Xin Chao

There's quite a bit that I could write about our trip to Vietnam, but I think I'll let the photos speak for themselves; do take a look, here. Use the link in the smaller print to sign in as a guest, and don't forget to choose to view the captions.

It was a slightly different holiday than our usual December jaunts--I tend to crave warmth and relaxation at the end of the year, a treat at the end of what is usually a productive but tiring work year. It's also usually a good time to get away from the cold British weather, though in my opinion it's been a very mild autumn. 

Vietnam certainly brought warmer temperatures--when we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City it was in the mid-80s--and we did carve out some days of our two-week trek to spend on the beach. But it was going to be more of a city adventure, as we planned to travel from Saigon in the south to the central part of the country and Hue and Hoi An, and then end the trip with a few days in the capital, Hanoi. 

And an adventure it was! From the moment we stepped off the pavement and into a mass of roaring motorbikes until our sail amid the limestone islands of Halong Bay, it was unlike any other country, any other holiday Tim and I have had together. Saigon is vibrant, noisy, filled with neon. The sidewalks are crowded with parked motorbikes and street food vendors and their customers, perched on colourful, low plastic stools drinking coffee or eating bun cha, pho, or whatever else can be stirred up in a pot that only hours before had been carted, often on shoulder baskets, to that corner. The sidewalks are broken, unfinished in some places and sometimes simply difficult to traverse, though walking in the street doesn't feel much safer! We managed well to take the advice of previous visitors and wait for a gap in the traffic and simply walk on to cross the road where there was no traffic light, which is most--motorbikes and push bikes easily dart around you, and with so much traffic the cars (which are less plentiful in Saigon than bikes) are barely moving at 20 mph, enough time to give you clearance as you cross the road. After the first several crossings Tim and I gained a bit of courage and then never hesitated midstream.

Saigon is not a late night mecca; we found ourselves often the only Westerners walking after 8 or 9 pm, and while shops were open in the evening as we returned from dinner somewhere in town, there wasn't much activity. One of the guides we had during our trip said that many Vietnamese have several jobs, and so there is not much time left for play. We spent most days out looking at historic sites, strolling through the markets, or simply walking (though often with a destination). Saigon, or Ho Chi Minh City as it is now known, has so much to see and is quite lovely, and we stayed at a brand-new hotel that was swanky, hip and centrally located to it all.

The food. I am always game to try to the local cuisine, and while I've had a few nights at the well-known chain Pho here in London, my knowledge of Vietnamese food before the journey was limited to that--spring rolls and large bowls of soup with noodles and beef, pork, or seafood. What we discovered was a mix of stir fry dishes, steamed fish and vegetables, and the wonderfully fresh spring rolls bursting with aromatic greens, pork or shrimp, vermicelli, and bits of star fruit and dried banana rolled into a crisp rice paper and dipped into a chili sauce. We tried to always stick to a recommendation for dining--while I'm game to try "street food," I'll admit I took the coward's way out and ate at two or three more stylish street food restaurants, where the stalls were in plain sight but you sat on substantial chairs and felt a bit more confident in the ingredients. We occasionally found ourselves in places where the clientele was decidedly Western rather than Asian, and where you could just as easily get prawn in chili sauce or chicken saltimbocca, though overall we did well to immerse ourselves in the local cuisine and tuck into delicious prawns, pork, or beef with rice. We only had one so-so meal the entire journey; a restaurant we'd chosen was no longer there, replaced by one that had a nice enough menu and so we decided to give it a go. Alas the duck turned out to be almost inedible--poorly chopped and tough--and while the chicken in bamboo tube was nice enough, much of it was a bit dry. My favourite dish (next to the fresh spring rolls) was probably the bun cha, where vermicelli, pork, and fresh greens are served with a bowl of delicate fish sauce for you to toss in the ingredients and enjoy. Breakfasts were decidedly Western--I did have dim sum, roasted pumpkin and even a grilled mackerel in the first couple of days, but then decided to switch to muesli, brown bread and fresh fruit for the rest of the trip. The best food choices overall seemed to be in Hoi An, where the old town had several restaurants to choose from, some along the water with lovely views.

I was surprised to learn that coffee is one of the chief exports from Vietnam--behind rice, rubber, cashews, seafood, and pepper--probably because I've never seen Vietnamese coffee in England (or in America, for that matter). I'll admit I didn't like the coffee much--when iced it was good, but first thing in the morning with a bit of milk it tasted too strong and slightly oily. When you order a Vietnamese coffee it is served with a bit of syrupy sugar at the bottom of the cup, with just an inch of coffee on top, much like a Turkish coffee. An acquired taste, I think!

I did enjoy central Vietnam for its slightly quieter pace, its colourful shops and pretty beaches, and its more relaxed atmosphere. I expected the beach to be a bit wider, more breathtaking, and perhaps more commercial; it was lovely, but honestly I'd been to more beautiful places. When we exited the taxi at An Bang we were greeted by a woman who was unhelpful when we asked for a particular place--she had her own place and wasn't going to help us find any other--and in the end we just decided to park on her slice of the beach under an umbrella and have lunch there. The food was fine--stir fried noodles with pork and vegetables served on garish plastic plates, and the food was tasty and filling. We were repeatedly visited by hawkers--the jewelry girl, the sunglasses gent, the old woman selling peanuts, the disabled man selling the Vietnam News--you get the gist. I learned to say "no, thank you" quite a lot in Vietnam! Tim did buy me a necklace made from coconut shell from one young female vendor, and we bought cheap key chains of Vietnamese girls to turn into Christmas ornaments from another. 

As a birthday gift Tim insisted on marching me into a shop in Hoi An, where tailoring and made-to-measure clothing is all the rage, to buy me a dress. I resisted initially, but Tim can be as persistent as those local shop vendors, and in the end I agreed to a sleeveless silk dress of a particularly lovely dark green for Christmas. It was fun to have these tiny women--seems to me most Vietnamese females are barely five feet and small-boned--fussing over the measurements and then at the fitting to get the dress just right. Of course it did mean visiting the shop a few times, but it was a short ride via taxi or shuttle from our hotel, and we managed to fit the trips in (including a fitting for a suit for Tim) in between beach and pool relaxing times.

We ended our journey in Hanoi, the capital. It is a smaller city than Saigon, but not without its own bustle. The old quarter is just mind-boggling--narrow streets of assorted shops, cafes, vendors, and a market, all teeming with motorbikes and cars competing for space. It's something that needs to be experienced to really be understood and appreciated. It's a bit grittier than the streets of HCMC, One day we happened to walk by a school as the children were getting out, and the sight was just wild--tens of five year olds pouring out, with mums on motorbikes idling on the sidewalk waiting to pick up their charges, and no room to walk anywhere. The traffic on the street was at a standstill, prompting many motorbikes to hop on to the sidewalk to get around the congestion. Some of the kids would look up and say "hello" and giggle and scurry away. I'm not sure how many Westerners they bump into!

The people of Vietnam can be friendly and helpful, but my lasting impression is that they are for the most part reserved and less inclined to give tourists a big smile and a "xin chao" (welcome) unless it's a vendor trying to coax you to buy something. I did like being addressed as "madame" anywhere we went, and we had wonderful guides to take us through pagodas and temples and tombs and places of interest, though we spend quite a bit of our journey finding our own way with the help of a Lonely Planet guidebook and the local map from the hotel we were staying at. We managed well to see the things we wanted to in our two-week sojourn; we'd thought about a cooking class or to see some water puppetry theatre--a Vietnamese original--but simply ran out of time and energy. I was glad that we ended our trip with a cruise along Halong Bay, one of the new natural wonders of the world. It was a misty, cool day, which certainly gave a different perspective to the limestone islands than what I'd seen in photographs. We had grey skies and low-hanging clouds that covered some of the taller formations, and that made for an atmospheric view. Truly lovely, and while it took us close to four hours to drive there from Hanoi, it was well worth the trek.

I said I'd keep it short and sweet, so I will. Enjoy the photos--do look at the captions--and I hope you get a flavour of our captivating journey into a bit of Asia that is beginning to become more popular. I'm glad we saw Vietnam before it becomes more of a destination--for now, even with a number of hotels and tourist sites, it still feels just a bit undiscovered.

