As a young gay in Texas, my first brush with Fire Island was the 1989 Oscar-nominated movie Longtime Companion about the early days of the AIDS epidemic.  The movie’s powerful last scene of three surviving friends walking on a deserted Fire Island beach was (and still is) breathtaking.  At the time, I assumed the idyllic homo holiday community was a Hollywood story telling invention.

That changed the sophomore summer of my New York sitcom life when I found myself dating a doctor with a house in The Pines.  During the drive in his Saab convertible with his Corgie sitting in my lap, I fretted that I had been cast as some boy toy and was expected to put out in exchange for my weekend accommodations.  I wasn’t necessarily averse to that, just wanted to be clear on the expectations.

Doc put my mind at ease when he showed me to my own room, and then gave me a tour up and down the boardwalk dotted with charming red wagons (no cars allowed).  He provided a brief tutorial over the rules of engagement on the island—cocktails and dancing at something called Low Tea ended promptly at 7pm with a mass migration to High Tea and depending on day of the week ending hours later at Middle Tea.  If you still hadn’t successfully hooked up after all that, a trip through the wooded Meat Rack was in order.

Although those rules have changed much over time, I have been lucky enough to get to know Fire Island much better and understand the not-so-subtle differences between the two gay communities of The Pines and Cherry Grove.  My doctor friend was the perfect specimen of life in The Pines—fantastically decorated house, impossibly toned abs, finely tuned regimen.  In the Grove, things are more shabby chic, anything goes and devil may care.  Everything’s just a little looser—in so many ways, including bathing suit tops and bottoms that seem to loose themselves on the beach.  Turns out, I’m pretty much a Grove Boy who enjoys an occasional Meat Rack meander to drink in some Low Tea.

Neighbors on the left, with party hosts Chris and Tom on the right

Lucky for me, dear friends Chris and Tom purchased a home in the Grove nearly seven-years ago and began welcoming their city friends with open arms.  Over the years, they’ve renovated the original pillbox house into a charming cottage perfect for Coastal Living.  The couple met at the very first Condé Nast Traveler Hot List party, and I suppose as a sign of appreciation they let me steal out to the house and pound out pages on Alphabet City.

So this weekend was a homecoming of sorts for the book when they hosted the Fire Island stop on the book tour.  Frankly, I was a little nervous given my recent experience with self-professed non-reading gays at a NYC event.  But it turns out summering folk appreciate when the perfect beach read comes to them.  The guests listened to my reading with rapt attention and an audible gasp was heard during the excerpt about meeting Tyra Banks.  Two-dozen sales later and it was the most successful home book party yet.

JP with Chris

The next morning, Chef and I continued our Cherry Grove tradition of walking around the “town” taking in the new seasonal stores—last year’s ice cream shop, this year’s liquor store—as well as the perennial standbys—Floyd’s muffins, the everything-is-$5-grocery store.  We play the game “Where Would You Work” followed by “What’s Missing?”  Usually we debate the merits of starting a fine dining establishment.  But this year, given the voracious reading appetite of Chris and Tom’s friends, we’re thinking maybe a summer Book Nook.  That means I need to get cranking on 40, Love to have it in stock for Summer 2011.

Even Edie enjoys Alphabet City

Frida, on the other hand...

Today on Alphabet City: Jon Paul’s idyllic memories of “summering” are threatened by the oil spill.

JP and sister Pam beachside at Grand Hotel

“Summering” has been on my mind a lot lately.  One of my favorite passages I’ve been reading out loud on book tour is from Alphabet City’s Episode 3:

Until I moved to the Big Apple, I had never heard the word “summer” used as a verb.  But from what I could tell, the entire society stratus of New York City greeted summer with a mass exodus.  For those that could afford it, summering meant scheduling into two-day weekends all the things we took for granted on a weekly basis in Texas—swimming, tanning, boating, golfing…Summering ensnared all kinds—Fags to Fire Island, Snobs to Southampton, Monied to Martha’s Vineyard.  New Yorkers returned after Labor Day bronzed and exhausted.  In Dallas, we just went to Lake Texhoma and returned leathery and pickled.

For the most part, summering for my family meant visiting my grandmother in her mobile home trailer in the piney woods of East Texas near a Dairy Queen and catfish pond.  But every other year, my father loaded us up in our diesel-powered Mercedes sedan and drove from Dallas to Pt. Clear, Alabama to the Grand Hotel just outside Mobile.  Car trips with my father were lessons in endurance—bathroom breaks were limited and replaced by mandatory singing of odd German folksongs, Ray Charles ballads, and an occasional showstopper from Cabaret.  One time Dad ran the car off the road and into a ditch filled with Mississippi kudzu because he was reading—while driving.

But making it to the Grand Hotel meant a fortnight of frolicking.  I began by drinking copious amounts of Shirley Temples concocted by legendary bartender Bucky who called me Mr. Buchmeyer!  Afternoons were spent precariously riding a bicycle built for two with Dad, scoping out the twisted arbor for the annual awarding of the “Gnarliest Tree Award” complete with blue ribbon.  And off course, there was lots of time reading on the beach—scanning out across the murky waters of Mobile Bay and seeing a few oil drilling platforms on the horizon.

At the time, those rigs were nothing more than a curiosity.  As a young kid from the Lone Star State that was fueled by a powerful oil addiction, it never occurred to me that there was anything particularly dangerous happening offshore.  My uncle was in the oil business and my cousins even spent a few summers working on Gulf Coast rigs.  But when I returned a few years back with Chef for a story about the area for Condé Nast Traveler, I saw those platforms in a much different way—as a menacing encroachment on the area’s natural beauty.

