I've been itching to tell about this, but it didn't happen until later in the honeymoon week, so if I don't flash forward, you won't hear about it until next week (at the exhausted rate I'm going).
Keith = Project Runway Keith. We were sidled up to the bar at Cielo Saturday night (after just having been plucked from the back of the line - I'm just dorky enough to be excited by that - never mind that there was a whole gaggle of boys in front of us, and well, I'm a girl), and H spots Keith just behind me. My back was to him, so I had to find a way to discreetly check him out, and I did, very quickly, but it was definitely him. Ironically, it was the Saturday before his PR demise aired. For the first night in NYC, I figured I was on a celeb roll!
(On a side note, I've never figured out exactly what all of the music styles are, so when the club motto is "where house music lives," I don't know what that means. Or rather, I didn't. I do now, and I'm in love with house! Cool, funky, smooth, hard, passionate...I'm feelin' it, baby, feelin' it!)
Morimoto. He actually cooks in the exhibition kitchen at his NY place. H was absolutely starstruck. He went to the bathroom (loooong story about the bathrooms later), and came back the long way, just so he could hover by the kitchen to watch. It was really cute, watching him watch his favorite Iron Chef. And the sushi was amazing.
So we're in NYC, right? There are lots of famous places to go. We're out one night (can't remember which at this point in the evening - yes, I'm still at work), and notice, tucked in between clubs, Scores. H looks at me, I look at him, and I think, "why not? We're in NY, and it's gotta be a sight to see, this place where someone can run up a $150K tab."
So in we go.
It wasn't as scary as I thought it would be. Pretty nice, actually. We settle in to two comfy chairs, order a drink, and sit back to watch the show (and watch the people watching the show - that's waaaaaaay more interesting, trust me).
As I'm playing anthropologist (this is all in the name of research, of course), I notice someone. At first glance, the skinny, spiky-haired blond guy reminds me of my English ex.* His funny girly dance - he was dancing with a whole bunch of girls - ahem - dancers - was so distinctly Brit.
"Is that Sting?" I think. I say it out loud to H. He looks over.
Then I see the slender 50+ blonde dancing with him & the girls.
It's them. Sting & Trudie havin' a ball at Scores NY. Clearly they didn't have a care in the world about someone spotting them in such a "risque" place, as they were plain ol' out in the open with the rest of us commoners. And they really were having a ball. It just made me like them more, the fact that they can go, as a couple, to a strip club, and have a great time.
Now that's the celebrity spotting of the trip. Being unabashedly normal and in love with your wife - no that's stylish to the hilt.
*This thought is news to H - I didn't notice my thought at the time.