I know how Dorothy felt when she got back to Kansas: “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!”
Don’t get me wrong. My grand journey in September and October to “Oz,” or in this case France and England, was amazing. After losing my job nearly two years ago, I had grown so bored and boring I was losing my mind. Much as I loved it, my house had become almost a prison. I needed some perspective. I needed to hit my reset button.
That was what this trip was all about – digging me out of my rut. Reminding me that there was a huge world out there beyond my solarium. Giving me some new things to see, hear, smell and taste. Helping me see my life through a new lens.
My couple of months abroad accomplished all that, and more. One of my short-term goals was to stay in my beloved England long enough at one stretch that I was ready to come home. In all of my previous 16 or 17 trips there, I never got to that point. This time, I finally did.
I was profoundly grateful for the opportunity to spend this time away from Charlotte, but hallelujah! I was glad to get back!
I've been back six weeks now, long enough to process the journey from both the mental and physical perspective. Being away made me appreciate so many things I was taking for granted. I could probably have managed doing without one or two things. But I realize that at my age I’ve become accustomed to a certain level of creature comforts and conveniences. I don’t live in luxury, but I like my “stuff.” I’ve worked hard for my stuff, and things around here are geared to making my life pretty easy and comfortable.
Therefore, the cumulative effect of not having this stuff – which I’ve learned to view as basics – made life abroad harder than I would have liked. I know one doesn’t travel in order to replicate your experiences at home, but the day-to-day effort required to keep body and soul together shouldn’t wear you slam out.
To be fair, much of my difficulty stemmed from my back. Pain is not a welcome traveling companion. All those old bones and nerves in my lumbar region are a hot mess and as a result, walking was painful. And let’s face it, travel requires a lot of walking. If I sat, I was somewhat OK, except when sitting on the furniture in my exchange houses, most of which must have been designed by the Marquis de Sade. Comfortable, well-padded lounge chairs don’t seem to be widely marketed abroad. More’s the pity; the Barco-Lounger people could make a killing over there.
But I digress. My British house had some nice love seats in their “drawing room,” but unfortunately it was not heated, and while the rest of the house was only lukewarm under the best of circumstances, I was drawn instead to what little heat I could find, regardless of the tortuous nature of the furniture. Sitting was bad enough, but if I stood up the pain was unrelenting. Add to my general mobility issues was the fact that both houses in which I stayed had steep stairs. Ouch.
So at the top of my list of “stuff” I missed was an accessible house with back-friendly furniture. Hauling laundry downstairs (to wash it) and back upstairs (to dry it, a particularly time-consuming and tedious process) was aggravating. At home I do have stairs leading to the loft, but I seldom go up there. Over the years, my loft has become cosmetic rather than functional.
Other things I loved coming home to: A full-sized car with automatic transmission. My solarium. Sirius XM satellite radio. A washing machine with a 30-minute cycle (rather than 2 ½ hours). A clothes drier! My walk-in shower. A well-designed kitchen. Good reading lamps. Screens on the windows during warm weather, and cozy central heat during cold spells. A large variety of nearby eating establishments. Lower gas prices. Free parking. Abundant autumn SUNSHINE!
Bottom line: Coping with the absence of ALL of this stuff got on my very last nerve. There, I’ve said it. Maybe I could’ve handled it better 20, 15 or even 10 years ago. But add all of these irritants to back pain and it’s a recipe for exhaustion.
I also realized that while I’m hardly hostile to the environment, the Europeans have sustainability programmed into their DNA. We Americans have a long way to go to match their admirable “green” attitude. The difference in our approaches to energy conservation is nothing short of profound. How many of us lay our freshly washed clothes on the grass in the sunshine to save the electricity needed to operate the tumble drier? I swear, my French exchangers are so energy-conscious they follow this Medieval practice! Of course, they’re also the ones who have no garbage can indoors, choosing instead to recycle flimsy plastic grocery bags for all their kitchen waste…But that’s another story.
On the flip side – the happy side! – I had some extraordinary experiences which I’ll savor for the rest of my life: Visiting Versailles in France. Lingering at sidewalk cafes for hours with Susan and Little Margaret in Paris. Hearing the Winchester Cathedral Choirs in concert while sitting on Jane Austen’s grave. Hearing a choral concert in London centering on the theme, “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?,” in which every single song had a text by William Shakespeare. Seeing “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert: The Musical” for the second time in London’s West End – this time on the front row. Rambling by car through the glorious English countryside, Classic-FM turned up high, without an itinerary or a care in the world. Having afternoon tea in Bath’s historic Pump Room with six new British friends.
Something wonderful, silly, unexpected, provocative, remarkable, exasperating or unusual happened every day – a welcome change from the rut in which I had become mired before the trip. I wanted to wake up over there and not be able to predict what each day would bring – and I totally got that! Life took on a fresh new sheen again, and for this 62-year-old, the value of that is immeasurable.
Would I trade anything in the world for the experience of spending two months abroad? No way! Would I go back? Well, maybe not to Paris, and certainly not to that particular house. But back to the U.K.? Are you kidding? In a heartbeat! I might have been eager to get back to Charlotte, but I’m still an Anglophile to the bone. God save the Queen!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Stonehenge: Dud City!
I can now report firsthand that Stonehenge is just a big ol’ bunch of nuthin’.
You were expecting me to say that I stood in the ancient stone circle and had visions and felt the souls of long-ago Druids dancing around on my head, right? After all, Stonehenge is supposed to be a large deal to tourists, right? People come by the busload to bear witness to these mysterious icons.
Jeez. I’m sorry, but these people need to get a life!
In fact, it may be sacrilege to suggest it, but Stonehenge could benefit from some Disneyfication. I wouldn’t ordinarily go out on this particular limb, but this particular attraction doesn’t warrant the big build-up it has gotten over the years, in my view.
Picture it: You’ve got your map, you’re motoring down the road in anticipation, you take a right fork, and WHOA: That’s it. That’s IT? All of a sudden you’re driving by these monoliths that are right there in a field by the side of the road. They’re much smaller than I expected. And except for one small road sign, there was no dramatic approach. Just lots of sheep contentedly wandering about in the mud. Blink, and you miss ‘em all.
By the time I arrived on this particular afternoon, the parking lot was closed, so there was no way to access the field, which is enclosed by a fence. I gathered the fence was to keep the sheep in, not to keep the tourists and Druids out. But you could easily see all there was to see from the road, which was very little of nothing.
The sheep were cute, I give 'em that. The whole scene was such a dud, about the only thing to do was laugh.
I’m not saying the Brits should install a concession stand across the road or hang up some neon signs. If Stonehenge were in the States, no doubt some capitalists would have long ago added permanent carnival rides, a Pizza Hut and souvenir vendors to try to make a buck. Leave it to us Americans to take the tacky quotient over the top.
In fact, I admire the way this country has mostly resisted commercialization. The British countryside is still unspoiled. No billboards along the highways. After all, the entire kingdom is like an historical theme park.
But given the great press Stonehenge has gotten for the last 5,000 years or so, one would expect at least a nice little plaque on the property, a platform for a proper photo op, or a Ben & Jerry’s flavour named after it. There wasn't even a T-shirt. Prime property for a clever promoter, I should say.
***
Going to another extreme, yesterday I went to Hampton Court Palace, King Henry VIII's digs, where a crew happened to be filming a scene from the next "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie. I swear I saw Johnny Depp in his Jack Sparrow costume. OK, it was only for a second, a mere glimpse, really. But that's my story, and I'm sticking to it! Also saw lots of extras dressed as British soldiers in their red coats -- very handsome, they were.
You were expecting me to say that I stood in the ancient stone circle and had visions and felt the souls of long-ago Druids dancing around on my head, right? After all, Stonehenge is supposed to be a large deal to tourists, right? People come by the busload to bear witness to these mysterious icons.
Jeez. I’m sorry, but these people need to get a life!
In fact, it may be sacrilege to suggest it, but Stonehenge could benefit from some Disneyfication. I wouldn’t ordinarily go out on this particular limb, but this particular attraction doesn’t warrant the big build-up it has gotten over the years, in my view.
Picture it: You’ve got your map, you’re motoring down the road in anticipation, you take a right fork, and WHOA: That’s it. That’s IT? All of a sudden you’re driving by these monoliths that are right there in a field by the side of the road. They’re much smaller than I expected. And except for one small road sign, there was no dramatic approach. Just lots of sheep contentedly wandering about in the mud. Blink, and you miss ‘em all.
By the time I arrived on this particular afternoon, the parking lot was closed, so there was no way to access the field, which is enclosed by a fence. I gathered the fence was to keep the sheep in, not to keep the tourists and Druids out. But you could easily see all there was to see from the road, which was very little of nothing.
The sheep were cute, I give 'em that. The whole scene was such a dud, about the only thing to do was laugh.
I’m not saying the Brits should install a concession stand across the road or hang up some neon signs. If Stonehenge were in the States, no doubt some capitalists would have long ago added permanent carnival rides, a Pizza Hut and souvenir vendors to try to make a buck. Leave it to us Americans to take the tacky quotient over the top.
In fact, I admire the way this country has mostly resisted commercialization. The British countryside is still unspoiled. No billboards along the highways. After all, the entire kingdom is like an historical theme park.
But given the great press Stonehenge has gotten for the last 5,000 years or so, one would expect at least a nice little plaque on the property, a platform for a proper photo op, or a Ben & Jerry’s flavour named after it. There wasn't even a T-shirt. Prime property for a clever promoter, I should say.
***
Going to another extreme, yesterday I went to Hampton Court Palace, King Henry VIII's digs, where a crew happened to be filming a scene from the next "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie. I swear I saw Johnny Depp in his Jack Sparrow costume. OK, it was only for a second, a mere glimpse, really. But that's my story, and I'm sticking to it! Also saw lots of extras dressed as British soldiers in their red coats -- very handsome, they were.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
An Open Memo to the Queen
Dear Majesty,
As you may know, I am on an extended holiday here in your glorious kingdom. I am on a house swap with a couple in Newbury in West Berkshire – not all that far from your country digs in Windsor -- and am enjoying myself very much indeed.
I’ve seeing some new sights, revisiting many venues that have impressed me in the past, and soaking up as much of your delightful British culture as possible in my five weeks here. For example, last week I took my friend Susan, a first-time visitor to the U.K., to the city of Bath and the Rothschilds’ estate at Waddesdon, both of which she loved, and to St. Paul’s Cathedral, which failed to impress her (“the ceilings are too high”). Last night we attended the London Welsh Men’s Choir Festival at Royal Albert Hall featuring a 600-voice mass choir. Imagine! A choir of SIX HUNDRED MEN! Susan’s reaction was less than overwhelming (“Why can’t they sing everything in English?”). For myself, I was blown away (600 men!!). There’s just no predicting people’s reactions, is there?
On another trip up to London one day last week, Susan and I attended an after-hours activity at the Queens Gallery right there at your house. I’m sure you’ve seen the current exhibit – Love and Passion: The Art of Victoria & Albert – which features art purchased by your great-great-grandparents during their marriage. It’s a beautiful display and certainly dispels the theory that Victoria was a prude. Who says she was opposed to nudity?!
Anyway, this ticketed “do” had been promoted as a behind-the-scenes look at the exhibit, with mini-lectures by members of the Curator’s staff, plus refreshments. The staff were certainly knowledgeable and gracious, and their presentations were really interesting. I particularly enjoyed hearing music of the era played on Victoria and Albert’s own decorative piano, which is part of the royal collection on display. I hadn’t known that Felix Mendelssohn taught Prince Albert to play the instrument, and that Albert himself composed songs.
The Curator and his staff mingled with guests all evening to answer questions and make us feel closer to the fascinating couple who had collected these objects. So far so good.
However, I feel it is my duty to report on the sad, sad issue of the refreshments.
Lilibet, honey. This function was held in Buckingham Palace. One would have expected certain Standards to be upheld!
Would it have broken the royal kitchen’s budget to come up with a plate of cheese and fruit? Maybe a little pate with some nice crackers? Some chilled shrimp would have been nice.
Alas, what we got were some disspirited, off-brand corn chips (sans salsa), a few pretzels and some potato chips. IN PLASTIC BOWLS. Susan and I agreed that we ate better snacks at slumber parties in 7th grade. We were not amused.
You own some of the finest china in the world, and these serving vessels were straight from Dollar General! I’ve seen better ware in WalMart.