On that trip, I experienced the towns scattered along the Gulf Coast in a much different way than the hurried road trips of my youth.  This time, my traveling companion Chef actually encouraged multiple detours and roadside stops on our sweep around the Florida Panhandle in a souped up Mercedes.  When we weren’t stopping for roadside Hot Nuts, we were delighting in the succulent (and cheap) oysters of charming Apalachicola.  Here’s how I describe it in CNT’s June 2008 issue:

Today, Apalachicola is a delicately balanced blend of Old and New Florida—historic buildings and houses mixed with funky boutiques and numerous cafés. I’m completely charmed by the place, but Chef withholds judgment until he tastes the local fare.

Oysters have provided stability to this region for years. Ten percent of the country’s supply comes from this bay, and they are some of the biggest, juiciest, meatiest, saltiest—and cheapest—oysters we’ve had the pleasure of tasting. At 25 cents each, compared to about four dollars a pop in New York City, Chef and I literally can’t get enough—we eat them morning, noon, and night. We eat them roasted, baked, and in shooter cocktails with peppered vodka and horseradish, not to mention in oyster po’boys for lunch, and served with eggs (and grits) for breakfast.

…we drive on to St. Joe Beach along a road that’s among the prettiest on this trip—baby palm trees dwarfed by giant cedars. Out of the car, we trudge up stairs over mountains of sand, and at the summit, take pause at the view: miles and miles of nearly empty snowy beaches lapped by clear turquoise water. We head down to splash in the warm water, agreeing that we will come back and bring friends: Oysters and beaches this delicious deserve to be shared.

If you’re still not sure of how much natural beauty is in danger of destruction from the country’s worst environmental catastrophe, I encourage you to read the full CNT story for just a taste of my own humble perspective.

Lil JP stealing one of my Dad's books at The Grand Hotel

For hundreds of years, the Grand Hotel and the citizens of the Gulf Coast have shown remarkable resilience bouncing back from a series of natural disasters.  But as oil from the raging spill begins lapping at the shores of nearby pristine Dauphin Island, I have to be honest and say I’m worried for the hardworking laborers who trawl for the delicious oysters and succulent shrimp.  And I’m sad that the lazy, almost idyllic setting might be in danger for future generations of kids who might not experience Bucky’s charming hospitality or the thrill of tacking a ribbon to “The Gnarliest Tree.”

Summering used to be so much simpler.

View of Miami from room at EPIC Hotel & Residences

“Other than a couple of minor bouts of anorexia in high school and college, I’ve always hovered around 23 pounds above my goal weight,” I write in Alphabet City, explaining some of my body image problems.  I suppose those issues have affected my rather awkward relationship with Miami over the years.  From the first time I visited years ago while working at Condé Nast Traveler, I’ve always felt like I didn’t fit in with the gorgeously toned bodies parading along South Beach.  So it was with a bit of trepidation that I faced the second stop on the book tour wondering just how the citizens of South Florida would greet Gary Tyler Moore.  Everything is a little sexier—and crazier—in Miami, but this time I felt that the Capital of Latin America rolled out the red carpet for me.

Gay action hero in his Chevy Traverse

Miami is one of those cities that loves a good body—both your own and your car’s.  And I got many double takes tooling around in the swanky Chevy Traverse.  With plush leather interior, a Bose stereo and an A/C that works overtime in the sweltering humidity, I often thought I should just do my appearances inside this boyfriend magnet.  My favorite tricked-out accessory was the camera that kicked in when backing up, providing spy like images to the rearview mirror.  I felt like a gay action hero driving up to Kimpton’s high-design EPIC Hotel & Residences in Downtown Miami.

While EPIC’s grand scale may look unlike any other Kimpton Hotel, it has the same warm service I’ve come to expect from the company.  A chalkboard sign outside welcomed my little one Frida—making me curse my decision not to bring her on this leg of the tour.  My corner suite looked like the perfect setting for a J. Lo music video with wrap around views of the Miami port—making me wonder why I didn’t make this hotel the last stop on the tour rather than the second.

The EPIC team pulled out all the stops for my appearances at the hotel’s guest wine hour and later at a 52^nd floor penthouse suite at the Residences with food by their delicious Area 31 restaurant.  Both events attracted folks from far and wide—at the wine hour I zeroed in on some visiting Germans (as you know from the book, I’ve always had a thing for the Boys from Berlin), and a sweet couple from Ft. Lauderdale traveled through heavy traffic to support Alphabet City and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force.

Speaking at wine hour

Supporters from Ft. Lauderdale at EPIC Residences event

Loews Miami Beach Whoopi Pie

If the EPIC is sophisticated chic in Miami, then the Loews is accessible decadence in South Beach.  I was excited to experience the results of a recent $50 million renovation which are spectacular and comfortable—this is the choice on South Beach for those on business or with families that need a hotel combining functionality with design.  The food at Preston’s is also worth a stop for the fish tacos and the make-your-own Whoopi Pie—an Alphabet City-themed dessert that seems to follow me on tour.  My ocean view room featured one of my all time favorite bathrooms that was stylish but just worked—I’m still trying to figure out how I might import it to my home in Washington Heights.  And I can’t forget the location—steps from both the ocean boardwalk and the shops of Lincoln Road with parading beauties of both sexes.