The Trouble with Paris

What, you say? Trouble in paradise, the City of Light, the place for romance, the idyllic centre for food? Sacrebleu, she must be folle.

Paris is still charming. The magnificent Eiffel Tower, a marvel from any view during the day and breathtaking at night. The food, yes, divine. The architecture--oh, so much and so lovely--wander down a side street and you'll be captivated by the beautiful buildings, with balconies wrapped in patterned ironwork. Take a taxi around the Arc de Triomphe and you'll be both thrilled and scared witless as the vehicles seem to dart and nearly collide in unmarked lanes. Find a small bistrot on the corner and order a cafe au lait and some cheese to nibble on between long walks and take in the romance of the scene--indoors, softly lit, decor reminiscent of another time, or outdoors as couples lean into each other to share a secret.

In fact I enjoyed Paris quite a bit this time--my first time traveling with Tim to a city we'd both been before and anticipated returning to together. We were invited to have dinner with Tim's brother to celebrate his brother's birthday, and why not Paris? The family is a bit far flung, making many European capitals options for a celebration. Upon arrival, Tim's brother was kind enough to let us have a few hours on our own whilst he took the eldest Mrs D to an area of Paris she wanted to see having read The Hare with Amber Eyes. The memoir by author Edmund de Waal follows the Ephrussi family, whose grandmother was part of the Jewish clan who owned several hotels in Paris. (I suspect I'm not doing that justice as a brief sentence about the novel.)

We walked . . . or perhaps we strolled. Tim snapped a photo or two. We talked about times we'd been in Paris before, separately, and what we enjoyed. We wandered in and out of shops, bought a few postcards, and otherwise ambled between the occasional raindrops on a grey, damp Saturday afternoon. After a couple of hours we popped into a corner brasserie and chose a table near the window to get off of our feet and have a small bite before dinner--cheese and a baguette, and a coffee for me to knock out the slight chill. It was a lovely respite, if not a bit expensive for the modest portion of three cheeses and the small basket of bread, already sliced in its maroon paper napkin. 

Dinner that evening was not your typical French fare--picture an English chef in a handsome, bright restaurant known more as a neighbourhood joint owned by a New Zealander--and yes, it all worked wonderfully together. The food was not only pretty, it was delicious. There were lovely choices on the small but well-crafted menu, and having tried the scallops as a starter I must say they were fantastic--seared with a crust that gave way to a perfectly cooked, gently spiced, beautifully textured mouthful. And the pork--slightly pink, unbelievably moist--was a wonderful main. Yes, cheese, and of course, champagne and wine--the restaurant has a wine cave and a large square of the floor is glass so patrons can peek down (though it was oddly a bit well lit for a wine cave). 

Did I mention our waitperson was from Mexico? She told us that there was perhaps one staff who was French, but it was her day off.

Breakfast at the lovely Hotel Baltimore the next morning was, well, confusing. We were seated quickly but then waited quite some time for someone to ask us what we wanted to drink, and I was growing impatient (Tim would say grumpy, but frankly I don't appreciate poor service). Finally he flagged down someone to bring coffee (and a smile to my face). While Tim had asked about the breakfast buffet and what we were entitled to as we entered the restaurant (the information in the room suggested an express or a full breakfast at either 14 eruo or 26 euro), there was no one to ask and no information displayed, and we were all a bit hungry . . .

We simply dug in. The brown bread with swirls of fig was quite nice with no butter or jam, and there was a nice array of fruit and other breads, yogurts, and croissants, cereals, spreads, and a baked egg if you so desired. I had to have a croissant--in fact the three of us did (Tim's mum was with us for breakfast)--and it was fine, but not warm or delicate as I'd hoped. On an earlier trip to Paris I had the most delightful croissant--flaky, buttery, warm, divine--and coffee at a corner bistrot, and so naturally every croissant I have from that point forward is compared to that experience . . . not unfair, I don't think, but when it comes to hotel buffets I should have lowered my expectation.

It was raining again after breakfast and so we lingered a bit before arranging a taxi to meet a friend of Tim's for lunch. The taxi was ordered at 10:30 anticipating that with foul weather they'd be a sought-after commodity. And they were--in fact the gent at the hotel  who arranged taxis had his mobile phone pressed to his ear constantly, trying to locate taxis nearby to take the growing number of hotel patrons to their afternoon destinations, occasionally gesticulating that he was on it and mumbling to us that it was coming. It was all a bit chaotic--in fact Tim's sister-in-law hailed her own, having also arranged a taxi earlier, so that she and her husband wouldn't miss their Eurostar train. (They did not.)

Finally it was our turn and we were brought to a bistrot that, well, oozed the American idea of a French bistrot: The menu was in French. The staff spoke French. It had that look--wooden tables, locals buried in their Sunday paper, garcons clearing tables.  It just felt French. I asked Tim translate some of the menu items that were unfamiliar to me and decided on a tuna nicoise. When I ordered it and said "tuna" the waiter looked at me like I had two heads. Tim repeated my order, this time using "thon," and it was promptly written and I was promptly forgotten. Champagne was ordered to celebrate Tim's friend Jeremy's new book release, and while the first glass was poured by the waiter, there was no top up, nor at any point a "comment se fait-tout" query from the staff--perhaps asking how everything is considered gauche, but I have come to expect it. Once again the food was delicious--I like a thon (LOL) when it's more pink than grey, and the salad was fresh and plentiful. The rum baba that Tim's mum ordered was enormous; it was also well soaked in rum and tasty as she kindly offered me a taste. I did notice that both our waiter and the maitre d' looked our way often, yet never bothered to come and refill a glass or check on how we were until our plates were empty.

A taxi back to the Gare du Nord from the restaurant was easily obtained through the maitre d' without question and somewhat quickly, and the driver brought us there safely and in plenty of time. He only gently muttered when asked to clear the passenger seat in front to make it easier for the elder Mrs D. 

So what is the trouble with Paris? Honestly, I'm not entirely sure; it just feels as though it's lost a bit of its charm. It's expensive, but then again it always has been, hasn't it? The service is rubbish, and perhaps that's become a bit worse than I recall from previous visits. Even when spoken to in French it didn't matter; there seemed to be a brusque response rather than a warm one. (The exception was the lovely reception staff at the Hotel Baltimore.) The Champs Elysees could be anywhere, with its high street shops, crowds of tourists, occasional McDonald's. In fact there was even a Marks & Spencer, the British retailer, along the avenue.

Maybe it's me; I've romanticised Paris in my mind and now find that it's been upstaged by other wonderful cities I've had an opportunity to travel to since my first trip there--places like Bruges, Amsterdam, Edinburgh. Boulogne-sur-Mer; even the lovely East Sussex town of Rye where we recently spent a day strolling on cobbled streets, pausing in little shops, climbing the narrow stairs of the bell tower, popping into Lamb House (photo at right), where Henry James wrote his novels and enjoyed a lovely garden, and then having tea and cakes at Edith's to give our feet a rest.

I am certain we will find ourselves strolling in Paris again, Tim and me; it's so accessible to London, and it will always have its delights: the gargoyles of Notre Dame; the out-of-the-way, family-owned bistrots where there is a genuine warmth for your company; the Seine; the architecture. There will be the fantastic food and wonderful French wine and the croissants (perhaps at a more carefully chosen venue). 

Then again, there are so many other places to see, Paris will likely be nudged a bit down the list until I've tasted pizza in Naples, seen the ports in Croatia, bought something cheap and cheerful in a Viennese market . . . 

Comfort Zones

I had to bring Maggie in for service. First, the cigarette lighter element to use the satnav was on the blink, and not knowing the IoW well I rely on a little help to get around. Second, her propensity to stall at inopportune moments was increasing--in the fact on this very morning it took three attempts, all while reversing out of the parking space behind the house, to get the car to stay moving. Not only annoying, but slightly embarrassing; fortunately no neighbours were out, and no one was waiting for me to exit the parking lot.

York Avenue Garage is a short drive over to East Cowes via the floating bridge, aka the chain ferry. For £2 per car you drive on to the open platform, and there is room on either side that is a covered walkway for foot passengers who travel for free. The ride across the River Medina from West to East Cowes is thankfully short--you can barely count to 150--so I decided to just let the car idle and not turn off the engine, just in case Maggie decided to stall once again. While I was the last car to clamber on, the ferry unloads quickly and simply re-loads with people and cars and heads back, and even with no set timetable I didn't want to be the cause of delay. The ferry is the only way to get across the river without driving 10 miles to Newport, which makes it popular during commuting hours.