It appeared as if somebody had made a quick run by the local budget supermarket, grabbed a few cellophane bags and some boring, plain white paper napkins and called it a day. I wouldn’t have even minded the crisps (we call 'em potato chips) if they had been presented in a nice silver or Royal Doulton bowl. Or had the napkins been embossed with the Windsor crest, suitable for a commoner's scrapbook. But plastic and paper?? Tacky, tacky, tacky! And there wasn’t even any onion dip.
I feel it is my duty as a wannabe subject to let you know of these embarrassing oversights.
On the other hand, I am all too happy to allow you to make it up to me. I'm available for dinner at the Palace any evening this week. Don't go to any special trouble. Whatever you and Phillip are having (on the royal china) will be fine with me.
I remain at your command,
Your loyal lifelong fan,
Emily
As you may know, I am on an extended holiday here in your glorious kingdom. I am on a house swap with a couple in Newbury in West Berkshire – not all that far from your country digs in Windsor -- and am enjoying myself very much indeed.
I’ve seeing some new sights, revisiting many venues that have impressed me in the past, and soaking up as much of your delightful British culture as possible in my five weeks here. For example, last week I took my friend Susan, a first-time visitor to the U.K., to the city of Bath and the Rothschilds’ estate at Waddesdon, both of which she loved, and to St. Paul’s Cathedral, which failed to impress her (“the ceilings are too high”). Last night we attended the London Welsh Men’s Choir Festival at Royal Albert Hall featuring a 600-voice mass choir. Imagine! A choir of SIX HUNDRED MEN! Susan’s reaction was less than overwhelming (“Why can’t they sing everything in English?”). For myself, I was blown away (600 men!!). There’s just no predicting people’s reactions, is there?
On another trip up to London one day last week, Susan and I attended an after-hours activity at the Queens Gallery right there at your house. I’m sure you’ve seen the current exhibit – Love and Passion: The Art of Victoria & Albert – which features art purchased by your great-great-grandparents during their marriage. It’s a beautiful display and certainly dispels the theory that Victoria was a prude. Who says she was opposed to nudity?!
Anyway, this ticketed “do” had been promoted as a behind-the-scenes look at the exhibit, with mini-lectures by members of the Curator’s staff, plus refreshments. The staff were certainly knowledgeable and gracious, and their presentations were really interesting. I particularly enjoyed hearing music of the era played on Victoria and Albert’s own decorative piano, which is part of the royal collection on display. I hadn’t known that Felix Mendelssohn taught Prince Albert to play the instrument, and that Albert himself composed songs.
The Curator and his staff mingled with guests all evening to answer questions and make us feel closer to the fascinating couple who had collected these objects. So far so good.
However, I feel it is my duty to report on the sad, sad issue of the refreshments.
Lilibet, honey. This function was held in Buckingham Palace. One would have expected certain Standards to be upheld!
Would it have broken the royal kitchen’s budget to come up with a plate of cheese and fruit? Maybe a little pate with some nice crackers? Some chilled shrimp would have been nice.
Alas, what we got were some disspirited, off-brand corn chips (sans salsa), a few pretzels and some potato chips. IN PLASTIC BOWLS. Susan and I agreed that we ate better snacks at slumber parties in 7th grade. We were not amused.
You own some of the finest china in the world, and these serving vessels were straight from Dollar General! I’ve seen better ware in WalMart.
It appeared as if somebody had made a quick run by the local budget supermarket, grabbed a few cellophane bags and some boring, plain white paper napkins and called it a day. I wouldn’t have even minded the crisps (we call 'em potato chips) if they had been presented in a nice silver or Royal Doulton bowl. Or had the napkins been embossed with the Windsor crest, suitable for a commoner's scrapbook. But plastic and paper?? Tacky, tacky, tacky! And there wasn’t even any onion dip.
I feel it is my duty as a wannabe subject to let you know of these embarrassing oversights.
On the other hand, I am all too happy to allow you to make it up to me. I'm available for dinner at the Palace any evening this week. Don't go to any special trouble. Whatever you and Phillip are having (on the royal china) will be fine with me.
I remain at your command,
Your loyal lifelong fan,
Emily
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The perils of choral music
We human beings land ourselves in some pretty precarious pickles in pursuit of amusement, don’t we? I mean, we’re the only animal species who willingly dive out of airplanes, ride surfboards over treacherous waves in the ocean, or jump off bridges with only a bungee chord strapped to our ankles – all in the name of fun.
Me, I’ve never been the danger-pursuing type. Call me a wimp, but I’m not into perilous, adrenalin-inducing sport. No, my entertainments of choice involve either movies, theatre or choral music. Over here in the U.K., I’ve got all of those on my radar screen. Nice, low-key, wholesome activities and above all, safe.
Wrong. Last night I had a ticket to a concert by the City of Oxford Choir at Exeter College Chapel on the campus of Oxford University.
That I made it back home in one piece is a testament to dumb luck and the intervention of my higher angels, who must have been howling with mirth that I should have been so stupid as to undertake such an outing.
Now, you must understand that Oxford was laid out shortly after the Earth cooled. Its street map is the two-dimensional equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube. The chaps in the Middle Ages had never heard of (1) a straight line, (2) signage of any kind, (3) motor cars. Aside from being Medieval eye candy, the Oxford town center is simply not equipped to handle 21st Century traffic.
Which is why the Oxford Tourism Board’s website says very plainly, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE IN OXFORD. Park your car in a satellite lot and TAKE THE BUS.”
On the drive up to Oxford in the afternoon I had lunch with the delightful sister and brother-in-law of my house exchange partners, who live in a fascinating old (circa 1650) blacksmith’s house. As they drew me maps to show me how to get into the town center, they kept saying, in typical British understatement, “Oxford is not very car-friendly, I’m afraid. Have you considered the PARK-AND-RIDE SCHEME?”
Back on the main highway, I kept seeing warnings, “USE PARK-AND-RIDE FOR OXFORD,” and “YOU MUST TURN HERE FOR PARK-AND-RIDE.” On the main road leading into the town center, one lane is conspicuously designated For Buses Only. But I’m determined to do this on my own. It’s Saturday evening, not mid-week. Driving my automobile into town is my right as a citizen, correct?
As I passed the park-and-ride lot, I swear there was a sign along the lines of “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Driveth Here.” A skull-and-crossbones wasn’t visible, but I was beginning to get the idea. I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had a strategy: Find the railway station and navigate from there. Oh, wait, the railway station is not where it’s supposed to be. There are no signs anywhere. OK, I’ll reason it out by turning…here.
My confidence took its first hit when I found myself on a one-way street heading the wrong way – with a bus coming straight at me. Ooopsy. I make a quick left. Oh, dear. I’m in a dead end alley. OK, all I have to do is make a quick seven-point turn and head back where I was. AAACK! I can’t find reverse, where’s reverse, doesn’t this car have reverse???
Deep, cleansing breaths. Slowly, slowly I meandered and got back out to a “main” street, only to realize that hmmmmm, there seem to be no other cars around. Only people on foot. Lots and lots of people on foot – in the middle of the street. As in, “This is a pedestrian mall. And I’m driving on it.”
“Oh, S***!!!!!”
The next 15 minutes were a blur. Not many options here: I’m lost, I’m driving around in circles on streets that are closed to automobiles, my maps are meaningless, I’m inches away from being pulverized by the Buses That Rule Oxford, I’m dodging dozens of kamikaze bicyclists, I’m being stared at by hundreds of Oxonians who are clearly wondering which planet I come from, and I’ve got to find a loo SOON.
So I did what any self-respecting American would do under similar circumstances: I smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, and pretended to know EXACTLY where I was and where I was going. Faking confidence, I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had gleaned one fact from all the online and hand-drawn maps given to me – find Broad Street, and I’d be near Exeter College. By sheer magic Broad Street finally materialized. After all, even a blind squirrel can find a couple of nuts. I sensed I was closing in on Exeter. I decided to park and strike out on foot.
Only problem with this gem of a plan is that there are NO SIGNS on any building at Oxford. Wouldn’t be cool, I suppose. It’s as if the exclusivity of the place has been perpetuated by insiders who know the secret handshake. Obviously I didn’t know the secret handshake or the code or whatever cryptograms the Chosen Ones use to find their lairs.
After asking a half-dozen student-type individuals, I found Exeter College and its gorgeous little chapel, which could have been straight out of a Harry Potter movie set. Stepping into the quad of the vine-covered college was like stepping back several centuries. Really enchanting! I couldn’t imagine being privileged enough to attend school there, or at any of the 30-something colleges that make up the University. On the other hand, you’d have to be pretty hardy to withstand the discomforts of living in dorms that old.
The concert was, frankly, a let-down after the rigors of the trip to get there. It was OK, but the theme – plainsong through the ages – was so high-brow I’m not sure I “got it.” I suppose I should have expected something that erudite. It was at the oldest and most prestigious University in the world, after all.
I’m happy to report that I managed to escape the rabbit warren of streets without killing more than one or two bicyclists, and found my way home. But never let it be said that choral music has no perils or hazards. I’d take white water rafting on a Class 5 river over Oxford traffic any day.
Me, I’ve never been the danger-pursuing type. Call me a wimp, but I’m not into perilous, adrenalin-inducing sport. No, my entertainments of choice involve either movies, theatre or choral music. Over here in the U.K., I’ve got all of those on my radar screen. Nice, low-key, wholesome activities and above all, safe.
Wrong. Last night I had a ticket to a concert by the City of Oxford Choir at Exeter College Chapel on the campus of Oxford University.
That I made it back home in one piece is a testament to dumb luck and the intervention of my higher angels, who must have been howling with mirth that I should have been so stupid as to undertake such an outing.
Now, you must understand that Oxford was laid out shortly after the Earth cooled. Its street map is the two-dimensional equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube. The chaps in the Middle Ages had never heard of (1) a straight line, (2) signage of any kind, (3) motor cars. Aside from being Medieval eye candy, the Oxford town center is simply not equipped to handle 21st Century traffic.
Which is why the Oxford Tourism Board’s website says very plainly, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE IN OXFORD. Park your car in a satellite lot and TAKE THE BUS.”
On the drive up to Oxford in the afternoon I had lunch with the delightful sister and brother-in-law of my house exchange partners, who live in a fascinating old (circa 1650) blacksmith’s house. As they drew me maps to show me how to get into the town center, they kept saying, in typical British understatement, “Oxford is not very car-friendly, I’m afraid. Have you considered the PARK-AND-RIDE SCHEME?”
Back on the main highway, I kept seeing warnings, “USE PARK-AND-RIDE FOR OXFORD,” and “YOU MUST TURN HERE FOR PARK-AND-RIDE.” On the main road leading into the town center, one lane is conspicuously designated For Buses Only. But I’m determined to do this on my own. It’s Saturday evening, not mid-week. Driving my automobile into town is my right as a citizen, correct?
As I passed the park-and-ride lot, I swear there was a sign along the lines of “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Driveth Here.” A skull-and-crossbones wasn’t visible, but I was beginning to get the idea. I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had a strategy: Find the railway station and navigate from there. Oh, wait, the railway station is not where it’s supposed to be. There are no signs anywhere. OK, I’ll reason it out by turning…here.
My confidence took its first hit when I found myself on a one-way street heading the wrong way – with a bus coming straight at me. Ooopsy. I make a quick left. Oh, dear. I’m in a dead end alley. OK, all I have to do is make a quick seven-point turn and head back where I was. AAACK! I can’t find reverse, where’s reverse, doesn’t this car have reverse???
Deep, cleansing breaths. Slowly, slowly I meandered and got back out to a “main” street, only to realize that hmmmmm, there seem to be no other cars around. Only people on foot. Lots and lots of people on foot – in the middle of the street. As in, “This is a pedestrian mall. And I’m driving on it.”
“Oh, S***!!!!!”
The next 15 minutes were a blur. Not many options here: I’m lost, I’m driving around in circles on streets that are closed to automobiles, my maps are meaningless, I’m inches away from being pulverized by the Buses That Rule Oxford, I’m dodging dozens of kamikaze bicyclists, I’m being stared at by hundreds of Oxonians who are clearly wondering which planet I come from, and I’ve got to find a loo SOON.
So I did what any self-respecting American would do under similar circumstances: I smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, and pretended to know EXACTLY where I was and where I was going. Faking confidence, I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had gleaned one fact from all the online and hand-drawn maps given to me – find Broad Street, and I’d be near Exeter College. By sheer magic Broad Street finally materialized. After all, even a blind squirrel can find a couple of nuts. I sensed I was closing in on Exeter. I decided to park and strike out on foot.