View of South Beach & Loews Miami Beach pool from my room

My #1 S Florida Salesman Ryan

That night, many of those male beauties stopped in for an Alphabet City happy hour party at Bar 721—an event that landed me in my first gay bar magazine called “Mark.”  I was tagged a “must do” and my picture was labeled “Intellectual Surplus”—which I took as a swipe at me wearing glasses and that once again I didn’t fit into the culture of South Florida.  But the boys proved me wrong.  My cute straight friend Ryan, dressed in a tie fresh from his job as a U.S. Attorney, charmed the pants off the patrons—taking me from table to table and convincing folks to take a break from their partying and purchase Alphabet City.  Bless, Ryan.

Alphabet City is old at Book&Books on Lincoln Rd!

The final South Florida tour stop was an Alphabet City Book Party hosted by dear friends Isabel and Adam in Ft. Lauderdale.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far on Book Tour, it’s how much I treasure these intimate events—where I get to do some readings from the book and hear people’s reactions.  This party was special because it brought together a cross-section of my audience—gay guys and straight gals.  The boys loved the stories of making a pass at Gloria Estefan’s husband, while the ladies loved the tales of a gay Mary Tyler Moore trying to make it in the world.  I’ve taken to calling it a little bit Sex and the City and a whole lot of Will & Grace.

Just before the Ft. Lauderdale party, I went jogging on the path through South Beach for the first time in my life.  As I got to the newish South Pointe Park and stopped to take some pictures, a really cute couple approached and commented on my tattoo.  Nelson from Cuba and Eduardo from Peru were surprised I wasn’t from Miami—they told me I looked like a local—and invited me to go dancing with them later.  Somehow I had crossed the divide from nervous outsider to sexy insider.  Maybe it’s because I’m Latin-by-marriage.  Maybe it’s because I’m nearer my goal weight.  Maybe it’s the tattoo.  Whatever the reason, Gary Tyler Moore will be coming back.  Gracias y Adios Miami.

View from South Pointe Park

Wendy, Chef, Wendy's first born and me at an event in Dallas. Photo taken by Tim.

Returning from a quick trip to Hong Kong in February 2003—just days before SARS took the world hostage—my traveling companion Wendy Perrin and I were like foreign exchange students plopped down in the middle of Cathay Pacific’s First Class Cabin.  Despite the fact that we traveled the world for a luxury magazine—Wendy as the publication’s well-respected Consumer News Editor, me in the more cushy job as communications expert—we actually had never been exposed to the glamorous life at the front of a Trans-Pacific jet.  But the magazine thought it important for our jobs to understand how the top .01% live.

The last ones to board, we raced to learn the proper etiquette.  Why are the other few passengers dressed in matching brown colored warm-ups?  Are they in some weird club?  Oh, those are special traveling pajamas gifted to us for the long journey.  We changed in a bathroom suite the size of my NYC apartment.  And by the way, where’s my blanket?  What kind of rinky-dink operation is this?  Oh, the down duvet comes to me upon request.  Duh.

“Can I take these attendants home with me?” Wendy asked sadly upon arrival at JFK.  “They would change my life.”

That’s what I’ve always loved about Wendy—her sincerity and wide-eyed wonder at the world.  Despite growing up in New York City, attending a fancy prep school, and graduating from that famous university in Cambridge, Wendy doesn’t have a cynical bone in her body.  And for an optimistic kid from Texas like me, I find that refreshing.  Wendy is no-nonsense, constantly in motion, and always speaks the truth—like a travelista’s Suze Orman.  Unlike America’s favorite financial guru, Wendy has never been on my Spit List, if you disregard the time at DFW she refused to eat with me at Chili’s Too, and almost made us miss our flight arguing with the Au Bon Pain attendant over mayo on her sandwich.

Traveling the world with Wendy, I often laughed at how the woman to whom even the savviest travelers turn for advice, actually had the worst travel karma I had ever experienced.  From malfunctioning hotel alarm clocks to surly gate agents to lost baggage, I experienced it all with Wendy.  My suspicion was always that she enjoyed the incidents as they provided fodder for her column.

Over lunch at Marseille, blogger to blogger, she verified my hunch and gave me the inside scoop on the complications that come with straddling the print and online world as “the most trusted name in travel journalism” (a moniker I gave her).

What’s the difference between your blog posts and your monthly column in Condé Nast Traveler?

On the blog, which comes in two flavors—one on cntraveler.com and one on truth.travel—I can address issues that are timely, like what you need to do right now about the labor strike that has shut down your airline.  In print, the advice has to be more about trends that are happening—that labor strike is already over.

How do you judge if a post is successful?

I don’t look at traffic statistics—someone else does that.  But one way I measure it is if the post gets syndicated—if it shows up on MSNBC or ABCNews.com because it means that it was advice useful to a lot of people.  On a more personal level, I know a post is successful when I get a lot of smart comments.  I love having the back and forth with really savvy travelers—it gives me article ideas.

An example of a post that’s generating lots of smart responses?

Right now, the “Maximize Your Miles” contest.  This is a contest with a very high barrier to entry: You need to submit your best personal frequent-flier-mileage success story, as well as your best tip gleaned from it. So just imagine how well-traveled and savvy you have to be to participate in this. First, you must have traveled enough to accrue significant miles. Then you must have successfully used them. And then you have to come up with a little-known tip that will be useful to others. More than 240 people have submitted so far.  Those are readers that I learn from.

