Tamara, Karine and my mother throughout.

We tried to bring some of the magic back home: Peter’s suitcase was bursting with tomatoes, artichokes and tangerines. But damn, it’s still cold in New York. And lovely as it was to see the whole gang, including Ali, for dinner last night, I’m missing some of the joy of the neighborhood because I can’t really go grocery shopping. Well, I can go strolling through the aisles and fondling vegetables, but I can’t carry anything home–my post-op “sternal precautions” are still in place for another week or two. There’s some parallel with an eating disorder here, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

So. Here I am. I’m not saying I’m going to move to California anytime soon, but this is the first time I haven’t been jumping for joy to get back to Astoria. That’s the cold, hard truth. Very cold.