Only problem with this gem of a plan is that there are NO SIGNS on any building at Oxford. Wouldn’t be cool, I suppose. It’s as if the exclusivity of the place has been perpetuated by insiders who know the secret handshake. Obviously I didn’t know the secret handshake or the code or whatever cryptograms the Chosen Ones use to find their lairs.
After asking a half-dozen student-type individuals, I found Exeter College and its gorgeous little chapel, which could have been straight out of a Harry Potter movie set. Stepping into the quad of the vine-covered college was like stepping back several centuries. Really enchanting! I couldn’t imagine being privileged enough to attend school there, or at any of the 30-something colleges that make up the University. On the other hand, you’d have to be pretty hardy to withstand the discomforts of living in dorms that old.
The concert was, frankly, a let-down after the rigors of the trip to get there. It was OK, but the theme – plainsong through the ages – was so high-brow I’m not sure I “got it.” I suppose I should have expected something that erudite. It was at the oldest and most prestigious University in the world, after all.
I’m happy to report that I managed to escape the rabbit warren of streets without killing more than one or two bicyclists, and found my way home. But never let it be said that choral music has no perils or hazards. I’d take white water rafting on a Class 5 river over Oxford traffic any day.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Pacing myself, but still enjoying the sights and sounds
I’m having a sweetly laid-back week here in West Berkshire. No thrills and spills; just unremarkable domesticity, a cathedral concert or two, and the odd visit to a stately home. You know – just the usual stuff if you’re a culture vulture like me.
Saturday I fancied hearing some choral music. According to my online research, the choirs of Winchester Cathedral, less than 25 miles away, were going to accommodate me. I knew generally how to get to Winchester, and figured that finding the cathedral shouldn’t be an issue. Drive to the city center, look up and find the spires, right?
Wrong. The town center occupies the bottom of a big bowl. So instead of being built on the town’s highest point, as many grand cathedrals are, Winchester’s cathedral was built in a gulley. I drove around in circles for over an hour trying to find it.
Finally I ditched the car in a parking garage and started walking. Down, down, down. Found the cathedral at last and settled in for what I hoped would be a wonderful evening of music. WOW! I was absolutely blown away!
First of all, Winchester took the bold move in 1999 to allow girls to sing. Imagine! For the first time in its 900-year history, the cathedral accepted girls into their music program. They’re still secondary to the choristers – little boys as young as age 6 who attend the cathedral’s residential school full-time, are given the best vocal training in the world, rehearse daily and sing in most of the services until their voices break. But the girls, teenagers who rehearse only twice a week, hold their own.
Both the girls and boy choristers sang songs by themselves and with the Lay Clerks, adult men who are paid for their vocal services in the cathedral’s choir. Many of them started their musical lives as choristers in cathedral choirs and have returned after their voices matured.
The concert featured both sacred and secular selections. I particularly got a kick out of the little boys singing “My Way” and “The Way You Look Tonight,” and the big boys singing “Penny Lane” and “Is You Is?” They teamed up to perform “Five Negro Spirituals” that brought tears to my eyes. The fact that you didn’t expect to hear Jerome Kern or McCartney/Lennon or songs from the American South in one of the country’s major cathedrals just made it all that more special. The entire program was simply stunning.
On Monday I took advantage of the spectacular sunshine to get out of the house and drive. Everybody I encountered that day was commenting on the magnificent fall weather, which around here was considered epic. Normally, there are so many clouds and so little sunshine at this time of year that when the sun bursts forth, it’s the stuff of legend. Monday was doubtless recorded in the history books.
Armed with my trusty map and a spirit of adventure, off I headed to two rather obscure National Trust properties in neighboring Hampshire, Hinton Ampner and Mottisford Abbey. Except for their cafes, where I had lunch at one and tea at the other, I didn’t even go inside the structures. Their gardens were in their end-of-season decline, unfortunately, except for some hearty late-performing dahlias. But at Mottisford, there was a lovely walk alongside a clear stream teeming with trout. It was such a gorgeous cloudless day I didn’t have a care in the world. Give me a full tank of gas and some back roads in the English countryside, and I’m a happy camper.
Tuesday I went back to Winchester, this time with a friend, to a lunchtime organ recital by the cathedral's three resident organists. Outstanding! My attendance may have dropped the median age of the audience, but I was evermore happy to be there despite my relative youth.
Today my agenda was far less adventurous, but practical: I jettisoned 10 kilos of my stuff (which may be anywhere from 5 to 50 lbs.) and shipped it back home to Charlotte. I’m the world’s worst about packing too many clothes, and this trip was no exception. So with the help of DHL Express and an obscene number of British pounds, off went all those summer-weight clothes I thought I needed for France, and various other bits and bobs that I really can live without here in the U.K. My suitcase will still weigh a ton, but hopefully will be a little more manageable on the return journey, especially since I won’t have a sherpa to help me.
Tomorrow I’m heading up to London for yet more choral music – a concert by an ensemble called London Oriana, who’s performing a concert entitled “Shall I Compare You to a Summer’s Day?” at St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church. All of their selections have texts from Shakespeare’s poetry. Doesn’t that sound fab?!
Guess my week isn’t so mundane, after all…
Saturday I fancied hearing some choral music. According to my online research, the choirs of Winchester Cathedral, less than 25 miles away, were going to accommodate me. I knew generally how to get to Winchester, and figured that finding the cathedral shouldn’t be an issue. Drive to the city center, look up and find the spires, right?
Wrong. The town center occupies the bottom of a big bowl. So instead of being built on the town’s highest point, as many grand cathedrals are, Winchester’s cathedral was built in a gulley. I drove around in circles for over an hour trying to find it.
Finally I ditched the car in a parking garage and started walking. Down, down, down. Found the cathedral at last and settled in for what I hoped would be a wonderful evening of music. WOW! I was absolutely blown away!
First of all, Winchester took the bold move in 1999 to allow girls to sing. Imagine! For the first time in its 900-year history, the cathedral accepted girls into their music program. They’re still secondary to the choristers – little boys as young as age 6 who attend the cathedral’s residential school full-time, are given the best vocal training in the world, rehearse daily and sing in most of the services until their voices break. But the girls, teenagers who rehearse only twice a week, hold their own.
Both the girls and boy choristers sang songs by themselves and with the Lay Clerks, adult men who are paid for their vocal services in the cathedral’s choir. Many of them started their musical lives as choristers in cathedral choirs and have returned after their voices matured.
The concert featured both sacred and secular selections. I particularly got a kick out of the little boys singing “My Way” and “The Way You Look Tonight,” and the big boys singing “Penny Lane” and “Is You Is?” They teamed up to perform “Five Negro Spirituals” that brought tears to my eyes. The fact that you didn’t expect to hear Jerome Kern or McCartney/Lennon or songs from the American South in one of the country’s major cathedrals just made it all that more special. The entire program was simply stunning.
On Monday I took advantage of the spectacular sunshine to get out of the house and drive. Everybody I encountered that day was commenting on the magnificent fall weather, which around here was considered epic. Normally, there are so many clouds and so little sunshine at this time of year that when the sun bursts forth, it’s the stuff of legend. Monday was doubtless recorded in the history books.
Armed with my trusty map and a spirit of adventure, off I headed to two rather obscure National Trust properties in neighboring Hampshire, Hinton Ampner and Mottisford Abbey. Except for their cafes, where I had lunch at one and tea at the other, I didn’t even go inside the structures. Their gardens were in their end-of-season decline, unfortunately, except for some hearty late-performing dahlias. But at Mottisford, there was a lovely walk alongside a clear stream teeming with trout. It was such a gorgeous cloudless day I didn’t have a care in the world. Give me a full tank of gas and some back roads in the English countryside, and I’m a happy camper.
Tuesday I went back to Winchester, this time with a friend, to a lunchtime organ recital by the cathedral's three resident organists. Outstanding! My attendance may have dropped the median age of the audience, but I was evermore happy to be there despite my relative youth.
Today my agenda was far less adventurous, but practical: I jettisoned 10 kilos of my stuff (which may be anywhere from 5 to 50 lbs.) and shipped it back home to Charlotte. I’m the world’s worst about packing too many clothes, and this trip was no exception. So with the help of DHL Express and an obscene number of British pounds, off went all those summer-weight clothes I thought I needed for France, and various other bits and bobs that I really can live without here in the U.K. My suitcase will still weigh a ton, but hopefully will be a little more manageable on the return journey, especially since I won’t have a sherpa to help me.
Tomorrow I’m heading up to London for yet more choral music – a concert by an ensemble called London Oriana, who’s performing a concert entitled “Shall I Compare You to a Summer’s Day?” at St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church. All of their selections have texts from Shakespeare’s poetry. Doesn’t that sound fab?!
Guess my week isn’t so mundane, after all…
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Following the Sun to Cornwall
Just got back from a marvellous side trip to Cornwall, which I do believe qualifies as one of the most gorgeous spots on the face of the planet. Since Cornwall is a peninsula stuck out there in the Atlantic, it has a distinctive climate all its own. It’s as far south and west as you can get and still be in the U.K.
Cornish natives sort of have the same attitude as we American Southerners do: We’re certainly part of the U.S., but we’re evermore proud of our own Southern heritage and feel a little bit sorry for the rest of the country that they’re not us. Cornwall traces its roots back to the Celts, whereas it was the Angles, Saxons, Romans and Vikings who formed the melting pot for the rest of England. Geographically, Cornwall remained more isolated from all that infighting and carried on instead as a haven for pirates and thieves.
I think Cornwall hogs the country’s best weather, keeping much of England’s allotment of sunshine all for itself. By the time Cornwall enjoys some mild temps and blue skies, the sun sort of wimps out and gives in to clouds for the rest of its eastbound journey across the country. It’s no wonder that Cornwall is viewed as somewhat of a nation apart – not unlike Miami.
This little side trip, my third to Cornwall, included a visit with some of my previous home exchangers, in whose house I stayed in 2005. They live in Penzance on from the beach overlooking St. Michael’s Mount, a mysterious island rising out of the bay on the English Channel side of the Cornish peninsula.
With its picturesque cliffs, pirate coves and windswept moors, Cornwall is now a magnet for hikers and tourists. If I ever win the lottery, it’ll be where I buy a cottage overlooking the sea. I see myself writing splendid, best-selling novels inspired by the romantic view from my sun-bathed conservatory.
But alas, I had to tear myself away from Cornwall yesterday with nothing but the bubble-bursting real estate ads from this week’s Cornishman newspaper. The train journey from Penzance back to Newbury started out fine. Lots of empty seats in a clean, quiet coach. In Plymouth, however, when a horde of people – most of whom were under the age of five – boarded, I knew I was in trouble. I don’t “do” children under the best of circumstances. When they’re screeching, screaming, squealing, whining, crying, or making demands in loud, high-toned voices – as these creatures were -- I lose it.
By the time all of this humanity squeezed on, it was obvious there were more passengers than seats. And so we were packed in cheek to jowl in Third-World fashion, taking on more poor souls at every station the closer we got to London. My last nerve was fast approaching overload.
Then in Devon the train ran over a cow. You may want to read that sentence again: Yes, the train RAN OVER A COW. We stopped dead in our tracks, literally. Though obviously undone, the conductor apologized profusely and gave us periodic updates over the intercom. Until the train people could assess the situation, we were stuck.
Curiously, I seemed to be the only passenger who got the least bit antsy over the Cow Incident. I had nowhere to be at any particular time, but I could feel my American impatience rearing its ugly head. “Let’s get on with it, guys!” I was tempted to scream. (Not that I would have been heard over the din of the kindergarten crew around me…) My fellow travellers, on the other hand, at least those over the age of six, remained as calm and unruffled as could be. Maybe they were seething inside, but nary a murmur of malcontent did I hear as we sat and sat and sat... Ah, those stiff upper lips!
I’m not sure exactly how the authorities concluded that if they just started up the train again, gave it some gas and moved forward, we’d be OK. But this strategy took an hour to figure out. In the meantime, all the little chil’ren were screaming in overdrive and the volume had reached several decibels in my particular coach. The cow was obviously hamburger by now, but hadn’t been much of a match for a big ol’ choo-choo train, so Train People decided anon we might proceed safely without further delay.
Just when my nerves had been pulvarized into a sticky paste we finally reached Reading, where I had to switch trains to Newbury. Naturally, all the trains in Reading were crowded and running late – it being the Twelfth of Never or some odd celestial occurrence screwing up the British railway system. At this time I would have gladly hailed an ox cart to take me the rest of the way home. I rolled in at 9 o’clock, only seven hours after leaving the magnificent, palm-lined shores of Cornwall.
