Destination: Marfa-bulous

* * *

PART ONE,

IN

WHICH

WE ARRIVE

AT

OUR

DESTINATION

AND

GET A LAY

OF THE LAND

* * *

After two days, six tanks of gas and an indeterminate number Diet Red Bulls, we finally cross into Marfa city limits.

(Marfa, Texas. Population 2,000.)

Up in the sky, a huge gray blimp heralds our arrival.

Boys: It's a spy ship!

Me: What? No, no, no. I'm sure it's some kind of art installation.

(Oh, the naiveté of the Urban Mommy -- of course I am totally wrong. We find out later it was looking for drug smugglers.)

Driving through town, we are immediately aware that this is no ordinary place.

(Claes Oldenberg sculpture, Marfa, 2011)

(Knitted trailer, Marfa, 2011)

(Rush hour, Marfa, 2011)

(Yup. You read it right. Marfa, 2011)

Since there are going to be six of us in toto (the husbands are flying in the next day) we have rented a Victorian adobe house called "El Sueno" smack in the middle of town. It has a big walled garden, a separate guest house in back and is conveniently located next door to the historic Hotel Paisano, which is supposed to have the best margaritas in town.

(House info HERE.)

Sure enough, it isn't long after the menfolk land that they amble over for a pick-me-up.

(Leland and Piero at Jett's Grill, Hotel Paisano)

Their verdict?

"Another round, please."

(Jett's margarita)

* * *

PART TWO,

IN

WHICH

I ANSWER

SOME COMMON QUERIES

ABOUT

MARFA

* * *

1.

"HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE IT?"

Here's three ways. Take your pick.

1. Marfa is a bouillon cube of art and culture in the middle of the high Texas desert.

2. If Marfa was a person, it would be a cross between David Byrne and Carrie Bradshaw and be best friends with David Cross and Carrie Donovan.

3.

If I had to come up with a slogan, it would be --

"Marfa. Where everything feels possible."

-- because

beneath that vast blue sky are

all these insanely creative people doing insanely creative things.

2.

"WHO LIVES THERE?"

Cool people like her.

(Waitress/shopkeeper/stylesetter. I became obsessed with the way she

always

safety-pinned her vintage dresses into these amazing couture shapes.)

And him.

(100% unadulterated cowboy)

And him.

(A

uthor/raconteur/unofficial mayor Ken Whitley

with yours truly.)

And them.

(Marfa artist Campbell Bosworth and his wife Buck in their church/art gallery)

And them.

(Siblings Wilbur and Joy at the Saturday farm stand

.)

3.

"IS THERE REALLY THAT MUCH ART TO SEE?"

Yes.

For a complete list of Marfa art galleries and foundations, click HERE and HERE.

One of our favorite destinations was the Marfa Ballroom, run by the fabulous J.D. DiFabbio, which showcases the work of emerging artists. We found ourselves stopping by every day -- to take another look at their current show ("The World According to New Orleans"), to ask J.D. what was going on that day, and to find out who was meeting where for drinks. They're tapped in.

(Outdoor installation, Marfa Ballroom, 2011)

The other was touring the Chinati Foundation, Donald Judd's testament to the power of art amid nature. It's a soul-renewing experience.

4.

" I'M A CULINARY SNOB. WHERE DO I EAT?"

Pretty much everywhere. This town takes its food seriously. As my friend Jeanne said on our last day, "We're definitely Marfa-tter than we were when we got here."

There's Cochineal, a Marfa restaurant with an interesting Manhattan backstory (click HERE). It serves simple rustic food and is especially popular for weekend breakfasts. We ate here three times.

There's the Food Shark truck, serving up Mediterranean food by way of West Texas. Crazy good. Try the "Marfalafel."

There's the Miniature Rooster, a culinary fusion of North Carolina and India, the two owners' homelands (I had grits and chole puri.) The tagline on their website says it all: "Small in stature, fierce in flavor."

There's Maiya's Restaurant around the corner from the Hotel Paisano. Moody low-key vibe, fresh seasonal food -- we were trés content.

