tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91315425765222117282024-03-20T06:04:02.833+00:00A Day in the LifeDonna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-38430388233806995842016-10-05T13:13:00.000+01:002016-10-05T13:13:52.747+01:00Mirepoix and Beyond<div class="MsoNormal">
For years Tim and I had talked about going to Mirepoix,
France, to pay homage to the cat of the same name who graced our lives, an
expat herself who lived to almost 23 years of age (that’s 108 in human years). You
may have never heard of Mirepoix the place (and perhaps know the cooking term),
but it has a lovely cathedral dating from 1298; it’s your right proper medieval
town!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtCBz0o7lPPQmlYpIpfEJ4Okm9Hg6gcvAZlCddrEsOstiDgFJHwuRJJ9ASUeCigsDHcLJ9hiN59FkB4iN_NVwtMPRrbm_NyNMQv5Dmd6lqxssUXZwXP2ALGyYOtXivpG5jCiGMSRqnA6u/s1600/map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtCBz0o7lPPQmlYpIpfEJ4Okm9Hg6gcvAZlCddrEsOstiDgFJHwuRJJ9ASUeCigsDHcLJ9hiN59FkB4iN_NVwtMPRrbm_NyNMQv5Dmd6lqxssUXZwXP2ALGyYOtXivpG5jCiGMSRqnA6u/s200/map.jpg" width="153" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally talk became planning, and planning became doing, and
off we went, taking the 24-hour ferry (with car) to Santander, with stops along
the way to see some of both Spain and France: Santander, if only to sleep
overnight after the long ferry journey;
Bilbao, to swing through the famous Guggenheim museum and have some lunch
before continuing on to San Sebastian, a city on the coast of Spain that the
Basque call Donostia; then over the border to Mirepoix, St Emilion, La
Rochelle, Angers, and finally back home via the much shorter, six-hour ferry
via Caen to Portsmouth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We called it our “taster tour”: not just because we were
planning to taste a variety of food (pintxos, the Basque version of snacks on a
stick), paella, an abundance of seafood, and French cuisine) and wine (Rioja,
Bordeaux, Pineau des Charentes, Anjou), but because we’d hoped to get a flavour
for what the region would be like and perhaps plan an extended stay in the
future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaezHknDZT05gOFqJCclyrEEdppnIFU4CHSfKJ-haCbHvYsTPa4I_N46_hYgD86qDcXOUypiWleNLMsazWYwtNTHH-SVPZIO-B_OXTR6lK4laY98YwVt9Od7ctCO0AH_6sA_RwFHK72qH/s1600/bodega.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaezHknDZT05gOFqJCclyrEEdppnIFU4CHSfKJ-haCbHvYsTPa4I_N46_hYgD86qDcXOUypiWleNLMsazWYwtNTHH-SVPZIO-B_OXTR6lK4laY98YwVt9Od7ctCO0AH_6sA_RwFHK72qH/s200/bodega.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Bodega del Riojano, Santander</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
first order of business: the patch. As someone who gets seasick, I was willing
to brave the overnight journey <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yfOB07YtNQ">across the Bay of Biscay</a>, but only with my trusty
Scopoderm patch, meant to prevent the
confusing messsages going to your brain that cause travel sickness. The Bay of
Biscay is known to be a bit “lumpy,” and to be honest I did wake up in the
middle of the night and felt the ferry rocking a bit. Comforted by the patch
(or at least the idea of it), I did fall back asleep and felt fine in the
morning, and managed a light breakfast and lunch on the ferry before we
disembarked in Santander in the early evening. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We
didn’t spend much time once there; it was meant to be an opportunity to pause
after the long ferry journey rather than a tour of the town. We found our hotel
easily and also found a lovely restaurant to dine in—La Bodega del Riojano,
which we’d highly recommend. We also found a little bar serving pintxos and
wine, and sat idly watching activity in the port. Santander may not be a
destination for most people, but the food and the wine are lovely, and we
managed to pop into a cathedral there, dedicated to the assumption of Mary. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas
the patch, stripped from behind my ear, should perhaps have stayed on a bit
longer: I was ill overnight and for the
start of the next day, and many subsequent mornings felt ever so slightly under
the weather. I was determined not to let it ruin the adventure, choosing to eat
more toast, less coffee, slightly less exotic food (no oysters!) and drink <i>slightly</i> less wine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-AHsUdjjiwrtTt0af3OTuuEHYt2OzwPuuOFZQuAngcGN7Z7MkynxEb6Gyf_c30yxTRgCOIKH_AVXuo57XW_JYpvStLuJCTHNEs_ZZCkc4JJ-9TUiyn7TMC8C8tHTMmckDe6IU3vtxBKZ/s1600/bilbao.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-AHsUdjjiwrtTt0af3OTuuEHYt2OzwPuuOFZQuAngcGN7Z7MkynxEb6Gyf_c30yxTRgCOIKH_AVXuo57XW_JYpvStLuJCTHNEs_ZZCkc4JJ-9TUiyn7TMC8C8tHTMmckDe6IU3vtxBKZ/s200/bilbao.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guggenheim, Bilbao</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our
time in Bilbao was brief. We both wanted to see the architectural wonder of the
Guggenheim museum, but were less enthusiastic about the exhibits. It was a
rainy day and everything in Bilbao seemed crowded; it was the weekend, after
all. We did manage to take lovely photos outside of Frank Gehry’s building, and
strolled into the lobby, but left it there. We also went to St James’ Cathedral and, after a quick lunch at an
Italian restaurant where we were served enormous salads we headed back in the
car to find our way to San Sebastian.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While there we discovered a lovely place to have a drink and
admire the pintxos at the bar—I can see how one can be tempted by the delightful
snacks, like jambon and cheese peeking out of a bun, or some bit of seafood
nestled in dough with a pink sauce.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0jCbE79ZDDZgNJQXUXvpzW47Wwt6yo0uNzl-XFFOPCwn9o2ZBo_UFfYpzyL0_9MNRgoIgkdniGcCzA35ezN2i88n2YR4VH3l5hCVXVRCqoy4f7ILn1KzKx_h5_7e4NgyAuW_Yr97FQCK/s1600/pintxo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0jCbE79ZDDZgNJQXUXvpzW47Wwt6yo0uNzl-XFFOPCwn9o2ZBo_UFfYpzyL0_9MNRgoIgkdniGcCzA35ezN2i88n2YR4VH3l5hCVXVRCqoy4f7ILn1KzKx_h5_7e4NgyAuW_Yr97FQCK/s200/pintxo.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pintxos!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We could have used more time in San Sebastian—there is a lot
of history to take in, and the beaches are known to be lovely. We did take a
stroll on the beach nearest our hotel, though the temperature was cool and the
skies cloudy; still, there were families enjoying the sun—sometimes you just
have to make do!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The drive to Mirepoix was about four hours—really a detour
east from San Sebastian rather than heading north to Bordeaux, but it had to be
done; it was the original purpose of our trek, after all. We were both quite
glad we took the time to see this lovely town, with its market square,
wood-timbered houses of various sizes and stages of crookedness, and the charm
of a small French enclave happy to have tourists. The hotel we stayed at was
small and friendly, and we had dinner there as well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgxgiApuaQoE077Aa9-WgBxF5gTCrg75VyPRDfiBs0e2km5WNaqbCY3sXDbKId1etfb4zsPSfHwx6AJztoHlKa_j79k0u6NrzdtoG6dvYdayxd51y1YmCIOk16PfiBSEdMbyxBLWSASKr9/s1600/mire+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgxgiApuaQoE077Aa9-WgBxF5gTCrg75VyPRDfiBs0e2km5WNaqbCY3sXDbKId1etfb4zsPSfHwx6AJztoHlKa_j79k0u6NrzdtoG6dvYdayxd51y1YmCIOk16PfiBSEdMbyxBLWSASKr9/s200/mire+sign.jpg" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Naturally we posed with a
few signs, and of course stopped into the lovely 13<sup>th</sup> century cathedral.
It has one of the widest Gothic arches in Europe; I’d not seen anything like it
before (perhaps because I’ve not been to Girona or Rome). And the gargoyles!
Impressive. There were also some lovely doorknockers in Mirepoix well worth a
photo!<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXJI1KZfNaR8p9t9ndHmk-m7mPwQmXz7gEhlOaA0SkBxrV9zSYPc8u_l-m-p1HsJ7Mq1ysmBVAo0M2E8cC5vJn-rSr7R_kzx45Hn6YkICFtg8e9Wc9qFJKOftBbd6bVCo94PCrtnZOOYx/s1600/doorknocker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXJI1KZfNaR8p9t9ndHmk-m7mPwQmXz7gEhlOaA0SkBxrV9zSYPc8u_l-m-p1HsJ7Mq1ysmBVAo0M2E8cC5vJn-rSr7R_kzx45Hn6YkICFtg8e9Wc9qFJKOftBbd6bVCo94PCrtnZOOYx/s200/doorknocker.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Door knocker!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mirepoix was earmarked just one day on our journey, so in
the morning after our breakfast we hopped back in the car and headed north to
Bordeaux country. If Mirepoix was lovely and quaint, well, St Emilion was that
and more—my favourite destination on our taster tour. It felt like the
countryside, rather than a city, and the rolling hills of vineyards and stately
chateaux made for a photograph with each step down cobbled streets or along the
path from one winery to the next. The shops were all rather posh; this is
clearly a wealthy area. We stayed in a lovely stone-built guesthouse that was
formerly a private mansion in the 17<sup>th</sup> century. With all of this
going for it, it’s no wonder that St Emilion is a UNESCO world heritage site.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0oFXWQKLIyuDqTe_dr5XjGt82B4aaFJv50SZ36T3hHHUKZOsDQigzJO8yh5FmA7-atqX02osIvFrN2U-KDtB4EiT0y6kb1lEEN95HLLDKEqbPeP5050aE9YGCd0yepgMnd1KswzAP40K/s1600/mirepoix+buildings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0oFXWQKLIyuDqTe_dr5XjGt82B4aaFJv50SZ36T3hHHUKZOsDQigzJO8yh5FmA7-atqX02osIvFrN2U-KDtB4EiT0y6kb1lEEN95HLLDKEqbPeP5050aE9YGCd0yepgMnd1KswzAP40K/s200/mirepoix+buildings.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mirepoix square</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMEx_9EFVSXiUamHz86at7RBdVfJKCG3er_LGoqFe-eJ3s0k9UZ3Kcioid_JZppBrDUo3pe8aHLVZ_I7o2sR55HohdJMvoR1RvXPrfDG1_B9q8kPNg38l-ePbwoJYayVvFR4eQfkaCf-f/s1600/mire+old+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMEx_9EFVSXiUamHz86at7RBdVfJKCG3er_LGoqFe-eJ3s0k9UZ3Kcioid_JZppBrDUo3pe8aHLVZ_I7o2sR55HohdJMvoR1RvXPrfDG1_B9q8kPNg38l-ePbwoJYayVvFR4eQfkaCf-f/s200/mire+old+house.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">39 Rue de l'Évêché, Mirepoix</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
And of course there is the wine. We were perfectly
positioned to park the car and have a bite of lunch, scanning the booklets from
the tourism office on which wineries were open to the public in the area. We
highlighted a few and then set off along the narrow, mostly quiet road to the
first on our list which was open, Chateau Pontet-Canet, whose founder was the
Master of the Horse to Louis XV in the early 18<sup>th</sup> century. After viewing the underground cellar, we had a
taste of one of their Grand Cru vintages, decided we liked it, and so began the
filling of the boot (aka trunk) with wines from the region.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfFQsNG27ota8QrTJXaB9kMCyxjsSXEaJPfJgC_IDDam6NM0h4jurSi9lSEu_hnzEbygPuWjEtTf_pPFrRZLOJGWktMjPBdyZWD8ySRE8Lg6QUAukCqRFd_kj1jU8DL0ngqv-mFgOX46m/s1600/grapes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfFQsNG27ota8QrTJXaB9kMCyxjsSXEaJPfJgC_IDDam6NM0h4jurSi9lSEu_hnzEbygPuWjEtTf_pPFrRZLOJGWktMjPBdyZWD8ySRE8Lg6QUAukCqRFd_kj1jU8DL0ngqv-mFgOX46m/s200/grapes.jpg" width="200" /></a>Merrily we strolled along, taking in the vineyards around us
which were still heavy with the deep purple grapes, mostly merlot and cabernet
franc which were to be harvested the following day. There were no gates, no
guard dogs, and not a lot of other people frankly as we walked up the hill a
bit to continue the self-guided tour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our second chateau visit was a bit more structured: an
opportunity to have a guide speak to us—fortunately in English—with a small
group of Argentinians and Canadians who ambled into Chateau Soutard. Tim and I
arrived a bit earlier not knowing that there was a specific time for a tour,
and so we wandered a bit around their land, which included a chicken coop and
koi pond. Oh, and a rather lovely gift shop where Tim tried on a beret and
announced he would buy one, though the one in the shop was oversized (and
therefore we left without). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxncdPdQcqwfDomm0nzIPLYYnJywbFwOjexu6o088YgRort2YW0_qXFv537CHg_Dfhb94t2ebkYGo0MMkX6X3YyIjqBKl4jlVVDlrJpqJ__5yXu6OwA5Ob8N5L96RmC8dv3y4VbA1Cao9/s1600/beret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxncdPdQcqwfDomm0nzIPLYYnJywbFwOjexu6o088YgRort2YW0_qXFv537CHg_Dfhb94t2ebkYGo0MMkX6X3YyIjqBKl4jlVVDlrJpqJ__5yXu6OwA5Ob8N5L96RmC8dv3y4VbA1Cao9/s200/beret.jpg" width="187" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was clear the winery has had a recent refurb—it was all
new and state of the art, complete with 72-person glass elevator to transport
you down to the cellars. There are 52 vintages on offer, and we had a taste of
two wines, one being the 2015 Grand Cru which was quite a nice quaff. They are
a 30-hectare estate (about 75 acres) and their wines are available locally, so
we left without stashing one in the boot and strolled back among the vines to
the centre of town to have a coffee and take in the fading sunshine of the late
afternoon. Bliss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
La Rochelle, our next stop on the journey, was to be a
two-day stopover in a town filled with boats—both an old and new marina—seafood
restaurants, a maritime museum, and lots of shops and yes, a cathedral!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieA6ZG2V9MnuSzy5ANhvBtEzjTUCOqdvadHNmDZOVrFyituf5_tZCmjrtr-x3jBLvOYD8nuDn1u3xfvo7KAXP1NcDH-lLvREXkuiIAgaY14dNIz99lW81zpOdyM57has8dBS4gdwDVTCRB/s1600/nightcathedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieA6ZG2V9MnuSzy5ANhvBtEzjTUCOqdvadHNmDZOVrFyituf5_tZCmjrtr-x3jBLvOYD8nuDn1u3xfvo7KAXP1NcDH-lLvREXkuiIAgaY14dNIz99lW81zpOdyM57has8dBS4gdwDVTCRB/s200/nightcathedral.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evening view, St Emilion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tim had been once before—in fact it was the only destination
that either of us had been to previously—but it was a long time ago and a lot
has changed. We stayed in a hotel central enough to the old port and shopping,
which was lovely, though it was also an area of the city that felt a bit worn.
In fact La Rochelle has been a centre for fishing and trade since the 12th
century—evidenced by some of the architecture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we absolutely loved the food in Spain, our favourite
meal was probably in La Rochelle at a place aptly named Saveur Vivre—and why
not with a name that translates into flavour and life? It was steps from our
hotel, and we’d seen it had good reviews so decided to give it a go on one of
our two nights in La Rochelle. The service
was lovely, too, and Tim enjoyed his foie gras ravioli in a supreme sauce
(which was rather foamy a la Heston) and I absolutely loved my langoustine
spring rolls with a tamarind paste. I’d wholeheartedly recommend a visit there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXS1pSrL0dhpzOcbZrcoR2h6VLFP9nzeVfBCDEQY_5QYHQE_v1HO7z_7eDUzfqBJUpch7QYyZVxTRbE2YWe3pmEbKLKFLj8vkkMF0Qm1JCjRBG1RagTdrvC2iFFwYuvKvQ0ZCJFNRVQDs/s1600/food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXS1pSrL0dhpzOcbZrcoR2h6VLFP9nzeVfBCDEQY_5QYHQE_v1HO7z_7eDUzfqBJUpch7QYyZVxTRbE2YWe3pmEbKLKFLj8vkkMF0Qm1JCjRBG1RagTdrvC2iFFwYuvKvQ0ZCJFNRVQDs/s200/food.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a second day of traveling about the town on foot we
decided to try a restaurant a friend of Tim’s had recommended—only his friend
couldn’t remember the name of it, and gave us some slightly ambiguous direction
to go by—in the new marina, along Avenue des Minimes, serves seafood . . . we walked about 40 minutes and found <i>a</i>
place, which was very good but likely not what he had in mind! Le Plaisance was
pleasant enough. What was special was as we walked we enjoyed the
setting sun, and the sky was filled with lovely shades of pink that was a
perfect backdrop to the boats in the marina.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One more stop, in Angers, where we needed to switch taste
gears and drink pink! Angers is a medieval town beside the river Maine, just at
the edge of the Loire valley. (More notably for history buffs it is the seat of
the Plantagenet dynasty.) Oh, and it has a . . . you guessed it, one of those!
The Cathédrale St-Maurice is known for its twin spires and beautiful
stained-glass rose windows. We peeked in, of course. There are also some lovely
timbered buildings and a chateau that has beautiful grounds and in a cold, dark
room, the Apocalypse Tapestry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzX79TrNJDY731hOR0If8hpPZPHD6yqHbSVRRazA6WrEJZAY0ygv-cXs5ttsg9q4JaeiVl5zfWHuYVdCc0FMgAciwQUY_i6wzXjzB-t8nubnPDSFimA7ykFTtiTGXb3PpadNXarI859bK/s1600/chateauangers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzX79TrNJDY731hOR0If8hpPZPHD6yqHbSVRRazA6WrEJZAY0ygv-cXs5ttsg9q4JaeiVl5zfWHuYVdCc0FMgAciwQUY_i6wzXjzB-t8nubnPDSFimA7ykFTtiTGXb3PpadNXarI859bK/s200/chateauangers.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Chateau, d'Angers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The tapestries were commissioned by the Duke of Anjou, woven
between 1377 and 1382. The panels tell the story of the Apocalypse from the
Book of Revelation by Saint John the Divine. These wonderful tapestries are now
well faded from their previous colourful glory, though still quite something to
see. It reminded me of having read a book, quite some time ago, about medieval
weavers, and how I want to read it again having now seen some of original works
from centuries ago. If only I could remember the book’s name! (Will have to
scour the bookshelves at home.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvQT5JMt4_OWHmOHT8cCVRnUHsO5wvznaiCwxFX9fwmY-2UqX6lYv_pIxqIt2QYIyNnSrJ827qVKKHJZ_hOQiKFehNAhSbSJCzPEZZ0BDLT-8lfhogRfLHZzNHBlqq1PK0OOtyzugFsNr/s1600/tapestry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvQT5JMt4_OWHmOHT8cCVRnUHsO5wvznaiCwxFX9fwmY-2UqX6lYv_pIxqIt2QYIyNnSrJ827qVKKHJZ_hOQiKFehNAhSbSJCzPEZZ0BDLT-8lfhogRfLHZzNHBlqq1PK0OOtyzugFsNr/s200/tapestry.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tapestry panel -- seven-headed beast</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d walked well more than 10,000 steps in the day and
deciding that dinner was going to be all about what was near the hotel. Angers
has an area that is actually quite cosmopolitan, and after taking a break in a
nearby bar to rest our weary feet and think about what next, we’d seen a place
with the odd name “Joe Carpa” just two blocks away, perfect for our tired toes.
Carpa is short for carpaccio, and they had quite an extensive list of beef
carpaccio dishes with different reductions, sauces, etc. I recalled a simple pasta
dish on the menu outside that would be a soothing treat for my still aching
stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSHlCvtHyl3I_YHM8CECr8IpnZH7e80TS-eu4MIUvkRS09LMbHcwQRZpoajc-WDgzYUE60A1REIMy1n1Q3td2uZn6i7e-dRxB76vhrbcDzmhep86PSI_EugtzlP7TMopTpxhBqa39mCqs/s1600/angercathedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSHlCvtHyl3I_YHM8CECr8IpnZH7e80TS-eu4MIUvkRS09LMbHcwQRZpoajc-WDgzYUE60A1REIMy1n1Q3td2uZn6i7e-dRxB76vhrbcDzmhep86PSI_EugtzlP7TMopTpxhBqa39mCqs/s200/angercathedral.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral, Angers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The restaurant has an open front, with heat lamps for those
who dared sit at the tables on the pavement on a rather cool evening. We chose
a table just indoors which was a bit protected from the night chill and still
had a lovely view. It was a lovely meal and a lovely last dinner on our wonderful
journey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One more short drive to the ferry, and in Caen we found a
lovely bistro not far from the terminal and had the most delightful lunch—huge
salads filled with fresh ingredients and of course, a carafe of local pink to
toast the upcoming six-hour “ride” home. I would have sworn our host was not
French—he was quite animated, and even gave us a thumbs' up at one point! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiCWizqS8qXBSXabpcd33GGWMUeTcAtnzx8VGKWYq4alsHCeDqO8yidxj3E6UMG3oyfw85RxCobtdpGtzmt1c-A83QL3lQDfmnRRQUfOiYfWoGLldAWbObG0i-JyY4nuN2MYe9UethTLx/s1600/caenfood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbiCWizqS8qXBSXabpcd33GGWMUeTcAtnzx8VGKWYq4alsHCeDqO8yidxj3E6UMG3oyfw85RxCobtdpGtzmt1c-A83QL3lQDfmnRRQUfOiYfWoGLldAWbObG0i-JyY4nuN2MYe9UethTLx/s200/caenfood.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before boarding the ferry there was first, of course, a pit
stop at a local supermarket to scan the Bordeaux and Anjou on offer and use up
the remaining space in the very small boot of our car. I was happy to have my
Vivino app and free wifi to scan a few labels and get a quick check on
ratings—there is such a wide selection it’s hard to know which to choose
without a little help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once on the ferry we stayed on the stern of the ship for a
couple of hours, sipping a little pink champagne to toast the end of the
holiday and watch France and the sun disappear from view, and then moved inside
when the air was too chilly to be comfortable. We had a quick dinner and then,
because the boat was rolling a bit, we found comfortable seats to read and wile
away the time until it was time to pop back in the car and head to the “little”
ferry from Portsmouth to Fishbourne, not far from Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Fortunately
we had GPS to help us get there, and with one minute to spare we pulled into
the lot and were able to squeeze our little car into the last space for the
45-minute trek. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-b3BvhNhunq5EMCp0hsJII4MYQByYCLFAnLBNl0nQCoecrYUCs2PiukLNxbqCUugKcGYVhubiQPgivEwV4e2WozUk-Fxv2JYm55wtjTHubah6m7O_ayHLYRE3t9bmqdGIs43po24oorb/s1600/spinnaker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-b3BvhNhunq5EMCp0hsJII4MYQByYCLFAnLBNl0nQCoecrYUCs2PiukLNxbqCUugKcGYVhubiQPgivEwV4e2WozUk-Fxv2JYm55wtjTHubah6m7O_ayHLYRE3t9bmqdGIs43po24oorb/s200/spinnaker.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portsmouth, from the ferry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Driving home with the top down on a balmy evening, we were
happy to arrive back to Cowes and get under the duvet for an alarm-free Sunday
morning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with that another wonderful adventure comes to a close.