How do you handle being inundated with questions asking for travel advice?

I have two different public email addresses: one printed in the magazine that goes along with my column; and another one online that goes with the blog.  The questions that I get from the two groups are incredibly different.  I can tell from the questions from print readers that they are well-traveled, have more money and are older, with very specific requests like, “I want advice on renting a villa in Provence but would like a chef to be on call who knows the local markets.”  The people who have just happened to find me online tend to be younger, less savvy, don’t know exactly what they want, “Thinking about going to Europe.  Thoughts?”

How do your over 12,000 Twitter followers fit into that?

They are actually very smart. And, because Twitter users are so active online–they just love to click on articles and post comments on web sites–they come in very handy whenever I’d like to get a conversation going on my blog. Say I ask a question on my blog that I’d like a lot of people to weigh in on. If I go on Twitter, ask the question, and invite people to answer it on my blog, within 30 minutes, there’ll be 30 useful comments posted.

For so long you have been a print journalist, but I get the sense that you love blogging?

On the one hand, blogging is so freeing and so much fun.  On the other hand, it’s overwhelming.  There are far more questions from readers than I can ever possibly answer.  But I love it so much I would blog 24 hours a day because I love the immediate conversation.  Unfortunately, I can’t feed the blog as much as I would like because of my workload.

What do you mean?  It seems like you are such a powerful online presence that your blog would be a priority.

Actually, the priority is my print deadlines. I don’t get in trouble with my boss when I don’t post on my blog frequently. I do get in trouble with my boss when I don’t hand in my print column on time. I’m forced to neglect the blog so often, which is heartbreaking because I want to spend more time having online conversations with travelers.

So that explains why sometimes weeks go by and there’s no post.

And when I am blogging, it’s usually on weekends or at 3am.  When I finally have time to blog, there are at least 10 ideas in my head as to what I want to write.  There are hundreds of ideas a month that I don’t get to write.  It’s just happenstance what does get blogged—it’s a matter of timing.  The people who lose out on that the most are PR people.  They could send me something great, that’s timely, that I want readers to know about—but there’s no time for me to post it.

But I feel like I get tweets from you a lot.  You have time for that?

Basically, I Twitter when I’m in transit or stuck in an airport or at home at night, not when I’m at the office. Condé Nast doesn’t allow us to have TweetDeck on our computers at work–just one reason why it’s difficult for me to do any useful Twitter stuff at the office.  That means, it’s all about my commute.  That’s when I have time to go on Twitter and see if anyone has sent me a message. When I’m on a business trip, I love getting on Twitter and seeing what friends are up to.

Given how important your anonymity is to you when traveling on assignment, do you worry that Twittering and Blogging compromise that?

All the time!  Because of the magazine’s policy that we are not allowed to receive any special treatment, I have to be very careful when I am on assignment not to do anything in the social media world that would alert a hotel or airline about my presence.  So as immediate as blogging and twittering can be, I often can’t comment online about an issue or problem until after the incident.  I have to be very careful about Facebook updates, and that’s one of the reasons I can’t use FourSquare.  It’s different when I am traveling to give a speech to a group of hotel executives—they all know I’m coming and where I’m staying.  So I feel free to tweet about those trips.

After 21 years at the magazine, it seems like hotels, cruise lines, airlines would have pictures of you plastered everywhere—like restaurants do for New York Times critics!

You would think, right?  But at the moment, travel companies are still not that sophisticated.  I get treated like crap all the time.  But that’s okay, I always get a column or blog post out of it.

Knowing the immediate consequences your words can have on a travel company, do you wield your power wisely?  For good not evil?

Because my blog posts do not go through a censor or editor, I am very careful about what I write so as not to be inflammatory.  My readers want me to be helpful, not bitter.  The recent incident I had with Hawaiian Airlines charging me a checked baggage fee despite my having a Continental MasterCard that waives those fees is a perfect example.  I had the name of the customer service agent who was in the wrong, and when I posted the photo I had planned on naming that person.  But I calmed down and realized I didn’t need to pick that fight.  The point of my post was to educate my readers about what to do in that situation—call the credit card company after the fact and they will credit your account.

Any concerns about putting your kids in your posts with pictures?

Blogs are really an emotional connection between you and your readers.  I put the kids in because people want to know me personally.  They want to know the real Wendy Perrin.  For some reason, they want to know about my travails as a parent and traveler.  The photos of the kids and me are in there because, frankly, those are the photos that it’s easiest for me to obtain quickly and download into my laptop. And that’s because my husband Tim is a photographer, he’s always right there traveling with us, and he’s always shooting pictures of the kids—I just happen to be in them!

Speaking of Tim, I’ve been lucky enough to travel with him on shoots to South Africa and Guatemala.  You two strike me as completely different types of travelers.  How does that work out for you?

Tim said the other day that, if we were ever on the same team on The Amazing Race or Competitours, we’d be divorced by the time we got to the first airport. That’s because we travel so differently. While I’m always on guard for anything that could possibly go wrong, Tim is very laid back.  I’m always eavesdropping, listening to what the gate agent or flight attendant is telling frustrated customers, and I’m always distracted because I’m busy counting the number of empty seats on the plane or recording the pilot’s announcement about a delay.  I can’t ever turn it off. Tim, on the other hand, is always saying, “Relax, why do you need to go pester the gate agent again.”  Is he kidding?!