There's the Pizza Foundation which sells a homemade watermelon-mint slushie that will have you immediately standing in line for another one.

And for coffee that does a brain cell good, there's no better place than Frama (120 North Austin Street). FYI, Frama is an anagram for "Marfa", hence their Scrabble-themed menu board.

5.

"IS IT FUN FOR KIDS?"

My nine-year-old son said it was one of his best vacations ever. Maybe it's because he got to lay pennies on the track on the way to breakfast every morning...

...and then go hunting for them afterwards.

Or maybe it was the free outdoor screening of "Giant" that we were lucky enough to be in town for.

(Marfa town square, 2011)

Or driving out to look for the famous Marfa Lights -- and SEEING them! (Bright flickering orbs whizzing around in the darkness. Honest to goodness.)

(Actual Marfa Lights, 2011.)

Or the daily trip to the Dairy Queen.

Or hitting up Padre's for some late-night pool sharking.

6.

"WHAT ABOUT THE SHOPPING?"

We didn't have near enough time to check everything out (for a complete list of stores, click HERE), but oh, we got some goodies. Favorite stops included JM Dry Goods for curated Tex-ican clothing and handmade Marfa soap...

...and The Wrong Art Store for sculptural wood pieces by artist Campbell Bosworth.

Check out this brilliant replica of the Marfa water tower he made. One smooth difference? His dispenses tequila.

A couple of years ago, Campbell "made" $2.5 million in drug money. This is all that's left.

Pick your stack up now.

(Available HERE)

7.

"ARE THERE ANY DAY TRIPS I CAN TAKE?"

Lots. We went to the swimming hole in Balmorhea State Park and stopped in Fort Davis for a bite, but next time we'll be sure to visit the McDonald Observatory (and check out their "star parties"), visit the Chinati Hot Springs and drive through Big Bend National Park.

8.

"DON'T LIE. HOW HOT DOES IT GET?"

According to everyone we spoke to, almost NEVER as hot as when we were there. (Did you know Marfa is almost a mile high? It's 4800 feet above sea level.) Summers are hot, dry and mostly dealable. But I'm thinking October through June might be the ticket.

9.

"ANY LAST WORDS?"

Check the schedules of the big foundations like Ballroom Marfa and the Chinati before you go. They each have biannual galas and art openings with big-ticket performers (Sonic Youth played there recently), and apparently, those weekends are non-stop fun.

10.

"ANY LAST, LAST WORDS?"

No trip to Marfa is complete without visiting the Prada installation.

(Prada Marfa, 2011)

* * *

These days, I'm happy to say there's a little bit of Marfa in Hollywood.

(Purchased at Ballroom Marfa)

(Purchased at Wrong Art Store)

(Purchased at JM Dry Goods)

But even better, I left a little bit of "A Bloomsbury Life" in Marfa.

(Prada Marfa, 2011)

Photo credits: Lisa Borgnes Giramonti, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Leland Orser.

My Highland Fling

We arrive at Gargunnock House on August 6th. The car crunches along the gravel driveway and when the elegant façade finally comes into view between a clump of trees, even the kids go silent. There's an intense drama about the place that pulls you in -- think "Gosford Park" meets "Wuthering Heights." I've been coming here since 1996 and it still gets me every time.

(Gargunnock House, Scotland. Available for rent here.)

The housekeeper has hidden the front door key for us and we go into the massive entry hall, our steps echoing across the worn flagstone floors.

The children dash up the staircase and promptly vanish into the labyrinthine recesses of the house. We aren't alarmed. Periodic peals of laughter float down from another floor letting us know they're more than okay.

I go straight to the dining room and fling open the windows overlooking the kitchen garden. The air smells like woodsmoke, wet stone, freshly turned earth and flowering buds, and I'm in heaven.

The dining room is empty and still. The superstitious side of me swears that the long-dead faces on the wall are glancing around expectantly for stirrings of life.