I certainly learned a lot along the way—about the history of the area, wine,
cathedrals. Tim is a wonderful traveling companion because he knows so much
about the history that he can casually work into the conversation. I also
learned that taking a long ferry journey should be followed by a couple of days
of rest for my body to “recover”! As with other journeys abroad, I longed for a
better grasp of French; I keep saying that, but then after some time the feeling
wanes until the next journey and I wish it all over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taster tours are a great way to see a lot in a short space,
though you have to be prepared to live out of a suitcase most of the time; I
didn’t mind that at all, though I did occasionally wish we were settling in for
a bit longer, particularly in St Emilion which has all the signs of a return
journey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcWHykBGt6JpQXogSydZWJUvDL8XoRI_-ygHhyphenhyphen5XnQG1MMyr4ylcN6VFxHTnHpcXPfZQOe0ndjPpSrlQmiobanPCz2BUTLZTQoCWAcDQ1CTFQJYw7OS_TnKykVsfb58cI-x9Iq7M2oAld/s1600/santander.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcWHykBGt6JpQXogSydZWJUvDL8XoRI_-ygHhyphenhyphen5XnQG1MMyr4ylcN6VFxHTnHpcXPfZQOe0ndjPpSrlQmiobanPCz2BUTLZTQoCWAcDQ1CTFQJYw7OS_TnKykVsfb58cI-x9Iq7M2oAld/s200/santander.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
La vie est courte; profiter du voyage!<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-26117634785085537752016-07-09T12:24:00.000+01:002016-07-09T12:24:20.140+01:00[Extra]ordinary London versus New York<div class="MsoNormal">
I had one of those days that reminded me why it’s so
wonderful to live in London. Even the weather cooperated!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tim and I try to visit the Royal Opera House at least twice
a year. Frankly we could go more often, but I quite like splurging on pricey
seats in the Orchestra stalls; it makes for a very rich sensory experience, and
we can fill the cultural craving gap with cinema offerings from both the
Metropolitan Opera House and the ROH. The ROH offers discounts now and again on
new productions with “no-name” performers to fill the seats, and I like taking
advantage of their generosity. When an email flooded in giving half-price
tickets to a new production of <i>Il
trovatore</i>, well, I only hesitated long enough to see if my opera partner
was available on a date I’d chosen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward to a few days before when I thought it wise to
book a restaurant nearby the opera house. We have often found ourselves at Café
Des Amis on Hanover Place, steps from Bow Street, and as we hadn’t been for a
while it felt about time. Unfortunately I came to PERMANENTLY CLOSED on a table
booking site; a fixture of Covent Garden no more. Disappointed but not dismayed
I booked a table at Masala Zone, a chain of Indian restaurants whose owners’
portfolios include some well-known restaurants in London where you can pay more
and eat as well. We’d been once before (though I’d forgotten about the ceiling
full of Rajasthani dolls) and needed only to be mindful of service with a 7:15
date across the street; previously we were struggling to flag down someone to
bring us the bill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward once again to 5 pm on a lovely, sunny Thursday
and I’m walking to meet Tim. Just as I arrive he exits the building with a warm
smile and a very cheery hello; the day has been good already with a favourable verdict
in a trial that kept him from coming to America with me. We strolled (yes, hand
in hand) through Lincolns Inn Fields, across Kingsway and along Longacre to the
restaurant, chatting about the day’s events, the next Prime Minister (Theresa
or Andrea, either way a woman), and the upcoming weekend sailing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 5:30 pm we are ushered to a window-side corner table with
views of Floral and Hanover Streets, where there are any number of strollers,
tourists, lovers, kids, and opera goers walking by. I remarked that it was
quite a busy corner and Tim reminded me that the street parallel to Floral is
Longacre, filled with shops and a main drag generally, with a tube station for
Covent Garden. Ah yes. A waitperson promptly appears and cheerfully asks for a
drinks order. It’s decidedly pink. We also order quickly to make the most of
our 90-minute dining window. It all arrives at a pleasant place and is all
delicious. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 7 pm we are walking through the entrance for a 7:15
start. We pick up flyers that tell who the cast for the evening is along with a
brief synopsis of the Verdi opera. I don’t believe I’d seen it, even going back
to my days of seasons at the Met in NYC, but I’d read ahead—I try not to be too
distracted by having to read the projected dialogue, and knowing what the story
is helps to stay focused on the music and the stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I acted quickly on the ROH email, I was able to book
seats very near the orchestra pit and stage—perhaps the closest I’ve ever been
to be able to occasionally turn my eye toward the conductor, Gianandrea Noseda,
who was mouthing along the words and moving his arms in harmony to the music,
sometimes swaying gently, other times juddering in staccato. This was his debut
at the ROH, and he received warm applause at the conclusion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To see the performers so closely, too, is a real treat;
there were times I felt the Count, sung beautifully by the handsome Brit baritone
Christopher Maltman, was looking right at me. The character portrayed by Marina
Prudenskaya—who stole the Count’s brother to to avenge her mother’s burning at
the stake for witchcraft, and blinded by rage instead threw her own child into
the pyre—was at once disturbed, wild, and sorrowful. And, dare I say, the
American tenor Gregory Kunde had a hint of the lyrical voice of Pavarotti,
though without the power. It reminded me how fortunate I was to see Luciano several
times in New York.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the interval we strolled up to sip our preordered Ruinart
(the ROH has an app, but of course) and watch
the flurry of activity at the bar. I just love these 30 minutes of standing in
the Paul Hamlyn Hall, glasses and silverware clinking as the opera goers enjoy
a quick meal or a glass of something, chatting away about the set (it was
modern, and has had mixed reviews), the performers, or perhaps just the events
of the day. It never fails that Tim sees someone he knows, and this time I was
introduced to Lord Trimble, the first minister of Northern Ireland and once
leader of the Ulster Unionist Party, and his wife Daphne. They were certain
Theresa May would be the next Prime Minister.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as the curtain came down and we poured out of the building
we were greeted with a noisy, busy London evening. Theatres on Drury Lane were
also releasing their patrons, and as is typical on Thursdays the outdoor space
at the pubs was filled with customers holding their glasses and chatting loudly.
It’s a scene that never gets tired to my eyes; I love the vibrancy of the city,
particularly on warm nights where it’s far better to be out and among the
crowds. We had a short walk to the bus, and ambled up the stairs to sit on the
top deck and watch the city go by. Everywhere along the ride there were people
out and about as it approached 11 pm. Perhaps London is rivalling the city that
never sleeps? (We need to get the night tube working!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoxTDT_SJwN4cshTkI7kUQLUH95k7yYobAQMXE3jTDdRDYIxc-C4MYmU1teBa3030XxtrgqzKimrT80YQ0vzuitOJayKbqLX_3r7epoeBwCyYNYE1CHF2MlxreCG1-Jd9wkSjG7l_Hurd/s1600/parkave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoxTDT_SJwN4cshTkI7kUQLUH95k7yYobAQMXE3jTDdRDYIxc-C4MYmU1teBa3030XxtrgqzKimrT80YQ0vzuitOJayKbqLX_3r7epoeBwCyYNYE1CHF2MlxreCG1-Jd9wkSjG7l_Hurd/s200/parkave.jpg" width="141" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Park Avenue looking south</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjioFGa13kdkSNDPfuSUEKlxqLxKQNHZazQ18C2iWHg5Er0ZbOVQgnZeYQqk-lPLN2cJqfeqs1Oxnezx-pKt15yZw_330Q1YNv0jOkeEiSUSe3ckAyWahb0KVG4rWjyVsekd3D3K9Do4MVX/s1600/freedomtower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjioFGa13kdkSNDPfuSUEKlxqLxKQNHZazQ18C2iWHg5Er0ZbOVQgnZeYQqk-lPLN2cJqfeqs1Oxnezx-pKt15yZw_330Q1YNv0jOkeEiSUSe3ckAyWahb0KVG4rWjyVsekd3D3K9Do4MVX/s200/freedomtower.jpg" width="139" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freedom Tower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I absolutely loved my recent trip back to America; I satisfied
my craving for “proper” pizza at Roberta’s in Brooklyn, and spent a few meals
over food and conversation at Tops Diner. There was a wonderful trip into NYC
to have brunch at The Odeon in lower Manhattan, a lovely treat with my sister
and her other half, and then a walk along the water to see the boats and enjoy
the sun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got to the beach (though, like England, the water was
still too cold to swim) and the boardwalk with my dear friend Jill, and spent
an evening with her husband and daughter, who has grown into a beautiful, smart
adult like her mom. I saw two of my wonderful university friends Haydee and
Terry who I know went out of their way to see me, and caught up with a dear
friend from work and strolled around nearby Grand Central Station. I attended a
work reunion, seeing several people I hadn’t seen in multiple years, and saw
relatives and friends of relatives who came a distance to catch up in person,
always a treat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuV6spq7DJ2CmYTNBTf5OjfD12-gHig-Yj3HmBlONuhIicTdn8wwzCg_DZu4Px1IpsQCgYaas4q_cePzpQa_payOCRWJ1bC07uwYYIKt38TgDQWq86q9B3sYBvH5niDLIUIp2kUwB65w4I/s1600/donuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuV6spq7DJ2CmYTNBTf5OjfD12-gHig-Yj3HmBlONuhIicTdn8wwzCg_DZu4Px1IpsQCgYaas4q_cePzpQa_payOCRWJ1bC07uwYYIKt38TgDQWq86q9B3sYBvH5niDLIUIp2kUwB65w4I/s200/donuts.jpg" width="186" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donuts at The Odeon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7emnWtWd3gZYtovCqLTat5aU0gl6FVr-yGztEC57kFFoZAk_sH2f_4HgA8Defld9Aw3ASgmwMcq3kTiOl_oCMABNM_gNK_pU-lhSk0UPcihTVxU2AWOheXoryBOHWfDc3oLFwdJyqBIJX/s1600/graduate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7emnWtWd3gZYtovCqLTat5aU0gl6FVr-yGztEC57kFFoZAk_sH2f_4HgA8Defld9Aw3ASgmwMcq3kTiOl_oCMABNM_gNK_pU-lhSk0UPcihTVxU2AWOheXoryBOHWfDc3oLFwdJyqBIJX/s200/graduate.jpg" width="82" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The graduate!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course I got to see my nephew graduate and then spend
an evening with my family—even ¾ of the Texans (the fourth did call to speak
with us, which was lovely)—and finally meet my niece’s fiancée. (I approve.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a trip,
solo, that was filled with lots of little excursions that I might not otherwise
have spent the time doing if accompanied; I'd forgotten how much New York, like London, is so easy to navigate, making it possible to see so many people uptown, downtown, and back in New Jersey.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkx4A9TluzztjZ6NUd15y_p19EoKu47aRK1MR3Ha6umvwB8NFUP828IJOi-G1c8ksmjcADUkG4UeJy2U4O9vy-fDgmJ-gaPe-Soil-RjR-Mks2HVtzd7qPtSqiXyrQy6ms82VXASbNJ7wY/s1600/beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkx4A9TluzztjZ6NUd15y_p19EoKu47aRK1MR3Ha6umvwB8NFUP828IJOi-G1c8ksmjcADUkG4UeJy2U4O9vy-fDgmJ-gaPe-Soil-RjR-Mks2HVtzd7qPtSqiXyrQy6ms82VXASbNJ7wY/s200/beach.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were precious moments each day and quiet reflection
each night at how very fortunate I am to have these bonds that never seem to
weaken with time or distance. Finally all those promised warm hugs in emails,
texts and chats done in the flesh! It’s still feels wonderful and warm weeks
later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, still, London is my home. And it's a fabulous place to be.</div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-31330001621899219972016-06-05T17:30:00.000+01:002016-06-05T17:30:03.117+01:00Ups and Downs in Sicily<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7VC7RsEyroIt8zI-uq8149MhBMTuUhUXAbQ0-T-eDEIDbdpcg6ZdDjWc-X1CssNwhfBVx8SZPdnB7nJ8UoLETIMCtHiLActVI8mx6Kumr6mk0mgYm-ShE3rIsYOVm1GpvfLT94UpmCWx/s1600/stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7VC7RsEyroIt8zI-uq8149MhBMTuUhUXAbQ0-T-eDEIDbdpcg6ZdDjWc-X1CssNwhfBVx8SZPdnB7nJ8UoLETIMCtHiLActVI8mx6Kumr6mk0mgYm-ShE3rIsYOVm1GpvfLT94UpmCWx/s200/stairs.jpg" width="125" /></a>Let me start by saying even the downs are good . . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My reference is really to the climbs—either up to Mt Etna
with a wonderfully knowledgeable and funny guide called Fabio, or up to
Castelmola with Tim, 1.9 miles of uneven but only slightly treacherous stairs
where, at certain landings there are beautiful statues of the Stations of the
Cross.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqd7vdFL0Msy7RiTpcoxMo67jXNMNbw3NPyybkKuMK5W39Nt9jtu08qvLIQIGCuerNtZABycEOeREEkbeBtKhfQOU9oV6VWt1L4DB2C09xOPc9fn1-wGqce6_YJBCWDqdBD3IEVbpKacA3/s1600/stations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqd7vdFL0Msy7RiTpcoxMo67jXNMNbw3NPyybkKuMK5W39Nt9jtu08qvLIQIGCuerNtZABycEOeREEkbeBtKhfQOU9oV6VWt1L4DB2C09xOPc9fn1-wGqce6_YJBCWDqdBD3IEVbpKacA3/s200/stations.jpg" width="123" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quite enjoyed all of the effort; it made eating pizza and
pasta feel positively <i>necessary</i> to
have enough carbohydrate energy to get up and down! My first meal was aubergine
(eggplant) ravioli with parmesan. The restaurant was steps away from our hotel overlooking
Isola Bella, and it had a lovely view. The local Etna rose was crisp, chilled,
and delicious. It was the start of a fabulous five days, and throughout that time there
wasn’t a meal that disappointed nor a vista that didn’t give me reason to pause
and sigh. When I opened the curtains to our room and saw Isola Bella looking
back, well, I am fairly certain I gasped something in delight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRM13GGLlbU025eO-Q3pFgvCqWXYRJN-ocD8W77JX0N4gK4H7bpDHhNDN0jQIQ_6JfTbgjEJ9VBrArGxiWh-X803lYFtFqD_bJkvyFEJVzRSK1MZAbO5vYQmidbd8IsNrVA9GQoA7geK7/s1600/viewfromroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRM13GGLlbU025eO-Q3pFgvCqWXYRJN-ocD8W77JX0N4gK4H7bpDHhNDN0jQIQ_6JfTbgjEJ9VBrArGxiWh-X803lYFtFqD_bJkvyFEJVzRSK1MZAbO5vYQmidbd8IsNrVA9GQoA7geK7/s200/viewfromroom.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s too much to tell and far too many photos to post,
but there’s room for highlights . . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sea is gorgeous, but cold. We bought slip ons to enable
us to get beyond the rocky shoreline, but I only managed up to my ankles. The
Mediterranean doesn’t warm up much before June or July, I suspect. Tim,
however, was determined to swim in the sea and so after a slow start he managed
the full immersion, dodging between tiny jellyfish about the size of a rosebud.
Beach bumming was good people watching, though, and the sun was warm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRKClezrHbEh_OFe4NnEJbUmGWzl1EINezEOLfBDgtOWEKbkiOwiD_WJvj6-urq7hpSzO3RJAz_JHVZdqyrik3bLiRycgV5wSks3xAHJnUtFpUNBLzlNUWI3cQni0HNcZG2OZsF45Ewpv/s1600/amphi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRKClezrHbEh_OFe4NnEJbUmGWzl1EINezEOLfBDgtOWEKbkiOwiD_WJvj6-urq7hpSzO3RJAz_JHVZdqyrik3bLiRycgV5wSks3xAHJnUtFpUNBLzlNUWI3cQni0HNcZG2OZsF45Ewpv/s200/amphi.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We took a tour of the Greco-Roman amphitheatre (Teatro
Antico) in Taormina; while you can stroll the theatre on your own, it’s nice to
have someone tell you a bit about the history and culture and I’d not done any
reading ahead. Guido, our guide, told us who lived where (Truman Capote, DH Lawrence,
Oscar Wilde, Johannes Brahms, Florence Trevelyan), how the Romans rebuilt the
Greek theatre and many of the original bricks still stand, primarily because
they weren’t worth stealing. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiS7NaOzLQaALJq5-yBTMdBNjyzm47bOPErqKz5jjANQqxvjRIGH3HwPBEH1nzWK1EFuOJNVB3OQhxJ2-gYCjrSDigf6t5Qx5VH0X1c7fsgXi0IMkY_k8-YGmwHHnu1xsJNfIGpO8qr-ek/s1600/pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiS7NaOzLQaALJq5-yBTMdBNjyzm47bOPErqKz5jjANQqxvjRIGH3HwPBEH1nzWK1EFuOJNVB3OQhxJ2-gYCjrSDigf6t5Qx5VH0X1c7fsgXi0IMkY_k8-YGmwHHnu1xsJNfIGpO8qr-ek/s200/pizza.jpg" width="141" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The theatre is still in use; when we were there
they were setting up for a concert, and I recall an advert for Duran Duran.
Guido also kindly tested the acoustics by clapping loudly so we could hear the
echo as we stood in the middle of the open air arena. It has a lovely view of Etna as well as the sea; you could lose yourself in the view if the concert isn't worthwhile!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Tx0Nmd9hmNv_45q_1pIB9xFKpL4HkKnH-XxlhLM_8133FS_xaKdnJXzKt1U1re_LmTlBVsxGujZJWUzdNLusRWQzEWwDlOGAqpnPx7hUcJ7UW6hJCgz5RCOgsrF3BX_Zm56mursL1ehK/s1600/fashion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Tx0Nmd9hmNv_45q_1pIB9xFKpL4HkKnH-XxlhLM_8133FS_xaKdnJXzKt1U1re_LmTlBVsxGujZJWUzdNLusRWQzEWwDlOGAqpnPx7hUcJ7UW6hJCgz5RCOgsrF3BX_Zm56mursL1ehK/s200/fashion.jpg" width="161" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taormina has lovely squares and main streets filled with
shops selling ceramics, postcards, coffee and cannoli and dozens of
restaurants. We chose some places simply by where they were rather than knowing
where to go—most of the menus have the same selections, and all of the prices
were about the same. And it’s just about all Italian; there was one kebab shop we spotted
when we found ourselves drawn to a little café on a side street for an iced
coffee or a glass of wine at the end of each afternoon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hadn’t practiced any Italian—we’d picked up a few phrases
when we went to Naples and to Sorrento a
couple of years ago—but it didn’t matter; just about everywhere we went there
was enough English spoken to find our way around a menu or a map. Everyone was
pleasant and helpful. Well, there was one taxi driver who was a bit brusque and
no doubt overcharged us for a short journey, but we had walked quite a bit into
nearby Naxos and wanted to get back up to Taormina without the effort of
hundreds of stairs.Again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SiFeJctkPpMZECA_96hrxzsR5r0dwf6io6xkhpAaT5KEd6V2x68h8ea1FBvhibC7Ox0B63ZwnC7VrUkcj6jmK7vFJYIU3QIhRmlfWPa0MxGk0E8kuvPeN2ZuHvjCLrDGxwdkl8e0PL6d/s1600/art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SiFeJctkPpMZECA_96hrxzsR5r0dwf6io6xkhpAaT5KEd6V2x68h8ea1FBvhibC7Ox0B63ZwnC7VrUkcj6jmK7vFJYIU3QIhRmlfWPa0MxGk0E8kuvPeN2ZuHvjCLrDGxwdkl8e0PL6d/s200/art.jpg" width="143" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I haven’t enticed you enough to see Sicily, and
particularly Taormina, do drop me a comment—there are a lot more stories and
photos I can share to convince you. Don’t let hundreds of steps deter you—there
are other ways to get up and down this lovely area (including a cable way that
goes some of the distance), though the pizza tastes that much better when you
know you’ve earned it.<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-72126318756958102202016-04-18T20:16:00.000+01:002016-04-18T20:16:46.961+01:00[4]5 Years<div class="MsoNormal">
There is almost nothing in common in the themes between my
life and the move <i>45 Years</i>, yet the
99-minute film resonated with me in small ways. Have you seen it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, Charlotte Rampling is my new idol. The grace she
displays in her role makes me want to see every movie she’s ever been in. She
is still attractive; there is no surprise she was a model. I like her
for the fact that she is lithe and lovely and doesn’t seem to give a care about
showing her wrinkles. In some scenes, she positively glows; in others, she looks more her
age—which is not by any means a bad thing, it's just reality. She played the role as though she
was simply playing out life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Occasionally, in certain scenes, she reminded me of Tim’s
mum; something in the eyes I think. I’ve didn’t know Tim’s mum when she was Ms
Rampling’s age at the time of the movie—born in 1946, she’d have been in her
late 60s—yet there is <i>something</i> . . .
another icon of the swinging 60s! (The sons are no doubt laughing at me.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkosCDDrj7K3MwNT_IQ3fwLiApPWmrTiroyCdC3K_2z2VboK77F5lMus1n_b2SmqdUUbUiP2KbNliAMumSm2k8bSOAA33yelksnmaPUH31_jL2I-0_XC1yf3ZwdhBh1l3xv5uEUgBngPTj/s1600/xr.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkosCDDrj7K3MwNT_IQ3fwLiApPWmrTiroyCdC3K_2z2VboK77F5lMus1n_b2SmqdUUbUiP2KbNliAMumSm2k8bSOAA33yelksnmaPUH31_jL2I-0_XC1yf3ZwdhBh1l3xv5uEUgBngPTj/s1600/xr.png" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a wonderful intimacy between the couple in the
movie; the conversation is easy-going and meaningful. There are long walks and
tea in bed (though we prefer coffee). Gasp, there is sex! It gets all a bit
knotty when her husband’s ex-lover turns up, frozen in time where she fell down
a glacier fissure before his now wife came on the scene, but they both admit
that they had life stories they’d never shared. It’s always a bit tricky to
decide how much of your past to reveal: what’s important, and what needn’t be
rehashed. Trust me, I’ve been there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope that Tim and I reach a 45-year anniversary. Of course
that would put us both in our mid-nineties, having started the relationship a
bit late . . . hey, you never know. We’ll have to decide whether the party will
be in London, where we will no doubt keep a little place to feed our cultural
selves, or that place we decide to spend part of the year where it’s not as
grey and damp. We haven’t a clue where that is, though we have discussed a few options. We both like the idea of someplace else between November and
March where we can keep a bit warmer. Greece? South of France? Florida?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, we recently went to Lanzarote, one of the Canary
Islands off the coast of West Africa, and found some of the areas quite lovely.
Friends who live in La Santa, a little fishing village on the western part of
the island, invited us over for gin and tonics and nibbles. Their flat is steps
away from the sea, a place popular with surfers. It was near sunrise and we did have the treat of seeing a few managing the waves. I don’t know that I could work there
the way Dan does—the beauty of the sea is far too distracting. Compared to the
more tourist-laden areas of the island, like Costa Teguise where we stayed, it
is an oasis of calm, low-key living.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of Tim’s mum, she was a companion on our get-warm
retreat, along with one of the aforementioned sons. (I am told that I should
not mention names as some of them are shy.) And what a lovely trip we had!
The weather cooperated, though the first three mornings were cloudy and cool leaving us initially skeptical.
By midday there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was very warm, a real respite from the England spring where the temperatures were mostly below 50 F / 10 C.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days we spent mornings over coffee and conversation,
planning what the rest of the day would be. Several days included journeys by
car—the trip to Timanfaya National Park to get a closer look at the volcanic
part of the island was absolutely stunning. I would not want to drive the
narrow, barrier-free roads that took us high for breathtaking views or down low in valleys where the mountains soared above us. Our coach (bus) driver managed the drive effortlessly. We all loved the architect / artist / activist Cesar Manrique’s
former home, now a gallery, with its delightful rooms designed around the
volcanic plugs. We also took a trip up to Mirador del Sol, a restaurant hidden
in the rock, another Manrique wonder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was from there that we noticed La Graciosa, one of the
lesser-known islands of the Canaries. There is a short ferry ride that we
decided to take one sunny afternoon, just at the gap where the return journey
was three hours away (rather than half hour). We had absolutely no idea what
there was to do on the island, but Tim's brother would swim and we’d find a place
for lunch and maybe a short walk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ferry was filled with a German tourist group who beat us
to the closest restaurant with a view, and we were told there’d be an hour
delay in getting service. Not a problem; we trundled on in the sand (no
sidewalks here) to a small Italian restaurant that had a few tables outside,
protected from the hot sun by umbrellas, and some couches covered with blankets
for those who wanted to soak up the rays. We opted for the umbrella and the
pizza. There wasn’t much else to do—La Graciosa is an island for cyclists and
trekkers and I believe divers, and we were simply day trippers who thought a
ferry ride would be a nice way to travel. Tim’s brother did get his swim in,
and managed to get back just in time to board the ferry though we had our doubts!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Similarly a trip to Famara, on the west coast, was nothing
like the more populated, popular spots—there are surfers here, too, and
another beach to swim in the sea. Driving along the coast there are a number of
little coves occasionally dotted with swimmers, though quite a bit of the
landscape is rocky. When we first arrived both Tim and I both thought that it
reminded us of Iceland, another volcanic island, though Lanzarote has less
vegetation and more cacti—I don’t recall either a cactus or vineyards in Iceland,
in fact! The local wine is a nice treat, particularly the rose, which is
slightly fruity but with a clean finish. Sure, you can get a Spanish Rioja just
about anywhere these days, but the small production of the local wine likely
doesn’t leave the resorts, and I was happy to have had a taste, or two . . .<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
None of us speak Spanish with any fluency, but we managed
our “hola” and “como esta” and “buenos dias” phrases well enough, and
occasionally ordered food and wine in the native language. Lunches were
wherever we were, and mostly unresearched, which meant a bit of hit or miss
though mostly all the meals were quite good. We found a lovely Spanish
restaurant called Bodega Marcelo, just outside our hotel, where a harpist and
guitar player serenaded patrons both inside and out by standing just near the entrance.
