The only difference I see after being away for years is that, like Miami Beach, more people want to live here year round. Other that that, it is still the grand place The Washington Post described as "Where Summering Is A Sport". The harbor is packed with boats of every size and an early morning tour of mansion district of both private and public homes showed gates being polished, catering trucks arriving, and flowers being delivered for a weekend of events.

I sat next to a sweet, if batty, woman who was taking four of her stunning, blonde children to see their great-grandmother in Newport. We chatted about this-and-that when I asked where her grandmother lived, she said, "Oh, she's 102 and lives in the last home on Bellevue Avenue." I remarked that she must have seen much over the time, and she told me her mother used to fire the cannon that announced that Bailey's Beach was open. I told her to ask her grandmother if she remembered "the raising of the flag" and explained that once a day, a flag was raised and women would have to leave the beach because the men would swim nude.

Peter picked me up and wanted to go to Providence; I assured him I did not travel half a day to go to a club, and we drove directly to Newport and his charming home. All I wanted to do was have some wine and relax. Peter, knowing me so well, picked up lately on my intense dissatisfaction with what is going on back on South Beach and gave me the soothing works of advice I needed. You can't get that unless you remove yourself out of a cauldron of nonsense like Miami.

By my standards it was cold: 50 degrees. I slept in three layers of cotton and flannel under two comforters, but it was wonderful. The Countess and Officer Brian on on the way down for a two night stay. The New England air does something to you, too; it wouldn't surprise me if it makes you smarter in some way. It definitely picks you up.