Could they have peeked into their immediate future, they would have seen this:

In the living room, the rose-colored George Smith sofas and gold velvet curtains lend a theatrical air to the room. The stage is set and awaits its players.

Within hours, we are cozily ensconced in front of a crackling fire surrounded by books, puzzles, games and other 19th century pursuits.

The chef de cuisine (i.e. my husband) is in the midst of a culinary orchestra of chopping, cutting, slicing and dicing.

Piero's dinner is simple, honest and kid-friendly, with fresh, rustic ingredients that hit the spot. In the words of my idol, Nigel Slater, "Right food, right place, right time."

That evening, I wander into a sitting room to pay a private visit to the late Miss Viola Stirling, the last owner of Gargunnock House. Over the fireplace, there is a painting of her as a young girl being taught the finer points of gamekeeping by her father. I am so grateful to be back in her home.

Our days soon settle into a comfortable routine. We make no attempt to head off our jet lag; instead, unhurried breakfasts at 11am eventually evolve into leisurely mid-afternoon hikes. There is only one rule: Wellies are mandatory.

Gargunnock House is nestled amid acres of Arcadian pasture and, thanks to the UK's public rights of way rules for ramblers, nearly all paths less traveled are open to exploration.

In this enchanted land, streams are meant to be forged...

...and fences are meant to be scaled.

Have you ever seen such contented sheep in your life?

Here we are, minus the men (who are training their lenses on us). The goal for this hike is the top of that hill in the distance.

Our backpacks are stocked with sandwiches, cheese, apples and Hob Nobs. We are a ragtag team of deliriously happy adventurers.

My friend Hillary picks the perfect spot for a picnic.

The children ask if they can climb to a nearby waterfall. "Go! Run! Explore!" I tell them. The words have a novel taste to them and I realize that the phrase doesn't come trippingly off my lips back in Los Angeles.

When at long last we reach the peak, a blue-and-white surprise awaits.

And then another: a picture postcard view of our very own manor, its mellow stone walls magically spotlit by the sun.

Back at the house, we devour freshly-baked scones with butter, clotted cream and three varieties of Fortnum and Mason jam that I've brought up from London.

It's a different world here. In Hollywood, we're plain ol' Piero and Lisa and Luca. But here we're the McGiramontis: the Laird, his bonnie wife and their wee bairn.

On our next-to-last day, we succumb to the allure of the nearby William Wallace Monument.

Standing beneath it in the shadows, the forbidding toothy peaks look eerily similar to Tolkien's tower in Mordor.

We climb 246 very narrow stone steps. Encountering someone coming down when you're going up requires a firm grasp of navigational geometry. "Hmmm...if I put this part here, can you possibly fit that part there?"

At the top, we are greeted by a view so stunning it nearly knocks us flat.

I mean that literally. The wind is gusting so fiercely that it's nigh impossible to stand up straight. Luca and his friends seek shelter with Piero.

Our week-long stay at the house comes and goes in a flash, the way it always does when your greatest wish is that time would stop and you could exist in this space, in this time, with these people, forevermore.

Before we know it, it's time to take our boots off. Unfortunately, bursting suitcases mean that most of us end up having to leave them for future guests.

(I said most of us. Do you honestly think I could leave mine after they'd been embedded with the romance of the moss and the moors and the heather? I wrapped those babies in a plastic sack and wrestled my suitcase until it finally gave in.)

Back in Los Angeles, someone asks me what it is exactly about Scotland that I love so much. "It's the hairier version of England," I reply. My friend laughs. But it's true, and I say that with a love for England that defies boundaries.

Compared to the glorious clipped gardens of England, Scotland is unkempt and shaggy and bristly. It has more unpredictable weather, more untamed moors, more rugged hills, more unbridled romance, more sheep, more peat, more moss...well, you get the picture.

I found two very moving odes to Scotland by poet Jeannette Simpson. I extract liberally from them below.

I have seen your highlands and your glens

and felt a recognition I did not expect.

I long to be back on your soil to stay

even though I have people and things here who need me.

No, you are not the land of my birth,

But you are the land of who I am.