It was lovely music to enjoy our paella and tapas by. Oh, and of course the
wine. In fact it was one of the places we returned to later in the trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our biggest disappointment on the excursion to Famara was that
our most favourite restaurant, a place called La Norte in Haria, was
closed. We had delicious paella and a lovely Lanzarote rose a few days
before. And the staff was wonderful—we suspect the restaurant is family-run,
but didn’t ask. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s those little finds that make you smile when you recall
the memories of the trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Our second choice, named something like La Loca Gambera,
could not compare; just in case you’re heading in that direction.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We didn’t only eat the local cuisine—we did pop into the Indian restaurant near our resort called Fazz’s and that turned out to be
a hit—a perfect mango lassi, cold beer, and for me a nice house white, though
it took a bit of back and forth to know what it was; the waiter finally brought
over the bottle for my approval.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll admit I didn’t swim in the sea—it’s the Atlantic, and
even in April it was a bit too chilly for me. Tim and I waded in the shallow
bits while his brother bravely took the plunge—always insisting that it wasn’t
cold, LOL, so clearly he has a different body temperature than the two of us! The Atlantic here is gorgeous and clear and marvellously blue green. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the first holiday of the year is behind us, and we’ve
mentally ticked and verbally discussed the plusses (no mosquitoes is certainly one) of spending
time on Lanzarote. No doubt there will be a few more excursions to places not
far that might suit us for when the time comes to spend a few months in the
sun. And, no, America has not yet been ruled out, LOL!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Written and posted while en route to Dubai. Onboard Wifi!)<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-50546623776943330652016-03-09T14:08:00.000+00:002016-03-09T14:08:32.374+00:00What makes me Appy<div class="MsoNormal">
Mobile technology has changed my life, and mostly for the
better: I can sip rather than slurp my morning coffee because I can use my bus
countdown app to see when the 341 is approaching Aden Grove. I can book an
indoor tennis court a week in advance (providing my click is faster than dozens
of others vying for the same slot). I can send postcards where I get to choose
the picture (from my phone’s camera). And now . . .</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9P78j2kJ6Pi7NpANv8JK_2ydjqhAojK3dYUcofv4eBiNOnWxBk3yJKqhX4KnzXiqwxsCHiKSJ_qub7skI4vrDBW1w9K3jJS5CsjpoWxYVThh2vyBN2bXlCk5UEj7hSkAK4Jnasaae7WDV/s1600/roh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9P78j2kJ6Pi7NpANv8JK_2ydjqhAojK3dYUcofv4eBiNOnWxBk3yJKqhX4KnzXiqwxsCHiKSJ_qub7skI4vrDBW1w9K3jJS5CsjpoWxYVThh2vyBN2bXlCk5UEj7hSkAK4Jnasaae7WDV/s320/roh.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Royal Opera House has a new app: you can pre-order your
interval champers with just a few clicks. Just download the free app! Which I
did, after spotting the advert while in the ROH waiting for Il Trittico to
begin. In less than five minutes I had ROH Bars on my phone and ordered our
first interval Runiart for 20% off, totalling £21.60. Brilliant!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First hurdle: where to find the pre-ordered bubbly at the interval?
The ROH has a lovely bar that is just captivating to look at and rather vast and
crowded during the interval. Tim and I wandered over to where the usual
pre-ordered drinks were placed, but didn’t see our name. Tim flagged down a
harried waitperson who asked if we ordered “on the app” and then directed us to
another corner. Lo and behold, two glasses of champagne under our name sat on a
shelf where a few others were sipping their own bubbles. Tim did remark how
anyone could have picked up ours . . . but this is the Royal Opera House, where
we’re all too sophisticated to nick someone else’s booze!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.roh.org.uk/mixed-programmes/il-trittico">Il
Trittico</a> is a Puccini creation of three one-act operas, each about an hour
with a 25-minute interval in between them, all of which I would highly
recommend. The first two are rather dark, and the finale, Gianni Schicchi, a
bit of dark comedy. This is also the
opera that has one of the more famous arias (even if you’re not a huge opera
fan): <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=3&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjtyKOc4bPLAhUruoMKHQmkBG4QtwIINTAC&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Djcb6XxvEogs&usg=AFQjCNHUFch-bzjMTrMoIPklrHKJXg6oIw&sig2=ItuTDUHeajti1UpCzFOSog&bvm=bv.116573086,d.amc">O
mio babbino caro</a>, sung lovingly by Susanna Hurrell, a Londoner, in our
performance. Some of the actors appear in two of the performances, though I
didn’t see any of the cast appearing in all three. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Dz4i6E6c9wujaniB_W6uixG3pQk5R1kY19U4reDoaEkHkkeFJzKqS7YrOqZj-IpDNcwYJc5dHkTbcZNORlzhNDmfqrJh1JcWwZy2Er2KUXKoQRb4qWg6bKCn6N4h1TFz63TgNTk_FxS_/s1600/hamlyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Dz4i6E6c9wujaniB_W6uixG3pQk5R1kY19U4reDoaEkHkkeFJzKqS7YrOqZj-IpDNcwYJc5dHkTbcZNORlzhNDmfqrJh1JcWwZy2Er2KUXKoQRb4qWg6bKCn6N4h1TFz63TgNTk_FxS_/s320/hamlyn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you figured out the dilemma yet?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two intervals. Only ONE bar order available.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly the ROH hasn’t figured it out either!<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-80297984139396182172016-02-29T13:28:00.003+00:002016-02-29T13:28:36.383+00:00Did I really write that?<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a lovely note from my university friend Vivian that
while going through boxes of stuff after recent flood damage she’d found an
essay I’d written in 1979. My missive was remarkably preserved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vivian kindly took a snap of it and sent it along. I braced myself
waiting for it to arrive in my Inbox; what would it be like going back
thirty-plus years to a biography of an 18-year-old student? I’d hardly lived at
that point (though that doesn’t seem to stop celebrities from penning their
life stories). I immediately thought of my friend Taron who had a recent, similar
experience; she found one of her diaries “equal parts funny and painful to
read.” I suspected that I’d be feeling the same.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I wasn’t let down; the writing was stilted, a bit pompous,
and generally not very good. And (gasp) I used “a lot” a few times—without the
space between two words. There were thankfully no “um”s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWWfKltQ4jB4dQM1sOozppZkjVl9azY1pPeich-ndzfRouKMrC5lOtrHLrp4rMOKQZPH_V2w5yi7rWA3i8OW4R1tkUazdkNuQOaB2uLzhYv9YzF4PnB-SIqkcpT6oTcrhEQgPM-Aehan1/s1600/puppies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="28" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWWfKltQ4jB4dQM1sOozppZkjVl9azY1pPeich-ndzfRouKMrC5lOtrHLrp4rMOKQZPH_V2w5yi7rWA3i8OW4R1tkUazdkNuQOaB2uLzhYv9YzF4PnB-SIqkcpT6oTcrhEQgPM-Aehan1/s320/puppies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides the overall middling quality of the writing, there were a
few other surprises. When did I like puppies? At 18 I don’t think I’d ever been
exposed to any. I can’t recall any relatives or friends who had a dog that made
any sort of impression on me; well, there was Chuckie, the next door neighbour
with his dog Spot, but I wasn’t coveting the dog; the walks with Spot were
about spending time with Chuckie when we were both around age 12 (ahem, puppy
love of a different sort). I did have one friend in grammar school who had a
Chihuahua called Dobbs, but I found him annoying –he had a persistent, piercing
yap. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaMDpClj7QGD7nMEESvPaNc_TmZk1XsroYLtMV1yXcvJHxsIMWLGi9t8D2ctl_KS99HyXyCf0HcG70yC90kWixrrNOde0BhYtxd-fIz7LmhjFl-4Gj06T1_20bWTNjKDPWhNqZuMndT1R/s1600/sandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaMDpClj7QGD7nMEESvPaNc_TmZk1XsroYLtMV1yXcvJHxsIMWLGi9t8D2ctl_KS99HyXyCf0HcG70yC90kWixrrNOde0BhYtxd-fIz7LmhjFl-4Gj06T1_20bWTNjKDPWhNqZuMndT1R/s320/sandy.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Sandy, NYU graduation day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At home we did keep a neighbourhood stray called Sandy fed, and in the
winters we let her in the hallway to stay warm, but she was a full-grown dog. In
fact she would follow me to the bus stop
each morning and wait with me until the Number 10 arrived. It was sweet,
but oddly enough whenever a driver asked me if that was my dog, I’d always say
“no” in an embarrassing tone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently I also had a dislike of buses, which I find quite
amusing now that I enjoy a good ride on the 341, my double decker ride here in
London. When Tim and I ride the bus together we almost always head to the top
for those prime seats right in front, and we’ll quickly jump up to take them
when vacated if we’re initially disappointed to find them occupied. (OK, if
there are kids on the bus I don’t jump as quickly.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7YfCczmRHTnIS82S_iRHUeB2GOW8zZ-hUSAo41XZlmCgrO1rL-SpF9t-P-1pre6u2GRIMAphuRbbpW-HVn1U2uHtMgPqg8Jzo5Rp0VxZiOfTQ-5Ece6L1Vi4In3LWdNi9j36EEKo_JWbM/s1600/buses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="32" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7YfCczmRHTnIS82S_iRHUeB2GOW8zZ-hUSAo41XZlmCgrO1rL-SpF9t-P-1pre6u2GRIMAphuRbbpW-HVn1U2uHtMgPqg8Jzo5Rp0VxZiOfTQ-5Ece6L1Vi4In3LWdNi9j36EEKo_JWbM/s320/buses.jpg" width="320" /></a>Thinking back to my teens I suppose I can understand why I felt
that way—as youngsters we had to take the bus to grammar school and it was a
15-minute walk to the bus stop. On freezing winter mornings it was dreadful;
you couldn’t predict when the bus would come and sometimes we’d be standing
there for what seemed like ages before one would show. Through high school I
had to take the bus in at least one direction; there was a point where my
mother did drive us to school, but we always had to find our way back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3c4c-WI4hXJ8lA88DsYvKvUz1ApIKhHQKwLfcHTvhqjk9Tg9ZV-tAe0I7T-9YExJeColaW9UZfPJij2vMBfeeYJC-DwFFDjZgM6mE9IsFUGNe6rvpbcfULpeWhPHu0pa5mSsJzZ3TpTtm/s1600/countdown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3c4c-WI4hXJ8lA88DsYvKvUz1ApIKhHQKwLfcHTvhqjk9Tg9ZV-tAe0I7T-9YExJeColaW9UZfPJij2vMBfeeYJC-DwFFDjZgM6mE9IsFUGNe6rvpbcfULpeWhPHu0pa5mSsJzZ3TpTtm/s320/countdown.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t live quite close enough to the train station to get to
NYU, so the drudgery of the bus continued another four years. Make that eight years, actually; until I left home
at the age of 25 the bus was the primary mode of transport to get to the train
to get to the job in New York City. And there was no such technology as exists
today in London—I am ever grateful for the bus countdown online tracker, a fantastic innovation that has changed my
life. I tap my stop on my phone and see the buses approaching for the next
several minutes, leaving me to sip my coffee in the comfort of our kitchen until
four minutes to the mark when I stroll out the door and to the stop just around
the corner on Green Lanes. I can, if need be, make it in three.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eTpjVAHcvYybrSLxWRr7Fe7c4NTplXWkLcwonlAkCvaIbKEjtz6C5nL-v5_Ty2I_jufG5cB7HNJPx9j061laEvVFyPwjy9uTI5VpQwj976uc1hizetc14V5LPfziV7aLg53XQrqTuzdS/s1600/lima+beans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eTpjVAHcvYybrSLxWRr7Fe7c4NTplXWkLcwonlAkCvaIbKEjtz6C5nL-v5_Ty2I_jufG5cB7HNJPx9j061laEvVFyPwjy9uTI5VpQwj976uc1hizetc14V5LPfziV7aLg53XQrqTuzdS/s320/lima+beans.jpg" width="320" /></a>I also apparently hated liver and lima beans. Well, to be honest,
I still don’t like the former; it’s a texture issue rather than a taste
problem. I recall once in my life enjoying a small piece of liver at a
restaurant that my friend Barbara took me to somewhere near West Orange. I used to try it every time Robyn would order
it, but never found it to my liking. I have since stopped trying, probably
because I’m not spending dinners with Robyn (sad face).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDiQr-8Aa6LUYaX0hlqiVON54LDzzhiA2lWHD8sE1zDCw0eMTY6gG6j1M0zsQQgEbFUuJZn45FKQlZaEieEbFwGaHtn8VSMmbSkJjrujWixtt9LOwFyxBXFNoAdqqDvnTCHGK-wrSCHSp/s1600/bucky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDiQr-8Aa6LUYaX0hlqiVON54LDzzhiA2lWHD8sE1zDCw0eMTY6gG6j1M0zsQQgEbFUuJZn45FKQlZaEieEbFwGaHtn8VSMmbSkJjrujWixtt9LOwFyxBXFNoAdqqDvnTCHGK-wrSCHSp/s320/bucky.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t surprised to see that I mentioned my love of the New York
Yankees—my high school photograph is captioned with “Mrs Bucky Dent”. I so
enjoyed going to see the Yankees play: hopping
the D train to the Bronx, sitting in the cheap seats, and actually keeping
score. I wonder if they still give out scorecards and little pencils; I suspect
not. I had two friends whom I would regularly go to the stadium with, and we’d
get there early and wait at the players’ entrance gate to get autographs. Poor
Bucky must have thought I was stalking him, considering how many times I’d ask
him to sign my notebook. But he always did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, finally, I was apparently delighted with my life, aged 18
11/12, and was “studying to be a magazine journalist.” True, I did take a few
courses on magazine writing that I really enjoyed, and fancied myself someone
who could write for a living. My favourite professor, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margo_Jefferson"> Margo Jefferson</a>, had
previously been at <i>Newsweek</i> and later
became a theatre critic for the<i> New York Times</i>. She is a brilliant teacher and
I admired her for her accomplishments as well as her instruction and feedback.
I Googled her and found that she still teaches, now at Columbia, and that she
won the Pulitzer Prize for criticism in 1995. How fortunate I was to have
access to that calibre of learning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end I didn’t actively pursue that avenue. After graduation I
had two job offers: one at a publishing company to be an editorial assistant and
one at CBS to be a secretary, that latter I declined (perhaps in short-sightedness) for the mere thousand
dollars more that the publishing company was offering. Then again, it’s been a
fantastic career and I have no regrets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I owe Vivian a big thank you for sending me a blast from my past.
I suppose in another 30 years when I look back on this one I will find at least
one turn of phrase that will absolutely make me cringe!<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-33285904699597523602016-02-15T17:03:00.000+00:002016-02-15T17:03:27.728+00:00Scrum-tious<div class="MsoNormal">
What does an ex-pat sports fan do on Valentine’s Day? She
asks her husband to book a table at the local pub to watch rugby. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course Tim obliged; the match of the day was England
versus Italy. The venue du jour for us was one of our “local” favourites, the
Pier View in Cowes, which was recently voted one of <a href="http://www.sailingscuttlebutt.com/2015/12/31/two-winners-for-2015-favourite-yachting-bar-competition/">the
best yachting bars in the world</a>. (It tied for first place with a bar in
Wales.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s nothing all that special about the interior of the Pier
View. There are two bars to order food and drink from, and three rooms, each
with a big screen TV and one that has a small fireplace, which is inviting when
it’s cold. (It happened to be the room we wound up in as well, which was lovely
for a chilly Sunday afternoon.) When the weather permits the crowd spills
outside where metal chairs and tables front the high street, though many patrons
are apt to just stand, drink in hand. On very busy days you need to walk in the
street to get past the pub, though that’s safer than it sounds as the only
traffic would be cars going to and from the ferry to pick up or drop off
passengers every half hour. The publican, Sue, is a lovely woman who always
greets us with a smile, and the staff at the Pier View is young, friendly, and best
of all efficient—I don’t like looking at my empty plate for too long and
glasses are swept up quickly enough. The food is good—particularly the
burgers—and the menu has all that you’d expect from a pub, including a Sunday
roast that I’m certain Tim has sampled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2t3_BV-ryd2GUalNZsGD3PMiXRf0YtVdgmTVd7nQ4xwYf3Mj7M5xk3LRC3yyR29xL5x_Xtf-6ZY0llBQdhSxoHxfW7G9bd-Qz8yPcCiwGW-OwPm80i3GVeCFIFU-nuhqDqrmH_nxWN5B/s1600/pierview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2t3_BV-ryd2GUalNZsGD3PMiXRf0YtVdgmTVd7nQ4xwYf3Mj7M5xk3LRC3yyR29xL5x_Xtf-6ZY0llBQdhSxoHxfW7G9bd-Qz8yPcCiwGW-OwPm80i3GVeCFIFU-nuhqDqrmH_nxWN5B/s320/pierview.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Best of all, they’ll take a reservation
for a table so you can secure a seat near the TV when you don’t want to watch a
sporting event on your computer (because you don’t have a television).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why was it voted #1? You’d probably have to ask a sailor
that, though I see its charms as a landlubber too; one is its superb location
on the high street, a short trip from the house (for me) or from the ferry (for
sailors looking for near-immediate refreshment). But you can’t walk far before
bumping into another pub, so there’s got to be a bit more to the Pier View’s
reputation as a favourite. In the summer when Cowes is heaving so is the Pier
View, primarily with crews who make it the first stop after a race, shunning
the Island Sailing Club if they’ve come from that pontoon or the Vectis, just across
the road from the PV. Even the Anchor, closer to Shepards Wharf Marina, doesn’t
seem to get the same traffic. To hear the conversation about the race and get
in the middle of it all is certainly alluring, both to crews who may have just
crossed the finish line as well as those of us who just enjoy hearing the
stories about the wind (or lack thereof), the mishaps (of spinnakers that
didn’t quite go up or come down elegantly), and the protests that did or should
have happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would be unusual to enter the Pier View and not see someone you know—not just
during the high season, but even when Cowes is quieter, like this weekend when
we invited two sailors to join us. And when those occasions happen where there
is not a familiar face, chances are you’ll be chatting with the sailors / rugby
fans / drinkers / diners sitting nearby; likely in part a Cowes phenomenon than
a PV one, but it helps that the tables are close and the tables for six or
eight are often shared by more than on reservation. Case in point: during the
Rugby World Cup I acquired a blow-up hand, decorated with the British flag,
from the table next to ours when I showed my admiration for it by taking a
photo of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when you’re all not rooting for the same team, it
doesn’t matter—it’s a friendly crowd that will smile at the opponent’s try and
certainly not heckle a less-than-stellar performance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That attitude is in no way limited to the patrons of the
Pier View, having spent a few rugby matches in other pubs . . . so maybe it’s
more about the fans—sailors, rugby watchers, whatever the sport—than the venue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or maybe the beer’s cheaper.<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-70083162695610175622016-02-07T17:44:00.000+00:002016-02-07T17:44:40.541+00:00Managing the Seven-year Itch<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having arrived in London, two large suitcases and a one-year
work contract in tow, I had not expected that I’d still be here seven years
later. In fact, it’s a smidge over seven years now. So what am I itchy about?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re thinking the Marilyn Monroe movie. Yeah, it’s the one
where she’s standing above the subway grate and her lovely white dress billows
up. A seven-year itch is also a psychological term that suggests that happiness
in a relationship declines after around year seven. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3QP1pK_BYfG5MUPD3VM3PNWPS3MKBx3nhdR0z2j9egAVQN64IDIV2J2DXyUyptuUqFe67b30mTw1nZYY75glsOtDniSe323nLIDCoFOvA8L_7qLw0nKPHx-x5MMelB_h4T5yw4ck2qbE/s1600/marilyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3QP1pK_BYfG5MUPD3VM3PNWPS3MKBx3nhdR0z2j9egAVQN64IDIV2J2DXyUyptuUqFe67b30mTw1nZYY75glsOtDniSe323nLIDCoFOvA8L_7qLw0nKPHx-x5MMelB_h4T5yw4ck2qbE/s320/marilyn.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So how’s my relationship with London doing?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am honestly amazed that so many years have passed; it has
gone so quickly that I have paused to think about events that have happened and
think it can’t possibly be . . . has Julian Assange really been holed up in the
Ecuadorian embassy for over three years? (Recently in the news here.) Were the
Summer Olympics in Stratford, London, really in 2012? I can recall turning the
key to my little Cowes house for the first time—and that was a few months shy
of five years ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
London, and life here, is still interesting and exciting and
wonderful, and I’m looking forward to the next seven. There’s so much more to
see and do—and not just in The Big Smoke—and I feel so fortunate to be living
in London, not on the perimeter, to be able to experience all it has to offer
so easily from where we live. This morning I took a walk and on my way back to
the house I took in a view of our road and thought, you lucky so-and-so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though, to be honest, there are these small itches after
seven years; less about London and more about, perhaps, seven years passing
through my fingers, and thinking about doing things differently. Nothing
serious. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First itch: you may have noticed I stopped writing my blog
regularly. I started writing as a way of sharing my experiences with family in
friends abroad. It’s not that I don’t still experience things; I just haven’t
been inspired to sit in front of a laptop on my free time, and I’ve found that
I use Facebook to share more immediately (though I realise not everyone is on
FB). Occasionally I’m on the bus heading home and I think of something that
would be worth a post . . . and then I lose the enthusiasm (and sometimes even
what I was thinking, LOL) by the time I get home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lack of discipline?
Certainly. This one is most certainly a “watch this space” development;
I haven’t quite sorted how to scratch this one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second itch: I picked up a subscription for the New York
Times crossword puzzle, having given up on trying to understand anyone but Wil
Shortz. I can play the puzzle on my iPhone on the way home, perfect for winding
down and doing something I enjoy. (Maybe that’s stifling my thinking about blog
posts; I’m not spending so much time staring out of the window of the
double-decker 341.) Since living in London I have always read the New York
Times on line; for one thing, the London papers will dip a toe into US
politics, but not every day and not nearly enough (well, for me). I quite enjoy
keeping up with what’s happening in my other sphere where so many friends and
family still reside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This itch is sufficiently scratched for a small annual fee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Third itch: I cut my hair, back to near-2008 length. Having
received comments both complimentary and, well, less so (nothing insulting, you
understand . . . just not complimentary), in the end I was just ready for
something different after all these years. My hairdresser Mark was pleased to
see me—I was getting micro-trims sporadically but hadn’t seen him at all in
2015. And I didn’t even take notice of the inches of hair, once near my waist,
falling around the chair. It did remind me of the last time I made the same
change—the woman in the chair next to mine actually cried out, “Oh my God he’s
cutting off all your hair!” Also on that occasion my sister Robyn walked by me
while I was sitting at the bar at Angelo’s in Lyndhurst, NJ, have been just
shorn and styled a la Garay in New York City. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time it took Tim two days to notice. To be fair to him,
we barely saw each other in the light of day until Saturday morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last itch: I’m not seeing the Super Bowl L. I mean 50.
(Apparently they’ve suspended using Roman numerals this year.) I did, however,
fill my weekend with Six Nations Rugby. It’s great, but I have to admit I do
occasionally itch for American sports. And haven’t they all made it so
accessible, with football games at Wembley and a few basketball matches to boot
played here in London. Still, it’s not as easy as turning on the TV to watch at
a reasonable time. In seven years I likely can’t name the best players (though
“old timers” like Peyton Manning and Kobe Bryant are still in the game) and
know which teams are on top. Lazy? Yes. Of course I can look it up, stay on top
of it. I have friends in America who follow the Premier League, after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose this one comes down to too much effort to scratch
the itch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A toast to the next seven years, then, and a quote from the
movie, which, I must say, is definitely worth trying:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, did you ever try dunking a potato chip in champagne?
