see, I told you...

This is us loading the car onto the ferry Thursday on our way to Bellagio -- can you tell what it is? The white of the boat shows just beyond the cars and giant posts... mine is the third little car cut off here -- it's dark, forest green...

This is Mufasa on yet another form of transportation: the car ferry! He's decided he needs his own blog. I'm sure as soon as he recovers from his Great Gatsby-like long weekend, he'll get right on that. I'll be sure to keep you posted, so to speak.

As I mentioned in the last post, we were living in the lap of luxury. Of course that meant there was a spa. Do you know how I love massages? I have this thing about massages. I love them. I don't get anywhere near enough of them. There's a day spa here in Lugano I've heard is quite good. I should visit regularly, it would make me feel so much better about my job and life. I've never set foot in there once, though... not ever.

When I'm with Mom, I have massages. At the Villa Serbelloni I had a massage by a man whose name I didn't get... and it was gooooooood. I can't even recommend him here... because I didn't want to seem inappropriate... and also because I was having difficulty speaking in his presence and immediately after the experience. Before the experience, too, come to think of it... I yanked Mom out of the hallway into the game room adjacent to the spa and hissed, "Did you see his calves?! I can't do this!" This is not the first time I have had this sort of experience with my Mother at a European spa, and she gets a real kick out of it. (You may have heard the story about me slamming my back against the door on the way into the solarium at the very fine Romantik Hotel Turm last summer, exclaiming something about male anatomy to my Mother. I can't even revisit that episode here. This is not a set of conversations I ever thought we'd have, my Mother and I. Nor here, now that I think about it.)

Anyway, I like massages, I like men... but Italian male massuers? It just doesn't seem right to be a masseur and Italian and male and tan and fit and really good at what you do, to boot... the massage was a growth experience or exercise in something... I just haven't figured out what yet. I think I won't say anything else about that. That's me in my spa robe, though, in the photo, which is just funny. They are always gigantic on me, and even bigger and funnier on Mom. None of this, you understand, is complaint... not one word. It's just more of the funny stuff life throws my way on these increasingly random adventures across two continents... Mufasa, as you can tell, is exhausted by all of it. That's him sleeping on the terrace overlooking the pool and lake while Mom and I had our Bellini and Gelato.

I heard the waiters at the beach yesterday talking about what Justin Timberlake wanted... I wonder if he was there. I sure felt like a star. The opulent room in the bottom left was the breakfast room... I just had to take a picture. It was gorgeous.

All of Bellagio felt opulent, though we had an apartment adjacent to the hotel that I'll be able to afford to visit with friends again and again and again. That's the very best part... Ciao, tutti! And, Dad, we wished you were there!