It was a very wet, chilly morning. Having dropped the car off at the garage I decided to head into the nearby Waitrose supermarket and pick up a few items that the local West Cowes shops don't carry--a particular brand of cereal, a perfectly ripe avocado, Sumatran coffee . . . you might think slightly posh but I am particular about my muesli and coffee, and wanted an avocado I could actually eat at lunch. It was early--not yet 9 am--and the outside world was just waking up; the supermarket was open but most aisles were empty. I gave in to my desire to simply stroll down each row of goods, looking at what was on offer and making mental notes for the next time I needed something a bit different for dinner or for when guests come and I want to serve unusual biscuits or jams. I browsed lovely selections of cheeses, olives, wines, pastas, chocolates. 

I felt a bit of guilty pleasure at taking my time--picking up jars here and there to scan the ingredients--knowing that it was a Friday morning and I ought to be in front of my computer working. (Only slightly guilty, however, as I'd worked quite late the previous evening and had already been through the overnight work email from the Americas before setting out in the morning.) It is not my first foray into the East Cowes Waitrose, certainly, and yet every time I find myself there I find something new to buy or make note of. I was pleased with my purchase of ginger beer, from Fever Tree, in a lighter version--as the weather gets colder it's Dark and Stormy time, and the natural fruit sugars appealed to me and will hopefully mix well with rum!

Groceries in hand, I headed back toward the chain ferry, foot passenger this time. I stood just inside the front end of the ferry, looking out the window--normally I like to stand at the gate that remains closed until the cars and people are allowed to exit, but this morning it was a bit chilly and damp and I was inclined to stay out of the mist. I like watching the boats slowly going by, every now and then one looking dangerously close to the entering the path of the ferry. As we crossed I noticed the rain almost completely stopped, and there was even a patch of blue sky. 

So what was special about this journey? I realised as I was walking along the high street in West Cowes, local paper tucked under my arm, groceries held in the opposite hand, how entirely comfortable and happy I felt. How I enjoyed watching the shopkeepers turning locks to open up and setting out wares, and how I recognised a few as we exchanged smiles. How much I actually liked the whole morning--take care of the car, getting some groceries, walking back in a slightly bustling yet uncrowded, almost peaceful setting. It was close to 9:30 in the morning and turning sunny, and I still had all of the day in front of me. And it was nice. It was comfortable. It felt like home.

What's The Big Issue?

Believe it or not, it's a rare occurrence to walk the streets of London and hear a quiet, slightly mournful "please" as I pass by someone. The city has its usual collection of street vendors and beggars looking for a handout, but on this particularly chilly late Monday afternoon the voice, a plea, was somehow different to my ear. I was heading home, walking toward Islington as I do at the end of the work day, and for a change on the opposite side of the street; I often follow the bus route, thinking that if I'm ready to hop the 341 I can simply flag it down, but this day I was determined to get a bit of exercise having missed a tennis game and wound up crossing the road.

I did see the vendor, pitching The Big Issue, and I probably even gave him a small smile; it's the gregarious American in me. It was just after I'd passed him that I heard him say "please" in a way that quite simply made me pause; it was a bit tired, a bit sad, slightly pleading. I took three more steps forward and then turned around, and our eyes met. Retracing my steps back toward him I asked how much--I'd never bought The Big Issue, a magazine sold by homeless (or recently homed but still struggling) people to earn income--and when he said £2.50 I realised immediately that I didn't have enough change. (I don't carry a lot of cash because I don't need much during the week and Tim is usually the recipient of my "junk change" that accumulates so I don't put holes in my pockets.) 

I pulled a fistful of coins from my coat pocket, and as I scanned them to quickly add up in my head what was there, it was clearly more copper than silver--it wasn't going to make £2.50. I apologised and started to walk away, but he asked to see how much I had, looked at the array of coins in my outstretched hand, and insisted I take his last copy. I demurred, but again he insisted and stuck out his hand, and so I glumly turned my palm and dumped all of its contents into his cupped hand. As I handed over the change I was at least relieved to see that there was a one pound coin, a 50 pence piece, and two 20 p coins--so I wasn't horribly shortchanging him. I declined the copy of the issue he was handing me, but as I walked away he followed me and insisted I take it--in fact he tucked it under my arm and thanked me for supporting The Big Issue, and then smiled and walked back to his pitch.

For blocks after as I walked toward Angel station I felt a little guilty--I had no idea how much the issue was, and admittedly was a bit surprised that it cost £2.50--I later read that half goes towards the issue, and the other half is kept by the vendor as income. I remembered too that I had a crumpled five-pound note in the other pocket, and could have easily given him that--but too late. I think I had just helped him; or had I? He was happy to have my jumble of coins and a smile; it was me who was feeling a bit shamed.

On my next trip down Grays Inn Road I will seek him out and buy another issue, this time with more than enough change in my pocket. And, having read The Big Issue when I got home, I rather enjoyed it. There was an interview with Tori Amos, one of my favourite musicians, in a previous issue that I saw on the online site, and there were a few articles worth my time in this week's edition. It is the most widely circulated street paper in the world (so says Wikipedia). In fact, I think I'll do my best to buy it more regularly, and possibly from the same vendor. And why not? Don't we all like the familiarity of a smiling face that greets us when we shop? I suspect I'm guaranteed a generous smile for my £2.50.

And that, my dear friends, is the big issue. 

Just Another Manic Sunday

I can't say for certain, but I think that this past Sunday, still September, has been the earliest that we've used the fireplace in our London sitting room. The day was windy, wet, and chilly, but it had its charms.

We started the first Sunday of the autumnal equinox on the Isle of Wight, awakening to the sound of rain; alas, I'd lost my 20 p bet with Tim that it wouldn't rain until the afternoon. No matter; we were prepared for a less than brilliant day weather-wise, and expected it to be a lazy Sunday--whiling away the morning over coffee and conversation, having a leisurely breakfast, and then finding a cosy space to watch the boats go by that were braving the inclement weather.

I'd just purchased a coffee percolator and was anticipating its first use. I've always felt that my Farberware stainless steel pot back in America made a delicious cup of coffee, and while this was not Farberware it was a percolator from a well-known company with excellent reviews and a discount on price that sealed the deal for me to give it a go. And while the coffee press has been more than adequate taste-wise (as long as I remind Tim to give it a stir and let it sit for a few minutes, LOL), I often feel like a second cup or we have guests, and then the  cafetiere's capacity is just about two large mugs with a bit left over and that quickly cools. Tim offered to give the percolator its first use, and after a few instructions (fill with cold water, use the measure), he gamely prepped and plugged it in.

So what did I think when Tim presented me with a steaming, perked cup? Well, there was, I must admit, a bit of disappointment--no aroma, no full-flavoured sip. It was only when I went to the kitchen and, with some relief, discovered why--if only Tim had not used decaffeinated coffee, I'm sure it would have been outstanding rather than just, well, good for decaf! Next time. 

The morning slowly progressed to the breakfast table, where another treat awaited me--having tasted a rather uninspired piece of Edam cheese the night before after dinner, I suggested Tim use it in an omelet in the morning; it would be better melted with eggs than eaten on its own, where it had a slightly processed texture. Now, in three years this was to be Tim's first time making an omelet for me, though as you might expect he was sheer grace under pressure. I only made one suggestion, which was to grate the cheese; it simply melts better and can be more easily spread across the entire omelet--I'm one of those people who likes a bit of cheese from end to end! While he cooked, I moved to my duties of setting the table and slicing bread for toast.I have to say I was smiling as I observed the care Tim took to get the omelet right, gently cursing the nonstick pan when the egg held on a bit too long, and giving it a proper turn or two so it was adequately cooked through and ever so gently browned. And how did the morning's second anticipation culminate? Well, there was no disappointment this time--not only did my omelet look perfect, it was delicious. 

The rest of the morning was spent idly watching sailboats come in and out of the harbour, struggling against 30 mph gusts and the occasional driving rain while we perched on the window seat with hot tea, a monocular, and Tim's phone to check the conditions at the Bramble bank where you can pick up wind conditions online.