All right, I have to ask.  Your first book, Secrets Every Smart Traveler Should Know, was turned into an Off-Broadway musical.  Are the rumors true about your blog becoming a stage show?

You must be starting those rumors!  Trust me, as my former publicist and traveling companion, you’ll be the first to know.

Lil JP stealing one of my Dad's books at The Grand Hotel

Since I was a little kid traveling with my family every other year to The Grand Hotel in Pt. Clear, Alabama, hotel lobbies have enamored me.  My heart skipped a beat every time I saw the giant double doors fog up as the over air-conditioned interior fought off July’s southern humidity.  Once inside the kingdom, there was the smell that I describe in my Condé Nast Traveler essay on the experience as “an odd mix of pine floors and fried crab claws.”

As an adult lucky enough to travel the world, I developed an affinity for hotels that understood the lobby wasn’t just for shuffling people to and fro, but a stage.  And like good set design, I prefer my lobbies have a measured point of view so as not to overwhelm the actors guests.  While I could never quite square myself to the overt and uncomfortable theatricality of Miami’s Delano, I was immediately drawn in by the modern painting collection at Barcelona’s Hotel Arts.

The lobby of Kimpton's Hotel Palomar in Atlanta has a definite point of view.

Recent travels have left me slightly disheartened at the state of hotel lobbies with most companies adopting a Shake n’ Bake approach to dumb down design.  But a reception I attended last night for the unveiling of a 28-foot installation by artist Barbara Nessim gave me hope.  Kimpton Hotels commissioned this piece that will reach two-stories in the lobby of their new hotel Eventi, opening in “North Chelsea” in May 2010.  Kimpton’s interest in artwork already captured my attention on my recent stay in Atlanta at their Hotel Palomar.  So I’m looking forward to their latest in New York—the 50^th hotel in their portfolio.

There was one more bit of lobby drama that captured my fascination as a kid—the moment my father paid for the two week stay—with a personal check.  He would march me up to the counter, take out his wallet and ready his personal check from Republic National Bank, while announcing in a dramatic flourish to the front desk attendant, “I’m here to settle my account!”

Years later, on my adult visit to the Grand Hotel, I also marched up to the counter the night before my early morning departure and announced, “I’m here to settle my account!”  The clerk eyed me suspiciously.

“We have your credit card on file, sir.”

So much for the dramatic.  Hey, I wonder if Kimpton Hotels would consider taking a check?

Readers of Alphabet City: My So-Called Sitcom life might remember that in Episode 4 the famous gossip columnist Richard Johnson gave me a break when I was a struggling junior publicist for Liza.

Back in PageSix!

Then years later, in Episode 11, I became a bold face name myself in PageSix after an incident involving model Mark Vanderloo at Condé Nast Traveler’s first Hot List party.  Well today, thanks again to Richard and another supermodel media mogul Tyra Banks, I have been re-confirmed as gossip column worthy.  At least this time, I really didn’t have to say anything snarky.  From today’s New York Post PageSix:

Teddy Terrors

Jon Paul Buchmeyer learned plenty from Tyra Banks when he worked as her publicist during her book tour for “Inside Out.” “Chips with the fat substitute Olestra cause Tyra to have intestinal distress,” he writes in his memoir, “Alphabet City,” which chronicled his years working for Whoopi Goldberg, Vanessa Williams and Condé Nast Traveler. Buchmeyer also learned, “Tyra thinks white limos are tacky,” and to beware of fans who bring teddy bears to book signings — “Anyone that showed up at a book signing offering a stuffed animal probably needs a security escort.”

Oh, FYI—today is the last day to help me win the contest by ordering the book…click button at right and use WINTERBOOK code for 10% off!

For many years, I’ve been concerned about turning into my father, even immersing myself in psychotherapy to ward off some of his less charming tendencies.  But on holiday, I came to the conclusion that one of his more obsessive tendencies snuck through—a near manic compulsion to devour as many books as possible on vacation.

Every other year growing up, my father would load up the car with the family and two suit cases for him.  One was pack mostly with 17 collared short sleeves shirts that he could only find at Neiman Marcus, and the second suitcase filled to the brim with his own reading material.

At the crack of dawn, we would make a mad dash out of Texas and across Louisiana and Mississippi, ending up at a family resort known as The Grand Hotel.  While my sisters and I rode bikes and lapped around in the gargantuan pool, my father parked himself in a lounge chair outside our beach side cabin and read book after book after book after book. Only occasionally did he rouse himself to play a game of tennis, and a mean game of croquet during which his sole goal seemed to be to knock my ball into the murky waters of Mobile Bay.

Lil JP stealing one of my Dad's books at The Grand Hotel

As an adult, my editor Dana at Condé Nast Traveler gave me the opportunity to revisit the stomping grounds of my family holidays this time with Chef in tow—you can read about it here.

Now Chef and I have traveled the world together, but I’m not sure he was quite prepared when we arrived at our rented casa in Merida’s Yucatan peninsula and I unveiled a suitcase filled with a few Speedos, a range of paperbacks and hardbacks, and my Kindle’s power cord—I had downloaded just a few more necessary tomes before the plane took off at Newark.

Just like my father, I stationed myself on a lounge chair poolside and let Chef and my “chosen” family of Susan and Shannon worry about meals.  Upon completion of every book, I snapped the cover closed in triumph and moved onto the next.  Chef looked at me in wonder.

