I hope everyone in the northeast enjoyed the weekend's weather as much as did we! I was euphoric, giddy, and couldn't stop grinning at everyone, although looking back I got next to nothing done in terms of either chores or culture or even the exploration of new restaurants and walks.

Oh, and I got a doozy of a migraine! I guess I wasn't quite prepared for Saturday's heat - and in any case I have a sort of aversion to rushing the season, both because I won't let nature play me for a fool and because I want my summer things to retain their specialness, what with for every thing there is a season etc. etc. In any case, I guess my denim shirtdress and red cotton cardi were a bit heavy, or I didn't drink enough water, but by the time I'd successfully received a haircut (with Bardot-ish blowout)and gone to meet M at the Strand, things were beginning to go bad. And by the time we'd finished a really great dinner at Bar Jamon (pan con tomate; skirt steak with onion marmalada and romesco; marinated brussels sprouts) it had sort of set it. Nevertheless, it seemed a good idea, rather than sleeping it off as usual, to get to the root of the problem, and so we repaired to Chinatown for a cheap back-rub. We found a respectable-looking spot full of tourists getting foot-rubs and I was led to a bed between two curtains and told to undress, which made me uneasy(although it soon became clear that the massuese was all business and there would be no suggestion of happy endings - despite the odd, Doughboy-like giggling of the southern-accented tourist in the next alcove.) I dutifully put face in hole, but despite a soundtrack that went from "Doe, A Deer" to "Bringing in the Sheaves" it wasn't terribly relaxing as my masseuse was forever shouting things to her colleagues and occasionally giggling to herself, which I might have minded more had I not been wearing a brand-new set of underthings, had freshly washed hair and known my hygiene to be beyond reproach. Maybe it was the band-aids on my feet? Whatever, I was in too much pain to care.

By the time we left, I was in a bad way and let me just say that if your migraines benefit from the smells of fish and festering garbage, of shouting frat-boys and squalling babies, of tweens who can express the thrill of being in a stretch limo only by sticking their heads out the windows and screeching "You Belong With Me" - then, my friend, get yourself to Chinatown. I, instead, threw up a lot and then went home to bed, aided and physically supported by the tirless and heroic Slim.