It came as no surprise at all that today dawned cloudy in Newbury with threats of drizzle. True to form, the sun exhausted itself yesterday in Cornwall and simply couldn’t make it this far east.
Cornish natives sort of have the same attitude as we American Southerners do: We’re certainly part of the U.S., but we’re evermore proud of our own Southern heritage and feel a little bit sorry for the rest of the country that they’re not us. Cornwall traces its roots back to the Celts, whereas it was the Angles, Saxons, Romans and Vikings who formed the melting pot for the rest of England. Geographically, Cornwall remained more isolated from all that infighting and carried on instead as a haven for pirates and thieves.
I think Cornwall hogs the country’s best weather, keeping much of England’s allotment of sunshine all for itself. By the time Cornwall enjoys some mild temps and blue skies, the sun sort of wimps out and gives in to clouds for the rest of its eastbound journey across the country. It’s no wonder that Cornwall is viewed as somewhat of a nation apart – not unlike Miami.
This little side trip, my third to Cornwall, included a visit with some of my previous home exchangers, in whose house I stayed in 2005. They live in Penzance on from the beach overlooking St. Michael’s Mount, a mysterious island rising out of the bay on the English Channel side of the Cornish peninsula.
With its picturesque cliffs, pirate coves and windswept moors, Cornwall is now a magnet for hikers and tourists. If I ever win the lottery, it’ll be where I buy a cottage overlooking the sea. I see myself writing splendid, best-selling novels inspired by the romantic view from my sun-bathed conservatory.
But alas, I had to tear myself away from Cornwall yesterday with nothing but the bubble-bursting real estate ads from this week’s Cornishman newspaper. The train journey from Penzance back to Newbury started out fine. Lots of empty seats in a clean, quiet coach. In Plymouth, however, when a horde of people – most of whom were under the age of five – boarded, I knew I was in trouble. I don’t “do” children under the best of circumstances. When they’re screeching, screaming, squealing, whining, crying, or making demands in loud, high-toned voices – as these creatures were -- I lose it.
By the time all of this humanity squeezed on, it was obvious there were more passengers than seats. And so we were packed in cheek to jowl in Third-World fashion, taking on more poor souls at every station the closer we got to London. My last nerve was fast approaching overload.
Then in Devon the train ran over a cow. You may want to read that sentence again: Yes, the train RAN OVER A COW. We stopped dead in our tracks, literally. Though obviously undone, the conductor apologized profusely and gave us periodic updates over the intercom. Until the train people could assess the situation, we were stuck.
Curiously, I seemed to be the only passenger who got the least bit antsy over the Cow Incident. I had nowhere to be at any particular time, but I could feel my American impatience rearing its ugly head. “Let’s get on with it, guys!” I was tempted to scream. (Not that I would have been heard over the din of the kindergarten crew around me…) My fellow travellers, on the other hand, at least those over the age of six, remained as calm and unruffled as could be. Maybe they were seething inside, but nary a murmur of malcontent did I hear as we sat and sat and sat... Ah, those stiff upper lips!
I’m not sure exactly how the authorities concluded that if they just started up the train again, gave it some gas and moved forward, we’d be OK. But this strategy took an hour to figure out. In the meantime, all the little chil’ren were screaming in overdrive and the volume had reached several decibels in my particular coach. The cow was obviously hamburger by now, but hadn’t been much of a match for a big ol’ choo-choo train, so Train People decided anon we might proceed safely without further delay.
Just when my nerves had been pulvarized into a sticky paste we finally reached Reading, where I had to switch trains to Newbury. Naturally, all the trains in Reading were crowded and running late – it being the Twelfth of Never or some odd celestial occurrence screwing up the British railway system. At this time I would have gladly hailed an ox cart to take me the rest of the way home. I rolled in at 9 o’clock, only seven hours after leaving the magnificent, palm-lined shores of Cornwall.
It came as no surprise at all that today dawned cloudy in Newbury with threats of drizzle. True to form, the sun exhausted itself yesterday in Cornwall and simply couldn’t make it this far east.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Playing house and loving it
It may not seem like “living large” to a lot of folks, but I’m evermore enjoying playing house here in the U.K.
My English exchange partners left Sunday on their way to Charlotte, leaving me alone for the first time since my French exchangers arrived at my house Sept. 9. For somebody who lives by herself, that’s an awfully long time to maintain some semblance of civility. I tend not to like an audience for my slovenly ways. When there are other people about, I often feel the need to defend my natural laziness.
Only children like myself also lean toward selfishness. I plead guilty to that one, too. I’ve never played well with others.
So while I loved my English hosts to bits, I was glad to have their house to myself at last. I celebrated by doing laundry. This chore may sound mundane as dirt, but given the peculiarities of European appliances I considered it a huge victory that I was able to operate the washing machine without mishap.
Getting the clothes clean was a piece o’ cake. As usual, however, the drying process is a two- to three-day affair. There’s a dryer in the garage, but I think it was rejected when the Mayflower sailed, so after an hour of futile tumbling I gave up on it. That left a drill that involved a drying rack, radiators, the stair railing, several chairs and a closet thingy called an “airing cupboard.” I had the option of hanging the clothes on a line in the garden but the English weather is notoriously unreliable so I decided to take my chances indoors, machine-free.
Until you’ve lived in somebody else’s house for any length of time, you’ve probably not considered how many little quirks and idiosyncrasies a house can have, including your own. I’ll bet you take the operation of things like your TV remote control, your dish washer and heating system for granted. But imagine if strangers came to your house and were faced with figuring out how they worked.
Exchangers prepare homeowner manuals with these details, but it’s a huge help to have a personal demonstration. That’s why I was so grateful to have nearly a week with the Martins, my British hosts, to become oriented to their home here in Newbury. I can only imagine how they’re coping with my house back in Charlotte. What seems so simple and convenient to me may be driving them nuts.
Yesterday after Fun With Laundry I drove down to the New Forest, a national park near Southampton that was originally established as a royal hunting ground by William the Conquerer after his arrival in 1066. Given its history, I hardly see how the area qualifies as “new,” but it is the home of lots of wildlife, notably free-ranging ponies. I had read about the ponies, which are protected by the Crown, and wanted to see them in their natural habitat.
The New Forest is a beautiful park, no doubt about it, and all the creatures have plenty of grazing land, but I’m here to tell you, those ponies are the saddest bunch of animals I’ve ever seen. I got some pictures and wish I could upload them. I saw dozens of ponies throughout the forest and along the heather-covered meadows, and every one looked like they were sorely in need of some Prozac. Given their sweet gig – wander aimlessly throughout a lovely nature preserve, eat to their hearts’ content, let the tourists gawk a bit – you’d think they’d be over the moon.
[I need to insert here that while it has manual transmission, the Martins' car is the polar opposite of the one that came with the house in France. It is comfortable, zips down the Motorway like a giselle and is as easy as pie to drive. Those gears practically change themselves! Can I hear an "Amen!"?]
Back at the house I settled in for the evening. I may be one of the only visitors in the kingdom who gets a large kick out of British telly. Among the choices last night: “Hairy Women, a programme focusing on female body hair, illustrating where women have it and why many want to get rid of it,” and “There’s a Hippo in My House, an endearing documentary of a retired South African game keeper whose pet hippopotamus, Jessica, is resisting his efforts to coax her into a date with a wild male hippo.” I’m not making this up.
Over on Radio 4, the Pick of the Day was – I swear this is true – “The Secret Science of Pee, a report on an unpublicised, unloved but gilt-edged resource – urine.”
I ended up watching a dramatisation of a Peter Robinson mystery, “Aftermath.”
The fun just never stops around here. Oh, wait, I take that back. Have you ever taken a shower under which the mechanism sounds just like a leaf-blower?
But in contrast to the house in France, I have no complaints in England whatsoever. After all, here I have excellent amenities like a garbage can in the kitchen. And heat.
I’m afraid the poor Martins are already exasperated trying to figure out how to turn on my lamps.
My English exchange partners left Sunday on their way to Charlotte, leaving me alone for the first time since my French exchangers arrived at my house Sept. 9. For somebody who lives by herself, that’s an awfully long time to maintain some semblance of civility. I tend not to like an audience for my slovenly ways. When there are other people about, I often feel the need to defend my natural laziness.
Only children like myself also lean toward selfishness. I plead guilty to that one, too. I’ve never played well with others.
So while I loved my English hosts to bits, I was glad to have their house to myself at last. I celebrated by doing laundry. This chore may sound mundane as dirt, but given the peculiarities of European appliances I considered it a huge victory that I was able to operate the washing machine without mishap.
Getting the clothes clean was a piece o’ cake. As usual, however, the drying process is a two- to three-day affair. There’s a dryer in the garage, but I think it was rejected when the Mayflower sailed, so after an hour of futile tumbling I gave up on it. That left a drill that involved a drying rack, radiators, the stair railing, several chairs and a closet thingy called an “airing cupboard.” I had the option of hanging the clothes on a line in the garden but the English weather is notoriously unreliable so I decided to take my chances indoors, machine-free.
Until you’ve lived in somebody else’s house for any length of time, you’ve probably not considered how many little quirks and idiosyncrasies a house can have, including your own. I’ll bet you take the operation of things like your TV remote control, your dish washer and heating system for granted. But imagine if strangers came to your house and were faced with figuring out how they worked.
Exchangers prepare homeowner manuals with these details, but it’s a huge help to have a personal demonstration. That’s why I was so grateful to have nearly a week with the Martins, my British hosts, to become oriented to their home here in Newbury. I can only imagine how they’re coping with my house back in Charlotte. What seems so simple and convenient to me may be driving them nuts.
Yesterday after Fun With Laundry I drove down to the New Forest, a national park near Southampton that was originally established as a royal hunting ground by William the Conquerer after his arrival in 1066. Given its history, I hardly see how the area qualifies as “new,” but it is the home of lots of wildlife, notably free-ranging ponies. I had read about the ponies, which are protected by the Crown, and wanted to see them in their natural habitat.
The New Forest is a beautiful park, no doubt about it, and all the creatures have plenty of grazing land, but I’m here to tell you, those ponies are the saddest bunch of animals I’ve ever seen. I got some pictures and wish I could upload them. I saw dozens of ponies throughout the forest and along the heather-covered meadows, and every one looked like they were sorely in need of some Prozac. Given their sweet gig – wander aimlessly throughout a lovely nature preserve, eat to their hearts’ content, let the tourists gawk a bit – you’d think they’d be over the moon.
[I need to insert here that while it has manual transmission, the Martins' car is the polar opposite of the one that came with the house in France. It is comfortable, zips down the Motorway like a giselle and is as easy as pie to drive. Those gears practically change themselves! Can I hear an "Amen!"?]
Back at the house I settled in for the evening. I may be one of the only visitors in the kingdom who gets a large kick out of British telly. Among the choices last night: “Hairy Women, a programme focusing on female body hair, illustrating where women have it and why many want to get rid of it,” and “There’s a Hippo in My House, an endearing documentary of a retired South African game keeper whose pet hippopotamus, Jessica, is resisting his efforts to coax her into a date with a wild male hippo.” I’m not making this up.
Over on Radio 4, the Pick of the Day was – I swear this is true – “The Secret Science of Pee, a report on an unpublicised, unloved but gilt-edged resource – urine.”
I ended up watching a dramatisation of a Peter Robinson mystery, “Aftermath.”
The fun just never stops around here. Oh, wait, I take that back. Have you ever taken a shower under which the mechanism sounds just like a leaf-blower?
But in contrast to the house in France, I have no complaints in England whatsoever. After all, here I have excellent amenities like a garbage can in the kitchen. And heat.
I’m afraid the poor Martins are already exasperated trying to figure out how to turn on my lamps.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Goodbye, France; hello, ENGLAND!
After 18 topsy-turvy days in France, I have finally made it "home" to England. If I could attach video here, you'd see me doing a Happy Dance!The week with my cousin, Little Margaret Harris, and our friend Susan Hollister was lovely, and we made some extraordinary memories that will last a lifetime. Despite some significant challenges with the house in which we stayed -- the house I had arranged through a home exchange -- we managed with good humor and American grit. The accommodations may have left something to be desired, but as they said in Casablanca, "We'll always have Paris."
The capstone of the week was the celebration of Little Margaret's 60th birthday Monday (Sept. 27). How many people from Denton, NC, can say they had their birthday dinner on the Champs Elysees?