It's real crazy!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-48596315295267815662016-01-23T19:23:00.002+00:002016-01-23T19:40:15.308+00:00Cuba!Tim and I had a wonderful holiday in Cuba just before Christmas. Thought you might like to see some photos!<br />
<br />
Click <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/109712800771817406754/Cuba2015#slideshow" target="_blank">here </a>to start the slide show. There are captions if you're interested!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6Mk4faWy4z3Io4P68_4ZT-G6XG4DXde1hmfuKiVC0YvNhQjnmYoPV-GbxnrZwP5zW33LW-W0jNy1cJY7E5umoi2fMZ-E8A4F5JlbLQkmgexoryk2FyFFP_bZS37gi1F8dlyj8U5Yx83m/s1600/Vintage+car+M.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6Mk4faWy4z3Io4P68_4ZT-G6XG4DXde1hmfuKiVC0YvNhQjnmYoPV-GbxnrZwP5zW33LW-W0jNy1cJY7E5umoi2fMZ-E8A4F5JlbLQkmgexoryk2FyFFP_bZS37gi1F8dlyj8U5Yx83m/s320/Vintage+car+M.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-18108387573612179882015-11-07T11:16:00.000+00:002015-11-07T11:16:52.817+00:00Saturday morning music: Bruch and The Indigo Girls<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s raining and I’m sipping coffee, Classic FM on in the
background while I browse through email. Tim has headed off to a meeting and I’m
alone in London for a few hours. There’s a strain of violin in the background
that captures my attention; it’s beautiful in a way that makes me pause to
listen harder, and I want to remember it. I know the piece, but I can’t place it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A quick look at the station’s website and I can see what’s
playing: Max Bruch’s <a href="https://www.blogger.com/iframe%20width=%22420%22%20height=%22315%22%20src=%22https:/www.youtube.com/embed/ox6bMJ78fqM%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowfullscreen%3e%3c/iframe">violin
concerto No 1</a>, movement 1, in G minor. It was somewhere in the third minute
that I had my moment. The violin is serene, soft, simple, and I am no longer
paying attention to anything else. And when it ended, I sighed at how music is
such a powerful force.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, somehow, my mind jumps 125 years ahead to The
Indigo Girls. If you’re a fan, well, you’re devoted. You know how beautifully
constructed the lyrics are and how their music includes wonderful interludes of
cello, piano, trumpet, acoustic guitar (or electric if it’s “an Amy song”), African
drums, mandolin (more of an “Emily” instrument). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the connection came from a post from America a few
days ago—the Girls are on tour in the New York area, and having read that and
expressed jealousy at seeing them perform live, their music is still swirling
in my mind days later. I haven’t seen them in concert in years—they don’t get
to England much, if at all. When the mood strikes I find myself dusting off the
CDs or finding a few tunes on You Tube when I want to hear something in
particular, or just go through whatever playlist is available. There’s a host
of recollections that different songs from different years hold for me; I quite
like pausing and thinking about those times. There’s a comfort in replaying
favourites, both melody and memory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s how I’ve spent the last hour. And yes, I am singing
at the top of my lungs (Tim’s not hear, remember.) And I will go throughout
this dreary wet day no doubt humming through some old favourites, pondering
such things as <i>what is love then, is it
dictated or chosen</i> . . . <a href="https://www.blogger.com/iframe%20width=%22420%22%20height=%22315%22%20src=%22https:/www.youtube.com/embed/DCSUfGJjwVY%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowfullscreen%3e%3c/iframe">Mystery</a>.
And no doubt there will be a strain of the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/iframe%20width=%22420%22%20height=%22315%22%20src=%22https:/www.youtube.com/embed/7OvsVSWB4TI%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowfullscreen%3e%3c/iframe">intermezzo</a>
from Cavalleria rusticana in my day, and I will pause and smile, grateful for
how music and life are intertwined.<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-66328378310986006512015-09-14T11:44:00.000+01:002015-09-14T11:44:02.381+01:00Bléchamel sauce<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a fan of French cuisine, truly, though admittedly I
tend to shy away from the creamier concoctions of Mornay and Hollandaise sauces.
What I am not a fan of, and find it is one of the common ingredients of British "Italian" cooking, is Béchamel sauce. It is used in addition to red sauce to make lasagne
or, gasp, eggplant parmigiana. What is this all about, white sauce as a layer?
Gobsmacked, I tell you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But wait, Jamie Oliver does it! Nigella Lawson does it!
Delia does it!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mario Batali does not. Emeril Lagasse does (he calls
it Manly Man Lasagne). Martha Stewart sticks with the traditional red. My
brother David never put a white sauce in
his . . . OK, he’s not Italian, but anyone I have known with an Italian
background, at least when I’ve been in the kitchen with them, has not made a
roux a layer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flour, milk, butter . . . red sauce? Well, this just didn’t
seem to be right. I Googled it and found that northern Italians tend to use the
béchamel whereas the southern Italians prefer ricotta. I think I am a Southern
belle, then!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Can you even buy Béchamel in a jar in New Jersey? I can’t
recall having ever seen it.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDaMdQ1kDMj_Ryrb3ICtkSyXblJQRUf9JX3JRbvr51Tp6n-p1Ff_twlaQEqtgBzdCXkzB-jiebOii7-reQ_57DI52ivyBq58ZEHmDUjTiB5NF6Aw_n0qYjh57hcUtE2EbNYdLL63LXSv9K/s1600/dolmio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDaMdQ1kDMj_Ryrb3ICtkSyXblJQRUf9JX3JRbvr51Tp6n-p1Ff_twlaQEqtgBzdCXkzB-jiebOii7-reQ_57DI52ivyBq58ZEHmDUjTiB5NF6Aw_n0qYjh57hcUtE2EbNYdLL63LXSv9K/s1600/dolmio.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Poor Tim. He came home excited to make me eggplant (aubergine)
parmigiana, one of my favourite meals. There’s a place in Harrison, New Jersey,
called Nino’s that is for me makes one of the best—thinly-sliced eggplant, red sauce,
a bit of cheese and no hint of Béchamel. Every time I go back to New Jersey I
find myself there, usually ordering just that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out came the ingredients Tim purchased, and lo and behold a
jar of Dolmio appeared. I wasn’t kind; I reminded Tim that I don’t like white
sauce and would not have it used for my eggplant parmigiana. I was perhaps a
bit strong. The Dolmio went into the cupboard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was also some mince (aka chop meat) produced. OK, so,
I wouldn’t combine the two, but I could see this was starting to be more like moussaka
. . . which is what Tim had in his mind. I was dreaming of Nino’s version, a
side of whole wheat pasta and a salad with balsamic vinaigrette.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The compromise, in the end, was quite good—eggplant sliced
skin-on, brushed with olive oil and grilled, then layered in a dish with a bit
of cheese and red sauce, <i>no</i> Béchamel.
The side was whole wheat spaghetti and we did use the mince so it was a la
Bolognese, and the same sauce was used to layer the eggplant though straining
the sauce so there was little meat with the eggplant (it was all we had at the
time).<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had the leftovers for dinner one evening when Tim was
away. The flavours melded nicely and the eggplant was delicious, not all that
far off the mark from Mr Nino. Things can only get better!<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-35065246524435761492015-09-05T09:43:00.000+01:002015-09-05T09:43:24.561+01:00Like if You Love Your Neighbourhood<div class="MsoNormal">
My London, my <i>true</i>
London home, is not the one that flashes in people’s minds when they think of
the city: I don’t turn the corner and see Westminster Abbey or Buckingham
Palace. It’s also a bit of a trek to catch a glimpse of the London Eye, and
Madam Tussauds is a fair jaunt down the Euston Road that takes up to an hour by
car; even though it’s only four miles, the traffic can be terrible. And the
closest I’ve come to see the Queen, soon to be our longest running monarch, was
actually on the Isle of Wight!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupMIui9jJB-dR3kCT3XFzn0gSyuaEhRW9Y5AbbOeAehwWTjArwPDDn4UF3ufeIWthsZ17f8OgpVheRXNpvWnHv-Y976AIekB2uzZJpWHU9EapgxagtNQEkTEBRzcvsapyM_T9_Pfp6iMC/s1600/leconfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupMIui9jJB-dR3kCT3XFzn0gSyuaEhRW9Y5AbbOeAehwWTjArwPDDn4UF3ufeIWthsZ17f8OgpVheRXNpvWnHv-Y976AIekB2uzZJpWHU9EapgxagtNQEkTEBRzcvsapyM_T9_Pfp6iMC/s320/leconfield.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terraced houses in "the north."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, my London is my wonderful neighbourhood “north.” Not
far, mind you, from the centre of tourist activity; four miles and I’ll be
sitting in a sidewalk café in Covent Garden watching the buskers perform
operettas. In 3.5 miles I could be looking at the Magna Carta or handwritten
Beatles lyrics in the British Library. In just a tick over two miles I can be
at the Silicon Roundabout—London’s new innovation
hub. And if I were the sporting type I live just over a mile from Emirates
Stadium; on most nights when Arsenal plays at home we can hear the shouts from
our front porch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4HK3uy_F3ZB1MR-fQvVtvkeYWt6vfajcxIFYnER24FhcqrU6vnLdJDaf5Dud0QVhMn4dEwSjuUy1fp1IMe2BhQCsSJyVariPk6MsOqJwgMyYm9skO_-nrIgvymAj8PHIzq5lvToVycv9D/s1600/new+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4HK3uy_F3ZB1MR-fQvVtvkeYWt6vfajcxIFYnER24FhcqrU6vnLdJDaf5Dud0QVhMn4dEwSjuUy1fp1IMe2BhQCsSJyVariPk6MsOqJwgMyYm9skO_-nrIgvymAj8PHIzq5lvToVycv9D/s320/new+river.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the New River Walk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and the canal is just a short one-mile walk to see the
narrow boats emitting puffs of smoke from their fuel stoves on chilly mornings.
You can stroll for six miles from one end to the other, and trust me, we have.
Even closer is the New River Walk, an aqueduct originally meant to bring water
from Hertfordshire to the local well and just 15 minutes away, a wonderful
oasis that I simply love to stroll through to get to one of my favourite neighbourhood
pubs, The Marquess Tavern.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNpeBwiCbC4r5ekbYcCqpntI8JKTN1nm13eu0HwtWSXsT-bA7Z6c_s9_E1EmfR4D_tirUbERpCWuO1yK6aVanEnmuxGLjpppIAUyJibsRVFEN3g8u_4qCSSmENYpdVaRUzG4Icc6miPAC/s1600/marquess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNpeBwiCbC4r5ekbYcCqpntI8JKTN1nm13eu0HwtWSXsT-bA7Z6c_s9_E1EmfR4D_tirUbERpCWuO1yK6aVanEnmuxGLjpppIAUyJibsRVFEN3g8u_4qCSSmENYpdVaRUzG4Icc6miPAC/s320/marquess.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Marquess at the foot of the New River Walk.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another favourite walk is to Clissold Park, and there in
under 10 minutes. We often circle the park and slow down to peer at the goats
or the fallow deer kept there to the delight of many small children (and a few
adults). In the summer the park is brimming with runners, prams, and foot and
paw traffic that usually means the walk is more leisurely than active, but what
great people-watching! (Walking there often leads to a conversation, had dozens
of times, about getting a dog.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other evening I convinced Tim (as it was the last day of
my extended weekend) to pop into the Rose and Crown, directly across from Stoke
Newington Town Hall where we were married, for a glass of something cold after
our stroll down Stoke Newington Church street. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6KApMINHct4hj-g4nJh3GdJvhb9yyrRY8X9GkmL-XnH4bJgayuTm3wnqvg3rkVB75GUOWC3XCOhTeHrmuceO_3AJmE6SZ6Wp125YOEA8cDPsm629Nyt3m0jw5KF3zlCs5LM_cot5NspT/s1600/bookshop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6KApMINHct4hj-g4nJh3GdJvhb9yyrRY8X9GkmL-XnH4bJgayuTm3wnqvg3rkVB75GUOWC3XCOhTeHrmuceO_3AJmE6SZ6Wp125YOEA8cDPsm629Nyt3m0jw5KF3zlCs5LM_cot5NspT/s320/bookshop.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many shops along Church Street.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The road is filled with tea
shops, cafes, garden shops, and lovely independent stores selling books,
clothes, gadgets, etc. (It has its share of real estate agents, too.) The
street has a slight grungy edge to it—the road is narrow along with the shops, and
it’s usually crowded and I’d say it’s not actually pretty, but it’s close
to home and it’s wonderful for its
diversity. Oh, and the best part of making that journey—the Whole Foods Market!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObrk1WONAGQp1D8-sAYuA1CiddZ8GFDLi9747oxIhsfTk9lNcSYAIAne1VXvPOh1k8O0-O_kUNsniVkfEQI2qlORxwdLTnDQG4V6GdOucvd7WCZQtAIfUBEhal5-kz2Fp3NXgtW0PBiHn/s1600/whole+foods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObrk1WONAGQp1D8-sAYuA1CiddZ8GFDLi9747oxIhsfTk9lNcSYAIAne1VXvPOh1k8O0-O_kUNsniVkfEQI2qlORxwdLTnDQG4V6GdOucvd7WCZQtAIfUBEhal5-kz2Fp3NXgtW0PBiHn/s320/whole+foods.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Whole Foods.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our pause at the Rose and Crown meant that we ran into a
local artist who we’d recently seen selling his art from a table just outside
one of the entrances at Clissold Park and whom we had purchased some cards from;
he happens to be a friend of a good friend, we found out by chatting with him,
and Tim recognised him immediately at the pub. Stokie is full of artists—many of
the shops display works by the locals which you can buy right off the walls—and
Alex kindly invited us to a private view of five artists’ works next weekend.
How’s that for neighbourhood hospitality!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5EgDNdWD5l2Rqdyv24QyvYN117CbBbbRiwmBBkQHzxJgDKBvXprQwdn9ASxOVTV2zwD2V_nDdauteN36IT7My4k6oubSyumuYbA_2xvN9L8DMvmUrUQRJ8aHuccciJWcc2selHvYCBwca/s1600/rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5EgDNdWD5l2Rqdyv24QyvYN117CbBbbRiwmBBkQHzxJgDKBvXprQwdn9ASxOVTV2zwD2V_nDdauteN36IT7My4k6oubSyumuYbA_2xvN9L8DMvmUrUQRJ8aHuccciJWcc2selHvYCBwca/s320/rose.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rose and Crown.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other morning I had to pop out to get some milk, and as
I was heading down the stairs I had this moment of absolute joy living in my
neighbourhood. It was not a warm day, but it wasn’t cold either and the air had
that lovely smell of fresh-baked bread, in fact from the shop I was heading to,
and it was quiet and pretty, and I fell in love all over again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you come to <i>my</i>
London, well, I’ve got a few things to show you!<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_43KVuCQsCRgZ3O6HIp2w5IfxGaxLbQcfevN9TrUZh-Ke0v419HzX0369eH4qP2Ybj6cxE5DfvK5YKhyphenhyphenC4OzTwaUVIIjrmOP4JjMwpP6lSBdjIk5PUBKN2_c673J-SzxVzt_d8cORGsK/s1600/clissold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_43KVuCQsCRgZ3O6HIp2w5IfxGaxLbQcfevN9TrUZh-Ke0v419HzX0369eH4qP2Ybj6cxE5DfvK5YKhyphenhyphenC4OzTwaUVIIjrmOP4JjMwpP6lSBdjIk5PUBKN2_c673J-SzxVzt_d8cORGsK/s320/clissold.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deer at Clissold Park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-55344876061372204352015-06-25T20:39:00.000+01:002015-06-25T20:39:04.124+01:00Sacrifice<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>To give up something valued for the sake of other
considerations</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s the biggest sacrifice you’ve ever made?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I might say that I swapped the joy of physical closeness with
family and friends in America for Skype (plus other assorted technology) when I
relocated to another country, though there have been numerous benefits that
have balanced the scale with sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thrust into thinking about sacrifice while waiting for
the bus the other evening, having decided to check my email. (A three-minute
wait and I’m all over the mobile; how our lives have changed.) I had a note
from a friend whose mother had passed away; a friend who I met 30-odd years ago
and who despite the considerable distance between us has always been someone
whose friendship I have cherished. (You know the type. Pause to be thankful for
them.) Yes, I cried quietly. I had a
moment of frustration of being too far away. And then I had a ton of memories
of our spending time together crowding my mind; there were smiles and smirks
amid the tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A number of years ago my friend moved to take care of aging parents; attempts to manage their issues from miles away were difficult
for all of them, and particularly for someone who wasn’t keen on flying. Pause.
Imagine giving up life as you once knew it—the great apartment in the cool
neighbourhood, a steady stream of work, friends you got to see on a frequent
basis, your own space where the only limitations are those you create . . .<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a lot of intangibles to a sacrifice of that
magnitude. And then there are the financial costs and the emotional strain of
dealing with illness, decisions, adjustment, and uncertainty. Those all sit heavily
on top of the realisation that all things once familiar are now physically
distant and need to be re-established if not for any reason but for one’s
sanity. It is a burden I suspect too heavy for most shoulders to bear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t get the chance to have to deal with such sacrifice
with my parents; they separated when I was in my teens and my father was not
part of my life after the divorce decree but to discuss the odd bill here and
there he was obligated to pay for the children he cast aside. It was never a
pleasant phone call, and after the youngest turned 18 he was done. My mother
died too young; in the last year of her life she required more care, but that was
spread among some of the six of us. Frankly I never saw it as a burden—every
moment I spent with mother was cherished, truly. (And it’s not just because she
would tell me I was the best driver of my siblings; she did balance her praise
with observations such as I had very ugly feet.) And financially, well, my mother
fed me and kept a roof over my head until I was almost 25; she remarked when I
decided to go to NYU that she could only feed and shelter me, and that was all
I needed. Any contribution I made to her comfort was just payback, and probably
not in the amount she provided me over the almost 40 years we had together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I admire my friend in ways I can’t possibly articulate. We
all make choices; there are always options. Putting your own desires and needs
aside for the sake of others takes courage, strength, resilience, faith . . .
and probably a whole lot more. We all say we’d do it; there are those who have
lived it, on their own and with only their inner strength to remain sane,
whole, and as happy as is possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe in karma. I hope that, in my next life, we are privileged
to meet again and I can smile at the good fortune that surrounds someone who most certainly deserves it.<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-56478879918904349582015-06-20T11:29:00.000+01:002015-06-20T11:29:51.093+01:00Around the world in 52 days<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been a while since I’ve paused to post, but forgive me;
here’s why:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNokTbWM51QVGoNDW4tVZYIl5EbmepwNZtj0gXY-JusiHzagOzzymgeSY0ZEp5cJWD4cOWQuXS1o7LgGsZXTsa-5KCN8lvM8xvTZ_C3F5hAGOD32v5kzJMUX-52B2VapW1AgjmxZ3JcnY-/s1600/travel.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNokTbWM51QVGoNDW4tVZYIl5EbmepwNZtj0gXY-JusiHzagOzzymgeSY0ZEp5cJWD4cOWQuXS1o7LgGsZXTsa-5KCN8lvM8xvTZ_C3F5hAGOD32v5kzJMUX-52B2VapW1AgjmxZ3JcnY-/s400/travel.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75"
style='width:451.5pt;height:148.5pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\kusmand\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And oh what fun I’ve had . . . I have piled on the miles
from Manila to Hong Kong to Reykjavik to Edinburgh to no less than four states
in a ten-day swing through America. The
journeys covered several airlines (Cathay Pacific wins the award for the best,
United for the absolute worst) and a few trains, trams, and buses. I highly
recommend the Virgin train up to Edinburgh, where the view of scenic
Berwick-upon-Tweed is absolutely gorgeous—you can glimpse the blue-green sea
that would be enticing if it wasn’t freezing!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NRb1mOZT8mL5QOkDTaT_EZ4Xv26mw-tV-C0mwjm6lyprRdEVmd8HqlogGCAkTPpAiy0Vvs4aGMRa6sHqhCfCPWy7F-_LYTG_r9WenLLkXQtY4acrgCQhoN63y0Sz6KaSukXw_IbMGaBS/s1600/berwick.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NRb1mOZT8mL5QOkDTaT_EZ4Xv26mw-tV-C0mwjm6lyprRdEVmd8HqlogGCAkTPpAiy0Vvs4aGMRa6sHqhCfCPWy7F-_LYTG_r9WenLLkXQtY4acrgCQhoN63y0Sz6KaSukXw_IbMGaBS/s400/berwick.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape
id="Picture_x0020_2" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:364.5pt;
height:225pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\kusmand\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image003.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t travel often for business, and when it rains, it
pours! What wonderful memories of each journey—the wonderful, generous,
friendly people of the Philippines; the vibrant, modern, expat-friendly city of
Hong Kong; a bit of R&R in Iceland, enjoying the never-ending daylight; a
quick stop to Edinburgh that was beautifully green in the sunshine, my second
trip there but a completely different experience from the rain-soaked first
visit; and, finally, America the beautiful. In England again, I’m spending a few
days on the Isle of Wight after several weekends away—and I must say, it’s a
wonderful homecoming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First there was Manila, and I must say it’s the Filipino people
who make their country wonderful—hands down—though there are some lovely areas
I was able to visit on my one free day. I took a city tour with Bea, a native,
and we travelled by air-conditioned van (as it was well into the 90s F) through
the “old” and new parts of Manila. Remember that the city was destroyed by the
US bombing campaign in 1945 to end Japanese military occupation; MacArthur won
the battle, but Manila was utterly devastated. Intramuros, the oldest part of
the walled city, has been rebuilt and is a lovely area to stroll with its
historic feel, cathedral, and the old fort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZyVTF1mXlmckuGahVvHsr0hnLDzvYo4HMXKap7atznlnpLZ0GxAujlP-2kacJSAZZL_PYspJiw5MVCayArnx_E_avJOKgNkUec1vrHS09mkdiSNVnIl7qVyLyA1yg66WjH8rCF7Ycje-/s1600/intramuros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZyVTF1mXlmckuGahVvHsr0hnLDzvYo4HMXKap7atznlnpLZ0GxAujlP-2kacJSAZZL_PYspJiw5MVCayArnx_E_avJOKgNkUec1vrHS09mkdiSNVnIl7qVyLyA1yg66WjH8rCF7Ycje-/s400/intramuros.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Mother of pearl windows in the Plaza St Luiza complex at Intramuros.</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a city of many levels of economy—our guide took us
through the area coined “Beverly Hills” for its gated communities for the
uber-rich and mostly foreign owners, but we needed to go through some of the
poorest areas which had me clutching my throat: children bathing in the street
from buckets of water being poured over them; tiny, tin-roofed shacks packed
forlornly one after another; narrow, pot-holed roads that the city simply isn’t
interested in paving. And yet just a few miles away there is a mega-mall filled
with shops of every economic scale. It’s no different anywhere, including
places in America, and yet the localised destitution goes unnoticed as long as
the tourists still come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The food in the Philippines can be challenging—you need to
appreciate meat and rice, though finding a place to have fish is not
impossible. I had a few “authentic” meals for lunch and dinner, which mostly
came from the office canteen since I was working the 2-to-10 pm shift, and Bea
and I had a lovely lunch that included delicious vegetables and squid. I did
not, dear friends, attempt the balut . . . for the uninitiated, it’s a boiled
duck (or chicken) egg with a partial embryo inside. Go ahead, Google it. The
photos will be enough to turn you off!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the Philippines I had a four-day stopover in Hong Kong
and absolutely loved the city—like nothing I’d seen before with the tall,
narrow buildings huddled together, narrow side streets teeming with shops and
restaurants and people—a mix of Chinese and the world as the ex-pat community
is huge (second, I think, only to Dubai), a fantastic mass transit system that
is incredibly easy to use. I most enjoyed the tram because it was a bit clunky
and slow and gave a lovely view as it snaked through the city. You get on at
the back and pay on your way out in the front—which I learned the hard way and
paid twice. The underground is modern and well-mapped to easily find your way,
with touch screens on a map to choose your destination without having to know
how to spell it. My faux pas was trying to get through the turnstile with my
hotel key card, which had the attendant laughing—the card you get from the ticket
vending machine, much like an Oyster card, is hard plastic and of the same
dimensions as the hotel key.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_9i_kfH6cpX5k8tE4NscKhCdK4HaUpi1DCvYeNT3_zdGS1LG3CvUznPqb6wCbn8wdxY3xwBhyGTYaOcOViM8uzYioSgzICX-p8VSgVvC-1sGQLgycX0BC4fhELnhGavTiP6RmyYsIFlOb/s1600/hongkong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_9i_kfH6cpX5k8tE4NscKhCdK4HaUpi1DCvYeNT3_zdGS1LG3CvUznPqb6wCbn8wdxY3xwBhyGTYaOcOViM8uzYioSgzICX-p8VSgVvC-1sGQLgycX0BC4fhELnhGavTiP6RmyYsIFlOb/s400/hongkong.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can get anything you want to eat in Hong Kong; just walk
one of the main roads in Soho and you’ll see Argentinian, Belgian, New York
deli, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Australian, well, you name it. I had a few good
tips from a colleague and did well to mix Chinese with tapas and enjoyed it all,
perhaps my favourite a little place called The Monogamous Chinese. It’s a great
city for singles—safe and easy to navigate, and many of the restaurants had
bars that served food so you don’t have to sit at a table alone, though I never
have trouble with that (and it’s become a bit easier with technology in hand).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyAov-FcXBR0sGfwVtPWXP4bqGkxn7ItfeqPvX9O8DeCgl3u0R7dZF06SyYBJ3uPXEN43yzbKE8C7-3qk50ZHW2J36n4fHZWW-Y382oTctaf_sMG6ydHnd9Imtk47_4KUXlv7f0EIPn8m/s1600/peak.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyAov-FcXBR0sGfwVtPWXP4bqGkxn7ItfeqPvX9O8DeCgl3u0R7dZF06SyYBJ3uPXEN43yzbKE8C7-3qk50ZHW2J36n4fHZWW-Y382oTctaf_sMG6ydHnd9Imtk47_4KUXlv7f0EIPn8m/s400/peak.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After spending a few days back home Tim and I went to
Reykjavik for a long weekend to have him speak at the Bar European Group
conference on the rights of the accused while I reunited with the WAGs from
previous BEG trips (you may remember jaunts to Athens and Sorrento). Neither of
us had Iceland on our bucket list, though I must say having been there it is
something to see—a lava desert, flat for miles until you reach Reykjavik, where
the city is compact, modern, and filled with shops brimming with Icelandic
sweaters (yes, I did) and assorted cold-weather gear. Food options are pretty
diverse and, if you’re not careful, expensive—we had two nice dinners out and
both tipped over £100. But, that said, the food was delicious and I don’t
regret a single pence. There are lots of tourists in hiking gear donning
backpacks who were not doubt prepared to walk on glaciers and climb volcanic mountains;
we stuck with a leisurely walk in the national park where the tectonic plates
of North America and Europe meet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0oV7_-NFPNU10gG8_iiFbpSSxXXYwWqknnFuToiKSKZBu3nCbU259RTkcTxeTsQQ4bT-NIn3TkuhffRO5Do8sn0DCu1ogMiImsqDUvQtLNfo4MxfSjdmFkYlWiy7EoFccpi-UtLCi_XO/s1600/tectonic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0oV7_-NFPNU10gG8_iiFbpSSxXXYwWqknnFuToiKSKZBu3nCbU259RTkcTxeTsQQ4bT-NIn3TkuhffRO5Do8sn0DCu1ogMiImsqDUvQtLNfo4MxfSjdmFkYlWiy7EoFccpi-UtLCi_XO/s400/tectonic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what is a visit to Iceland without a dip in the Blue
Lagoon? The geothermal water spa is about 100 degrees F though there are
currents which are hotter or cooler as the water surfaces from 2,000 metres
below—we moved around a bit and occasionally paused when a surge of hot water
bubbled up. And the lagoon is more milky white than blue; I read it is the
silica, algae and a smattering of other minerals that give it that eerie colouring.