“You’re reading like a book a day.”

“I know.  It’s glorious.”

“Are you skipping parts?”

“What?  I’m just a fast reader.  Like my Dad.”

Unlike my father, I actually did participate in other activities, and shared with everyone my thoughts on the books I was reading.  My reading list below might give you some insight into my current range of interests and influences.

Upon reflection, I could have done worse to let my father’s book obsession creep into my life.  Thank god I didn’t inherit his fashion sense.

JPB’s 2009/2010 Holiday Reading List (in order of consumption) and curiously devoid of any fiction:

City Boy, Edmund White.  Read in hardback.  Latest memoir by a groundbreaking author who paved the way for later gay authors (like me?).  His depiction of life in 70s New York was captivating.  And I’m always impressed with his extreme honesty about his sex life—I try to be just as honest as him in my own writings.  I would pee my pants to meet this hero of mine.

Open, Andre Agassi.  Kindle.  When all the press broke about the tennis legend’s drug use, I wasn’t really interested.  But I felt like I should make my own judgment.  And boy am I glad I read this.  A fascinating look at a child sports prodigy and how much he disliked the game that brought him fame and fortune.  Good for him to be so honest, and find a way to love and happiness.

Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street, Michael Davis.  Paperback.  A compelling backstage look at the history of children’s television, and how this magnificent show got produced.  Plus, when I was about 9 or 10, I got to meet Emilio—he was the stepfather of a guy my sister Paige was dating.  It was at a movie theater where my father had taken us to see Freaks—and I couldn’t even speak.  I don’t know if it’s because the movie was so disturbing, or I was awe struck by Emilio.

On the Line, Serena Williams.  Hardback.  Well, I love the Williams sisters.  And this book made me love Venus even more, even though Serena is the star.  After reading Andre’s heart felt honesty, it was sometimes hard to take Serena’s always positive attitude.  I wanted more about her struggles.  But I still love her.  And was happy to have the behind the stories of her dislike of Indian Wells tournament, and the torment of her sisters’ death.

Official Book Club Selection, Kathy Griffin.  Kindle.  What a delightful inspiring surprise this book was!  Of course, as any good gay, I’ve been a fan of Kathy even following her on the Pink Flight to Mardi Gras on Air New Zealand (my photo of her running through the cabin in her bra ran in Star magazine).  Her book makes clear just how much handwork and determination is behind Kathy’s success—what she’s been up against, and how she makes it happen for herself.  I especially took note of her irritation with agents—you can think they will work for you.  It just gave me an extra kick in the butt to keep working on my own book.  Thanks Kathy for being funny, but also inspiring and dedicated.

The Man Who Loved Books Too Much, Allison Hoover Bartlett.  Hardback.  No, not the story of my Dad, or me but of a con artist stealing from rare book dealers.  A fascinating true crime story.  Made me think about my father’s own rare book collection, and what I’m going to do with all these vintage comic books I’ve inherited.

Knives at Dawn, Andrew Friedman.  Hardback.  A behind-the-scenes play-by-play of America’s attempt to field a winning team for the legendary Bocuse d’Or food competition.  Could not put this book down.  I got a real sense for the personalities of Thomas Keller and Daniel Boulud; the latter I previously disliked and now think he’s a captivating character and food genius.  I’m booking my ticket for 2011 for Lyon to see this circus show up close!  Friedman is also a tennis writer—and his sports background really comes in handy as he narrates the story with such flare.

No matter how you slice it, Mexico makes me nervous.  Not the country, mind you.  But my in-laws, Chef’s family.  I should explain that I use the name of the country as an endearing term referring to my in-laws in general, much in the same way that I use the name of my partner’s profession to refer to my beloved Chef.

My nervous condition has a long history.  When Chef and I first became an item, my Catholic mother-in-law refused to meet me.  So the stakes were high once Chef and I were living together and she finally agreed to stay in Alphabet City on one of her twice yearly visits.

On the day of his parents arrival, I was rushing back from a two week cross-country trip for Condé Nast Traveler and was working myself up into a frenzy of anxiety.  My boss Publisher wasn’t helping matters when I confessed to why I was so fidgety.  She leaned across the mini-table separating our First Class seats.

“I certainly hope you have a game plan.  This first meeting is big.  Very big.  You gotta have a game plan,” she said.

“Game plan?”

“You’re not just planning on letting them see you in your robe and slippers are you?  Not to overstate the matter, but this meeting is make it or break it.  You better be ready with your game face on.”

I tiptoed into the apartment a little after 1am, and everyone else—including my mother-in-law—was fast asleep.  I was completely wired and unable to rest.  How could Chef be snoring at a time like this?  At 5am, I rushed to the bathroom, showered and drank a full pot of coffee.  Taking Publisher’s advice, I had my game face on.

6am, sitting on the couch, I calmed my breathing just in case I could hear sounds of stirring from the guest room.  6:30am Nothing.

7am.  I wake Juan Pablo.

“What kind of sick game is she playing?” I asked.

“She’s probably just tired.”

7:45am Juan Pablo is headed to work.  Leaving me to face her on my own.

“What am I supposed to do?” I pleaded.

“Wait, I guess.  Good luck.” He says and closes the door.

“Good luck?  You’re kidding, right?

8.  8:30.  9.  Now I was late for work, and exhausted from these shenanigans.

Just as I grabbed my bag and unlocked the front door, out popped my nemesis in a nightgown and crazy bed head.