The next day, when we all left to go our separate ways, was a tedious day of many moving parts. I doubt whether military campaigns have been carried out with as much precision and effort. Suffice it to say that thanks to planes, trains and automobiles, we all made our connections and by the end of the long, tiring day we were all where we were supposed to be! My own particular journey involved a ride through the Chunnel between Calais and Folkstone on the Eurotrain, a fascinating conveyance in which you're whisked between the two countries underneath the sea with no sense of motion whatsoever. You drive your own vehicle into this boxcar-type container on the French side and sit in it while being conveyed along the way. Then they open up the container and voila! You're in England!
My English exchange partners had volunteered to pick me up in suburban Paris and drive me home with them, which was an extraordinary gesture that saved me untold amounts of energy and effort. I was certainly content to let them "drive Miss Daisy" from France to their home in Newbury in Berkshire. To those of you who don't know your English geography all that well, Newbury is one hour west of London, halfway toward Bath, and is in the same county where Windsor Castle is located. Oxford is only about 30 minutes north of here. Great location!
I've spent these last couple of days lazing about the house, getting my bearings and being domestic. No need to rush into anything. The down comforter on my bed feels much too good to rush out of it.
The house, I'm relieved to report, is wonderful. It's a 1902 Victorian residence, typical of its day, but with very spacious rooms. It's spotlessly clean and all the appliances, including the furnace, work! My host couple, who leave for Charlotte Monday, are absolutely delightful and couldn't be more gracious and kind. I struck gold with these folks.
This posting, as you can tell, is pretty low-key. Guess I needed to slow down and catch my breath after the challenges of Paris. But fret not: My adventures will resume shortly. There's a compact car in the driveway waiting to be conquered. Yes, it has manual transmission. But I'm not afraid; it's not a Daewoo.
In the first picture, that's Margaret, Susan and me thinking warm thoughts in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. In the other one, we're enjoying a much sunnier day in a park in Paris before visiting an exhibition of Impressionist art at the nearby Marmottan Museum.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Versailles ain't for wusses
Versailles is France’s – perhaps the planet’s – most popular tourist attraction. It is not for wusses.
Yesterday, the day Little Margaret, Susan and I decided to go to Versailles, approximately half of Europe and the equivalent of the population of Kentucky had turned out to ogle at the splendid palace of King Louie the Someteenth and his queen, Marie Antoinette.
I knew as we trudged up the hill from the parking lot I was going to be in trouble. I’m in terrible physical shape, but this was absurd. The cobblestones had apparently been laid to deter the riff-raff from ever coming to call. Here 250 years later they’re still performing their duty well. Every step was torture.
The ticket line snaked back and forth outdoors for days. No, we hadn’t been clever enough to purchase ours in advance, so into the queue we went. It was about this same moment that winter arrived. But we had come this far, and everybody else seemed to grin and bear the Arctic temperature, so we went with the flow. I’m sure it was the Swedes in line who were actually peeling off layers of clothes at this point.
Once inside, naturally I had to find a loo. My bladder imperatives are famous among the people with whom I travel. Basically I flit from toilet to toilet most places I go, and Versailles, of course, was to be no exception. Except it seems that King Louie, for all his money and power, never got around to putting in facilities, at least for the size of the crowds he’s attracting these days. By my calculation, there is about one toilet seat per 81,015 visitors on the property, which is spread out on territory the size of West Virginia. Let me explain for those of you who don’t have the bladder the size of a lentil, this is not a favorable ratio.
Because of the huge crowds, we decided to tackle the royal family’s smaller dwellings first. To get there we had to ride a tram that made me yearn and pine for the Daewoo Deathtrap I recently ditched. Daewoo was a model of comfort compared to the tram. To get to the tram required a Battan-like march. By now the Arctic wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped even further. By the time we entered Marie Antoinette’s Petite Trianon (little cottage) we could no longer feel our ears or fingers.
And of course, my bad back was already speaking loudly: “Sit down, sit down now! Pain, pain, pain!”
Back at the Big House, I knew my back was on its last legs and that I would be unable to see everything. Little Margaret and Susan, both in great physical condition for women their age, went on ahead with my blessing. It pleased me that Margaret, in particular, was enjoying this day so much. I was cold and miserable and didn’t really give a flying fig about French history, but as a serious student of history, Margaret was in her element. She had indulged me the day before at Monet’s garden; it was now her turn.
I decided to make one last attempt to get into the whole Louie thing by gunning for the Hall of Mirrors on the second floor. Unfortunately, the Versailles people had brought in some stupid exhibit by a contemporary Japanese artist – and I use the word artist very loosely. His installation was a series of plastic cartoon characters in garish colors that would look outrageous in a playground at your local McDonald’s. In Versailles??? Ridiculous! These tacky figures give new meaning to the word UGLY.A pile of cow patties would be a step up on the artistic scale.
So instead of seeing the luxurious furnishings of the kings and queens of France, one had to look at plastic Japanese excrement in the same space. It rather ruined the effect, quite frankly. And it didn’t help that my feet and legs were screaming in agony.
As I pressed on through a sea of humanity, many of whom seemed like irritable Oriental people by this point, I was getting more and more frustrated, uncomfortable and annoyed. The chilly outdoor air would have been welcome; the temp inside those ornate chambers was at least 100 degrees. Leavened with the body odors of thousands of fellow culture pilgrims, the air seemed to take on an evil life of its own.
By now I was experiencing what can only be described as a rogue hot flash. My blood pressure was through the roof, and there was not a cell in my body that was performing to standard. I had walked at least five miles and had seen not one thing I’d write home about. Every instinct was saying to me, “Flee! Flee now!” I found a couple of guards and said, “I’ve got to get out of here!”
My lack of French, for once, was not a problem. Apparently the look on my face was communication enough. The staff couldn’t have been nicer. They even took me into a “secret” room of the king’s and opened a window and let me cool off and rest my aching body. By now everything from my nose down was in pain. My distress must have showed. One of the guards even offered a massage. I declined, with a sincere merci beaucoup.
My dear attendants led me out through several rooms not open to the public. I swear I was so relieved to see the exit that if one of them had said, “Follow that corridor; George Clooney is waiting for you in Marie Antoinette’s secret boudoir,” I would have said, “Nah. Let him eat cake.”
Yesterday, the day Little Margaret, Susan and I decided to go to Versailles, approximately half of Europe and the equivalent of the population of Kentucky had turned out to ogle at the splendid palace of King Louie the Someteenth and his queen, Marie Antoinette.
I knew as we trudged up the hill from the parking lot I was going to be in trouble. I’m in terrible physical shape, but this was absurd. The cobblestones had apparently been laid to deter the riff-raff from ever coming to call. Here 250 years later they’re still performing their duty well. Every step was torture.
The ticket line snaked back and forth outdoors for days. No, we hadn’t been clever enough to purchase ours in advance, so into the queue we went. It was about this same moment that winter arrived. But we had come this far, and everybody else seemed to grin and bear the Arctic temperature, so we went with the flow. I’m sure it was the Swedes in line who were actually peeling off layers of clothes at this point.
Once inside, naturally I had to find a loo. My bladder imperatives are famous among the people with whom I travel. Basically I flit from toilet to toilet most places I go, and Versailles, of course, was to be no exception. Except it seems that King Louie, for all his money and power, never got around to putting in facilities, at least for the size of the crowds he’s attracting these days. By my calculation, there is about one toilet seat per 81,015 visitors on the property, which is spread out on territory the size of West Virginia. Let me explain for those of you who don’t have the bladder the size of a lentil, this is not a favorable ratio.
Because of the huge crowds, we decided to tackle the royal family’s smaller dwellings first. To get there we had to ride a tram that made me yearn and pine for the Daewoo Deathtrap I recently ditched. Daewoo was a model of comfort compared to the tram. To get to the tram required a Battan-like march. By now the Arctic wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped even further. By the time we entered Marie Antoinette’s Petite Trianon (little cottage) we could no longer feel our ears or fingers.
And of course, my bad back was already speaking loudly: “Sit down, sit down now! Pain, pain, pain!”
Back at the Big House, I knew my back was on its last legs and that I would be unable to see everything. Little Margaret and Susan, both in great physical condition for women their age, went on ahead with my blessing. It pleased me that Margaret, in particular, was enjoying this day so much. I was cold and miserable and didn’t really give a flying fig about French history, but as a serious student of history, Margaret was in her element. She had indulged me the day before at Monet’s garden; it was now her turn.
I decided to make one last attempt to get into the whole Louie thing by gunning for the Hall of Mirrors on the second floor. Unfortunately, the Versailles people had brought in some stupid exhibit by a contemporary Japanese artist – and I use the word artist very loosely. His installation was a series of plastic cartoon characters in garish colors that would look outrageous in a playground at your local McDonald’s. In Versailles??? Ridiculous! These tacky figures give new meaning to the word UGLY.A pile of cow patties would be a step up on the artistic scale.
So instead of seeing the luxurious furnishings of the kings and queens of France, one had to look at plastic Japanese excrement in the same space. It rather ruined the effect, quite frankly. And it didn’t help that my feet and legs were screaming in agony.
As I pressed on through a sea of humanity, many of whom seemed like irritable Oriental people by this point, I was getting more and more frustrated, uncomfortable and annoyed. The chilly outdoor air would have been welcome; the temp inside those ornate chambers was at least 100 degrees. Leavened with the body odors of thousands of fellow culture pilgrims, the air seemed to take on an evil life of its own.
By now I was experiencing what can only be described as a rogue hot flash. My blood pressure was through the roof, and there was not a cell in my body that was performing to standard. I had walked at least five miles and had seen not one thing I’d write home about. Every instinct was saying to me, “Flee! Flee now!” I found a couple of guards and said, “I’ve got to get out of here!”
My lack of French, for once, was not a problem. Apparently the look on my face was communication enough. The staff couldn’t have been nicer. They even took me into a “secret” room of the king’s and opened a window and let me cool off and rest my aching body. By now everything from my nose down was in pain. My distress must have showed. One of the guards even offered a massage. I declined, with a sincere merci beaucoup.
My dear attendants led me out through several rooms not open to the public. I swear I was so relieved to see the exit that if one of them had said, “Follow that corridor; George Clooney is waiting for you in Marie Antoinette’s secret boudoir,” I would have said, “Nah. Let him eat cake.”
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Impressions from France, now that the three Guilford College amigas -- Susan, Margaret and I – are together:
Despite the reputation that the French people are haughty and rude, we have found them to be absolutely charming – except when they get behind the wheel of a car. Then Dr. Jekyll (or is it Mr. Hyde?) emerges. On the road, they are some real pieces of work. I attribute their vile behavior to the fact that they’re exhausted and bitter from having to change gears every 15 feet in those tiny deathtraps they call automobiles. Otherwise, from the guy who sells fresh eggs at the open-air market to the elderly lady at the “informations” desk in the concert hall, they’ve been uniformly helpful and kind – even openly friendly. Our taxi driver the other day, in particular was yummy. Baby blue eyes and the manners of a Southern gentleman. We would've happily let him drive us to Chile. The French, we have concluded, have gotten a bum rap over the years.
Wednesday we went to an off-the-beaten-path museum in Paris, the Marmottan, known for its fine collection of Impressionist paintings. A stroll afterward to the taxi stand took us through a beautiful park and to a sidewalk café for coffee and pastries. There we lingered for two hours in absolute relaxation as we watched the world go by. It felt very French, and we congratulated ourselves for having fallen discovered this ritual -- so much, in fact, that we have continued to follow this ritual daily.
Being inspired by the Marmottan, yesterday we drove to Giverny, Claude Monet’s village and the inspiration for many of his best-known paintings. His cottage garden, in particular, was still simply breathtaking despite the late date in the flower-growing season. We were surprised at how vivid the colors were; the dahlias and sunflowers, in particular, just amazed us. The garden remained in full bloom, with surprises such as pink and purple autumn crocuses and scarlet sage and morning glories and nasturtiums.
Of course the star of the show at Giverny is Monet’s water lily garden, which is like stepping into an Impressionist painting. Susan and I had been there before, but it was a first for Margaret. We all ooohed and aaahed at every turn. Of course, because this attraction is so popular there were lots of tourists, including a full complement of Americans – the only ones we’ve had to put up with so far on the trip. Despite that blight, we thoroughly enjoyed the day.
Today we attended a free choral concert at La Madeleine, a church that has been converted into a stunning concert venue in the center of Paris. The choir we heard was from the Netherlands, and is part of a national choral organization that boasts 1,000 voices from all over Holland. Its choirs tour all over the world. The 125 singers in today’s concert were often in tune and occasionally were on the same passage as the organist, who used the occasion to perform a solo recital. Balance must have been of only passing concern to the group – of the 125, only 18 were men – but they sang with heart and conviction, and we enjoyed their effort very much.