And, considering the air temperature was probably not more than 20 degrees F,
it felt lovely to be submerged to the chin. Tim gave himself a silica mud mask;
I sipped a Green is Good concoction which, naturally, is served at a bar in the
spa. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1JjjoBTgy07KPy02_kmI7mPPsSJLpBBNkASN07kDA1zMdDP0UWsm-AXfsV8wiBAxTEl6GtAExOSJ_iO_g-Lbe2p-UzaJvg8xrF8eqfqitapWqAr3jFUYdqZddXOx66jLDuspeyOE2695/s1600/iceland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1JjjoBTgy07KPy02_kmI7mPPsSJLpBBNkASN07kDA1zMdDP0UWsm-AXfsV8wiBAxTEl6GtAExOSJ_iO_g-Lbe2p-UzaJvg8xrF8eqfqitapWqAr3jFUYdqZddXOx66jLDuspeyOE2695/s320/iceland.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had chance to spend just one day in Edinburgh before
heading off to the US of A—a quick work trip but, owing to a four-hour train
journey I needed to stay overnight. Arriving in the early evening sunshine I
walked around a bit, found the hotel, and then dropped my bag and walked some
more—it’s such a lovely city with clean, wide avenues, some nifty old buildings
dotting the area and a lovely view of the Firth of Forth (formed by a former
glacier, to keep the theme going). And green! I mostly remembered grey, but in
the daylight and the sun it transforms into a lovely place to stroll.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked until, alas, the wind picked up and the rain
started to fall, and found myself in a lovely pub called Tiles where I had a
lovely salmon dish and watched the world go by from my high-top table. When Tim
and I had last been in Edinburgh it was a bit cold, very wet, and very crowded.
In fact seeing the capital on a sunny day I almost didn’t recognise some of the
sites we’d walked before. How nice it was to steal a few hours mid-week to see
the city, a part of the UK but with a slightly different feel than the edgier
London—perhaps I just didn’t see enough of Edinburgh. I suspect a return visit
awaits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, the most favourite journey, home. Home is still a
funny word—I feel at home in London, but I always feel like where you’re from
is where your home is, and so going back to America automatically delivers the
word <i>home</i> from my brain to my tongue.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As usual, it was a whirlwind adventure filled with family on
both sides, starting with my brother’s family, now ten years in Texas and visiting
for my godsons’ high school graduation. I graduated with 67 students in my
class; Chris had 960+ classmates that congregated at a football stadium to
collect their diplomas. It was lovely even in its largeness. Several of us
recorded the announcer as he read Chris’ name; what a proud moment for his
parents. I know, I know; the British don’t “get” why graduating high school is
such a big deal in the states but it has always been, perhaps going back
generations where to make it through that much schooling was not an easy feat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Catching up with my brother David and the rest of the
family, including Elena’s relatives—some of whom travelled from Peru to be
there—was really wonderful, despite a bit of a language barrier as my Spanish
is poor and many of them don’t speak English—Elena had to do quite a bit of
translating, and as ever she did it in good spirit. The Peruvians adore Tim—they
find him charming and funny, and no doubt like most foreigners swoon over the
British accent!<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdD4lqkYMecXnEYND5hygvwYV67ffc4YAmHpxxfXzerixcWsXUARq1dwvCDfBTmHdS-5aYrRJARNlEXBRhxTEbIF9PVmXYG0sj0bjGX8RHU66VZnARLXtQRMTv7QFLrcxy1sqQzyi72YP/s1600/hts.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdD4lqkYMecXnEYND5hygvwYV67ffc4YAmHpxxfXzerixcWsXUARq1dwvCDfBTmHdS-5aYrRJARNlEXBRhxTEbIF9PVmXYG0sj0bjGX8RHU66VZnARLXtQRMTv7QFLrcxy1sqQzyi72YP/s400/hts.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hats being tossed by the new graduates!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was HOT. You’ve heard me complain before about the
lack of a “true” summer in England—the joke is that it usually lasts a week—so
going to a warm climate for days on end to let the heat just soak into my skin
is always a treat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was just as hot traveling to Georgia and Florida, where
we met with Tim’s relatives whom he hadn’t seen in, well, let’s just say a long
time. Once there, the years melted away and there were numerous stories of when
the cousins were growing up, and introductions of all the cousins’ children who
are all friendly and polite and seemed genuinely pleased to meet the Brit(s). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSXkWo5-ZKKojCjJe5SSvNHzTJZK5OWrRRp1rHLtVZ5dp76X0WfR2zzRV73wRqu2TACDsNJcvndPmkaIMDT8xnzUa35WDJhlVBzVdHcQbgBMv2-NzQYRXNpGG6C3AAVyjtjpJdCxxNqGRF/s1600/cypress.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSXkWo5-ZKKojCjJe5SSvNHzTJZK5OWrRRp1rHLtVZ5dp76X0WfR2zzRV73wRqu2TACDsNJcvndPmkaIMDT8xnzUa35WDJhlVBzVdHcQbgBMv2-NzQYRXNpGG6C3AAVyjtjpJdCxxNqGRF/s400/cypress.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We toured peach orchards and farms in Georgia, ate soul
food, went to see the Cypress trees resting in the shallow waters shared with
alligators (but unfortunately no sightings), and enjoyed the catching up with
the relatives, who treated us so wonderfully. Believe what you hear of Southern
hospitality!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The warmth and kindness continued on our stay in
Jacksonville Beach with Tim’s cousins, who treated us to a great Thai meal at
one of the local restaurants, a homemade blueberry crisp, lots of beer and
wine, and, best of all, hours of conversation and reminisces. My favourite line
came from Brendan, aged 10, who spoke his much-practiced line to Tim: ‘ello,
guv’nor!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there was the beach. I’d been dreaming of a bit of
warm weather holiday, and while we had just three days at Jax Beach, we made
the most of it by rising early for a long walk along the sand, having a swim in
the ocean where the water temperature made it comfortable to dive right in, and
drying off in the shade by the pool, all well before noon so that we could
spend the afternoon with the family. I quite liked being immersed in American
accents—it’s unlike visiting anywhere in Europe where there is a collection of
languages spoken around you; for me it’s just one of those “things” that makes
it feel like being back home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJMP7XecFOgeOyFsAyRfOtCyRxy_cwB_Qc50N5AILiRneH2-EtWTOL-QRzvj-o8FJUFM6hhKEypF1ZizH0H2Pc_4wROeTkFLWnPiancPgQ_cLWw_jGSKcuPu4QO59nZ7Z3UBF539EoNO5f/s1600/jax.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJMP7XecFOgeOyFsAyRfOtCyRxy_cwB_Qc50N5AILiRneH2-EtWTOL-QRzvj-o8FJUFM6hhKEypF1ZizH0H2Pc_4wROeTkFLWnPiancPgQ_cLWw_jGSKcuPu4QO59nZ7Z3UBF539EoNO5f/s400/jax.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most certainly one of the highlights was a bit unexpected. A
thunderstorm shut down the airport in Jacksonville for a couple of hours, which
meant we were going to miss our connection in Newark to get to London
overnight. We opted to get at least to Newark if possible, and then board a
plane in the morning from there, which meant I could have a quick visit with
Robyn. We planned a 6 am breakfast meet at Tops Diner, one of our favourites,
figuring a 9 am flight would give us an hour or so to have a coffee and catch
up. Upon settling in one of the booths at the diner my phone buzzed—an alert
from United that our 9:05 flight was delayed . . . by nine hours. I thought I
was misreading it and asked Tim to look, and sure enough it was showing a 6:30
pm departure. Ugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tim called United who said the time posted was an “estimate”
and that we ought to show up as it could change. Hugs all around, Robyn dropped
us at the Departures entrance and we spent the next several hours as guests of
Newark Airport. We tried to coax United into giving us free access to their
club, but they would not, so Tim ponied up for the fee and at least we had free
wifi and an assortment of drinks and snacks as well as a comfortable chair,
free newspapers, and room to play cards. Playing several hands of 21, Rummy,
and War got us through the day, along with a nice lunch with our $42 in food
vouchers courtesy of customer care. Tim is still drafting his Dear United
letter! I sent an email to the CEO, and got a wholly unsatisfactory reply from
a Corporate Customer Care person three days later, offering nothing but an
apology. United did give us a non-transferable $125 credit on our next flight,
to be used within one year. Well, I suppose that’s something, though I
suggested they take a more proactive approach to caring for international customers
stuck in the airport for innumerable hours. I also was a bit disappointed she
didn’t do her research—the tickets were not in my maiden name, but she referred
to us as Mr and Mrs using that surname. I’m debating whether to point that out
in my reply, LOL.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately we weren’t in a mad rush to get home, having travelled
on the weekend to give ourselves a bit of recuperation before picking up the
work pace again. It did mean that Tim’s mum had to delay her arrival to take
Tim out to dinner for his birthday, but as ever she simply rolled with it, well
travelled and well used to the whims of trains and planes, and came to visit
two days later, treating us to a lovely meal at one of our favourite local
pubs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s that funny word “home” again. I think it’s quite
alright to say that I have <i>two</i> homes,
as I have two citizenships and hopefully soon two passports. I don’t love one
more than the other; I’m merely privileged to have them both.<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-10251902200783258962015-04-04T16:11:00.000+01:002015-06-22T09:42:21.122+01:00She is My Hero<div class="MsoNormal">
Those of you who know that I recently lost a sibling to a
four-year battle with cancer might think those words are my words, for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was her doctor, a man I met just two days before she
died, who stood at the foot of her hospital bed and looking directly at her
uttered those four words. It was the first time since arriving at her side two
days before that I cried.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even today, two weeks since she passed away, when I think of
Dr I saying those words my eyes fill with tears—and yes partly because I have
lost a treasure of a sister with whom I have innumerable memories in 50-odd
years, but more so because this man spoke those four words with such grace and
heartfelt emotion that I still cannot bear to recall them without crying, hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said more—about how she did everything he asked, and with
courage, never afraid to try something that had the potential to get “the enemy,”
as he called her cancer, to retreat. And when she was just hours from death he
came back to her room and said “I should have done more.” I disagree. Here is a
man whom she had grown to trust with her life, and in his capable hands she
managed more time than any of us could hope for since her Stage IV diagnosis in
December 2010. They texted each other, filling in the gaps where he couldn’t
get to her because of late rounds or a waiting room full of patients. He chided
her when she needed to be more proactive about her care,
not to wait until her next appointment when something changed. He spoke with the
family, calmly and honestly about the aggressive nature of her late-stage
cancer and how everyone needed to rally and help fight the fight—I couldn’t be
there, but heard the taped message after it happened. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She loved him. And even before I had a chance to shake Dr I’s
hand outside Debbie’s room, I knew him—his manner, his deep caring for his
patients, his passion for his work. I
thought perhaps his stroke several months before was partly due to the weight
he carried in his heart for his patients. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am glad he recovered to take her through her last few
months; she had other doctors, but none like him and none that she preferred to
him. She would send me texts about how
she really only trusted him, and felt like he was giving her more time. She wanted time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a new hero, and, I am sure, a new angel keeping watch
over me. And on this Easter weekend I know I am blessed, in spite of the loss.<o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-30856316133141417122015-03-06T08:13:00.001+00:002015-03-06T08:13:48.295+00:00The Art of Relaxation<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Let me
start by saying I am no artist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Last
weekend I had <i>hours</i> of free time to
myself; Tim was away teaching law students the art of advocacy for two days and
I decided to stay in London and, well, relax. Sleep in. Be leisurely. Be carefree.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So how’d that go? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, the
epilogue is that in fact I had a very enjoyable weekend despite not having Tim
around to spend the time with; weekends are our time to really catch up, and we
look forward to the opportunity to sit together and read the paper, take long
walks, and linger over coffee and conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m not
sure most people would read how I spent my weekend and label it relaxing . . .
then again, we all have our paths to tranquillity, and it may not include
eating popcorn from a big bowl (because it’s easier than having to dig down
when you get to the bottom of the bag) while stretched out under the duvet
watching Audrey Hepburn movies (though that would certainly be one of my
definitions).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On Saturday
I found myself up early—7-ish—and ready to start my weekend relaxing. (OK,
first problem, but I tend to get up early no matter what the day of the week.) Quite
honestly I didn’t have much of an agenda for the weekend other than dinner out
with friends . . . but then as I brushed my teeth I thought that it would be
nice to do the laundry, as Tim often does that, so I sorted the basket and
started with that task. Taking my coffee to relax with to the living room, I
realised I didn’t like the way the new TV was set up; there was “stuff” on the
shelf behind the TV that was now mostly inaccessible. I cleared the cupboard
below the shelf of a few miscellaneous items to re-home the DVDs and re-shelved
the books. Oh, and I alphabetised the DVDs by title. As you do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Earlier in
the week I found that the new “smart” TV wouldn’t play DVDs from one of the USB
ports that attached a portable player. Second cup of coffee in hand, I moved to
the computer and researched why, and when I couldn’t find a good answer I
contacted Samsung. The lovely woman on the other end told me “it won’t happen”:
the USB player was not meant for such media. I needed to use an HDMI port to
connect a Blu-ray player. And the complete set of Breaking Bad I’d bought Tim
for Christmas was waiting to be watched. Something had to be done!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Second cup
of coffee still being sipped, I browsed to the John Lewis website, found a
reasonably-priced Samsung Blu-ray player, and ordered it via their wonderful
Click and Collect service to any local Waitrose shop. There’s a store at the
Angel, a short 15-minute bus ride away. Purchased and ready for collection the
following day (yes, on a Sunday) after 2 pm. Perfect for me to buy groceries
for dinner at Waitrose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I headed
upstairs to get dressed, pausing in the spare bedroom. An opportunity stared
back. It was not lovely weather-wise on Saturday, so why not sort which photos
will go into the multi-frame (4 horizontal, 8 vertical, one 8 x 10) still shrink-wrapped
and needing attention? We bought three of the same frames and decided one would
be for the two of us and one each for family photos. I’d already completed my
family frame, but thought I could find some photos and make suggestions to Tim
for our frame. I went back to the computer and started looking at photos I had
over the last few years, keeping in mind what I needed to populate the frame.
It didn’t take long to find ones I liked—some from our trips to Vietnam and Sri
Lanka, and recent selfies along with a few of my favourite wedding photos. I
downloaded them on to a USB stick; before collecting the DVD player I could pop
into the Snappy Snaps on the same street as the Waitrose and make prints.
Sorted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Fortunately
my enjoyment of Six Nations Rugby made me sit down and watch 90 minutes of
Scotland v Italy before heading out to dinner—and I managed to sit relatively
still, though I did use the opportunity to catch up on some personal email
(mostly during the half). Hurrah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One
highlight this “solo” weekend was certainly having dinner with friends, which
meant getting out of the house. I have found that in particularly cold, wet
weather it’s easier just to stay in and be creative about what’s in the cupboards
for meals. I’ll admit I did some of that, choosing to have oatmeal for lunch
instead of, gasp, walking around the corner to the 24-hour shop for anything
else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sunday
morning arrived and I was up early; I never perfected the fine art of lying in
bed by myself, and have always been “a morning person.” That and, well, I have
things to do, places to go, purchases to acquire from my relaxing Saturday! I
had a leisurely breakfast, spending time with a cup of coffee while gazing out
to the garden and noticing there is no bird seed in the feeder. Mental note
made.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At about 10
am I decided that I can head towards the Angel, get off the bus a few stops
early to get some exercise and then rock up to Snappy Snaps when they open at
11 to get my prints done before my click and collect is ready down the road at
Waitrose. I get there a bit too early and decide to stroll Chapel Market and make
two unexpected purchases—shiny red baby plum tomatoes from the Isle of Wight
tomato stand (a real surprise and a wonderful treat because the tomatoes are
delicious) and bird seed from a guy selling a variety of household goods. For
£1 each for a decent-size plastic bag it was well worth the weight to carry
them. I buy two and put them both in my own carrier bag and head back toward
Snappy Snaps, looking at each of the stalls. One of them was selling techy-type
stuff. Like HDMI cables. I think, do I think the player I bought comes with
one? Probably not. But I’m not sure . . . I asked the gentleman what time his stall
is open until, in case I got home with my player and realised I need one. He
blandly tells me 4 pm, unimpressed that I’m not actually buying anything, and I
make another mental note.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s still
early and I notice that Butler’s is open. It’s a great shop filled with
household things like dishes and candles and paper napkins and furry animal
heads you can hang on the wall—in other words a fun place to kill some time. I
came across some lovely artificial orchids that, at a distance, look quite
real. I decided to purchase one for the spare bedroom where once there was a
live orchid that has since shed all of its flowers. £3.99 well spent! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I finally stroll
up to Snappy Snaps for 11 on the dot and the door is unlocked and the shop is
thankfully empty. A lovely young woman approaches and I tell her I have these
photos on a stick and have never used their kiosks to order prints. She smiles,
says “no worries” and walks me through choosing the 4 x 6 matte photos and
displays for me the one I want enlarged to 8 x 10, which looks lovely. In a few
clicks I have placed my order, paid for it, and have been given a receipt to
return in 20 minutes. Tick!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The card
store is next door and I pop in to buy a few cards for upcoming events. This is
turning out to be a successful venture out. Not completely relaxing, but there’s
only minor stress with trying to find two cards I like (I am SO particular
about cards; I can take hours / multiple visits to choose.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s still
too early to go to Waitrose to collect, but the Sainsbury’s next door is open
and I think I may buy a newspaper or just stroll to kill a few more minutes—having
recently picked up a purchase I know that I cannot have it before 11:30 as
there’s some rule about providing a “service” before then, even when the shop
is open for browsing. In some strange bit of coincidence as I wander through
Sainsbury’s I pause in front of an aisle that is selling . . . HDMI cables. I
decide it’s a sign—not only that, but if I buy it now and don’t need it I can
always return it to Sainsbury’s whereas it may not be so easy at the Chapel
Market vendor. Tick!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Waitrose is
now open for service and I approach the customer service counter with my phone
displaying the email with the order number, and the helpful woman suggests I do
my grocery shopping and come back to the desk to collect my purchase. I am
happy to do that, and find my list of things to purchase, basket in hand. I
quite like Waitrose because they have an interesting selection of food items—wonderful
breads, a great assortment of cheeses and olives, and a nice selection of fish,
which was Tim’s request for dinner. I decide on some lightly-smoked salmon,
some cannellini beans to sauté with garlic and herbs, some leeks for St David’s
Day and a few other bits and bobs we need around the house (there never seems
to be enough wasabi). I use the self-check-out register and return to the
customer service window for my collection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The lovely
young lady hands me a box I instantly know is the wrong one. It’s the wrong
size, and sure enough the name on the box is Devine. So close, and yet . . .
not quite. She apologises profusely (it’s a John Lewis / Waitrose trait to
provide <i>exceptional</i> customer
service), re-takes the order number and disappears behind the Click and Collect
door with the secure keypad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While I am waiting
patiently at the reception desk, she calls down to the woman at customer
service reception to request that I repeat the number; I once again show the
email on my phone. Apparently the order has been flagged as <i>already collected</i>. Mrs Devine has my package,
I presume. I am now beginning to think that I am going home without my Click and
Collect purchase. That John Lewis has let me down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But then
the door swings open and there it is: a package with the right surname. I
manage to get it into my other carrier bag brought exclusively for the box size
I knew it would likely be, accept her additional profuse apologies, and head
out the automatic doors toward the bus, laden with goodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What to do
first? I decide I will set up the DVD player in case there needs to be a call
to Samsung or some research on Google. It is, however, a very easy plug-and-play
set up and I find the settings on the Smart TV to integrate the player into the
remote. I’m not thrilled with the set up of two boxes resting below the TV
stand, but I decide to leave it that way for now until Tim comes home. I gather
up the packaging and put it with the recycling to go out in the evening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I then have
a moment of panic when I read the booklet to find that it won’t play “HD DVD.” What
are the <i>Breaking Bad</i> discs? I begin
my search for the box set, having absolutely no idea where Tim has put them. He
opened it upstairs on Christmas morning, so it is likely still lurking up
there. Not under the bed. Not by the bed. Not with the other DVDs. Not in his
desk. If I were Tim, where would I put it? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One of the
two dressers in our bedroom is a family heirloom of Tim’s, its front feet
resting on two small pieces of flat rock to keep it balanced. You have to exert
energy to close any of the drawers properly, otherwise they look askew (a fact
that has sometimes eluded small, curious children). It is primarily filled with
old photos, gadgets, and those things Tim hasn’t otherwise gotten around to
chucking. It should have been obvious, but it took me a while to open each
drawer and finally find the box set. No HD DVD label. Relieved, I take the set
downstairs to try at least one. It works. Phew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Next? Well,
I’m so pleased with my photographs that I may as well fill the frame with my
purchases. It doesn’t take long, and I arrange and then slightly rearrange a
few of them. I place the frame in the spare bedroom where it’s hard to miss.
