Oh, my. I’ve not been too good about this blog thing, lately. I understand that one is supposed to maintain regular entries and I’ve just not been doing that. Unfortunately, most of my work-free moments these days are given over to either drinks or sleep (sometimes simultaneously).

This past weekend, notable on my personal calendar for Lee-Jackson Day (nota bene: That was on Friday, and before all of you nasty little Yankees get your shorts in a bunch looking for racist reactionism, it was an institution WAY before Rev. King met his unfortunate end), I blew off a considerable amount of work and went to my favorite city for a little R&R.

I found the gracious Southern Capital more beautiful than ever, and yet I marvel at some of its idiosyncrasies. How is it that a city whose residential housing prices have skyrocketed still has a decrepit downtown? Why does Grace Street, with its elegant commercial facades, languish while the once workaday edifices of Carytown rake in the fruit of Mammon?

Still, I’ll take a thriving city with a slumbering downtown. Ten years ago, when I had the delightful privilege of living in Richmond, nobody wanted to live in Ginter Park, a pretty neighborhood in the North Side that was one of the earliest streetcar suburbs. These days, Ginter Park houses are selling over the asking price before they even hit the market. And then there’s the Fan, and Monument Avenue, always the city’s most stylish section. (I’ll not mention Windsor Farms, the ‘20s “exclusive” district, which has outpriced several millionaires.) Houses on The Avenue are relegated now to the kind of families that built them originally—i.e., those whose annual income compares to the annual gross income of Minnesota.

Natch, I didn’t spend the entire weekend looking at houses and neighborhoods. I also cruised through the newly-reopened train station, which nearly knocked me off of my feet. The 1901 station is a towering masterpiece. Richmond again has a real transit hub, despite the small inconvenience of Amtrak scheduling. The big French Renaissance Victorian Teutonic Italianate pile features a coldly elegant entry hall, a big marble stair up to the colonnaded main waiting room, and nifty side rooms with lovely marble fireplaces to take the chill out of a damp Richmond winter morning. I think that the most distinct problem with the station is that passengers, once there ensconced, might not wish to ever leave.

I certainly couldn’t spend a weekend in the Confederate Capital without visiting a few of its premiere watering holes. I hit Dot’s Back Inn, which is always homey and fun, and took a brief tour of a few downtown spots. How delightful to find friends in places all over the city—I’ve not lived there since 1993, and people still recognize me! Sunday night brought a perfect dinner at Davis & Main—the restaurant is named for its intersection, and further drinks at Shenanigan’s up in Bellevue.

Enough from me about the glories of Richmond. Go there yourselves, children; it’s one of the world’s loveliest cities. Nowhere else will you find climate, architecture, elegance, graciousness and gemutlichkeit wrapped into one self-effacing whole. When you alight at the Main Street Station, you will know that you’re in a different world; when you check in at the Hotel Jefferson, you’ll have become a part of it. By the time you see a movie at the Byrd and have drinks at Chiocca’s—you’ll be One Of Us.