Oh, there were the odd other activities--gathering the laundry scattered on various warmed radiators throughout the house, doing the morning's dishes, flipping the pages of a magazine. 

We'd decided to brave the elements and walk up to a sandwich shoppe called Tiffins on the high street--we'd conceded that the weather would prevent us from doing anything out of doors, including the annual ploughing festival (much to Tim's disappointment), but I wanted to eat something before we headed back to London and Tim wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Tiffins is not far, but when we arrived we were both soaked from the thighs down owing to waterproof but short jackets that did nothing to keep the windswept rain from pelting our trousers! A baguette stuffed with avocado and salmon for me, Coronation chicken (chicken, curry, and mayo) for Tim, with hot tea and a window seat to watch the other brave souls on the high street kept us busy for the next hour. A quick change to dry gear and we were off to the ferry to head back to London.

Circle back and I'm sitting in front of that lovely, warm fire in the sitting room. 

Sometimes a simple, quiet day is just perfect.

Local Flavour

There is nothing like attending a local event that reminds you how life can be very different from your own--and not in a bad way, just dissimilar. The Chale Show on the Isle of Wight has been been taking place for over 80 years, and boasts the Island's biggest horticultural display. I have done my share of local "events" having spent 12 years living in the very rural area of southern New Jersey before moving to London; there was even a rodeo, and the well-attended annual chili cook-off along with festivals for the peach harvest including a contest for Little Miss Peach; one year I was tempted to enter Mirepoix! 

I had never, though, seen a collie herd ducks. I'd certainly never seen so many prize hens! I've had more than a few tractors amble down the road behind my southern New Jersey home, where the corn and peaches were piled high in wooden crates being brought to the nearest distribution center.New Jersey is the Garden State, after all!

No, this was definitely the first time I'd experienced vintage steam engines and vintage tractors, an array of floral displays in different creative vases--a Heinz beans can or a teapot--and the largest imaginable cabbage, leek, and turnip, all in one place.

I'm not making fun--it was an interesting and eclectic mix of tents and events. There was in fact a posh wine tent where at the end of the day Tim and I were offered tastings of unusual wines from small houses across the globe. My favourite was a red blend from Romania, served slightly chilled with a wonderful fruit-forward taste and lovely, soft finish.

And yes, I was a bit surprised at the winning entries on display, like the four potatoes, one variety, that one first prize--displayed on a plain white paper plate, there is no doubt something that caught the judges' keen eyes that mine failed to recognise.

We wandered into the Chale Show having spent some part of the afternoon meandering in nearby Wroxall to walk through Appuldurcombe House, a national heritage site. While exploring the ruins of the 16th century house, we also found ourselves walking the grounds looking for--and alas, not finding--red squirrels, which the ticket person told us were nesting in nearby trees. The red squirrel is the only native squirrel species on the Isle, but somewhere along the line, perhaps unknowingly, the American grey squirrel was introduced and the numbers have dwindled. While they get along, the grey variety breeds a disease that will kill the red but not the grey squirrel, and red squirrels also don't breed as often. I have yet to see a red squirrel but for photographs.

 The afternoon continued with a visit to the local owl and falconry centre, where Tim and I were treated to low-flying owls (one of which grazed Tim's ear as it flew toward its post behind him), a beautiful American bald eagle called Cherokee, a peregrine falcon, and some buzzards, all flying, swooping for food, and showing off to the small crowd's delight at the command of the falconer, who was really quite knowledgeable, funny, and clearly in love with his job. It was clear why.

I must say it was a wonderful afternoon, with lovely warm sun, clear blue skies, and no place to be but wherever we wound up--which is how we wound up in Chale! The following Sunday we took another short car journey to Newchurch to take in the Garlic Festival, only to find a lot of the same craft tents, music, and, posh wine booth! I'll admit I was slightly disappointed in the number of food stalls hawking garlic goods--I was hoping to try garlic everything, but had to settle for some butter, a few chutneys, and assorted other odd bits and bobs. I went there hungry and left there the same way, and didn't even spot the garlic ice cream stand.

And the next IoW adventure? Well, it may be a small island, yet there are a lot of places we've yet to visit on the Isle of Wight . . . and Maggie, our faithful sputtering Peugeot, seems up for the challenge as long as we don't mind the occasional burst when she finds the right gear between 40 and 50 mph. It still makes us laugh. It's the little things.

Sports and Social

I didn’t try very hard to get tickets to the Olympics—all my friends and colleagues had stories of frustration and disappointment with the online site, and I thought it would be quite enough to be in the host city and experience the vibe—though I secretly did want to get a glimpse in the Olympic park.

 As luck would have it, Tim was offered tickets by his friend David, a fellow sailor who is currently working in America but had successfully obtained tickets to the sailing event in Weymouth. OK, it ain’t Stratford, home of the Olympic stadium, but I was still going to be a part of the action. Having not been to Weymouth, it had an added attraction, though I couldn’t imagine how much actual sailing we’d see from the mound called the Nothe (for £35 per ticket, or $55).

There were surprises all around that day. We got to see quite a bit of marvellous sailing—from our vantage point on the grassy hill all the 49ers and Lasers had to pass nearby to round a mark several times. Tim and I also chose a spot on the Nothe that had an excellent view of the big screen so that we could keep track of how “Big Ben” Ainsle was doing in his Finn race, which was just in sight but too far in the distance to distinguish which boat was his. (Footnote: this was the day Ben was “angry” and moved into gold medal contention, even if it was just a heat!)

The racing was exciting—there was good wind for the small sail boats, and the one-man Lasers and two-man 49ers were fast and raced close to each other, particularly as they rounded the marks. Tim, ever the vexillologist, could spot the countries easily by their flags prominently displayed on the sail. I needed help—with the monocular for vision and also with flag interpretation; fortunately for me the sail also held the abbreviation of the country of origin in large letters.

 We whooped when USA and GBR passed the mark nearest us, getting most of the crowd joining in for Team GB and the occasional smattering of applause from another American (I counted two in addition to me) when the US sails rounded the buoy.

It was brilliant, truly wonderful afternoon, and I must say the area where the event was held was well planned—good food, plenty of facilities, and big screens under huge tents for those who needed to get out of the sun but still wanted to see the action. Girls with ice creams in refrigerated boxes strapped to them and boys with cider and beer in large canvas bags roamed the grassy hill as best as they could find footing, though most people seemed to head up to the bar for plastic pitchers of Pimms to bring back to their blankets. Security was not onerous—everyone’s bags were checked, and the young man who checked our tickets got a chuckle at Tim and me wearing competing country logos—I assured him no fighting would break out!

At the end of the sailing races we took a stroll to the Fort, which I must say was a bit old-fashioned—the plastic model tanks were of 99-cent quality, and the posed mannequins were all a bit, well, 1960s. (I suspect there’s not a lot of effort or money available to go toward upkeep, and I’m probably being overly critical.) We also took a walk along the harbour—I wanted to spend a little more time in Weymouth, and because it was such a lovely day I fancied finding a spot outdoors to have a quaff and enjoy just being there. We literally had to walk all the way down the main street, the last pub on the strip, to find a place to sit outdoors despite there being several spots along the route—the town was heaving!

I would like to return to Weymouth when it’s a bit less crowded and wander through some of the shops and side streets; it seemed lovely in the short period of time we spent there, worthy of a second look. I had to laugh when I remember that our journey from the train station to the ticketed area site for the sailing—about 25 minutes—was set out for us, both on maps that were distributed and with the Games Makers volunteers directing our path—through the high street passing the local shops rather than the most direct route along the Esplanade. Fair enough; it was likely a very good two weeks for Weymouth, and they did well to host us.

Back in London and trying to see as much as I could on the Beeb (aka the BBC), I have to admit it was incredibly exciting to watch! Mo Farah, Usain Bolt, Jessica Ennis, Michael Phelps, Ryan Lochte, etc. I may not be a fan of television, but I have always been a sports fan, and I likely watched more television in the last two weeks than I have in the past year! Since there’s no TV at the IoW house Tim and I had to find a good viewing position at one of the pubs on the High Street—mainly the Pier View but also The Fountain. It was quite fun to watch with a crowd of others, some of whom picked up my American accent and made comments about athletes (Phelps is incredible) or commentators who particularly impressed them. (Michael Johnson was one of the BBC commentators, and he was quite good.)