Tick!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The clothes
that have adorned the multiple radiators in the house are also now dry, so time
to tidy those up and fold and put them away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It is now
time to relax. England is playing Ireland in Six Nations, and I have popcorn at
hand, decide to open a bottle of white wine, kick off my boots and put my feet
up on the couch. Tim won’t be home for a few hours and dinner will be a
collaborative effort, so there is nothing left to do but watch the hail thrash
against the window pane, enjoy the lightning and thunder, and watch as Ireland enjoys
a bit of thrashing England.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There is
something quite relaxing about being indoors while the weather rages out <i>there</i> and you can watch without a care
in <i>here</i>. Except I’m worried about Tim
driving home in such terrible conditions! I won’t be able to relax until he
walks through the door . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-23677706325464253312015-02-14T13:12:00.001+00:002015-02-14T13:12:03.736+00:00Love among Rouen’s . . . <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Yes, it’s
Valentine’s Day. Tim and I exchanged cards and he presented me with a box of
chocolate hearts before heading off to give <a href="http://www.cohkarek.com/">Coh
Karek</a> some attention. (I'm not jealous of her!) He’ll be back
in time for rugby (my idea of a romantic afternoon) and we’ll have a lovely dinner at one of our
favourite restaurants—Number 12, aka home on the Isle of Wight. The menu still
to be finalised, but there will be a lovely bottle of something red in honour
of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6KXkdJFLBuxduryYb6SBiyLeZ-PmaKdtsYs1DPYMdhxZPbJtO2lxmWG8PvMWosDurd4j7Yp_FhQsHMb01kEymw88EwJ0p32SwSvG7ghVXimZYgt836PJJrCBgV6807UJcYUQfL9W_EZp/s1600/church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6KXkdJFLBuxduryYb6SBiyLeZ-PmaKdtsYs1DPYMdhxZPbJtO2lxmWG8PvMWosDurd4j7Yp_FhQsHMb01kEymw88EwJ0p32SwSvG7ghVXimZYgt836PJJrCBgV6807UJcYUQfL9W_EZp/s1600/church.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnificent architecture!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We had our
little romantic escape earlier in the month, having had plans fall through on a
weekend we were meant to be in London and finding ourselves yearning for a bit
of French food and wine. How lucky we are to be 90 minutes from Dover to hop
the car ferry abroad! (And even luckier that I paid the checking fee to hold on
to my passport while my citizenship application is being considered!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’d never
been to Rouen, and while it’s a slightly longer journey from the port of Calais
than our usual last-minute, need some French wine stop of Boulogne, it is still
close enough to make it a weekend fling. We hadn’t anticipated the snow along
the way, which was quite pretty and fortunately only marginally accumulated on
the road, and once we arrived in Rouen it was a bit dreary and wet, but of the
above-freezing kind that meant we were never without an umbrella as we wandered
through the town.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8V8-pR8vV6w1_VM2m87yJHW4PjSSvxi2YbBhhCC419wgDPcpiD_sYFsPmYVRMcaKUcwBv8ox3ZNHz-FHbvFCsPskVmwv5ckT617dp7mAsRB2hJup6fzhPgLEhjw7wH0HMjXLRgD8wDyEJ/s1600/arccross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8V8-pR8vV6w1_VM2m87yJHW4PjSSvxi2YbBhhCC419wgDPcpiD_sYFsPmYVRMcaKUcwBv8ox3ZNHz-FHbvFCsPskVmwv5ckT617dp7mAsRB2hJup6fzhPgLEhjw7wH0HMjXLRgD8wDyEJ/s1600/arccross.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cross at the site of Joan of Arc's execution</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And oh,
what lovely sites! The architecture can occasionally make you gasp; the history
will make you pause. The cathedral is lovely, dark and cold but majestic both
inside and out. Its construction began in 12<sup>th</sup> century. There is a
painting by Monet at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen that struck me as
beautiful; it is the one postcard I left with. There are buildings that
survived the war, bullet holes gashed into the stone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Joan of Arc
was executed in Rouen in 1431; I wanted to see the site, where now stands an enormous
cross on the exact spot of her burning and, I must say, one of the less
attractive buildings in the centre, a chapel of modern design built in 1979 that
seems incongruous to the rest of the city’s history. The Seine, where her ashes
were thrown to prevent any taking of relics, runs through part of Rouen, though
it does not evoke the same romance as the river does in Paris, I must say. We
did stroll down to take a look at the river and the boats docked, but it was
cold and windy and we didn’t stay long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZPB4lBOhpCpakZpZJSx5n_Cb8c3LxAUBzJRuCOmrz6I4A1P7qEVOZ3pvtMrBhF5wlJMYIE0_ZeIyf0k8wru8TL66pxV9tc_CM-4MLYmiNnaDrjNUeFRbf1w1CxdoTxxlqiBHx0ZbS-X4/s1600/hotelview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZPB4lBOhpCpakZpZJSx5n_Cb8c3LxAUBzJRuCOmrz6I4A1P7qEVOZ3pvtMrBhF5wlJMYIE0_ZeIyf0k8wru8TL66pxV9tc_CM-4MLYmiNnaDrjNUeFRbf1w1CxdoTxxlqiBHx0ZbS-X4/s1600/hotelview.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our hotel room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And yes, the
food was fabulous. We had two wonderful lunches, both at brasseries that served
traditional French food and lovely carafes of wine, and dinner at one of the
more popular spots according to Trip Advisor where, given a cold, wet, windy
evening in February, was empty but for one other couple who knew the staff (and
so Tim joked that they were called in to fill seats). We started with some
fresh, slightly briny oysters with chenin blanc, and then I had wonderful coquilles
Saint-Jacques (scallops) while Tim chose a steak and we drank a lovely red. We
ate and drank slowly and savoured the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So an early
Valentine’s celebration for us; and while tonight will be a bit less extravagant,
in a city a bit less known (unless you’re a sailor), it will be no less
romantic. Enjoy yours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WY-ZzEE2FmnLJbWJkBgvHIrMU2LXPUqfUW5j0bV7YmO2VjHAa21bDwaSrRxdmu9qlPggveqvcpRG1vWBkWlOOKR1Wb6rcr43pTD2mAbdn_mZ009nHXFUvLIJIRo1f7OEnlxcFyomV1pM/s1600/cathedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WY-ZzEE2FmnLJbWJkBgvHIrMU2LXPUqfUW5j0bV7YmO2VjHAa21bDwaSrRxdmu9qlPggveqvcpRG1vWBkWlOOKR1Wb6rcr43pTD2mAbdn_mZ009nHXFUvLIJIRo1f7OEnlxcFyomV1pM/s1600/cathedral.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Valentine's Day!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-22152278521490124722015-01-20T17:41:00.001+00:002015-01-20T17:41:35.631+00:00You Have Successfully Unsubscribed<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well,
hopefully not to this!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m not one
to make New Year resolutions, and in hindsight the quest to rid my inbox of
unwanted email merely coincided with it being the start of a new year rather
than it being a declaration to begin 2015 differently. I know how it began, this quest to
keep my Inbox down to the precious few: being away from mail for a number of
days where all those vouchers I signed up for and all those contests to sun in
Montenegro or explore St Petersburg were stacking up among the important stuff.
And oh how easy it is just to click Delete and watch it disappear off the
screen, momentarily forgetting that there will be yet another fantastic sale or
two-for-one offer in the next month. Or next week. Delete, delete! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ah but for a
few extra clicks I can Ctrl End to the bottom of the screen, scan for the
Unsubscribe link, click, verify address, and click again. Some sites want one more
verification, to be absolutely sure I don’t want to know about how to nurture
my inner beauty, where to enjoy a 2 for 1 pizza, or learn the five “must see”
health resources. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Are six
clicks better than one? You betcha. And since the beginning of the year I have
been (almost always dutifully) following the six-step programme to rid myself
of unwanted flab in my Inbox. What’s there now can’t yet be archived, probably requires
a response or some activity on my part, or acts as a gentle reminder of
upcoming events, etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My Google
mail Inbox, conveniently bucketed by my friends there into Primary, Social, and
Promotion, which contain 32, 2, and 3 items respectively. The promotional
emails are all from Prevention Today (and about exercises), and the two Social
items are from LinkedIn—people I want to respond to in the future. The Primary
mailbox is a mish-mash of things I need to get to, things I want to be reminded
of, and an odd assortment of recipes and links to products I might like to buy
someday when I’m finished papering the offices of the British government with
pounds collected for various and sundry visas, certificates, etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Speaking of
which, I have saved the appropriate fee and have made my appointment with a
nationality checking service (for a much smaller fee of £55) to have my
application for citizenship reviewed by someone at the local council, who will
verify all the original papers—including Tim’s and my passports—and allow me to
leave with them while the Home Office decides whether or not I am an upstanding
enough person to be given the privilege of citizenship. Time will tell . . .
they allow themselves up to six months to decide, though I suspect that I will
find myself voting in the May election. Exciting times!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And, with
my tidier inbox, well, I’ll see all the emails that come in about the progress
of my application! Oh, wait, they don’t actually do that; Royal Mail will have
to do. I think I will start anticipating the postman’s drop about mid-March,
and hope that by St Patrick’s Day I’ll be invited to the ceremony (for which
there is a small fee).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-24235775423532002212014-11-02T22:37:00.001+00:002014-11-02T22:37:47.747+00:00Great. Expectations.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m reading
<i>Great Expectations</i> again, having had
my interest reawakened in the wonderful Dickens novel as I tried (and failed—twice,
having started too late in the evening on consecutive Thursdays—) to watch a BBC
show that discussed some of Dickens’ rewrites, including a second, more bleak
ending. Dickens and Austen are two authors who I can read over and over again,
and it had been awhile since I pulled a Dickens paperback from the shelf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwT8F4wz4Dn7D0ZhkMqSe1bVOr91BB12Hp6QNtXhNg7Zk6Yaw9KCVs973-2XhzzQB0uh3ZXCCdv1M-XqF7RSpVhkfLb5KfIaBsYteK-O0JZgzDc-Bl0INmnrGGHktPKe_cEQRdUKlKZNK/s1600/dickens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwT8F4wz4Dn7D0ZhkMqSe1bVOr91BB12Hp6QNtXhNg7Zk6Yaw9KCVs973-2XhzzQB0uh3ZXCCdv1M-XqF7RSpVhkfLb5KfIaBsYteK-O0JZgzDc-Bl0INmnrGGHktPKe_cEQRdUKlKZNK/s1600/dickens.jpg" height="36" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And what a
while! I found a bit of unexpected ephemera—a monthly rail ticket for April 1991
for Kingsland station, on the Main line of New Jersey Transit. When I lived in
Lyndhurst I would take the train to work in NYC, then at 11 Penn Plaza, just across
from Madison Square Garden. I must say the ticket gave me pause—it is 23 years
old, dated the 13<sup>th</sup> of March and stamped with a fee of $95. The
ticket would only get me as far as Hoboken, New Jersey, and then I’d have to
pick up the PATH service to the office in midtown Manhattan. These days you can
get through to NYC, and the fare to Hoboken is actually cheaper now than it was
in 1991—just $89. That was certainly unexpected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3oWjp2f1lb92zrEOLO7qS511A71-8bJryPkoYddzohv01KSYaclnkyL9pkhhjSCTkOZlvRyOQ5gcVW7ZJJiBWZ16OPwKcH0e8IyKd-bWZyHdlrSRYCpZeJQsgt_93gg5Ep4hatb4fW3K/s1600/ticket.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3oWjp2f1lb92zrEOLO7qS511A71-8bJryPkoYddzohv01KSYaclnkyL9pkhhjSCTkOZlvRyOQ5gcVW7ZJJiBWZ16OPwKcH0e8IyKd-bWZyHdlrSRYCpZeJQsgt_93gg5Ep4hatb4fW3K/s1600/ticket.png" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps
more predictable was how it started me thinking about that time of my life. I was
30, married, and living in a condominium, the proud “parent” of a fluffy black kitten
called Mirepoix (some of you may remember she migrated to the UK in her very late
teens). I quite liked working in the city; it made it easy to go to the Met for
opera, which I loved then and still do, or see friends in bands who had gigs at
places like Inkwell in Greenwich Village (which still exists, and Rina still
plays on), or have a beer after work at the local bar, O’Reilly’s. Oh my. A <i>flood</i> of memories held in a single,
small rectangle of a ticket that floated out when I opened the pages to begin
reacquainting myself with Pip and Magwitch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In fact am
still working for the same parent company. I am still in touch with wonderful
colleagues from that era, though many have moved on to other places and other adventures
completely different than what they were doing in 1991. Some of us have changed
partners, or cities, or both, LOL. What haven’t changed are the ties that bind.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The original
manuscript of <i>Great Expectations</i>, by
the way, is held at the Wisbech and Fenland Museum near Peterborough. In fact,
you can visit with it any Saturday; given I am still wanting to see Catherine
of Aragon buried at Peterborough Cathedral, I sense a double-header in Tim’s
and my future!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXCA1Fb4zYJ6p24glPKAnr9-CFzs5o66Uf2K682LgGzaElgTuCOrD3lzJ2HK4clUzhn_eQx7DM8gqPIlVAB_eMX5hymDlQKwghBHVYd_NLE7hnLmo8z5pDSBuqgRIJCwfrMftM6y3cegP/s1600/manuscript.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXCA1Fb4zYJ6p24glPKAnr9-CFzs5o66Uf2K682LgGzaElgTuCOrD3lzJ2HK4clUzhn_eQx7DM8gqPIlVAB_eMX5hymDlQKwghBHVYd_NLE7hnLmo8z5pDSBuqgRIJCwfrMftM6y3cegP/s1600/manuscript.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What I do
recall of the BBC programme was the sheer size of the manuscript’s volume—like a
huge dictionary, and of course all handwritten with the usual blots of ink and
scratches. Does anyone still write in long hand these days? The woman in the
BBC programme donned gloves to carefully turn the page, much to the delight of
the host and those of us watching. What a remarkable thing to see in person; I
suppose those days are long behind us as we hunt and peck and click Save!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Speaking of
Dickens, Tim and I recently saw Simon Callow, a British national treasure, at
the Isle of Wight Literary Festival. Callow was there to talk about Dickens’ “other”
career in the theatre. Apparently Dickens was a compulsive performer who was
obsessed with the stage, so much so that Callow suggests the passion led him to
an early grave. I haven’t read Callow’s book, nor did we queue up for a signed
copy, and I’ll admit I was disappointed that Callow didn’t mention <i>Great Expectations</i> in his forty-minute
monologue to the crowd that gathered at St Mary’s Church, Cowes, to hear him. In
fact I had this odd moment of thinking, well, I’ve just started re-reading this
book, could I possibly be having a senior moment and it’s written by someone <i>else</i>? PS my fellow Americans, Callow had
a part in <i>Four Weddings and A Funeral.</i>
He played Gareth . . . yeah, I didn’t remember him either! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Speaking of
the IOW Literary Festival, well, there was an unexpected pleasure! This was the
festival’s third year, and the first that Tim and I were able to make it to the
IOW to join the fun. We chose four speakers—Callow, Monisha Rajesh, Tristram
Hunt, and David Barrie. (I know, who?) Monisha has written a novel about her
four-month journey travelling the India railways, and she was quite articulate
and engaging. Afterwards I asked her what her next adventure would be, and she
confided it would be around the world, and in a longer period than four months!
I think rail is a wonderful way to see any country, and someday I do hope to
see some of India the way Monisha did, but with a more reliable companion . . .
I know Tim would like to return to India, so watch this space. Tristram’s novel
focuses on ten cities that made the British Empire; Boston, and its Tea Party,
is one of them. Barrie’s novel, entitled <i>Sextant</i>,
provides the history behind the instrument that offshore navigators used in
very unchartered waters before the advent of GPS. The topic was probably nearest and dearest to
the audience of Cowes—a sailor’s town if nothing else—and there was a small
show of hands when Barrie asked how many had actually <i>used</i> a sextant, my handsome husband being one of them. I quite
enjoyed Barrie’s discussion of celestial navigation and liked his way of
presenting and speaking; Tristram was probably a bit more lecture-y, but no
less fascinating—I think it’s the politician in him!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">How
thoroughly enjoyable the festival was, spending some time on the IOW and seeing
some familiar faces in the small and appreciative literati at the venues that held
most of the 100+ authors, poets, etc. I quite liked that there were sessions for
young adults as well as the rest of us. I will endeavour to keep my calendar
free for next year’s event, and pop into a few more talks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Shifting to
a London weekend, what a wonderful November weekend Tim and I spent navigating
through London, sans sextant but with GPS in hand, first to see the ceramic
poppies gracing the moat at the Tower of London and onward to the LEGO exhibit
by the American artist Nathan Sawaya at the Old Truman Brewery on Brick Lane
followed by a browse through Spitafields Market. (Even a tried-and-true
Londoner like Tim occasionally needs to glance at a map!) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWT-JMcVRPql2Qnrq75Uq_zITiU8g1XMdQW1S2mvTrfVlWYvlhW_8KfrQ8oZYjZGCgtNjSzVzIJV1n-bLX0RPy8DVajAF3ao2H7lMTBpDl96tkapeJyC03-zO-RuucC7sWYdFjjg2Oupz/s1600/lego.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWT-JMcVRPql2Qnrq75Uq_zITiU8g1XMdQW1S2mvTrfVlWYvlhW_8KfrQ8oZYjZGCgtNjSzVzIJV1n-bLX0RPy8DVajAF3ao2H7lMTBpDl96tkapeJyC03-zO-RuucC7sWYdFjjg2Oupz/s1600/lego.png" height="314" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to see
the poppies for weeks, but we hadn't been in London, and come the 11<sup>th</sup>
the last would be laid to commemorate the lives lost in the first World War and
then would be removed. You can’t help but take in just a bit of breath as you
approach; in the sunlight the moat is a stunning shade of red against the
backdrop of the dramatic Tower of London. And of course there is the solemnity
that comes with the meaning of why volunteers are “planting” each of these 888,246
poppies. A pause, a silent prayer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6FaNuyZw4jRFXmIMuqbqXkpvlBfbR9Yn3ULZRPa0WV2i5yoqG2lnxpYW0No0_Kwiy1dHE-kwxAYTUoDvxdtAQpB1bBwRl6TUufAesZage3ewiAghvrqzPZwIxUZxgjtI_NIr90SxI6p5e/s1600/pop.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6FaNuyZw4jRFXmIMuqbqXkpvlBfbR9Yn3ULZRPa0WV2i5yoqG2lnxpYW0No0_Kwiy1dHE-kwxAYTUoDvxdtAQpB1bBwRl6TUufAesZage3ewiAghvrqzPZwIxUZxgjtI_NIr90SxI6p5e/s1600/pop.png" height="227" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am so glad
to have seen it, and frankly a bit surprised at how easy it was to make our way
to the gate and spend a minute or two to commit the moment to memory and then
leave to let the next person have a place at the gate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The rain on
Sunday almost kept us home, but we braved it to travel by bus (front and centre
on the 38, of course) to the Royal Academy to see two very different
exhibitions—one of a relatively unknown Italian Renaissance artist called Giovanni
Moroni, and the other of a German artist, Anselm Kiefer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Moroni had the
wonderful gift of painting very realistic portraits; I found most of his work
pleasing and detailed, particularly his depiction of the lustrous fabrics of
the women who sat for him and the aristocratic faces, gazing directly at you,
in astounding detail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJR_TOXUp540Ybl3vScctNE3ZX-VKryWQyDS38zUauqqZiKC-SMzB1agZEnmvi0_GTGecy9oiU0UUj43Vu91mAjxfeevfCsZq-O6h1bsjgQDdooQyaOWX_drDbuhSp9vuHJBRPlvLGtT13/s1600/Moroni.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJR_TOXUp540Ybl3vScctNE3ZX-VKryWQyDS38zUauqqZiKC-SMzB1agZEnmvi0_GTGecy9oiU0UUj43Vu91mAjxfeevfCsZq-O6h1bsjgQDdooQyaOWX_drDbuhSp9vuHJBRPlvLGtT13/s1600/Moroni.png" height="320" width="277" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kiefer, on
the other hand, is a bit more abstract. Clearly influenced by being brought up
after the war being born in March of 1945, his works are dark, foreboding, huge
floor-to-ceiling canvases that filled great walls in the galleries. While I
would not have chosen to see his work if it were not exhibited in the same
venue, I will admit there were a few that gave me pause, like his very un-Gogh sunflowers:
black, stark, brooding. I could not help but think how this young boy’s
experience in war-ravaged Germany may well have made him obsessed with
blackness and gloom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21-I7BpnNr9HSvmQFzHBb8OYhCoMA-45tI0wjMBAO52zZmcGy4Wgdoq3EVR9Ucj0Twnk3HQexZqFn90F8dllqccKV9nBd4ybXNdyiqRC2pCoKJ8Do1OdiTtQixLRUp-vfmSRS7sGCv7nR/s1600/Kiefer.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21-I7BpnNr9HSvmQFzHBb8OYhCoMA-45tI0wjMBAO52zZmcGy4Wgdoq3EVR9Ucj0Twnk3HQexZqFn90F8dllqccKV9nBd4ybXNdyiqRC2pCoKJ8Do1OdiTtQixLRUp-vfmSRS7sGCv7nR/s1600/Kiefer.png" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> </span>What can I say? London,
always an unexpected pleasure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
may not find the time to post again until after what I expect will be a lovely
visit “home” soon. It is the first time I will be back in New Jersey with my
family for Thanksgiving since 2008. I am sure there will be an abundance of
laughter and a share of tears, reminiscing for hours on end; quiet talks and
boisterous meals; furtive smiles across the table that say how <i>so</i> very happy it is to be in this moment.
It’s all those things I am particularly longing for, and most grateful for with
my family, in what has always been an introspective time of the year for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Great expectations?
<i>Loads</i>. After all, it’s been a while
since Robyn and I have revisited the same memory and not needed to finish the
sentence before we both burst out laughing, knowing exactly what the other
meant to say. It never fails to confound others who can only shake their heads at
our one-mindedness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> You can only imagine how I am counting the
days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-6873580125542762362014-09-21T17:13:00.000+01:002014-09-21T17:13:17.405+01:00"Pilots"<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s not
what you think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Pilots” is
what Tim calls Pilates, so when I arrive home after a session he’ll ask me “how
was Pilots?” It’s usually a lot better than flying—there is a bounce in my step
when I leave the class and head toward the bus--yet I have to admit I struggle
with the routines that require balance. I have none.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Coordination
has always been a slight issue for me. I’m the one who walks along and for no
particular reason turns her ankle. I recently fell up the stairs at the office
(fortunately no one saw me) and skinned my knee. At my age! I (somewhat fondly) recall walking along West Side
Avenue in Jersey City with my two sisters and for absolutely no reason at all
finding myself on the pavement on all fours rather than the standard two while
a gentleman walks by and says “Hello ladies!” Robyn and I still use that line
decades later. I laughed then, I’m sure, and I still laugh now, but gosh I wish
I could manage <i>one</i> of the exercises
with a bit more . . . grace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Put all of
your weight on your right leg. Go ahead. Now, when you’re ready, put the toes
of your left leg on your right knee. If you need to, extend your arms or place
hands on hips. Are you there yet? Now, move your toes from their position on
your right leg to first point forward, and then make a circle around to the
back and come back to the starting position, toes on knee. No touching the
floor with those toes!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Oh, by the
way, that’s the easy one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After the
second or third session I walked up to Amanda and asked for advice on
maintaining my balance. She suggested I try different positions with my arms to
help me gain my balance . . . and practice. No doubt good advice, but months
later I’m still on the fourth rep while everyone else is switching weight to
their other leg. And she’s kicked it up a notch with more challenging exercises
because we’re a more advanced class. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve tried
arms akimbo, arms straight out, arms like I’m flying. Nothing seems to keep me
stable long enough to get through the reps. When I’m at the photocopier at work
waiting for my copies to spit out I practice. And I don’t give up in class; I
touch my toes to the mat and start again while Amanda steps the rest of the
class through eight reps and then switches legs. She executes perfectly, and while
I do notice a few wobblers in the room, everyone seems to manage with the
occasional toe tap to the mat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">How do they do it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There’s
some science to it, of course—inner ear and vision both play parts in stability,
I read. I can try to focus on a stable object in front of me (I tend to look at
Amanda and try to mimic her, silly me) or I can try to close my eyes, though
that feels risky as I suspect I may find myself back on all fours hearing the
voice from the past greeting “Hello Ladies!” before I have time to catch
myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Fortunately
the balance routines are only a small part of the workout Amanda has for us,
and it changes every four weeks. I quite like the class, which I started earlier
this year to strengthen my core and stretch my muscles to keep that occasional sciatic
pain at bay, and only miss a session when I’m working through a pizza in Italy
or kayaking in Mecklenburg. At least I can get that balance somewhat right!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One of the
things I like about this Pilates programme is that it’s all very low-key; the
classes are held in school halls and not Pilates studios (and the difference in
cost is amazing--£7 a session to £30 and up in London). I can attend any session
on any day of the week outside my usual near Angel station, as long as I email
the coordinator so the instructor knows to expect me. I’d say I’m probably near
the oldest in the group who go to the Tuesday class, and by far the oldest in
the Monday session which is near Old Street where everyone else is under 30;
must be the neighbourhood. We all wear tee-shirts (mine is often the one
provided free from the company who sponsors the classes) and some sort of
athletic trousers (Lycra favours heavily except for me) and sport ankle socks.
