Since the only thing more boring than listening to someone’s dream or the plot of their novel is hearing what they did on their vacation, I will keep this  brief.

First, and  I know the suspense is killing you, I did indeed defend my title as world’s greatest mini golfer.

I was less successful at Laser Tag. As I was about to gun down a small child, he said, “Please don’t shoot me, I’m six years old.” I put down my gun. You know the rest: he shot me in cold blood. Only to make it worse, he called me a “dipshit.”

On the literary end of things, I wasn’t able to read anything for pleasure because I had to edit a novel. Is there no end to my self-sacrifice?

We ended our trip at Edith Wharton’s summer home, The Mount, in Lenox, MA.  Favorite anecdote from the tour: Wharton wrote in bed every morning (obviously long hand) from 6-11. She paginated the pages and threw them on the floor when finished. Her servant would collect them, put them in order and ship them off to her editor. Her room, btw, had a view of her formal gardens, lake, forest and mountains beyond. (If my math is correct, that’s five hours of daily writing.)

Last, for those of you (and I know who you are) who remember Judicial Marshall Josh and his  judicial hotness, may I introduce White Water Rafting Guide Abe:  Twenty-something cross between Brad Pitt and Kevin Bacon. All biceps and wirey swagger. Mirror aviators, a scar cut into his eyebrow, a regimen of bad jokes he delighted in telling, and a Marlboro man.

Abe is such a show off!

Abe's biceps look terrific in this one.

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