One of the laugh-out-loud pub moments was just after the Americans won gold for basketball (and I was, coincidentally, proudly wearing my USA tee) it was followed by . . . rhythmic gymnastics. Brightly-painted girls in sparkly, equally bright garb pranced with hoops and ribbons on the gymnastics floor. I’ll admit, it did seem a bit incongruous. There were some athletic moves, to be sure, but the mostly-male crowd at the pub questioned aloud the validity of the “sport” as an Olympic event—and spent a good part of the beginning laughing before simply dismissing it and returning to their sailing talk. It’s not a new event—rhythmic gymnastics has been part of the Olympics since 1984 when the games were held in Los Angeles. I haven’t quite decided myself if it belongs in the same arena as the pentathlon . . . but the same can be said for other Olympic events. I had a friend at lunch today say that she could not believe that golf would be added in four years, and, what is beach volley ball all about? I just smiled at her—everyone is entitled to his/her opinion!

Now that the main event of the Olympics is over, it’s all gone a bit quiet in London, as public transport is  crowded, workers head back to the office, and everything returns to normal.  Everyone is still talking about it, though, and the newspapers have pages and pages of articles and photographs. It was huge for London, a real boost to its reputation, even if the city didn’t make the list of the top ten cities in the world to live. (Somehow Canada and Australia had six of ten cities between them . . . perhaps my next move!)

With the “main event” over, I am still looking forward to a trip to the Olympic park—my friend Kelly has offered me a ticket to see one of the swimming events at the Paralympics in early September. So, I get my wish after all to stroll through the park where champions roamed. I think that will be one of those days I cherish for a very long time. In four years, I sure have amassed a lot of those days. Lucky me.

I {HEART} HRH

I have had numerous wonderful experiences in my four years living in England, and one that will rank right up there no matter how many years go by is standing inches away from the Queen. Yes, that one, Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II. So close I could have reached out to touch her. So close that I suddenly transformed from fifty-something adult to giddy girl, gawping at her, waving my two-quid Union Jack on a plastic holder.

HRH was coming to Cowes to dedicate the new RNLI lifeboat station, adjacent to the Island Sailing Club, and to unveil a plaque along the Parade to commemorate her Diamond Jubilee visit. There was to be a parade of sail from Gurnard, just west of Cowes, where she would glide by on the Solent on board the 246-foot super yacht Leander, a whacking great vessel that just says majesty. (It was loaned to HRH by Sir Donald Gosling, former owner of National Car Parks aka NCP.) As the yacht passed the Royal Yacht Squadron, a 21-gun salute from the polished cannons sitting at waterside would begin. The royal party—Prince Philip was with HRH—would then walk up Trinity Landing, greet some of the local important people, and then head east on the Parade to dedicate the plaque, listen to local children sing, launch the lifeboat, and finally pick up a launch at the Cowes Yacht Haven to head back to London.

The plans were announced several months ago, and I decided as a part-time resident of Cowes that I should be there. I blocked the date on my work calendar. My friend Kim, a full-time resident of Cowes, had the itinerary at hand and we spoke on Tuesday evening to set our plan: queuing up on the Parade at 7 am, almost three hours ahead of the Queen’s arrival, to be assured of a good position to see her.

When we arrived there were already several people lined up against the barrier, and we decided to stand near the plaque as we knew the Queen would stop there to unveil it. A lovely family with two little girls had decamped with a blanket, folding chairs, folding prams and assorted bags of food, toys, and other distractions for the wait. We came alongside them, figuring that we could sidle up to the barrier when the Queen arrived, get a photo, and be happy.

It all came together perfectly—and on time. We saw Leander approaching, and then heard the 21-gun salute; the distance from the Squadron to where we were standing is not far; in fact from where we were standing we could certainly see the RYS castle.

I must say, the anticipation was palpable—by the time the hour was approaching for the Queen’s arrival the crowd was several deep, wondering what colour she’d be wearing, and how the Duke would be dressed, and who else would be accompanying them. As she stepped on the launch we caught a glimpse of the Queen’s apricot outfit. The crowd was cheering. I was feeling a bit, well, thrilled.

We could see her walk up the landing, and stop to greet the IoW VIPs who were lined up to curtsy or shake hands. The Duke was looking dapper in a lovely grey suit. Then, suddenly, they were in front of us, and Kim and I were able to move a bit closer to the barrier to snap a photo. One of the little girls next to us, called Grace, handed the Queen a posy, and she smiled and accepted it. I was still gawping, though I did manage to point my camera phone and click—and inadvertently took a 2-second video which you can watch, here (hopefully it works):

Kim managed a few photos with her camera, thankfully, and I recovered and took some, too.

We watched as HRH tugged the sash just a few feet in front of us to pull the red curtain open and reveal the plaque. Applause, more flag waving, and a bit of woo-hooing ensued. When the royal party moved away from us to hear the children sing, Kim and I made an attempt to follow through the throngs, but by the time we approached the area the song had been sung and the Queen and the Duke moved into the shade of the RNLI station, where speeches were being given. Fortunately there was a big screen mounted just outside the RNLI, and we were able to see and hear what was going on.

It was hot, and we were in tight quarters with people all around us, but it didn’t matter—it was fantastic. Kim and I kept exclaiming how really thrilled we were to have been so close, and to just be there to be a part of the Diamond Jubilee celebration. When it was over we walked the short distance back to Harbour House and I made us coffee—it was just after 11 am and a long time since breakfast, but not quite lunch time—more time to “debrief” and also just catch up a bit with our lives. We decided to head out and see if we could watch Leander leave, and we did catch a glimpse of the yacht heading back toward Southampton.

When my friend Sarah saw my photos she said “You’re so American.” I suppose my enthusiasm for something so British is not so British—but not everyone is reserved here, and some are even royalists! I do suppose that I was a bit more effusive in my enthusiasm than some—though judging from the crowd around me, we were all quite enthralled with the Queen’s visit. How lucky am I? Earlier this year I was dining with the Duke at a bar yacht club dinner, courtesy of Tim, and now this chance to see HRH close up. She reminds me of my grandmother. She is amazing for 86. She is always regal, ever personable, and, simply, elegant.

You might guess, then, what my favourite part of the Olympics opening ceremony was , , , the Queen's  perfect delivery of the line “Good evening, Mr Bond.”

What’s not to love?

Ten Things I Learned While Sailing

I recently spent a week on a sail boat—my first adventure off terra firma for more than just a few hours. I learned some things about sailing, and about myself, in what was a wonderful week of food, friends, and floating between Turkish ports. If you’d like to see some photos, please go here.   

Scopoderm works. Having had a bout with seasickness, I was concerned about being unwell and potentially ruining my holiday as well that of the rest of the “crew.” I visited my GP and requested the patch, worn for 72 hours behind the ear, and while not a guarantee I understood it to be a fairly reliable way to keep the queasiness at bay. And, it worked a treat! I never even took off the original patch, and I now have two in reserve for my next sail. (I sense Tim plotting a cruise in the Solent!)

Sleeping in the forepeak triangle is very different than a square bed. Tim and I don’t usually compete for space, but I did find myself wanting just a tad more space for my toes and not wanting to be too pushy! It was also quite warm in Turkey, and we had a windscoop to bring in the breezes through our overhead hatch—when there were breezes! Most nights were lovely, frankly. Kelly found herself often sleeping on deck; the midges were thankfully few and far between, and it was lovely in more ways than one—the sky, full of stars; the gentle breezes; the open air. I once or twice thought to join her! Spending appreciable hours on a boat takes some getting used to—the swaying, the loo pumping (giving new meaning to the acronym SOS), the closer-than-usual quarters—yet in the end it was all manageable: small considerations for what was a perfectly lovely, enjoyable week on the sea.