I was also jealous at their turnout: On a rainy Friday afternoon they managed to draw a crowd about twice as large as my Festival Singers manage in an entire season.
The day ended with prayers to the Commuter Gods that we don’t have to ride a train every day from Paris to one of the hundreds of little bedroom communities (like La Frette). Jostling our way onto the train in rush hour with a seething mass of French humanity is NOT the way we’d like to spend any more of our lives, let alone a holiday. As we found out the hard way, the friendly-French thing goes only so far, and certainly does not prevail when train seats are at a premium. The only gentleman who took pity on three tired oldish ladies and offered us a seat turned out to be a woman!
Despite the reputation that the French people are haughty and rude, we have found them to be absolutely charming – except when they get behind the wheel of a car. Then Dr. Jekyll (or is it Mr. Hyde?) emerges. On the road, they are some real pieces of work. I attribute their vile behavior to the fact that they’re exhausted and bitter from having to change gears every 15 feet in those tiny deathtraps they call automobiles. Otherwise, from the guy who sells fresh eggs at the open-air market to the elderly lady at the “informations” desk in the concert hall, they’ve been uniformly helpful and kind – even openly friendly. Our taxi driver the other day, in particular was yummy. Baby blue eyes and the manners of a Southern gentleman. We would've happily let him drive us to Chile. The French, we have concluded, have gotten a bum rap over the years.
Wednesday we went to an off-the-beaten-path museum in Paris, the Marmottan, known for its fine collection of Impressionist paintings. A stroll afterward to the taxi stand took us through a beautiful park and to a sidewalk café for coffee and pastries. There we lingered for two hours in absolute relaxation as we watched the world go by. It felt very French, and we congratulated ourselves for having fallen discovered this ritual -- so much, in fact, that we have continued to follow this ritual daily.
Being inspired by the Marmottan, yesterday we drove to Giverny, Claude Monet’s village and the inspiration for many of his best-known paintings. His cottage garden, in particular, was still simply breathtaking despite the late date in the flower-growing season. We were surprised at how vivid the colors were; the dahlias and sunflowers, in particular, just amazed us. The garden remained in full bloom, with surprises such as pink and purple autumn crocuses and scarlet sage and morning glories and nasturtiums.
Of course the star of the show at Giverny is Monet’s water lily garden, which is like stepping into an Impressionist painting. Susan and I had been there before, but it was a first for Margaret. We all ooohed and aaahed at every turn. Of course, because this attraction is so popular there were lots of tourists, including a full complement of Americans – the only ones we’ve had to put up with so far on the trip. Despite that blight, we thoroughly enjoyed the day.
Today we attended a free choral concert at La Madeleine, a church that has been converted into a stunning concert venue in the center of Paris. The choir we heard was from the Netherlands, and is part of a national choral organization that boasts 1,000 voices from all over Holland. Its choirs tour all over the world. The 125 singers in today’s concert were often in tune and occasionally were on the same passage as the organist, who used the occasion to perform a solo recital. Balance must have been of only passing concern to the group – of the 125, only 18 were men – but they sang with heart and conviction, and we enjoyed their effort very much.
I was also jealous at their turnout: On a rainy Friday afternoon they managed to draw a crowd about twice as large as my Festival Singers manage in an entire season.
The day ended with prayers to the Commuter Gods that we don’t have to ride a train every day from Paris to one of the hundreds of little bedroom communities (like La Frette). Jostling our way onto the train in rush hour with a seething mass of French humanity is NOT the way we’d like to spend any more of our lives, let alone a holiday. As we found out the hard way, the friendly-French thing goes only so far, and certainly does not prevail when train seats are at a premium. The only gentleman who took pity on three tired oldish ladies and offered us a seat turned out to be a woman!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Got a new, sweet ride -- but where do I park it?
Bits and bobs today…The headline event is that my playmates arrived! My cousin, Little Margaret Harris of Denton, and our mutual good friend, Susan Hollister of Durham, flew in this morning. Our rendezvous, however, nearly didn’t happen.
Note to Self: Learn the French words for “car park” BEFORE arriving at one of the world’s busiest airports.
Had a good plan to start with: Get up at Dawn’s Hairy Crack to go pick them up. No problem. Find the bloody airport. Check. Find the correct terminal. Gotcha. NOW WHAT?! Where do I park the car??? If there were signs with directions to the parking garage, I have no idea where they were or, more to the point, what they said. Some symbols would have helped. But at 6:30 a.m. in a steady stream of impatient French drivers it was too early – or too late, depending on your point of view – to whip out a French- English dictionary.
Happily, I had built enough extra time into my journey to accommodate doing several loop-de-loops around Charles de Gaulle and several provinces of northern France until I managed to find the entrance to a parking deck. By then, paying 8 euros for the privilege seemed like quite a bargain.
I’m absolutely delighted my Guilford College buds here, and as usual, we’re having a splendid time. The weather continues to be stunningly beautiful. All is well.
Which brings me to Item #2: The Daewoo Deathtrap has been retired. Previous readers may recall my…er, difficulties with the car that came with my exchange house. Under the best of circumstances I’m not fond of gear-changing. Most European cars have manual transmission and I have managed OK in the past, but there is simply more of me than there was of this tiny vehicle. At the end of every journey I was fit for nothing except some Advil and a heating pad.
So I did the only sensible thing any 60-something, comfort-addicted, creaky-boned, amply-proportioned American lady would do: I rented myself a bigger car with automatic transmission. Because of a mix-up at the rental counter, I got an upgrade: A full-sized Citroèn sedan. What a sweet ride! That sucker cradles my frame like a Sleep Number bed and glides down the highway purring like a kitten. Voilà! I’m back in serious travel mode.
My last observation for today has to do with French children, or probably more to the point, child-rearing. The French don’t seem very big into correcting their children or quieting them down in public places. Cases in point: Yesterday in the grocery store, there were literally dozens of screaming, unruly, out-of-control children. And nary a parental nudge to any of them that their loud, obnoxious behavior might be inappropriate in public. Are these mamas deaf??
And Sunday at the village flea market here in La Frette, there were squads of squealing children who ran wild undeterred by a mother’s knot-jerking. If it had been an American scene, I have little doubt that some little bottoms would have been smarting by the end of the afternoon.
This observation brings me to this advice to the French military: If it ever appears that Germany has the annexation of France on its mind again, simply deploy a battalion of French pre-schoolers to the border. Having to listen to those little chil’ren for a day or so will be all the deterrence needed to stave off a prolonged conflict. Bless their bratty little hearts.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Lazy in La Frette
The weather in Paris continues to be absolutely gorgeous and I have slowed down to nearly a crawl…Can’t wait for Susan and Little Margaret to get here Tuesday morning. I need some playmates.In the meantime my days have been punctuated by routine chores like laundry and grocery shopping. Here I am within a stone’s throw of Paris and I can’t seem to generate a head of steam to go do anything there. For one thing, I couldn’t find anything online this weekend that appealed to me. Of the 93 cinemas claiming to play English-language movies, not one title was worth spit. One would think I could’ve found a nice choral concert, or maybe a chamber ensemble. Non.
The harder I looked online for something to do, the more appealing the lounge chair in the solarium became. A lovely view of the garden, a cool beverage, a classical station wafting from my new radio...Very enticing. Who says I have to go and do anything? Can't I just be content just to "be"? Can this attitude be a product of age? Am I, god forbid, turning into my mother, gripped by inertia and content to "set" all the time??
Going into Paris would also entail driving that blasted Daewoo to the train station. I’d rather lance my own boils. So I am contenting myself with a lazy Sunday, soaking up La Frette's atmosphere and stunning sunshine.
I already subjected myself to the Daewoo torture once today to go back to the super-duper Carrefour grocery store. I found it Friday and it knocked my socks off. I was in such a sensory stupor I could barely buy a couple of pastries before limping back to the car. Today, newly regrouped and armed with a list, I was better prepared. Naturally, the store was closed. I admit to uttering a string of unladylike oaths in the parking lot.
Carrefour is a Super WalMart on steroids. I kid you not. This particular establishment, located five miles and 637 speed bumps from my house, occupies at least the same acreage as your biggest WalMart. It’s a grocery-pharmacy combo. That’s all: no clothes, no toys, no automotives. Imagine a WalMart with liquor, foods from 100 different countries, and an amped-up French bakery. The vastness and the calibre of the selections are overwhelming. I was in overload by the time I got to the oranges (imported from South Africa) on Aisle 2.
My other remarkable shopping experience occurred Friday, as well, at the farmer’s market in the next village, Herblay. It featured only local growers and producers, with some imported goodies thrown in. Homemade sausages from the hog farmer who raised the hogs they came from. Cheese made right here in France. And fresh pastries from the local baker. Yum!
So even though I’m not racing around at 120 km an hour, I’m eating well. And my reading material ain’t bad, either. I’m reading one of Mark Twain’s earliest books, Roughing It, about his adventures in the American West during the 1860s. His little travel anecdotes and observations are wry and funny and just marvellous. Who knew? Mark Twain was a blogger!
The picture shows me liberating a freshly-baked baguette from the bakeress at the Herblay market.
Friday, September 17, 2010
All quiet on the Western Front? No way!
No one has ever accused me of being particularly flexible. I’m seldom mistaken for one of those go-with-the-flow individuals; it’s one of the many less attractive traits I got from Mama, rest her rigid little soul. But when I’m overseas I do try to adapt as much as possible – you know, to get the most from my travel experience.
There are a few things, however, that I find hard to compromise. One of them is the need for music. I’m hard-wired to need music around me, especially when I’m alone, as I have been most of this week. My French exchange house has a TV, but the only English-speaking channel, the BBC’s equivalent to CNN, has such a buzz in the reception that I can’t make out much of they’re saying. Did John McCain call for us to bomb Portugal this week? I couldn’t swear to that report…
There are a few things, however, that I find hard to compromise. One of them is the need for music. I’m hard-wired to need music around me, especially when I’m alone, as I have been most of this week. My French exchange house has a TV, but the only English-speaking channel, the BBC’s equivalent to CNN, has such a buzz in the reception that I can’t make out much of they’re saying. Did John McCain call for us to bomb Portugal this week? I couldn’t swear to that report…
There’s a radio in the sitting room but it’s not hooked up to speakers. Operation of the CD player requires an engineering degree, and the small radio in the kitchen, which may have been new when the Everly Brothers were rocking the airwaves, went mute the instant I touched it. I have that effect on electronics.
The three – count ‘em, three – online music services to which I subscribe back home are unavailable over here. Those crafty foxes know I’m trying to access them from a foreign computer and have blocked me from downloading a single tune. And did I mention the tiny car’s radio had been removed, and of course I couldn’t figure out how to get it back in? I was so desperate I’d have listened to ghetto rap.
And so I soldiered in silence for several days, becoming more morose by the hour. I cursed myself for never having gotten up to speed on technology such as iPods and MP3 players. They’re probably obsolete now, anyway. Lord, when did I blink and become a fossil?
Then it occurred to me: I am only a 20-minute train ride from Paris! SURELY I could find an electronics store there, flash an obscene number of euros, and buy myself something that would make some music-like noise.
Confidently I set out yesterday, calling on my guardian angels as I boarded the train. At the Paris station, the third person I stopped knew enough English (“electronics?”) to give me directions to the FNAC store, apparently the French equivalent to Radio Shack, which was literally across the street! The place was mobbed, but within 10 minutes (and the requisite obscene number of euros) I had myself a sweet little portable Sony radio – about the same low-tech model I so proudly owned when the Everly Brothers rocked the airwaves.
Boy, did the rest of the day perk up! After poking around the Sacre-Coeur Basilica and the Montmartre Museum in Paris, I swanned back to the house in La Frette (think Brooklyn in relationship to Manhattan) and spent a lovely evening with a book and Ravel, Mozart, Schubert and Harry Connick, Jr. Great company, n’est pas?
P.S. The photo up there was taken of the River Seine in the public park in La Frette, just at the bottom of my street, the day after I arrived. The weather has continued to be just that gorgeous all week.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Jumbo me takes to the road
Well, I’m finally here in France and somewhat settled…As usual, I’m struck by the smaller scale of things – cars, roads, rooms, drinking glasses…We Americans are so accustomed to JUMBO and conspicuous consumption, and the Europeans manage with less, and in a way that’s kinder to the planet and their heritage, I think.