“Mi hijo, leaving so early?  You got in so late.  You work too hard.  And not even saying hello?  Now wait, I have a present for you.”

Fully expecting a bottle of tequila or some woven place mats that every visitor from Mexico brought me, I was completely unprepared for the almost full-size mirror with hand worked tin frame.  It was spectacular.

“You brought that here?  On the plane?”

Never in a million years would it cross my mind to bring anyone a gift that large, much less my new gay son-in-law who I was less than enthusiastic about meeting.

“Never you mind.  That’s what mothers do.  Now what’s for breakfast?”

“Oh, I’ve gotta run.  There’s cereal in the cabinet.  We’ll talk later.”

“What?  After I give you a present like that?  Now get me some coffee and come sit down.  How come you never visit in Mexico?”

She had the upper hand all along, and suddenly, I was no longer the star of my own sitcom, but the kooky gay gringo in a Mexican tele-novella.  My story lines always involve some misunderstandings caused by my elementary Spanish.  At our niece’s Baptism in Mexico City, I was pretty sure the priest told all non-Catholics to leave the church immediately.  While I thought it was odd, I was supremely confident in my grasp of Spanish commands, I shrugged and stood up to leave in the middle of the service.  Until my mother-in-law met me with a steely gaze.  Cue commercial.  And don’t get me started on how I misinterpreted a funeral sermon as blatantly anti-Semitic and threw a mini-temper tantrum at the wake to Chef’s utter dismay.

This year will mark the second time I’ve agreed to submerge myself in the familial chaos of a Mexican Christmas.  Honestly, my in-laws’ Christmas bonding feels more like bondage to me.  I come from a small family whose own holiday traditions sunk into a sea of dysfunction when my parents separated and I was ten.  Once I escaped to New York, I thought I’d never be drawn into familial awkwardness again.

But as the Gringo, I’m learning to take a step back and admire this tight knit group who’ve made room for me at their table.  And you better believe I’ve got a game plan—a gift of holiday goodness packed for my mother-in-law.

Viewer Advisory: this might be my last posting for a few weeks.  Perhaps a couple of updates while I’m sunning in the Yucatan Peninsula.  In the meantime, my deepest appreciation for all your support and encouragement—in just three short months, this blog has turned into one of my greatest joys this year.   Here’s hoping you have a more relaxed holiday than I’m anticipating.  Looking forward to posting in the New Year.

‘Tis the season—for charity, evidently.  Lest you think from yesterday’s post that I’m completely neurotic about the holiday season, I do often feel charitable in the last month of the year.  And I’m not alone.  According to a story by Stephanie Strom in the New York Times, the most lucrative day of the year for charities is Dec. 31 when donations surge because of the soon to lapse tax breaks.

Skeptics—or Scrooges depending on your perspective—often worry that their money isn’t actually going to the neediest.  They gleefully cite recent stories about the marketing techniques some groups use to raise dollars during the holiday.  Turns out, there’s a chance that the dollars you thought you donated for a specific heifer or water buffalo for a poor family in Cambodia or Liberia actually went into a general fund for the community (read the fine print).  Sure, that kinda sucks, but it’s not like you were really going to visit your donated dollars hard at work on your next trip to South Africa.

But I did.  Several years ago Condé Nast Traveler dispatched me to Cape Town to oversee a photo shoot with Ashley Judd.  We were honoring her as a global ambassador for YouthAIDS, part of the global non-profit health organization PSI.  YouthAIDS, founded by the visionary force-of-nature Kate Roberts, works around the world to end HIV transmission in young people—for as little as $10 per month you can protect one person from becoming HIV+.  I know how effective their programs are because I was privileged to see their work up close with a personal tour from Ashley Judd.

At the time, I had no idea what I was getting into, and how much the trip would change my worldview.  So I’d like to share with you a little sneak peek from a very important Alphabet City chapter about my time with Ashley and YouthAIDS.

I know, I told you earlier this week you’d get no more excerpts until the book came out.  But I was just in DC meeting with the folks at PSI and YouthAIDS, and one of my friends/readers Tracy Z. encouraged me to share this tale.  And so in the spirit of the holidays, here’s an extra little gift to you, along with my annual donation I just made to YouthAIDS.  Please consider doing the same at www.YouthAIDS.org.  You can save a life, and I know it’s money well-spent.

Very Short (Bonus) Excerpt from Alphabet City’s Episode 16: Boots

The next morning, a crowd of photographers followed Ashley and entourage through clinic tours, testing sites, peer education programs, and a lunch with female hairdressers who were using their salons as distribution centers for safe sex messages.  At every turn, Ashley was poised, and able to effortlessly answer any question about the epidemic.

Early afternoon, we piled into a caravan of black SUVs and traded the flashbulbs and admiring crowds of Cape Town for the filthy streets and dying orphans of AIDS ravaged Khayelitsha Township.  While I had seen much poverty around the world, I was ill prepared for the devastation from the epidemic I witnessed at Ashley’s side.  She took me by the hand, lead me into a hospital treating dying children, and taught me to sit at the bedside of a 15-year old who was so emaciated from AIDS that he looked ten.  She showed me how to run my fingertips lightly along his arm

“Stroke like this.  Everyone needs a human touch.”

We moved from bedside to bedside of these abandoned and dying children for over an hour.  Ashley looked up at me every so often and smiled, encouraging me to keep giving and touching despite the heart-breaking situation.  I’d never seen such a caring and committed celebrity.