I have to admit when I first started I thought I might have to spend on athletic
gear because I didn’t really have much, but my tennis socks are fine, the tee
shirt was a nice bonus and I have a couple of pairs of ¾ or full-length
stretchy bottoms that I don’t use for tennis (mostly because they don’t have
enough pockets). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And I fit right in—no one comes to the session dressed in
high-tech gear and it’s a lot of the same outfit as last time . . . in fact
last week one of the women showed up in mismatched socks, which Amanda said she
quite liked and to which the woman replied that neither partner could be found
after the last wash. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We can
choose to place our mat anywhere we want in the large room which is generally
devoid of furniture except the Old Street “studio” which has a baby grand piano
tucked in one corner. I usually choose the back row (there are usually two, as
classes are held to 10-12 participants) so less people are noticing my toe-tapping,
arm-flailing balancing woes. Those of us who are regulars have sort of fallen
into a pattern of where we choose to unroll our mat (or in my case, mats—the floors
are wooden and the mats are thin; I did it at Amanda’s suggestion and have
started a trend, LOL). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There’s sometimes a bit of chit chat before the session
begins—about missing the last class or having a substitute teacher when Amanda
goes home to Trieste for holiday. We tend to say hello to each other or smile,
though we don’t actually know each other’s names (certainly I don’t) and we don’t
hang around and shoot the breeze after class—it’s generally a brief greeting to
Amanda and then we all file out the door, some heading toward parked cars and
the rest of us in scattered directions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t
mind that, though I’ll admit I’m surprised—you’d likely be amazed at how
friendly London is. Last week at the end of the session one of the women remarked
how relaxed she feels after the class, to which I agreed, and then asked which
bus I was taking; I guess she’d noticed me hopping one previously. Still we
didn’t introduce ourselves and we wound up taking different buses, cheerily
saying see you next week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m tempted
to peek at how well she maintains her balance and solicit advice! No, no, must look forward at an immovable
object . . . ! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-62764914885341275232014-09-06T19:11:00.001+01:002014-09-06T19:11:34.766+01:00Planes, Strains, and Autobahns<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am still
a bit bewildered when I look at the calendar and see that it’s . . . September?
When did that happen? It was just July and we were enjoying a brilliant summer
in London. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps
August whizzed by because it was crammed with “stuff,” and don’t we always say
that time flies when you’re busy (and having fun)?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This year I
skipped most of the August Cowes Week activities—I joined the fun for the first
weekend, attending a champagne party here, a dinner there, drinks at the pub .
. . but diligently went back to work in London on Monday. Come Friday Tim was
back in town and in the early morning we headed to the airport to fly to
Hamburg, day-trip through Lübeck, and then drive through the northeast German
countryside to meet with some of the family in <u><a href="http://www.xn--see-schloss-schnhausen-8hc.de/">Sch<span style="color: windowtext;">ö</span>nhausen</a></u>.
Facebook friends would have seen our selfie at the Holsten Gate in Travemünde,
a lovely sea resort just outside Lübeck. The gate dates back to 1478, and had a
rather “appalling” lean (so says the city’s website) until recent repair works.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And the
churches, of course. St. Catherine’s. Lübeck Cathedral. St. Peter’s. St.
Jacob’s. All lovely. In Rostock we wandered into St.Mary's where one of the oldest astronomical clocks is still ticking--since 1472 and with its original clockworks. The medieval clock has a calendar which is valid until 2017.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1-vIH__ym42aNfWzM0KxbM8RuA5tOslG_BTHrj5mb1S-Ff_-SOz8_2vJCkNlSQDWdW2wK8EX1_UR-zsDJg62O3T4JglIqmIEiYxeS6cva-s-lCGiy330kxzX10TDvkEGCyC5t1ilPnl-/s1600/clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1-vIH__ym42aNfWzM0KxbM8RuA5tOslG_BTHrj5mb1S-Ff_-SOz8_2vJCkNlSQDWdW2wK8EX1_UR-zsDJg62O3T4JglIqmIEiYxeS6cva-s-lCGiy330kxzX10TDvkEGCyC5t1ilPnl-/s1600/clock.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Astronomical clock in Rostock.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We decided
on a quick lunch at Travemünde, having found our way to the fish pier where
several market stalls were showing the day’s wares. I had a lovely hot-smoked
salmon while Tim managed a large helping of prawns pouring out of a roll before
heading to the schloss. The building is an old farmhouse on Lake Hauser, and we
were treated to the holiday loft, a 200 sqm apartment with beautiful views of
the lake from all the large, front-facing windows. We joked that the kitchen
alone was the size of one of the floors of the house in London, but honestly, it
was no joke! It made for wonderful meals arranged and/or cooked by any number
of guests, including a special morning of “pancakes” made by the eldest nephew
which were delicious! I tended to stick with setting the table and clearing the
plates, as too many cooks . . . Evenings found us relaxing together in the 40
sqm dining hall (because room isn’t quite the right description) deciding what
to do the next day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNtfyHtgSZnXjXgkJK0k3C6y08Hx_frOwqEQxoXMPpXFqF8D3z_icnsfwfuXXUcM0XU3WEBadA4r9jbHbUn6zKgpMO0mXbWR3eHe16kNyHRU9NKg9JkJKFafhYsHXrAhOD2dLSn0oVFba/s1600/dining.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNtfyHtgSZnXjXgkJK0k3C6y08Hx_frOwqEQxoXMPpXFqF8D3z_icnsfwfuXXUcM0XU3WEBadA4r9jbHbUn6zKgpMO0mXbWR3eHe16kNyHRU9NKg9JkJKFafhYsHXrAhOD2dLSn0oVFba/s1600/dining.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dinner is served! Great view of the lake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB">Many of the
days were spent exploring the lakes, rowing, kayaking, swimming, and otherwise
taking in the lovely scenery and then having a hearty lunch at a nearby pub. Having
not rowed or kayaked in ages, I took some instruction from Tim so we could take
turns going up and down the lake . . . it can be quite hard work! (I just
looked down at the thumb on my right hand to see whether I could still spot the
area where the blister was—now just a faded red circle.) The children enjoyed
the swimming and I noticed that most of the time the parents were doing the
paddling . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was so
pleased to take a day trip to Stettin, also known as Szczecin, with them. When
we rented our car in Hamburg we were told we would not be insured if we drove
across the border to Poland (apparently too much thievery) and so we piled in
the family car and headed east to a city first mentioned in history in the <i>first</i> century. More recently it was one
of the birthplaces of the famous Solidarity movement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I wasn’t
surprised by the city as we entered—it looked urban and gritty, with some
run-down buildings and graffiti among the more well-kept surroundings. It
probably didn’t help that it was a grey, wet day. In fact it was raining when
we arrived. Tipping down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicShFpHzAAZnVHT1hYEwmdEyGyR91s0lSu3C7mxF7vOTi5Yi0vCRH4bYgGfITA5Pxb9lTfIAfE98IzKEahsVN1V98EmWUn2T4-j9mRSaKAxTxw6hjwKoBMVD1Kb9oKEcM1uWD8bg4JkHTJ/s1600/tim.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicShFpHzAAZnVHT1hYEwmdEyGyR91s0lSu3C7mxF7vOTi5Yi0vCRH4bYgGfITA5Pxb9lTfIAfE98IzKEahsVN1V98EmWUn2T4-j9mRSaKAxTxw6hjwKoBMVD1Kb9oKEcM1uWD8bg4JkHTJ/s1600/tim.png" height="320" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim in Sczczecin; note M in background!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB">Having
found a place to park we started our journey, only to be temporarily sidelined
as the rain got heavier. We all tumbled into a bookstore and browsed while
waiting for the rain to let up a bit. Tim bought some postcards and a map of
things to do in the area, and our next trip between the raindrops was to the
nearby post office to send the cards on their way. I was excited to write on
the cards that I was in Poland, my first trip to the country where both sides
of my family have history. (I keep thinking I ought to find the time to do the
ancestral research . . . one of these days.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Szczecin is
still a busy port city, and we did walk around and followed the map, spotting
key landmarks near the Odra (aka Oder) while keeping an eye out for a place to
have a traditional Polish meal for lunch.
There weren’t many other tourists, despite the fact that there is an
airport with flights direct from London, Berlin, and Warsaw. But I didn’t mind
the lack of crowds, and when the sun came out it was really lovely—some of that
original gritty feel seemed to have disappeared, and the city was green and
pretty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And we did
find a lovely restaurant and wine bar called Bachus where the staff spoke
English and the pierogi were delicious! I took a picture of the menu, printed
in three languages, but needn’t have bothered as they have a <a href="http://www.bachus.szczecin.pl/Menu.html">website</a>. Who doesn’t these
days, eh?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNa3J-93yGst3wwzklucfC75jfiRhm4OIa0CvCQp6smly-76ufflnFBc11wCxAGFddxZsyP_c-Q0hP15w3YI_Zn4o-IwEKMLu2TAeInEuABKdXwnk36MkoQkFV6i3A_ntKNa4hYnTI4qs/s1600/lunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNa3J-93yGst3wwzklucfC75jfiRhm4OIa0CvCQp6smly-76ufflnFBc11wCxAGFddxZsyP_c-Q0hP15w3YI_Zn4o-IwEKMLu2TAeInEuABKdXwnk36MkoQkFV6i3A_ntKNa4hYnTI4qs/s1600/lunch.jpg" height="320" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for the water to spout!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB">On another
day Tim and I took a short trip to Stralsund where we wandered along cobbled
streets filled with medieval churches and lovely architecture, and then took a
ringside seat at the fountains in the old market square with St Nicholas Church
across for a wonderful view for lunch. Children would rush up at the small
geysers of water in the middle of the square and then giggle with delight and
run away; occasionally an unbeknownst tourist would wander too close as the
water spouted up, setting off laughter from onlookers. It was a lovely way to
spend a few hours in the afternoon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Before
leaving we drove to the island of <u><a href="http://gogermany.about.com/od/citiesandregions/ss/Rugen-Travel-Guide.htm">R<span style="color: windowtext;">ü</span>gen</a></u> to see the white chalk cliffs, but
alas missed the last bus to get there. The city is lovely, very much a posh
seaside resort; I’ve only just learned that the beaches are mainly clothes-free. (I have also discovered that in this part of
Germany, that’s pretty acceptable anywhere, including the lakes we visited).
Your history lesson for today, then, from National Geographic: <i>these ancient structures are made nearly
entirely of the skeletons of calcite-covered plankton called coccolithophores,
deposited by the trillions during the Cretaceous period. Sediments like these
actually give the Cretaceous its name: Creta means "chalk" in Latin.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ll admit
I didn’t drive on the autobahn. It’s scary. Tim, a most admirable driver, was
happy cruising along at 180 kph (112 mph) and had to often head into the “slow”
lane to make room for cars coming up quickly behind at something closer to 220
kph (136 mph). For most of the highways in Germany there is no
federally-controlled speed limit, though in some urban areas limits are posted.
Anyway, I didn’t feel left out . . . speed is not something I’m keen on. Give me 50 mph on the Isle of Wight where I
can round the curves gently (often not seeing what’s coming) and I’m happy;
that’s enough thrill for me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We didn’t
stay put long once we returned home, as we spent the bank holiday in Cambridge
and St Neots visiting wonderful friends who recently moved to the area. I had
not been to Cambridge before, and now having seen both major university
towns—Oxford being the other—Cambridge is my favourite. The area has a less
crowded, more picturesque feel to it than Oxford, with lovely architecture,
green spaces, and of course the punting along the Cam. We paid our pound each
to wander through one of the quads, at Trinity College, and also strolled
through Pembroke, home to the first chapel of Christopher Wren (educated at
Oxford) who you may recall created a few architectural wonders such as St Paul’s in London and the Royal Naval
College, along with rebuilding 52 other churches in London after the great fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU17j3DdQwQsIXS9xKa1RRGy1oaIdzZ5AaS3OLUQOHBrK61iIRN_Xm98WTcWFJ615RNkhIuVAzMApARz_PRqpsaRKV4vSDOZRaPINQTNUyEFA7Frx94BJHwnpNi8hYA-AYT-5-xQs-6feV/s1600/pembroke.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU17j3DdQwQsIXS9xKa1RRGy1oaIdzZ5AaS3OLUQOHBrK61iIRN_Xm98WTcWFJ615RNkhIuVAzMApARz_PRqpsaRKV4vSDOZRaPINQTNUyEFA7Frx94BJHwnpNi8hYA-AYT-5-xQs-6feV/s1600/pembroke.png" height="320" width="129" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Student at Pembroke. NOT.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One nice
treat was finding Harriet’s Tea Room down one of the cobbled streets in
Cambridge, just in time to get a lovely table by the window to watch the world
go by and have some tea and lunch. The highlight of the weekend, however, was
staying with Leah and Andrew at their lovely new home in St Neots, about 20
miles west of Cambridge. We spent the weekend eating, chatting, Skyping with
their parents (whom we’ve met), playing Trivial Pursuit (where Leah managed to
get all the pies ahead of us, but it was close) and taking in an air show in
nearby Little Gransden. Andrew barbequed his Aussie heart out, with piri piri
chicken, steak fresh from the farm, and two kinds of fish perfectly timed on
the outdoor grill while Leah made delicious salads of all sorts, with guacamole
and mango and beans (not all in the same salad). Tim and I got to simply sit
back and enjoy it all! In the morning they took us to a local farm where we had
a lovely breakfast with a view, and bought some delicious bread and some wild birdseed
to take back to London.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The air
show was a hit with all of us, though I suspect more for the boys, who would
occasionally talk between them about <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YNjlnXQEfJw">Lancasters</a> and Mustangs
and Spitfires. After walking through the crowd and taking a slightly closer
look at some of the planes that were to fly later that day we found a space big
enough to alternately sit and stand during the show, which featured a bit of
aerobatics along with flybys of some of the well-known aircraft from the war. I
quite liked the small planes trying to break helium-filled balloons or ducking
under the wire, limbo style. The show raises money for a charity called
Children in Need, which I think is wonderful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Note to Tim</span></i><span lang="EN-GB">: we missed the Vulcan, but you can check it
out <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4K7RmNWK3QM">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnTfKk_al5a6i3n-t0hv2BvFvZyLCPE_DT18sLV1HCcPPgva1twyHxAKjzqsO7qM4Xx0tNgUb1PIfUO6TYw0O8Jx0b8n9jfHrbHobjLlQ4OhxAxbaXEtD3HlyTUjJ3UP6m_ACAQQ_qGhT/s1600/airshow.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnTfKk_al5a6i3n-t0hv2BvFvZyLCPE_DT18sLV1HCcPPgva1twyHxAKjzqsO7qM4Xx0tNgUb1PIfUO6TYw0O8Jx0b8n9jfHrbHobjLlQ4OhxAxbaXEtD3HlyTUjJ3UP6m_ACAQQ_qGhT/s1600/airshow.png" height="320" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lancasters? Mustangs?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The last
week in August had me visiting a dear friend in Lingfield for dinner and a catch-up
with her sister in town from Munich—lovely homemade soup and schnitzel,
Birgit—a true treat for a weeknight! We also had the pleasure of Tim’s mum for
company in London, which means a bit of music and dinner on the town. We caught
the talented Belmont Ensemble for a candlelit evening of Vivaldi, Bach, and
Mozart which was delightful; St Martin-in-the-Fields is a terrific venue for
music. I am always so enraptured by violinists and the magnificent strains they
can evoke from their instruments; it’s one thing to hear it on the radio, and
quite another to watch the musician angle her bow and release strains of soft,
lyrical sounds or bracing vibrations. (I say “her” but should say that there
was one gentleman among the eight violinists.) We began the evening with dinner
in the Crypt, which I always find a good, simple and very convenient choice
before a concert there—not a long menu, but never have I not been able to find
something I like. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And so it
was with <a href="http://www.jsheekeyoysterbar.co.uk/">J Sheekey</a>, on the agenda for a birthday celebration of the eldest Mrs D. My first trip to this well-known oyster bar and
restaurant in Covent Garden, I expected it to be crowded and was not surprised
when the couple sitting next to me had American accents. I smiled when I
overheard them wondering what courgettes are, and decided to lean over and tell
them these are zucchini, to which they were delighted to hear and promptly
ordered.(We then moved tables so I don’t know if they met expectation!) I had
the tuna tartare to start and a lovely square of hake for dinner, both of which
were delicious. I half thought to have oysters, but I’m a bit picky when it
comes to them and kumamotos weren’t on order . . . I think I need a trip to
Elliott Bay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We also
took a trip to the Imperial War Museum, now artfully known as the IWM, where we
went to see an exhibition called Truth and Memory, exhibiting paintings and
sculpture from the First World War. Across
three galleries, there is evocative art to suit many tastes—some abstract, some
large and imposing. My very favourite, the piece that gave me pause, is one
called <i>Youth Mourning</i>, produced in 1916 by George Clausen. Sixteen million
military and civilian deaths . . . and here, in this painting, the pain of one
woman who lost someone is so exquisitely captured. I’ll let you in on a secret;
perhaps it’s the real reason why this piece resonates with me—it is the pose,
that very same pose I found myself in seven Augusts ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgESIxILuPlDEYm9Y-GGKQBq5IiWfcG97ngKz_jK0M723x8ZlBDIXuH886HrTn6XAowptxBrISqa-PnLq79wkZuKsMZfSxmSBP3TvX0aIfYG5VySTwQoIYn92gaQt9nq6LBYsTjE8a0drK_/s1600/youth.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgESIxILuPlDEYm9Y-GGKQBq5IiWfcG97ngKz_jK0M723x8ZlBDIXuH886HrTn6XAowptxBrISqa-PnLq79wkZuKsMZfSxmSBP3TvX0aIfYG5VySTwQoIYn92gaQt9nq6LBYsTjE8a0drK_/s1600/youth.png" height="303" width="320" /></a></div>
And the
world moves on. The summer is declared “over” in England and school is back in
session. I don’t believe it; I predict an Indian summer where there will be at
least one more evening in the garden with a glass of rosé and a handsome man
across the table from me, and we’ll chat about each other’s day’s efforts and
decide what time to have dinner.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Yes, I
think that will be a perfect way to spend some of September. The dahlias are
still blooming, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-83478821985309869162014-08-07T17:56:00.000+01:002014-08-07T17:56:15.893+01:00Summertime<div class="MsoNormal">
If I had to choose which of the seven summers have been the
best I’ve had in
London, weather-wise, I think the summer of 2014 wins hands down -- and it's
only mid-August!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The summers
can be brief and forgettable here; I fondly recall sitting with
Robyn and Jimmy in Covent Garden in the summer of 2008 with button-down
sweaters pulled over our shoulders and scarves round our necks waiting for the
rain to abate, sipping cappuccinos. That was a fine summer, perhaps ranking second of seven; it was only August that was a bit
rubbish. But oh how glorious the last few weeks have been this year—I dare use
the word “hot” to describe some of these last few weeks. Septembers are lovely,
in general . . . something to look forward to, fingers crossed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNxMa4FlfzSJi8ONHOdFzevH-ROj0pO55kGzUefJvm2c_4rBXOBHQ5O59QlDQe_o31Ea624_uZw0_3bw_F9RWDQFJSIGm6WKOkDR0uDvYI_zI1Za70tDkfuDm5YdEdRpBpdCXYlT3lSg29/s1600/face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNxMa4FlfzSJi8ONHOdFzevH-ROj0pO55kGzUefJvm2c_4rBXOBHQ5O59QlDQe_o31Ea624_uZw0_3bw_F9RWDQFJSIGm6WKOkDR0uDvYI_zI1Za70tDkfuDm5YdEdRpBpdCXYlT3lSg29/s1600/face.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street art!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
London in
the summer is great to do things out of doors; I recently went to an Alternative
London walking tour with colleagues on what started as a cloudy day that
morphed from cloudy with a chance of rain into a beautiful, hot (there it is
again) sunny afternoon. Now, I have done some of the London Walks and
both of the Shakespeare walks sponsored by the Globe, and have found them
fascinating primarily for the guides' knowledge of the city, the architecture,
the history, etc. Our guide for the alternative walk was sadly a bit too
self-promoting and political . . . he spent more time telling us about
his websites and who he knows than about the streets in east London we strolled
down. That was a disappointment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then again, Alternative London walks are meant
to be “free”--you show up and if you want at the end of the walk you are asked
to give a small donation (the recommendation is £5) to the guide. To be fair, our
guide was quite knowledgeable about the street artists--Roa, Jonesy, Banksy (“don’t
pronounce it Bansky”), etc--and had <i>some</i>
knowledge of the history of the area and how it has been gentrified over the
years. I just expected more of what the other walks were like; I should have
realised that it was billed as "alternative" for a reason! At a
certain point I just disengaged my brain from his blather and took in the art
and enjoyed the stroll through Shoreditch and Spitafields, east London way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day got even better as we went to a nearby traditional
Punjabi restaurant called <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CCAQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tayyabs.co.uk%2F&ei=0K7jU-X1KYPvOta6gYAP&usg=AFQjCNHwrcPrvbPwTpIwrjFCegsMJfBt7Q&sig2=OYgh_1QTqQUObjDo2Kfhlw&bvm=bv.72676100,d.ZWU">Tayyab’s</a> in Whitechapel for a team meal after the walk.
It was a late lunch, 2:30 pm, and we started in the usual style for Indian food
with poppadoms for all and a mixed grill (think a lot of meat). Frankly that
would have been enough, but there were mains to come. I was happy that I'd
ordered a small king prawn dish; even that was a minor struggle to finish (and
thankfully wasn't more meat)! By the end of the meal everyone looked a bit . .
. stuffed. There were even some leftovers going home. And I can see why the
place is quite popular--our walking tour guide was recommending it as the best
Indian in London--as the food was perfectly cooked, delicately spiced, and
quite tasty. I’d offered to buy a round of drinks at a nearby pub for the
team, but only half joined; the other half limped away holding their tums.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3jWhj-J6QMMvYe_eIZ3fZbKn_ZCbFtkxokLV0Zog_v_qO6RIoY9XaYtH1cTojG-D1O7URY5vh3leF2U0gLOIh1u0Rv6Q5_XeSC8Ve222DlNKu99VQe0ct6m33mnl1_SXBvUmX8it6wxSu/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3jWhj-J6QMMvYe_eIZ3fZbKn_ZCbFtkxokLV0Zog_v_qO6RIoY9XaYtH1cTojG-D1O7URY5vh3leF2U0gLOIh1u0Rv6Q5_XeSC8Ve222DlNKu99VQe0ct6m33mnl1_SXBvUmX8it6wxSu/s1600/image.jpeg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mixed grill at Tayyab's.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The visit
to Tayyab's had me recalling
another recent adventure with food in Richmond, just west of London. Imagine numerous small plates
from a menu the chef chooses
(and doesn’t share) that
begins when you arrive (which for us was 7:30 pm) and culminates at 9:45 pm
with something spectacular--in our case a whole roast pig brought out to the
cramped dining room for all of us to admire. Yes, there was clapping and picture taking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I paced myself, knowing what to expect at <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CCAQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nonsolovinoltd.co.uk%2F&ei=-a7jU7vLGcWLOPDYgPgB&usg=AFQjCNGdm-eB3Fnc21AFqbcgWHT0cDx4qQ&sig2=4SHkEt0AGjP57X2k1_Du8g">Al Boccon di'vino</a>
("a divine mouthful"). The menu is meant to be Venetian, but having
never been to a Venetian wedding feast I wasn't entirely sure what would be
presented; I was hoping for a
bit of fish. The parma ham and melon was a wonderful starter for a warm
evening. I recall a grilled eggplant followed by a trio of mouthfuls of baked
aubergine, meatball, and a fat but tender asparagus sprinkled with cheese.