I can tie a fender on. Fenders, those foamy bumpers used to protect boats from colliding with the quay or another vessel, require a particular type of knot to keep them firmly tied on the lifelines or stanchions. Given that I wouldn’t be much help with other sailor-ly tasks, this was a good one for me to learn. One afternoon while motoring between destinations Tim had a lesson for all of us on how to form knots to tie on fenders, to make a square knot, and to make a bowline knot, useful for putting around a cleat when tying up a boat. I liked the mnemonic for learning the latter—the rabbit goes down the hole, around the tree, and back in the hole . . . or something like that! I think we all enjoyed the lesson, trying to get it right, with the more competitive sailors trying to tie knots the fastest or with eyes closed. I was just happy to get the fender knot correct! I did have a few other small duties as part of the crew—the occasional winching, turning the refrigerator on or off depending on whether we were motoring or sailing, shouting out instructions from the cockpit to the foredeck, and using the windlass to let the anchor up or down. I was glad to be helpful, steering clear of the more important duties—navigating, steering, and tacking, which the others, particularly Taron, Neil and Simon, did quite ably.

The combination of eight knots and a slight bit of heeling is exhilarating. We weren’t always able to sail—the wind in Turkey is fickle, and when we could find it, we took advantage. On one fantastic afternoon we found ourselves heeling (tilting sideways) several degrees while moving swiftly across the sea. We were watching the instrument panel to see how fast we were going, hoping to see the speed increase. I usually get a bit nervous when the boat heels a bit, though in this 44-foot yacht the lean wasn’t as much as I’ve experienced on Tim’s Contessa, where the rails are often in the water. I think as hard as Tim tried, it just wasn’t going to happen on the Moody! I can see why Tim enjoys sailing so much—when it’s good, it’s thrilling.

You don’t need a fancy kitchen to make fabulous food. I can honestly say that every place we ate was quite good—I’m a fan of Turkish meze, grilled fish and kebabs, so I was certainly in my comfort zone in all of the little places we moored each night for dinner. Most of the places we ate were marina-side, al fresco restaurants that didn’t have well-equipped kitchens (though they usually had decent toilets). My favourite “restaurant” was the shack-for-a-kitchen several yards down the beach from the tables on the water side. The owner came up to us as we moored, shouted us the menu (a list of six or so entrees) and told us to arrive at 8:30 pm. We were served meze first—the same for most places we ate—often aubergine salad, borek (fried phyllo dough usually filled with cheese), chopped salad, and fresh bread.  Entrees were often lamb, fish, or chicken, grilled or in a casserole. Turkish wine or beer always accompanied the meal, and was sometimes followed by Turkish coffee—made strong of boiled coffee beans and sweetened with sugar—or the more traditional filter coffee. We had to laugh one evening when, after dinner, a goat found its way into the “kitchen” and began licking the bowls clean.

Nothing beats a swim off the boat into the Med. It’s warm. It’s clear. It’s salty and buoyant. What’s not to like? Just about every day we found a place to anchor or moor and jump ship, literally. I was a bit less daring—mostly because I wanted to wear my sunglasses in the water to keep the glare down and protect my eyes from the sun—and often found my way into the water down the ladder at the back of the boat. Most everyone else—certainly the gents—jumped or dived over the side. It was wonderful—after a few hours of sailing and absorbing the heat of the day, it was so refreshing to swim in the sea, bring down one’s body temperature, and float. While everyone enjoyed Coldwater Bay, where cold springs bring water from the Taurus Mountains, I actually preferred the warmer waters of the other areas we visited.

I love Village bread. On certain days when we were moored in small marinas, a small power boat would zoom up in the morning carrying fresh, warm bread in large rounds that was doughy and delicious—sometimes with herbs or olives, always delicious. That was often breakfast, with a spread of butter, or a slice of cheese, with coffee that we made on board, and occasionally with fruit from the same boat. Simple and simply good. Oh, and, the same transport often brought ice cream  in the afternoon to visiting yachts as well!

Dolphins can make just about anyone smile. One day Tim spotted dolphins frolicking at our bow, and we were all thrilled—cameras snapping, oohing and ahhing while we waited for the next splash, a glimpse of fin, a small leap out of the water. We could easily see them, just below the surface, enjoying the energy the boat was making pushing through the water to aid their swimming.

I like Texas Hold ‘em. When you’re on a boat in small marinas where there’s nothing more than a small outdoor restaurant, you need to make your own entertainment in the evening. We played a few different games—Hit or Miss, where you pen a list of items based on a question, like types of automobiles, and then rolling the die for Hit or Miss you guess what everyone has—or doesn’t have—on their list. We also played Oh Hell, similar to Hearts. There was Trivial Pursuit, where it was a battle of the sexes (and very close at that)—I was chided for helping the boys by hinting at the answer to Tim; I’m not terribly competitive and he didn’t really need my help. Of all the games we played, my favourite was Texas Hold ‘em. One of the crew, Simon, is a regular poker player and taught me and Tim how to play. It took me a few rounds to understand the strategy, and at the end of the evening I found that I rather enjoyed it. I won’t be playing online poker any time soon—I wasn’t that good—but it reminded me of how much I enjoy a good game of cards. Growing up there was a lot of card playing in the household; weekly gin rummy nights had friends and neighbours around our kitchen table, and even later on just games of Rummy 500 with my mom and whoever of my siblings was around helped pass the time.

Tim is a wonderful sailor. When Taron and Neil asked Tim to skipper the boat, he didn’t hesitate; Tim loves to sail and the chance to do so in the warm Mediterranean on a lovely 44-foot yacht . . . well, no brainer. I was very proud of him—he handled the boat beautifully, taught us all a little bit about sailing, and graciously took on whatever role required—sometimes navigator, sometimes consultant, occasional taskmaster. When on the last day the engine starter failed and we needed to wait several hours for a repair, he offered to stay on the boat while we toured Gocek, showered, and relaxed. When he deftly reversed the boat into its snug mooring on B pontoon, I smiled. O Captain! My Captain!

Over the Moon

Have I ever shared with you my passion for reading?  I don’t watch much television—the set in London is rarely turned on by me, and when it is it’s to use the radio channels to tune in to classical music. There is no TV at Number 12; when there’s not a sailing event Tim and I will spend time reading, playing Scrabble, or watching the sailboats go by, and if there’s something we want to watch, the convivial atmosphere of one of the local pubs suits us. Reading is a way for me to pass the time in a relaxing way, or to learn about something new, or occasionally get lost in another century. Sometimes it’s all three rolled up in one delightful afternoon curled up on the sofa. Sure, I’ll indulge Tim and join him for an old black and white film now and again, but given the choice I’m more likely to find a book and sit near and ask the sound be not too loud!

It’s wonderful when you can take something you truly enjoy and share it with others, and as much as reading feels like self-indulgence, I’ve found a truly gratifying way to read that I suspect many of you have also enjoyed—reading with a child.

I have just finished my second year of reading with Joy. He is a bundle of energy with a big, beautiful smile who always greets me warmly and then dashes off for the current book we’re reading and our log that captures what page we’re up to and comments about the sessions.

I should correct myself before I get too far on to say that it’s Joy who does all the reading—I listen, occasionally helping him sound out a word or asking him to slow down at a full stop (translation: English for the punctuation period). We were partnered last year as part of the volunteer reading scheme for Camden Council in London. The Edith Neville primary school, near Kings Cross, has had a long-standing relationship with my company to have volunteers partner with children who need to improve their reading skills. I signed up for the scheme after an email requesting volunteers landed in my Inbox—frankly it was something I was interested in pursuing, having had a stint in the US with the Literacy Volunteers of America for several years, but I was concerned that taking on a similar role here might prove difficult, what with the differences in pronunciation of words, spelling differences, and even my accent, which could be deemed “disruptive.”

This was different—it wasn’t adult literacy, it was simply reading with a child under 13, with the goal to improve his confidence and skill. I had a bit of training, and of course there was the necessary CRB (a criminal background check) before being able to start. In due course I was approved and was ready to meet my partner, who turned out to be Joy.

My American accent was a bit of a draw rather than a hindrance—when I spoke it was different in an intriguing way, and the kids—usually the girls—would ask me where I was from and generally giggle when I talked. And if Joy was absent for a reading session, the hands would fly up when the teacher asked who’d like to read with me.

Joy is an eleven-year-old Bangladeshi who has a large family with siblings of various ages from 16 years to 16 months; I suspect it’s a busy household which is why the half hour each Thursday is special to him. We often start off with a little chat about what’s happened since our last meeting, especially if there was a school outing or a short break where he had some time with his family, and then we’d dive into the current book. 