At one point, a six-year old boy with AIDS sporting yellow rain boots sat in my lap and demanded I carry him with me around the ward.  We nicknamed him Boots, and as I was about to leave, he couldn’t control his bladder and peed all over me.  I just smiled and kissed his forehead as I laid him back down in his bed.

Later that day, I tried shaking off the horror I had witnessed earlier to focus on capturing an image that would sell magazines, but it all seemed so pointless.  I knocked on Ashley’s trailer.

“How do you not feel guilty about all this luxury?” I asked.

“Remember, it’s never a choice, JP.  Never feel guilty for what you have.  Not as long as you work so that others have access to what they need.  It’s never a choice.”

She’d thought a lot about this disparity.  Ashley was a woman on a mission who trained her laser-like attention on a problem and attacked it with vigor.  Opinionated, she rarely suffered fools gladly—something that I noticed sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, similar to other pop-culture crusaders like Madonna or Angelina.  But seeing her in both spheres—the glamorous and the destitute—I appreciated the veneer she used like a passport to travel between the first and third worlds.

When my plane touched down in New York, I entered a new era.  My boss had been promoted to creative director for the company.  That meant that Editor and I would no longer work side-by-side, traveling the globe.  And a call from the YouthAIDS team confirmed my worry—just after I left Cape Town, Boots had died.  I might have been the last person to hold him, touch him, and kiss him.

For his interview with me just published in the December issue of Condé Nast Traveler (CLICK HERE to read online), Whole Foods CEO John Mackey showed up in hiking shorts, a polo shirt and walking shoes, and was immediately taken with the attachment that turns my iPod into a voice recorder.  I suggested he buy one to tape his interviews since he believes he’s frequently misquoted in the press.  But the man who runs one of the most admired companies in America doesn’t an own iPod iPhone.  He’s definitely not your stereotypical CEO.  And that made my interview with him a breathe of fresh air.

CORRECTION: The lovely head of PR at Whole Foods Kate Lowery, who was in the interview, corrected me that John has owned MANY iPods over the years, used them on his hikes, and was an early adopter of the technology.  He didn’t have an iPhone at the time of the interview, but does now.

DISCLOSURE: Even before the interview, I knew that John wasn’t your typical CEO as I had met him several years ago when he was in New York and wanted to attend an event I was organizing sponsored by my client The Economist.  Somehow, he mentioned to my sister Paige (who works for him/Whole Foods as part of the Digital Media Team) that he’d like to attend the event if he could get tickets, and my sister said she could probably make that happen.  When he showed up at the event, he didn’t want to sit in the VIP section I had reserved for him, but preferred sitting close to the stage with all the other general admission ticket holders.  He also thanked me profusely and genuinely for getting him tickets.  Again, unlike most titans of industry who would think their CEO title automatically gained them privileged access.

John spent a little over an hour with me at the bright and open Whole Foods headquarters in Austin back in June—just before he published his controversial health care op-ed in the Wall St. Journal.  Although I may not agree with his take on America’s most pressing problem, I appreciate that a CEO is willing to step forward, take a passionate stand, and not be milquetoast.

He was just as forthcoming and warm in our interview, and here are a few of his tips and thoughts that didn’t make it into print because of space constraints.

Whole Food’s Whole Planet Foundation microcredit loan programs in partnership with Grameen Bank give loans not just to those in the developing world, but entrepreneurs in Jackson Heights, Queens.  I asked him about that and John’s answer is a testament to the immigrant experience and spirit.

JPB: Many people think microcredit in the developing world, but I was intrigued by your microcredit program in Jackson heights, Queens.

Mackey: Initially when I heard about the idea for loans in the United States I thought “that’s never going to work.”  No way.  The money is going to be taken and not paid back.  I was very cynical about it.  What I didn’t understand is that the majority of those loans were being made to first generation immigrants…Think about how much courage it takes to uproot yourself to another country where you don’t necessarily speak the language, you don’t understand the culture.  It’s an immense act of courage.  So most people aren’t going to do it.  So the ones who do it are already self-selected for initiative, energy, intelligence, courage.  It has been the secret of America since it’s founding.  We’ve enabled smart ambitious people to be able to come over here and improve their lives.  So it’s mostly immigrants these loans are going to.   And that fits in with Whole Foods Markets because our New York stores have people from over 65 different countries working in the store.  I think that’s amazing.  And they are ambitious, and they’re wonderful.  I just love our team members.

On a “lighter” note, I asked John about the difficulty in traveling as a vegan.

JPB: Any favorite places to recommend to other traveling vegans?

Mackey: Well in New York City, my favorite restaurant that I will always go to—usually multiple times is called Candle 79.  It’s on 79^th and Lexington.  It’s great.  And the people that own it and manage it are wonderful people.  In London, I discovered this place called SAF, it a new vegan restaurant called Simply Authentic Food.

This past Sunday, Chef and I took John’s recommendation and headed to Candle 79 after a day at the Met.  Unlike vegan spots in Alphabet City that are spare and earthy crunchy, Candle 79 is plush and romantic with stylistic dishes.  Not everything was spot on—the special salad of the day with cranberry beans was bland and in need of salt and citrus.  But our plates of creamy hummus were perfectly spiced (read Frank Bruni’s NYT review.)

With a couple of glasses of biodynamic wines, we toasted John Mackey’s passion and commitment—his vision has definitely changed our world.