There was a scallop and a king prawn in red sauce. A delightful beef carpaccio
on salad drizzled with truffle oil followed. Two pastas, one with mascarpone
cheese, made their way to the table. All this and two bottles of red wine
before the main event. (I
suspect I may have even missed detailing
a course—perhaps there
was a white fish?!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a bit of room left for the pork, served with roasted potatoes. I was disappointed to find the
potato a bit too salty to enjoy—truly my only complaint of the evening. The pork was lovely, moist and less innocuous on the
plate than its earlier presentation. Until one of the guests requested some
crispy bits. She was presented with the head on a platter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyd9Iwkvq4TITelbD_yjB8ukxWlR-qGtwzBJZ3b_YIZhM85Z3XMA8LgT4IInOYKhuqasjgnW-pMCRcTIAisrL7XlOGkV5jLAKwJMwjbPdNXgklUDkGbXtuuulg48DXpxkyNNm6DEbnvC5R/s1600/20140718_222324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyd9Iwkvq4TITelbD_yjB8ukxWlR-qGtwzBJZ3b_YIZhM85Z3XMA8LgT4IInOYKhuqasjgnW-pMCRcTIAisrL7XlOGkV5jLAKwJMwjbPdNXgklUDkGbXtuuulg48DXpxkyNNm6DEbnvC5R/s1600/20140718_222324.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oink!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did I mention dessert? A lovely pannacotta. I am not a
dessert person, but did give it a go, and it was lovely and silky as you would
expect it to be. The limoncello to finish was, however, more than I could
manage . . . that and at 10:45 pm with our last direct train back to North
London in under 20 minutes, Tim and I decided to take the much needed walk back
to the overground.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was it very good? Absolutely. And the food, if I recall
correctly, is not outrageously priced. The wine, of course, depends on what you
choose. The hostess, Simona (apparently a Romanian and not a Venetian), will tell you she
has bottles for £25, £40, £50 and above, and will gladly give her opinion if
you ask. These are displayed
all around the small, dimly-lit restaurant, but again, no list to choose from. We
started on the low end and enjoyed the house red, then moved to something a bit
more pricey that was good but not that much better than the first, and finished
with something back under £40. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Certainly a place to try, but perhaps not to re-visit all that often. After all,
there are a lot of wonderful food choices in or just outside London . . . and this is more of a food “experience”
to bring people to than a place to dine regularly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what will the rest of this London summer bring? Well
some time away from London, to Germany, and as ever a bit of time on the Isle
of Wight. It's Cowes Week and I've left Tim and the crew at Number 12 to enjoy
the revelry. I was only mildly worried when Tim mentioned a BBQ, given his
history (recalling again, fondly, the summer of 2008 when I was serving tea to
the fire brigade at 3 am after a small fire from a BBQ the previous evening ignited the ivy at the back of the
garden). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately no repeat performance! <o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-3485386064410153822014-07-13T11:13:00.000+01:002014-07-13T11:13:54.828+01:00Listen up!<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Waking up
this morning, I was reminded how much I like the sound of rain. Not the pitter
patter of drops against the window, but the <i>other</i>
sound . . . do you know what I mean? There’s a certain low, persistent cadence,
perhaps a collective of the raindrops coursing through the air. A bit of white
noise. I don’t know how better to explain it; I only know I hear it, therefore
it exists, and it soothes me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This
morning it was particularly noticeable; the house still, just me trying to
sleep in a bit. Tim is away at a training course until this afternoon, so there
was no one breathing quietly and dreaming beside me. I like getting up early
when I’m on my own; Tim’s mum would say something along the lines of not
missing the best part of the day. I’ll admit I was actually disappointed that
it was softly drizzling; I wanted to make coffee and have it in the garden,
having spent a very brief time between returning home from visiting my friend
Kate in Chesham (which was brilliant—beautiful day, great conversation) and
watching the World Cup at 9 pm. Fortunately it was light and warm when I did
get home, and I was able to do a bit of weeding and tidying. And yes, I wanted
to pause and admire my handiwork with a cuppa!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yk7V0tJ2lrYAO1id9UVGHvOku5z0xUf6KxAfsEBVTcmgwLW6W1WFjyDsKzA5vEntvNKbp_ZNTbOUQ2Dl9zEGdMH4VC6uGfs9bTYMbIWLXiOLEOL9hXKGMtHOOZbpR3WdG3o3cDFxSpTn/s1600/rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yk7V0tJ2lrYAO1id9UVGHvOku5z0xUf6KxAfsEBVTcmgwLW6W1WFjyDsKzA5vEntvNKbp_ZNTbOUQ2Dl9zEGdMH4VC6uGfs9bTYMbIWLXiOLEOL9hXKGMtHOOZbpR3WdG3o3cDFxSpTn/s1600/rose.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">I did open the
French doors to let the air in, and stood in the doorway with my coffee, watching
the rain fall and bounce off the leaves of the awning of rose branches. A few
yellowing tongues from the palm tree near the doors caught my eye, and so
secauters in hand I went out in the light rain and trimmed. And paused. And
barely felt the rain, it was so soft. It was lovely. I walked down the short
path and decided to pluck a rose, drooping heavily with the evening’s rain, to
put in a vase on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
No one in
sight, no noise but that sound of the gentle rain.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sounds.
Noise. Talk. I’ve been exposed to a lot of chatter about listening of late. It’s
mostly been work related but it has had crossover to life outside the nine to
five. I attended an enlightening workshop given by <a href="http://www.theartofconnection.co.uk/listening_skills_expert.html">Dick Mullender</a>,
a former Metropolitan Police officer who spent years in hostage negotiation.
What was wthe key takeaway? You need to <i>listen</i>
(and mostly to the rambling, where key words often emerge) and not ask
questions. The 150+ of us in the room all left with our new Plan B – to be a
hostage negotiator! (Sixteen people got a chance to try out their skills—I didn’t
volunteer—and I think all of them found it tremendously hard.) Shortly after I
was introduced to a book called <a href="http://www.chimpparadox.co.uk/">The
Chimp Paradox</a>. Seriously. In one sentence, the premise is that we all have
an inner chimp, five times faster than our human brain, that we can learn to
nurture and control before it blurts out something embarrassing. Now don’t you
want to read it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVQGsVizdD4dU1aZTz6221r5s9dvCtp3diFLRS_6TQLrQvQ_3hhX4vsvcmvOxjILsuv-0_lEp2vBcl6eGrDur_Dxbef9xnMjyCs-y4r7mqq1beaoQYwSj2RE9125K_PjEYjyV_7c5FzIK/s1600/bleeding.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVQGsVizdD4dU1aZTz6221r5s9dvCtp3diFLRS_6TQLrQvQ_3hhX4vsvcmvOxjILsuv-0_lEp2vBcl6eGrDur_Dxbef9xnMjyCs-y4r7mqq1beaoQYwSj2RE9125K_PjEYjyV_7c5FzIK/s1600/bleeding.png" height="320" width="300" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">I will.
Because while it’s been a glorious three years married to Mr D, I want to, as I
said to Tim, add a “0” to that. (His response at doing the age calculations
was, well, hopeful!) And even the best relationships need effort to thrive. (You
may have noticed that.) A recent anniversary date found us at the lovely <a href="http://www.bleedingheart.co.uk/restaurant/">Bleeding Heart Restaurant</a>
to celebrate. I chose the Bleeding Heart because years ago when we were first
courting, we were ambling about the area after having a glass of wine after
work, looking for a place for dinner. Tim suggested the BH, and I’d never been
and am always up for a new experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact we sat in the same room, near the table
we sat at in 2009 when we conspired over positively wonderful food and wine to
go to Boulogne-sur-Mer the very next day. Decadent of us, but we were carefree and
enjoyed each other’s company, so why not. It was my first trip to France outside
of Paris, and I recall it was a bit chilly—it was February—but sunny and we had
a marvelous time walking and talking and having lunch at <a href="http://www.welshpub.com/modulosite2/small-card-gb.htm">Le Welsh Pub</a>. In
fact, I rummaged through my technology to find our first selfie—always ahead of
the curve!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFsAoCDaYjrdOw87w2YUeZy23soB7j40vnIjYyzI9zlr1hT205RQFC0vdaM4xjLKxoxlvWeKuoItNm4lzCZnMx-CwtwKv9Bm8a30mcUqB-b0Su4akFXPUvL8Gvw-Y3sHV2vns_fZsLmWqX/s1600/selfie.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFsAoCDaYjrdOw87w2YUeZy23soB7j40vnIjYyzI9zlr1hT205RQFC0vdaM4xjLKxoxlvWeKuoItNm4lzCZnMx-CwtwKv9Bm8a30mcUqB-b0Su4akFXPUvL8Gvw-Y3sHV2vns_fZsLmWqX/s1600/selfie.png" height="320" width="244" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Tim and I
disagree on the order of events, but the dinner and the trip in 2009 did happen
and it is a fond memory for both of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now four
hours later the sun is trying to peek out. I’ve sent birthday wishes to two of
my lovely friends Jill and Taron, eaten breakfast, have read the Telegraph,
watched Andrew Marr, and texted with Mr D to enjoy the rest of his course and
to shout out when he’s close to home. I think, as Anne would say, I have in
fact delighted in the best part of the day, with so much more left to enjoy. And
listen to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-21619476303116396492014-06-08T15:45:00.001+01:002014-06-08T15:45:41.812+01:00I molti volti di Italia<div class="MsoNormal">
I shouldn’t have been surprised that each region of Italy
that Tim and I visited recently—Sorrento, Naples, Capri, and Ischia—had their
own distinct vitality; after all, even my home state of New Jersey has
different personalities from north to central to south!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t bore you with the details of our eight-day
adventure—my first time to Italy—but there are a few things worth sharing . . .
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, it’s true; the food is good no matter where you go
(as long as you stay away from the tourist-trap port locations in Naples). The
way the pizza is made seemed slightly different in Sorrento than in Naples (or
perhaps it’s just the owner); sometimes a thicker crust that makes a slice more
the foldable New York style, and always delicious. Two of my favourite food experiences were a
chance visit to a small osteria on a cobbled street in Naples, and the
waterfront view of our last night in Ischia where fish and veggies were finally
back on the menu. It’s the little things you miss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On our first night in Naples we didn’t have a plan for
dinner—we had walked the winding streets for hours in the morning, strolling by
shops filled with limoncello and/or gigantic lemons and dozens of lemon
products, statues of the Pope and footballers, and assorted tourist tat. We shared
an early taxi from Sorrento with friends who had a flight back to Heathrow so
our hotel room wasn’t quite ready upon arrival; with map in hand from our host
Franco, we found an outdoor café, sipped a coffee, and found enough energy and direction
to start exploring. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and everyone in Naples
had their laundry hanging from the balconies. The traffic was chaotic on the
main streets, but once we wandered into the quarter where small shops and
restaurants lined the narrow lanes it was easier to walk and admire the
architecture and the people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, Naples is a bit grimy—we observed minutes after leaving
the hotel that that when the bin men came they focused solely on emptying the
bins and ignored any spillage or neatly-piled trash next to the bins. If it
wasn’t in a container, it was left behind. There is graffiti is everywhere, too;
I occasionally found myself frowning at the scrawls at eye level on beautiful
old buildings. Fortunately there seemed to be a lack of stray animals, although
we did see the occasional feline. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we meandered around the Centro Storico, the old town, we’d
spotted several options for dinner along the way, but hadn’t settled on one in
particular. There is a place which claims to be the original home of margarita
pizza called Brandi, but we’d already had a pizza for lunch and I was looking
for something else a bit lighter. In the early evening back in old town we
found ourselves fighting the motor scooters for space instead of people—the bikes
seem to come to life at night. Having dodged a few coming down a hill, we
spotted a small restaurant called Osterio Il Gobbetto that put a sign at the
corner, and quickly decided after a glance at the menu that it looked
worthwhile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tim went to open the door and, surprisingly, it was locked.
The proprietor immediately came and let us in, and motioned to a table for two
that was available of the dozen or so in the place. He promptly locked the door
behind us. I suppose with a small space it kept people from wandering in where
there wasn’t really any place to stand and wait for the next available table. At
least I’d like to think that’s why it was locked—by the time we left there was
a queue out the door; I think we were fortunate to wander toward Vico Sergente
Maggiore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided to order a glass of wine; Tim was having a beer
and I didn’t want more than one glass. And oh, what a glass. I ordered the
house white, and within minutes a nice-sized empty glass arrived with the bottle
and the lovely waitperson poured. And poured. And poured. She kindly left enough room at the
top of the glass so that I could bring it to my lips without spilling it. It
cost 3 euro. And it was delicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As was my spaghetti con vongole; it was in a light, lovely
olive oil and the clams were fresh and the pasta delicious. Tim was thinking
longer and the proprietor suggested his favourite—a curly pasta in pomodoro
with a bit of cheese. I tried it. Perfect flavours. Oh, and Tim decided on a
glass of red. Same glass, same pour, same 3 euro. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiSTgKsC3emFsKo43P2jAGLLtpK36CLJh-vTOn70xUmymUAaWgPsGjxCT0oqrW0HuYjZSd_1Fh5lfvcGc1ykRHo27o4cvTZGDKtSA0XUXV586G4WwLhsFvCxaM6YQm-DXcr1og1pC1Dpy/s1600/golbetto.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiSTgKsC3emFsKo43P2jAGLLtpK36CLJh-vTOn70xUmymUAaWgPsGjxCT0oqrW0HuYjZSd_1Fh5lfvcGc1ykRHo27o4cvTZGDKtSA0XUXV586G4WwLhsFvCxaM6YQm-DXcr1og1pC1Dpy/s1600/golbetto.png" height="202" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the atmosphere! Lots of Italian chatter around us, and
the proprietor took a turn dancing with one of the patrons, I think for her
birthday. It was so convivial and comfortable, a real delight to end the day. I’d
have most certainly returned if we were to spend more time in Naples.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it was the atmosphere that made my second favourite
food experience special—a table near the waterfront watching boats arrive as
the sun set. This one we’d planned, a choice from the rough guide as the number
of restaurants on the waterfront, side by side, is in the dozens. I was looking
forward to some fresh fish, and as we were strolling by taking our long walk
along the pier before dinner the gents at Gennaro’s were just setting out the day’s
fare on a bed of ice. A lovely salmon, some plaice, tilapia. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We took a table in the centre of the outdoor area, not quite
at the edge but set back just a little for a bit of privacy from the near-
endless stream of walkers. We were recommended an aperitif—prosecco with a tangerine
liquer, which was quite refreshing. We sipped and took our time looking at the
menu, watching the yachts, just taking in the atmosphere. With the evening just
beginning the restaurant staff were happy to have us enjoy it all slowly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided on the salmon, and Tim on an assortment of fish,
and we both ordered a rocket salad, mine with prawns, Tim’s with prawns and
veggies. I also wanted a vegetable with my fish, and having worked down the
list of what was on the menu only to be told it wasn’t available or wasn’t in
season, the waiter paused, excused himself, and came back with a huge bunch of “asparagi”
to which I remarked “belissimo”!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having not had much green food in the previous week, I was
glad the rocket was fresh and peppery, lightly dressed with olive oil. Both salads
were huge, but so was the price—10 euro—and we probably could have shared. But
there was no rush to our meal, and we took our time savouring it, ordering wine
to heighten the experience, as wine does.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be honest, the salmon was very good—not outstanding, just
simply grilled, and the asparagus nicely steamed and finished with a bit of
butter. It was the atmosphere—the out of doors, the passersby, the waterfront, the
last night in Italy—that made it special. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But isn’t that often the case—that it’s the combination of
sensual delights that makes the moment special, memorable. What I can say is
that should you find yourself in Italy, and particularly in Naples, be
prepared!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And be prepared for the crush of the underground and the
trains to travel—it’s wonderful to have the option to not take a taxi, though
the train ride to Herculaneum was a bit, well, hot and cramped. Once there
though, even with the long queue and the number of tourists already there we
were able to wander up and down the streets and marvel at the ruins, said to be
the best preserved from the Vesuvius eruption. Looking at the remaining walls
of shops, homes, and even a hotel, it is truly amazing how some bits and pieces
survived the intense heat. I felt guilty walking on some of the remaining tiles
of the floor, thinking these should somehow not be tread upon hundreds of
thousands of visitors!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmx8jfNa9OSWFHy0rnHv2NO5qMiqLff9TIqor-b30vxQlIB2k185IX65qZxCYDPnSnPeIpXikHzBPrvaqHT9uvOat8ep9avo3uFIXpKZr6fQwAUQOsvhhmLH7YoHhc4R-SmGeCGnGboLq/s1600/herculaneum.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmx8jfNa9OSWFHy0rnHv2NO5qMiqLff9TIqor-b30vxQlIB2k185IX65qZxCYDPnSnPeIpXikHzBPrvaqHT9uvOat8ep9avo3uFIXpKZr6fQwAUQOsvhhmLH7YoHhc4R-SmGeCGnGboLq/s1600/herculaneum.png" height="263" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sorrento, too, was lovely—pretty shops and prettier views,
and we enjoyed a wonderful, delicious dinner with friends at a place they’d
chosen having been there before. I really liked the Lacryma Christi, wine from
the red grapes that grows on the slopes of Mt Vesuvius. It is said to be the
nearest equivalent to wine drunk by the ancient Romans. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the island of Ischia, well, is a very different
atmosphere. We stayed at a hotel that was on the beach which was lovely, although
the water was a bit too bracing for a swim. The lounge chairs were set inches
apart, and there was a constant chatter of Italian around us; not quite the
peaceful experience of lying on the beach with a book that I’d expected, but it
didn’t matter; I was enjoying the sun and breeze, and managed to read a few
pages of my guilty pleasure (one of Phillippa Gregory’s historical fiction
novels). I had to say “no, grazie” quite
often to the vendors hawking costume jewelry, scarves and tunics from lounge to
lounge. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxA0-5mW9mxjjZ8ZbspXhdRTeK05Q4swnODPmz5FfmLP6TB0RMbj4rWv6YQ6LOF4nYQmSLyOKiLfvAE-bRhcBXZ38BDw_uWHby4seFviOSPq8JEGhPqI5I5ZvPjidMqNoz-0qNn6oYyCB/s1600/capri2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxA0-5mW9mxjjZ8ZbspXhdRTeK05Q4swnODPmz5FfmLP6TB0RMbj4rWv6YQ6LOF4nYQmSLyOKiLfvAE-bRhcBXZ38BDw_uWHby4seFviOSPq8JEGhPqI5I5ZvPjidMqNoz-0qNn6oYyCB/s1600/capri2.png" height="190" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are lots of lovely shops in Ischia, some posh (but not
as posh as Capri where I spent a day while Tim was in his conference), and the pedestrianised
walkways in Ischia made it a nice experience to walk leisurely and not have to
dodge scooters or cars. And of course, there are lots of restaurants. For lunch
on our first day we found a place with a view and the food was lovely and the
waiter spoke perfect English—he was from the Phillippines. He also spoke
Italian quite well, and most of the clientele was in fact from Italy; we
occasionally heard German, and very little English. It was a decidedly older
crowd in Ischia—I can count on one hand the number of under-50s we shared the
beach with, and it wasn’t much different anywhere we went on the island. I am
glad we went, and particularly at the end of the week, as it gave us a chance
to unwind and relax after spending most days walking for hours to take in as
much as we could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t go back to Naples, or Sorrento, or Ischia—but don’t
get me wrong, it’s not because they’re not wonderful cities to spend time in.
They most certainly are, and I think Naples is my favourite for its edginess,
its architecture (truly a church on every corner), its friendly people and its
vibrancy. No, the reason is that there are other cities to conquer in Italy—Rome,
Florence, Venice—that are on the list.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time I’m finished, I may figure out how to properly
use “prego”! <o:p></o:p></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9131542576522211728.post-10038278319686945822014-05-12T21:12:00.000+01:002014-05-12T21:12:06.772+01:00Only a Number<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am
probably just as guilty as others who say “age is just a number” and then
whinge about my age. Yes, it is a number, but it still defines us all in some small
way. Doesn’t it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I feel good
about my age; part of the whingeing comes down to not being able to do the same
things today that I could ten years ago. Such as, you ask? Well, I certainly can’t
get to the tennis ball as fast as I used to. I am sore in places I never used
to be after a few hours of gardening. My eyesight seems to change dramatically every
year and, at £200 per lens for my glasses, it’s costing me a small fortune to
keep reading the small print. And oh those £$&*(£! wrinkles—I don’t consider
myself terribly vain, but I do frown upon my frown lines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">OK, enough
whingeing! I really wanted this to be about this minor revelation I’ve had about
age, and particularly about how it relates to my family. I have two brothers
and three sisters; the number of years that separates the eldest from the
youngest is 11—from 1956 to 1967. (Yes, of course, I’m the one born in 1967).
In 2017 five of the six of us will be in our 50s, with my eldest sister just
tipping over into being a sexagenarian. I found that fact, well, not so much
shocking as a bit <i>astounding</i>. As in, we can’t <i>possibly</i> all be approaching that number . . . can we? We’re young,
we’re vibrant, we’re not middle-aged!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You don’t
always see it coming, do you? </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As a number,
age <i>is</i> mostly unremarkable unless you’re
reaching the Queen-will-send-a-card range. Life moves on, we all add a few
years and a few pounds. What is remarkable, though, and perhaps not a terribly
big surprise, is that the years seem to be less meaningful the older we get.
Some of my siblings have become closer as friends than we were growing up. Case
in point: the difference in seven years when you’re 17 and your little brother
is 10, is, well, huge. You have very little in common, very little reason to
travel in the same circles or have the same conversation or read the same
books; you simply don’t enjoy the same adventures. Yet, at the age of 53, having
a 46-year-old brother means we have some shared experiences and we even, <i>gasp</i>, have some things in common—almost unthinkable
back when I was going to my senior prom and he was, well, who knows what he was
doing; I certainly didn’t care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I think my
recent contemplation about age has been prompted by the Facebook phenomenon
known as #TBT—Throw Back Thursday, where FB regulars post old photographs on Thursday
of themselves. I have done it, just once, finding a grammar school picture
(thanks to the 46-year-old previously mentioned). And I’ll admit to wishing I
had more photographs of when we were young, though not necessarily to post. Most
of our childhood pictures seem to have disappeared, or perhaps we just didn’t
have many, and while I have one or two cherished ones it’s not representative
of our collective childhoods as we all aged together. Even without the physical
reminder of a photograph, though, isn’t it wonderful how the yawning of the years
has diminished over time among us? Yes, I think so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ll admit
to another “reality check” about my age—the arrival of and now frequent companion
to my daily life, The Hot Flush. (American readers will recognise that as Flash).
I am mostly afflicted in the evening, and I radiate a broiling temperature that
brings Tim closer in the cool nights and drives him away to his own side of the
bed when the temperature in the room is mild. I don’t blame him—I have to kick
off the duvet and turn over the pillow because the heat they absorb in those
few minutes I am exuding a scorching heat is unbearable even to me. My friend
Jill suggests not eating meat; I think that has some weight to it as (I read
that) most Japanese and Southeast Asian women don’t have vasomotor symptoms
(yes, I looked that up), and their diet is far richer in fish oils than mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That said,
I had a wonderful fillet steak (aka filet mignon) for dinner on Saturday night.
Well worth a bit of tossing and burning in the wee hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Apparently
I have a lower tolerance for small changes in core body temperature—this doesn’t
surprise me, as I’m always the first to feel the cold. I have done my own bit
of research, which is to say I Google terms
and randomly read what studies are saying and discover some natural remedies that
may help. I have started drinking more water during the day to keep myself
cooler, and dress in layers for when a jumper needs to come off, go on, come
off . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have
decided that pine bark is worth a try. While a popular natural remedy, I’ve
ditched the idea of yoga. I could never get into it, possibly because I am
rather uncoordinated and too many of the yoga positions require more poise,
grace, stamina, and coordination than I could possibly muster up during an hour
session. And Hot Bikram? My goodness in my current state I’d faint to be sure,
LOL. Everything in moderation, I say. Trying to hold some balancing pose in 40
degree C temperature (quick calculation brings me to 100-ish F) is not my idea
of moderation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Instead, I
have started Pilates again; I have always been a fan of the controlled, smooth
movement between positions, and while there are some Pilates exercises I haven’t
yet mastered—yes, ones that involve standing on one leg, knees soft, and doing
some near-impossible circles with the foot—I still enjoy the hour with the locals
in Islington who, to my joyous surprise, aren’t dressed in posh gear, have
mismatched tops and bottoms, and don’t generally give a hoot about whether they
were wearing the same kit last time. (I think this comes from joining an online
program that costs just £7 a week though you have to sign up for four sessions
at a time and it auto-renews until you cancel). I had seen a class in trendy Angel,
less than ten minutes away, for literally <i>five</i>
times the price, and that doesn’t include the wardrobe I’d have purchase to fit
in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I will now
cease whingeing; I hope that wasn’t too unbearable. I am actually quite
comfortable with my “number”; in truth it is quite a nice place to be, and
particularly because I have a partner in the same bracket who finds me “nifty
at . . . .” I find, too, that I have different role models now—ones who are 10-20+ years older than me who are thoroughly enjoying life. I think to myself, much like
I did years ago in my thirties looking at an old photograph of my mother, <i>that’s what I want to be like when
I’m her age.</i> I do cherish my slightly older friends, some who have retired
and all who are vibrant, busy, happy, and whinge less than I do about age. They remind
me that at any age, life can be quite good. You just have to live in the
moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Donna Kusmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12811890659119798511noreply@blogger.com1