We’ve had a few interesting reads this year—Not Yeti, which is about a boy whose parents are kidnapped and his search, with the help of Yetis, to find them; Zeus on the Loose, a rather funny book about a boy who creates a paper temple only to have Zeus show up to occupy it; a book about frogs; and even a brief history of Tutankhamun.

I always let Joy choose the book, and then will take a quick look through it to see if it presents the right challenge for his reading ability. We then find the quietest spot possible in a primary school (you’re not allowed to go behind closed doors) and settle in. Joy is easily distracted, as most boys his age are, so I am always looking for a place a bit farther away than the rest of the readers—there are at least a half dozen of us vying for space on Thursdays—and we often have a little glass-enclosed alcove to ourselves where Joy can focus without his classmates stopping by and listening, which they will do if at all possible!

I was prompted to write this post because I had a note from the school’s administrator in response to a letter I sent to Joy via her; the last official reading week is the one coming, and I’ll not be able to attend. While I had a chance to chat with Joy and tell him that and to wish him a happy summer, I felt like I wanted to put something in writing for him to let him know how much I really enjoyed our reading sessions together. It was a simply-worded single sheet where I embedded a few pieces of clip art, expressing how well Joy had done this year, really improving his skills at sounding out words, and how much I’m looking forward to being his reading partner as he starts Year 6 in September—his last year at Edith Neville, so our last year together. Amy sent me a note back later that afternoon to thank me, and to say how Joy was “over the moon” with the letter—he’d spent his entire lunch hour showing it to all of his classmates.

That, my dear friends, is priceless.

I will probably save Amy’s email and read it dozens of times because it has made me feel over the moon. I am already anticipating our reunion in September. In fact one of my fondest memories over the last two years is returning after the summer of 2011. When Joy saw me he immediately ran over and gave me a huge hug. We’re not allowed to touch the children in any way, though we are allowed to return a gesture, and believe me, I did. My colleagues standing nearby waiting for their reading partners all looked on and smiled, and afterwards they remarked how sweet it was that he showed such happiness in seeing me.

File this post under why we do the things we do; it often comes down to the love of something, doesn’t it? Like reading. With Joy.

Jubilation

It is such a remarkable summer in Britain, and a part of me feels as an expat that I should remark on the events that are exclusive to my place of residence.

First, the Diamond Jubilee. I did not stay in London, did not join the huge throngs lined up along the Thames to watch the Flotilla. Tim was participating in the Diamond Jubilee Regatta in Cowes, a series of races over the holiday weekend that began with a sail around the island followed by shorter races on Sunday and Monday.  My dear friend Leah came down to join her beau and was not sailing, so we had the opportunity to pull up stools at the local pub and watch the flotilla on a big screen TV. I must say, it was grand. There was this buzz, this anticipation about all sorts of things—what colour would HRH be wearing? Will it rain on her parade? How many boats are actually IN the flotilla? Well, I have to admit, I got slightly choked up when the Queen stepped out of her Bentley; she is a remarkable, elegant, truly regal woman and I was filled with respect for her. The weather was awful, yet she smiled and waved and stood for hours to the delight of all of those onlookers lining the waterfront.  It was fabulous watching (we could hardly hear the TV) and Leah and I enjoyed the lunch, the conversation, and the chance to see it all from a very comfortable position—maybe not the best seat in the house, but certainly one of the driest!

We had a funny incident at one of the post-sailing barbies that I still smile at: we popped into a water taxi to head back to Cowes after a less-than-inspiring gathering at the East Cowes Sailing Club where the beef was grey like the skies—to be fair, the BBQ was sponsored by a local charity, so the money we paid was not for a posh meal but for the hospice. It was edible, it just wasn’t very good. At the barbie there was a couple wearing HRH and Prince Philip masks, dancing in an oddly, almost creepy tete-a-tete, and just as we were getting ready to leave on the taxi the Queen pops into our boat! It turns out she was the boat driver’s mum bringing him some food. The way she wore the mask--with a scarf around her head--she looked, again quite oddly, just like the queen. We asked if we could take her photo, and she laughed and agreed, giving us a decidedly American pose when she detected photographer Taron's accent.

The picture quickly found its way on Facebook, and I sent it around to some friends the next day, some of whom commented at how authentic our fellow water taxi passenger appeared.

On Monday Tim and I planned to go see a local Isle of Wight Celtic band, but missed their set and instead found ourselves at the same pub Leah and I sat in, this time to watch the concert and fireworks that ended the Jubilee weekend. I found some of it odd—Alfie Boe and his duet companion Renee Fleming singing a tune from West Side Story . . . how is that a celebration of something quite British? Stevie Wonder? Well, it was all good, just not very British to me. I absolutely loved Madness doing “Our House” as they flashed different London scenes and buildings on to Buckingham Palace; if you haven’t seen it, give it a look here.

And so went the Diamond Jubilee. Britain was closed for an extra holiday, which was quite nice and gave us a chance to relax together after a busy weekend in Cowes. I was glad to have seen some of the events, even digitally, and felt it was a nice juxtaposition to the start of the weekend where we celebrated Leah’s birthday with a cake decorated with a huge American flag! Tim arranged it with the Island Sailing Club and it was just lovely, much like Leah.

Next, the quintessential British summer weather. To sum it up in one word: rubbish. When I first came to England I was surprised at how much the natives talked about the weather--always a good ice breaker, but this was beyond polite conversation. The whingeing! Well, having experienced what is now my fifth British summer, I can understand why everyone goes on about it. This year has been particularly bleak—not many days above 20 C / 70 F, and while there was a drought in May, it feels like it has not stopped raining since June. There are some positively glorious days which are little treasures, and I find myself wanting to sit in the garden until it gets too chilly or the dusk gives way to darkness, knowing that these are precious evenings indeed. Those of you who have been following Wimbledon know how it’s been a bit wet and windy this year; just imagine those two weeks repeated over three months! I do not envy New Jerseyites who are sweltering in scorching 38 C / 100 F, but I must say there are days in London when I simply shake my head at how many layers I’m wearing in summer, and how there are more women wearing scarves (and I mean the bulky kind) and boots in June and July than there are donning flip flops and tees! It makes an upcoming trip to sail in Turkey that much more desirable. I’ve just checked the low /highs for the week we’ll be there, and the low is London’s high, and the high is just under the scorching weather New Jersey has been experiencing—so I guess we'll get the best of both worlds there!

Last, a note about the Olympics. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m half-thinking to escape, at least for some part of the two weeks where the world descends on London and some of its outer reaches. I have been boarding crowded buses and trains in the last few weeks thinking how is London going to handle the crowds that haven’t arrived yet? Some of us still have to go to work, still need to take some transport. We’ll have to grin and bear it, adjust our hours and our attitudes and be polite to our visitors. I’m excited that I will be, at least for some part of the two weeks, in an Olympic hosting city. I may even go to one of the sailing events (albeit in Weymouth), and am anticipating the excitement in what is already a vibrant city. I know I will need to get to the office—training schedule in place, I will need to be there for the first of the two weeks. The second week, at the moment, is blissfully free of appointments that require me to find my way to Chancery Lane, which has been designated as one of the hotspots (likely because the station is on the Central Line, with a direct link to Stratford where the Olympic stadium and its surrounding park are poised.

A very exciting, unique British summer indeed. Excepting the dreadful weather!

Another Great Escape

I never saw the movie In Bruges, and having now seen the real thing I don’t understand why the beautiful city is associated with Hell—there’s a line in the movie that says maybe that’s what hell is, the entire rest of eternity spent in Bruges.

It was a last-minute getaway; we were expecting company on the Isle of Wight and when plans changed and the weekend became free, it was an opportunity to dash off on Saturday morning to someplace near, potentially someplace warmer than England, and if possible someplace we’d not been. Bruges has been on my go-to list for some time now (it’s the canals; I have a mad  “thing” about water) so when Tim suggested it and the weather was looking sunny, I closed the browser open to Pisa and started guiding Tim to hotels with a canal view . . .

And in no time we found ourselves wandering Bruges’ centre—we parked the car and decided to walk, as having been rerouted due to road works our Google map directions were no longer applicable. The centre is compact enough to navigate on foot and in fact easier, as the roads are narrow, crowded with people, and often circular in direction.