Anyway, today I had my first solo outing with the car, a Daewoo built to be driven by an anorexic troll. Think of a mini-sausage casing, say, the size of a dainty cocktail weenie: that would be the car. Now think of about 74 lbs. of prime sausage meat to be stuffed inside that sucker. NOT a pretty picture. Especially when gear-shifting is involved. Yikes! On my best day I despise gear-shifting, but this Daewoo was simply not designed for a person of my womanly proportions. In some countries, I could get arrested during my execution of second gear. Fortunately, the French are quite relaxed about those matters.
Anyway, my objective today was the Chateau d’Auvers, a castle about 35 miles north of Paris that has been renovated and turned into the site of a multi-media tribute to the Impressionist painters. The presentation is sort of Disney-esque but it’s quite tasteful and well worth the drive – after I was able to find the highway.
Between the total lack of signage and the é+§&@$£# gears in that car, I was just about to give up and call it a day. I’ll admit to many unchristian utterances during my fruitless ponderings of the map and wrong turns. Even worse than the Brits, the French eschew the use of north/south, etc., and require you to know which town you’re heading toward. I needed to head EAST to find Auvers, but from the sun I knew I was obviously driving south. So I did a loop-de-loop (downshifting into second gear as seldom as possible), eventually finding the right road (no thanks to the Ministry of Signage, the scoundrels) and the homage to the Impressionists.
Maybe I wasn’t the only tourist having trouble finding her way: I was only one of four visitors today at the Chateau. So I had Van Gogh (who’s buried there), Renoir, Serat and them pretty much to myself. But you’d think that for all the trouble the Auvers castle folks went to to simulcast their commentary in eight languages, including English (bless ‘em) they’d provide better signs.
For her part, the sausage is just glad to be out of her casing for the rest of the evening. I’m heading to some yummy goose pate that the French are so justly famous for, and a beverage -- jumbo-sized, of course.
Anyway, today I had my first solo outing with the car, a Daewoo built to be driven by an anorexic troll. Think of a mini-sausage casing, say, the size of a dainty cocktail weenie: that would be the car. Now think of about 74 lbs. of prime sausage meat to be stuffed inside that sucker. NOT a pretty picture. Especially when gear-shifting is involved. Yikes! On my best day I despise gear-shifting, but this Daewoo was simply not designed for a person of my womanly proportions. In some countries, I could get arrested during my execution of second gear. Fortunately, the French are quite relaxed about those matters.
Anyway, my objective today was the Chateau d’Auvers, a castle about 35 miles north of Paris that has been renovated and turned into the site of a multi-media tribute to the Impressionist painters. The presentation is sort of Disney-esque but it’s quite tasteful and well worth the drive – after I was able to find the highway.
Between the total lack of signage and the é+§&@$£# gears in that car, I was just about to give up and call it a day. I’ll admit to many unchristian utterances during my fruitless ponderings of the map and wrong turns. Even worse than the Brits, the French eschew the use of north/south, etc., and require you to know which town you’re heading toward. I needed to head EAST to find Auvers, but from the sun I knew I was obviously driving south. So I did a loop-de-loop (downshifting into second gear as seldom as possible), eventually finding the right road (no thanks to the Ministry of Signage, the scoundrels) and the homage to the Impressionists.
Maybe I wasn’t the only tourist having trouble finding her way: I was only one of four visitors today at the Chateau. So I had Van Gogh (who’s buried there), Renoir, Serat and them pretty much to myself. But you’d think that for all the trouble the Auvers castle folks went to to simulcast their commentary in eight languages, including English (bless ‘em) they’d provide better signs.
For her part, the sausage is just glad to be out of her casing for the rest of the evening. I’m heading to some yummy goose pate that the French are so justly famous for, and a beverage -- jumbo-sized, of course.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Royal Concessions
YAY, in a few minutes it'll be September and I can say I leave this month! Isn’t it about time!?
Seems like I’ve barely made a ripple in the pond of summer for the last couple of years. Last year I was in the throes of job-searching (ugh) and this year I’ve been prepping for the Big Trip. Summer sort of slid by unnoticed.
The payoff – two months in Europe – should be totally worth it. For the first time ever, I'm a fan of autumn. My brain is sooo ready for some novelty, even if it’s looking out on somebody else’s backyard.
Every day I’ve tried to do at least one significant thing to move myself closer to “there.” Today’s agenda involved a phone call to the Queen’s Gallery in Buckingham Palace. That's in London, y'know. My online trolling had unearthed what sounds like a very posh and nifty art lecture and reception taking place Oct. 21 as part of their current exhibit, “Art & Love: The Passion of Victoria and Albert.” The curators of this fascinating royal couple’s art collection, assembled over their 22 years of marriage, will give an erudite talk and then the ticketed guests can wander through the galleries and mingle with one another to the strains of live music.
The event notice also mentioned refreshments. Very civilized, I thought. And tickets seemed reasonable – “12 pounds (8 pounds concessions),” according to the website.
Tickets weren’t available online, thus necessitating the phone call. With Visa at the ready, I ordered two tickets with concessions, figuring if I’m going all the way to Buckingham Palace for a do, I’m gonna get my royal hot dog and Co-cola, right? The lady on the phone hesitated. “No, madam,” she explained patiently. “It’s either 12 pounds OR 8 pounds.”
Not fully grasping that we were in the midst of one of those quirky American English breakdowns, I said again (more slowly this time) that I would like tickets to the lecture AND refreshments, figuring that the 12 pounds was the base price and eats were an additional 8.
“Ah,” as light dawned in the bowels of the palace. “Concessions means ‘Are you in a special demographic categ’ry, like child or senior citizen?’ If you fit into one of those groups, the price is only 8 pounds – and yes, it includes both the lecture and refreshments.”
Well, did I feel like an idiot?! Who knew? I’m a concessionaire! We finally got it sorted, I got my “concession” because I’m at this advanced pinnacle of age – and yes, I’m getting my hot dog and Co-cola as well as the scholarly lecture, for a budget-wise 8 pounds (about 12 bucks). Life is good.
OK, I doubt whether a weenie has ever actually emanated from Her Majesty’s kitchen, but you get my drift. The ticket lady did mention something about wine and hors d’oeuvres. Wonder whether they’ll break out the Waterford crystal for me?
Seems like I’ve barely made a ripple in the pond of summer for the last couple of years. Last year I was in the throes of job-searching (ugh) and this year I’ve been prepping for the Big Trip. Summer sort of slid by unnoticed.
The payoff – two months in Europe – should be totally worth it. For the first time ever, I'm a fan of autumn. My brain is sooo ready for some novelty, even if it’s looking out on somebody else’s backyard.
Every day I’ve tried to do at least one significant thing to move myself closer to “there.” Today’s agenda involved a phone call to the Queen’s Gallery in Buckingham Palace. That's in London, y'know. My online trolling had unearthed what sounds like a very posh and nifty art lecture and reception taking place Oct. 21 as part of their current exhibit, “Art & Love: The Passion of Victoria and Albert.” The curators of this fascinating royal couple’s art collection, assembled over their 22 years of marriage, will give an erudite talk and then the ticketed guests can wander through the galleries and mingle with one another to the strains of live music.
The event notice also mentioned refreshments. Very civilized, I thought. And tickets seemed reasonable – “12 pounds (8 pounds concessions),” according to the website.
Tickets weren’t available online, thus necessitating the phone call. With Visa at the ready, I ordered two tickets with concessions, figuring if I’m going all the way to Buckingham Palace for a do, I’m gonna get my royal hot dog and Co-cola, right? The lady on the phone hesitated. “No, madam,” she explained patiently. “It’s either 12 pounds OR 8 pounds.”
Not fully grasping that we were in the midst of one of those quirky American English breakdowns, I said again (more slowly this time) that I would like tickets to the lecture AND refreshments, figuring that the 12 pounds was the base price and eats were an additional 8.
“Ah,” as light dawned in the bowels of the palace. “Concessions means ‘Are you in a special demographic categ’ry, like child or senior citizen?’ If you fit into one of those groups, the price is only 8 pounds – and yes, it includes both the lecture and refreshments.”
Well, did I feel like an idiot?! Who knew? I’m a concessionaire! We finally got it sorted, I got my “concession” because I’m at this advanced pinnacle of age – and yes, I’m getting my hot dog and Co-cola as well as the scholarly lecture, for a budget-wise 8 pounds (about 12 bucks). Life is good.
OK, I doubt whether a weenie has ever actually emanated from Her Majesty’s kitchen, but you get my drift. The ticket lady did mention something about wine and hors d’oeuvres. Wonder whether they’ll break out the Waterford crystal for me?
Monday, August 9, 2010
Packing my 'chute
"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." -- Robert Louis Stevenson
I can't totally agree with ol' Bob there -- the idea of traveling to Afghanistan, Pakistan or any of the 'stans, for that matter, holds no appeal at all, I'm afraid. But I get the gist of what he's driving at: The going is important. Yep, I do get that.
My exchangers from France arrive a month from today. For all intents and purposes my own trip begins then. You can't see it, but I'm doing a Happy Dance.
As most of you know, I've arranged back-to-back house swaps in France and England this fall. Already I'm getting those little butterflies in the bottom of my stomach when I've got a trip coming up. It's a familiar, pleasant, slightly unsettling feeling. Will I remember to pack my underpants?
Having inherited the McCarn anal streak, I make To Do lists. These To Do lists have spawned more To Do lists. We're now at To Do 6.0.
And then there's the house: It has lists of its own. When you swap your house with someone else, of course you want to leave it in spruce condition. But in the months leading up to the exchange, at least at my address, water marks myteriously appear in the ceiling, my mattress starts sagging, and all the rugs and curtains, like lepers, start screaming "Unclean! Unclean!" My fellow exchangers usually report this same phenomenon.
I'm ticking off tasks daily, but with only a month to go, I'm not sure I'll be fully ready to leave by November. Of 2012.
Having said all that, as usual I'm actually savoring the preparations, the research, the anticipation. I call it packing my 'chute. It's the earliest part of the travel package, and it always pumps me up for the adventure ahead.
Of course, not every trip involves new custom-made draperies in the living room, thank goodness. But I looked at the pending arrival of my visitors as a handy excuse to take on that long-overdue home decor project. They're already up and look exceptionally cool. (See for yourself above.)
The first couple with whom I'm exchanging, Yves and Chantal Benoistel, live right outside Paris. After they arrive in Charlotte we'll have 24 hours together before I leave Sept. 10. It'll be wonderful to meet them, get them oriented to my newly-spiffed-up house and show them a bit how the streets work around town (i.e., Queens, Queens, Queens and Queens Roads).
I just hope they like big, bold, burgundy-colored tulips.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
On the joy of "reading"
It may have been St. Francis of Assisi -- or Groucho Marx or Madonna, I forget which -- who said that the world is a book, and they who don't travel are reading only one page.
As a kid the farthest I ever got was central Florida. This was in the pre-Disney days, you understand, so there was basically nothing there but bugs and swamps. I was relegated to the back of a pickup truck that had been crudely tricked out as a camper. A boiling hot, dismal camper. The Okies escaping the Dust Bowl had more luxury. The memory is not a pleasant one. Of course, my mother featured in this episode, so that's enough explanation right there.
Neither Mama nor Daddy cared one whit about going anywhere, not even the beach. Daddy had had his four-year hitch in the Army in Europe during WWII, and that did it for him. He got back in one piece, and he aimed to stay put from then on.
The travel bug first bit me in college. Visiting classmates in exotic locales like Reading, PA, and Hackensack, NJ, was like being set down on a distant planet, and this small-town North Carolina gal loved every rundown row house, every turnpike snarl, every exotic sausage.
It was different than Lexington, you see. And different was interesting.
Picture a dog with its head stuck out of the window of a car, its mouth open and its tongue flapping in pure joy over being taken for a ride. That's me at the start of a trip.
I'm hardly a backpack-and-tent rambler -- I require a clean bed and indoor plumbing at the end of the day -- but travel eventually took on a spiritual quality. On the road, it's easier to find magic in the ordinary. Life is more vivid. You rediscover things you'd forgotten you missed.
Don't get me wrong. My "homepage" is a comfortable, familiar place to browse. The view from my sunroom is beautiful. But to take my breath away, give me a new vista anytime.
(I took the picture above in September 2008 on the Greek island of Santorini. It still takes my breath away...!)
As a kid the farthest I ever got was central Florida. This was in the pre-Disney days, you understand, so there was basically nothing there but bugs and swamps. I was relegated to the back of a pickup truck that had been crudely tricked out as a camper. A boiling hot, dismal camper. The Okies escaping the Dust Bowl had more luxury. The memory is not a pleasant one. Of course, my mother featured in this episode, so that's enough explanation right there.