When we found the hotel Die Swaene I was pleased to see its Old World style and, gleefully, windows opening up to the canal in our room. One of my favourite things to do during the weekend became sitting at the open window and waving to the tourists, 36 per open boat, gliding by along the canal. About every 10 minutes another boat packed with camera-carrying foreigners would look up as I waved, and I never failed to get at least one of the crowd to wave back. (And no, we never took the boat ourselves; Tim offered, but I preferred seeing it on foot).

I was expecting Bruges to be a lot like Amsterdam—the canals, stunning architecture, bicycles, shops, narrow cobbled streets. Bruges does have all of that, yet it felt quite different—the canals don’t dominate the city as much in Bruges, and the centre felt more open and light than Amsterdam. I hesitate because when I’ve been to Amsterdam it’s been cold and rainy, and that lends a certain ambience—closed, narrow, dark—whereas it was lovely and sunny in Bruges.

And I loved it, all of Bruges. It didn’t matter that I hate walking on cobbles and they were making me tired; I wanted to walk and see as much of the city in 36 hours as we could. And eat! We found a place for lunch shortly after checking in, and it was brill—the interior looked like a big kitchen, and Tim and I sat near the crepe oven where the owner would occasionally come to make one fresh for a diner. The service was a bit brusque, and the place was filled with an older crowd that didn’t look much like tourists. My simple croque-monsieur and white wine fortified me to spend the rest of the day exploring, a sole map in hand that Tim purchased for three euro.

Given it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, we hadn’t planned much; I spent about an hour on Friday looking at places to go—museums, churches, and medieval buildings worth a view. I also asked my friend Leah to recommend a few places to eat. The rest would just have to come together, and it did.

We spent some time at the Groeningemuseum, which holds six centuries of Flemish and Belgian painting. The museum was fairly empty, and we had opportunity to stroll through the rooms and take in the paintings at our leisure. My favourite was a portrait by Adriaen Thomasz Key—it is beautifully detailed, right down to the wrinkles around the eyes and the delicate structure of the fingers.

 Most streets you turn down in Bruges will have a niche within one of the old buildings displaying the Madonna, sometimes with child, and often with the words Ave Maria at the base—it would appear the Flemish are a largely Roman Catholic population. The buildings are lovely, with pretty ironwork on the windows and lace on the interior. The streets a distance from the centre were very quiet and often it was just the two of us strolling, peering in at windows and remarking about the varying ages of the buildings, some clearly more modern while others from the early 1900s wanting to be more like those far older on the same block. I wanted to go to the Church of Our Lady, which has one of the world's highest brick towers (so says the Wikipedia page). Michelangelo’s sculpture Madonna and Child is here, behind plate glass and up high on an altar, a lovely white marble piece and the only one of his works to have left Italy within his lifetime. History says it was purchased by wealthy Belgian merchants and still resides there today, though in 1944 German soldiers smuggled it to Germany enveloped in mattresses in a Red Cross truck. (It was later found and returned.) I was happy to take Tim’s last four euros to see it—we were short of cash and it was one of the last stops of the weekend. The Madonna looked pensive, a rather different expression than I’ve ever seen on statues or portraits of her.

Tim was happy to wait just inside the church while I roamed; there are effigies of Charles the Bold and his daughter in the choir space, and a glass floor that looks down to crypts below, some with decorative art and writing within them.

We also wandered into at least two other churches, one St Jacob, the other St Magdaleine and Catherine, and what is striking about all of them is the ornate carvings inside, particularly the pulpit, where the intricate details catch your eye. Alas we did not venture into one of the more famous churches, The Basilica of the Holy Blood, though we wandered outside of it several times–it is a stone’s throw from the hotel, and in fact our landmark for finding the hotel in the first place.  The church was built in the early 12th century, and a relic of the blood of Christ, said to have been collected by Joseph of Arimathea who washed the body after it was taken from the cross, is here.

Bruges is a wonderful city to walk—the cobbled streets do wear on your legs after a while, but what glorious sites to behold down the narrow streets that make the aches well worth it. There were many a lace and chocolate shop, none of which we ventured into, but we did do plenty of window shopping. We stopped in a bookshop to buy postcards, and wandered in and out of a few shops looking for cheese—I was actually quite surprised there weren’t more of those. The main thoroughfares were filled with tourists—and why not, the weather was really quite perfect with blue, sunny skies and warm, comfortable temperatures throughout the day. We peered into shops with furniture and lovely kitchen goods, and even went to a supermarket so I could buy some chocolate-covered waffles for the office and Tim bought some coffee for home. My valued purchase, a gift from Tim, was from an artisan potter in the market who had lovely vases, pitchers, ash trays (!) and such on display, and I found a lovely small blue pitcher to bring back to Cowes. I had to smile as I unwrapped it from its newspaper cradle and looked at the print—all in Dutch—the sports and property sections that I may hold on to for a little bit and take a closer look at.

Dinner turned out to be a delight after a minor disappointment—Leah’s suggestions for venues for dinner were fully booked, and I wasn’t amenable to walking up and down the streets to find something else—when I’m hungry and irritable it’s not pretty. We decided to try the hotel’s restaurant, listed as a Bib Gourmand (Michelin inspectors’ favourite establishments). The restaurant is in the lower ground floor, in age-old cellars at the water‘s edge with a view of the Groene Rei canal. It was decorated to a contemporary standard, romantically lit, and the set menu had interesting choices—one was called The Three Naughties, another The Four Pleasures. We both went with the former, choosing different mains of salmon and chicken, and Tim found a lovely red Bordeaux on the wine list to start the evening. What a treat—the service was lovely, the food quite good, and we shared the vices of crème brulee and chocolate tart. It was a very short walk back to our room overlooking the canal, but we decided to venture out and have a walk, perhaps find a coffee. In the end we found ourselves at the hotel lounge sipping an Oban whisky and chatting with the host, who either liked us immensely or was completely forgetful and didn’t charge us for our very generous pours!

Unfortunately Bruges' most famous landmark, the belfry known in the movie In Bruges from where Colin Ferrell leaps, was surrounded by white tents and metal gates—there was a triathlon taking place, and the centre was where the runners would come through on the last leg of their event. You can of course still look up and see the tower; there are 48 bells in the belfry and they have a full-time carillonneur in the city. There are so many churches that it’s hard to know where the sound of the bells is coming from on Sunday morning! We did have breakfast al fresco with a view of the belfry—the one time I would allow us to dine in a touristy square with hundreds of tables where the food was bound to be edible but nothing special—hey, it’s bacon and eggs and beans on toast, after all. We were both disappointed that there were no croissants; the bread provided in lieu could have been Hovis or Wonder. The coffee, I must say, was delicious, and a second cup kept us there a bit longer to watch the city wake up, which it did in very short order.

We did find a lovely place off the beaten track for lunch on our second day while walking around the city—another al fresco dining experience with a wonderful hostess who did her best to explain in English the specials of the day. I decided on the simple white fish with frieten, and Tim went for the three-course special of the day, which included two fish courses and fruit. The first course was a bit of a surprise—a whole, small fish, and not cooked but pickled, much like a herring. We both tried it. We both left about half of it on the plate. It was served cold, with white onion, and while it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t delightful to my palate, perhaps a bit too strongly flavoured. My white fish, which looked very much like skate, was delicious and perfectly cooked, served with a delicate homemade tartar sauce, and the “French fries” as the hostess called them were a nice treat. The half carafe of rose suited our meals and our minds, perfectly—it was a wonderful meal and a glorious way to idle away a couple of hours in Bruges.

Oh, and, why not Belgian moules frites? Not the right month!

So, can one do Bruges in 36 hours and thoroughly enjoy it? Ja. Its proximity to London makes it that much more appealing—a 90-minute drive to Dover, 40 minutes in the Eurotunnel, and then another 75 minutes on the other side from Calais to Bruges went by quickly, helped along by pretty countryside, a bit of conversation, and The Telegraph.

We had a quiet drive back to London, I suspect both of us reminiscing about the weekend’s walks and talks and food and sights and sounds. I didn’t even mind the traffic once we found ourselves back in North London. Of course if I had one of these, known as a Twizzy, I might zip through the traffic!