Neither Mama nor Daddy cared one whit about going anywhere, not even the beach. Daddy had had his four-year hitch in the Army in Europe during WWII, and that did it for him. He got back in one piece, and he aimed to stay put from then on.
The travel bug first bit me in college. Visiting classmates in exotic locales like Reading, PA, and Hackensack, NJ, was like being set down on a distant planet, and this small-town North Carolina gal loved every rundown row house, every turnpike snarl, every exotic sausage.
It was different than Lexington, you see. And different was interesting.
Picture a dog with its head stuck out of the window of a car, its mouth open and its tongue flapping in pure joy over being taken for a ride. That's me at the start of a trip.
I'm hardly a backpack-and-tent rambler -- I require a clean bed and indoor plumbing at the end of the day -- but travel eventually took on a spiritual quality. On the road, it's easier to find magic in the ordinary. Life is more vivid. You rediscover things you'd forgotten you missed.
Don't get me wrong. My "homepage" is a comfortable, familiar place to browse. The view from my sunroom is beautiful. But to take my breath away, give me a new vista anytime.
(I took the picture above in September 2008 on the Greek island of Santorini. It still takes my breath away...!)
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Back-up plan
Even a chipmunk knows that unless your name is Rowling or Grisham or King, writers don’t earn diddly-squat. I’m just being realistic here. Clearly it has nothing to do with talent; it’s simply a matter of supply-and-demand. There are more people out here calling themselves writers than there are people who actually read. It’s true.
So to my practical Taurus nature it makes sense to have a fall-back position if this writing thing tanks.
There’s an inexhaustible list of things for which I have no aptitude and even less interest. But what would I LIKE to do?
I’d love to be Rick Steves’ protégé and follow him around the world researching his travel guide books and videos. Singing back-up with James Taylor would be fabulous. The job of George Clooney’s mistress seems to be taken already.
That seemed to leave floral arranging.
I’ve always loved flowers. How pleasant, I thought, to work with flowers and maybe make a few bucks arranging bouquets and the like. Part-time, you know; maybe during the holidays or on Singles Awareness (a.k.a. Valentine’s) Day .
My community college course in the basics of floral design ends this week. I’ve loved every minute of it. The teacher has a unique approach: After we lay all our materials on the table he simply says, “OK, y’all, be creative!” I’ve discovered, happily, that I have a nugget of talent in this field. Or at least the teacher lets me thinks so.
I preened the first time he told me now beautiful my centerpiece was. Then I realized he was telling EVERYBODY the same thing. Apparently “beautiful” is his euphemism for “how nice that you showed up for class.”
But that’s OK. If my writing career doesn’t pan out, I can always make funeral wreaths.
So to my practical Taurus nature it makes sense to have a fall-back position if this writing thing tanks.
There’s an inexhaustible list of things for which I have no aptitude and even less interest. But what would I LIKE to do?
I’d love to be Rick Steves’ protégé and follow him around the world researching his travel guide books and videos. Singing back-up with James Taylor would be fabulous. The job of George Clooney’s mistress seems to be taken already.
That seemed to leave floral arranging.
I’ve always loved flowers. How pleasant, I thought, to work with flowers and maybe make a few bucks arranging bouquets and the like. Part-time, you know; maybe during the holidays or on Singles Awareness (a.k.a. Valentine’s) Day .
My community college course in the basics of floral design ends this week. I’ve loved every minute of it. The teacher has a unique approach: After we lay all our materials on the table he simply says, “OK, y’all, be creative!” I’ve discovered, happily, that I have a nugget of talent in this field. Or at least the teacher lets me thinks so.
I preened the first time he told me now beautiful my centerpiece was. Then I realized he was telling EVERYBODY the same thing. Apparently “beautiful” is his euphemism for “how nice that you showed up for class.”
But that’s OK. If my writing career doesn’t pan out, I can always make funeral wreaths.
Attitude Adjustment
I’m trying to find my voice. It’s harder than it sounds.
This little corner of words has been percolating in my head for some time now, and I’m not any closer to discovering the right tone than when I started.
That disturbs me because I used to be cool. But that was during the Nixon years. OK, maybe my hip-ness extended into the Carter era, but not much longer.
I don’t listen to Lady GaGa or the Black-Eyed Peas, and don’t even get me started on the crap they call rap. I don’t watch The CW or VH1. I don’t text or Twitter.
I know that successful blogs take more than nouns and verbs and the occasional adjective. They require Attitude.
Wonder how Shakespeare’s blog would’ve read? Or Mark Twain’s? Or Coco Chanel’s?
The best blogs seem breezy, conversational, smart, edgy. Can I get there?
Hipsters who keep up with the times claim that writers use blogs like sales reps use free samples. You gotta show your wares.
Never mind that I’ve been showing my writing wares for over half a century. My old friend Paula recently reminded me of the stupid little stories I penned in the sixth grade with our weekly spelling words, “The Adventures of Emiline the Elephant.” Everybody else in the class, dutifully following the assignment, wrote sentences using the week’s words.
Me, I found this boring, so I made up Emiline and wove those words into an ongoing series. Our teacher, Miz Goforth, encouraged this literary effort by making me stand up in front of the class every week to read my deathless prose.
I was hooked on the written word forevermore.
I’d like to believe my style has matured since those heady days of 1959-60, but I still have the passion for writing that had its roots in the adventurous Emiline.
Right now I’m relearning “hip” and trying to find my new blogger-worthy Attitude. With any luck, you’ll stick around for the conversation.
This little corner of words has been percolating in my head for some time now, and I’m not any closer to discovering the right tone than when I started.
That disturbs me because I used to be cool. But that was during the Nixon years. OK, maybe my hip-ness extended into the Carter era, but not much longer.
I don’t listen to Lady GaGa or the Black-Eyed Peas, and don’t even get me started on the crap they call rap. I don’t watch The CW or VH1. I don’t text or Twitter.
I know that successful blogs take more than nouns and verbs and the occasional adjective. They require Attitude.
Wonder how Shakespeare’s blog would’ve read? Or Mark Twain’s? Or Coco Chanel’s?
The best blogs seem breezy, conversational, smart, edgy. Can I get there?
Hipsters who keep up with the times claim that writers use blogs like sales reps use free samples. You gotta show your wares.
Never mind that I’ve been showing my writing wares for over half a century. My old friend Paula recently reminded me of the stupid little stories I penned in the sixth grade with our weekly spelling words, “The Adventures of Emiline the Elephant.” Everybody else in the class, dutifully following the assignment, wrote sentences using the week’s words.
Me, I found this boring, so I made up Emiline and wove those words into an ongoing series. Our teacher, Miz Goforth, encouraged this literary effort by making me stand up in front of the class every week to read my deathless prose.
I was hooked on the written word forevermore.
I’d like to believe my style has matured since those heady days of 1959-60, but I still have the passion for writing that had its roots in the adventurous Emiline.
Right now I’m relearning “hip” and trying to find my new blogger-worthy Attitude. With any luck, you’ll stick around for the conversation.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The journey begins...
Welcome to my new blog! I'm a latecomer to this particular form of literary prostitution, but I figure if I'm really serious about establishing myself as a writer -- and I am -- then I need a presence on the 'net. Who says an old Boomer can't learn a new trick or two?
If you already know me, you know that I'm "repotting" myself -- transitioning from a conventional, full-time job to the wonderful state of being joyfully jobless. I just love that phrase! It's not original, so I can't take credit for it. But it describes how I'm approaching Life After Employment.
Notice I didn't say I'm retired. I'm still actively looking for work; it's just not the kind of work I've been doing for the last 40 years. Let's just say I'm going back to my roots -- writing. After all, my first job was writing (for my hometown newspaper). I put myself through college the same way -- writing. My first job after college was writing for another newspaper. I continued to rely on my writing skills in my PR and fundraising jobs, even though I produced grant applications and annual reports rather than news and feature stories.
And then I was laid off in December 2008. Over the next 18 months I applied for 180 fundraising jobs and came up with nuthin'. Zero. Nada. Ok, you say, cry me a river. Old news. Millions of people in same boat, blah blah. What's so special about me?
First, let me say that I believe in divine guidance. There are no accidents; everything happens for our greatest and highest good. If we're willing to listen to the still, small voice within us -- the essence of what a lot of people might call God -- we can usually find the answers we're looking for. My own M.O. is to tune into what I describe as my guardian angels, or my personal cosmic committee, for help and inspiration.
My guardian angels are a sassy bunch. I know they've always had my best interests at heart, but for those 18 months they had been mute as mummies. I had been demanding that they find me a full-time job with health benefits, and demanding that they find it now! But my heavenly hosts remained strangely silent. I was pretty fed up with their performance (or lack thereof), I'll tell you.
Well, around my birthday this year (May 6, the day I turned 62) I finally woke up and purchased a clue. I had been making so much noise hammering that square peg into that round hole that I had missed what my angels had been shouting all along: Losing my job was a blessing! I now have the time and flexibility to write again! And, moreover and just as important, the opportunity to TRAVEL! And write about my travels.
Well, DUH. Had I actually gotten a "real" job, with its stupid two-weeks-off-a-year vacation schedule (when will Americans finally rebel against this Neanderthal policy? -- Sorry, I'll get on that tangent later!), would I have been able to travel as I want? Er, ah, not "no," but "hell, no!" At my age do I have the patience, stamina, ambition or drive to work again full-time? Er, ah, same answer.
So thank you, angels, once again for covering my back and keeping my dance card FREE so I can pursue what I really want to do at this point in my life! And if I use platforms like this blog successfully enough, I'll even get paid to do it! That's the goal, in fact. Money is a very good thing. Being paid to do what you love to do: Isn't that everybody's dream?
In the next few months I'm going to be living large as I begin what I hope will be a series of trips abroad -- and I'd love for you to join me, at least in cyberspace. My feisty angels will be along for the ride. Watch this blog for details of our flight...
If you already know me, you know that I'm "repotting" myself -- transitioning from a conventional, full-time job to the wonderful state of being joyfully jobless. I just love that phrase! It's not original, so I can't take credit for it. But it describes how I'm approaching Life After Employment.
Notice I didn't say I'm retired. I'm still actively looking for work; it's just not the kind of work I've been doing for the last 40 years. Let's just say I'm going back to my roots -- writing. After all, my first job was writing (for my hometown newspaper). I put myself through college the same way -- writing. My first job after college was writing for another newspaper. I continued to rely on my writing skills in my PR and fundraising jobs, even though I produced grant applications and annual reports rather than news and feature stories.
And then I was laid off in December 2008. Over the next 18 months I applied for 180 fundraising jobs and came up with nuthin'. Zero. Nada. Ok, you say, cry me a river. Old news. Millions of people in same boat, blah blah. What's so special about me?
First, let me say that I believe in divine guidance. There are no accidents; everything happens for our greatest and highest good. If we're willing to listen to the still, small voice within us -- the essence of what a lot of people might call God -- we can usually find the answers we're looking for. My own M.O. is to tune into what I describe as my guardian angels, or my personal cosmic committee, for help and inspiration.
My guardian angels are a sassy bunch. I know they've always had my best interests at heart, but for those 18 months they had been mute as mummies. I had been demanding that they find me a full-time job with health benefits, and demanding that they find it now! But my heavenly hosts remained strangely silent. I was pretty fed up with their performance (or lack thereof), I'll tell you.
Well, around my birthday this year (May 6, the day I turned 62) I finally woke up and purchased a clue. I had been making so much noise hammering that square peg into that round hole that I had missed what my angels had been shouting all along: Losing my job was a blessing! I now have the time and flexibility to write again! And, moreover and just as important, the opportunity to TRAVEL! And write about my travels.
Well, DUH. Had I actually gotten a "real" job, with its stupid two-weeks-off-a-year vacation schedule (when will Americans finally rebel against this Neanderthal policy? -- Sorry, I'll get on that tangent later!), would I have been able to travel as I want? Er, ah, not "no," but "hell, no!" At my age do I have the patience, stamina, ambition or drive to work again full-time? Er, ah, same answer.
So thank you, angels, once again for covering my back and keeping my dance card FREE so I can pursue what I really want to do at this point in my life! And if I use platforms like this blog successfully enough, I'll even get paid to do it! That's the goal, in fact. Money is a very good thing. Being paid to do what you love to do: Isn't that everybody's dream?
In the next few months I'm going to be living large as I begin what I hope will be a series of trips abroad -- and I'd love for you to join me, at least in cyberspace. My feisty angels will be along for the ride. Watch this blog for details of our flight...
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