There's no place like . . .

I think at a certain point all “expats” give pause when someone asks them where “home” is.  It’s a different question than “where are you from?” and a bit more daunting to answer when you’ve been away from the place ”where are you from” for more than just a year or two. When does someplace else than where you’ve lived most your life become home?

I don’t know the answer; I do know that I went back to where I’m from recently, and it sure felt a bit like home.

I was most anticipating the warmth. The heat. (Even the Brits have been largely unhappy with the weather during the summer season, though we are now in the throes of a proper summer.) The forecast was ready to deliver—for ten days the lows would be what London generally sees as highs and the highs would be just a shade under triple digits (F) – something about 36 but not quite 40.

I was also eagerly awaiting a few solid days with my family—it had been 16 months since I’d last seen my two sisters, and closer to two years for my brother in Texas. There is no substitute for the warmth of a long hug, or the sight of dancing eyes and a wide smile after sharing an old sibling story. And that’s only the half of it—also planned were opportunities to see some other relatives and friends in New Jersey before driving south and spending time with Tim’s family, whom he hadn’t seen in four years.

We didn’t let the fact that we couldn’t check in online with United and didn’t have seats together start the trip off on the wrong foot—easily rectified with a smile to the young woman to my left in row 41, traveling alone and willing to relocate two rows down to an aisle seat I was assigned. Three movies and two magazines later we were collecting a car and heading to Harrison.

Me, Robyn, David

The best I can describe first seeing Robyn is like a minor thrill—the heart beats slightly faster, you feel a bit giddy, and you’re smiling ear to ear. It doesn’t last long; it settles into something that’s like you were never separated. Robyn and I talk/chat/text/something just about every day of the year, but it’s far better over a glass of wine or a cup of coffee within three feet of each other’s eyes.

Seeing David after a longer separation was slightly different—slightly less giddy, a bit more poignant; you don’t quite realise how less substantial email exchanges are to physical presence until you are there, in the same room, laughing at a joke or trawling through photographs that aren’t on a screen, but tactile, substantial in a very different sense.

The first few days are a haze of food, wine, and conversation at various diners (well, just one, but the best on in Jersey called Tops), pizzerias (something I always anticipate coming home for) and restaurants in various cities and crossing two states. Vacations (aka holidays) are often centered around food and family, and for me this time was no exception. I fully anticipated that I would eat more, eat differently, and have no regrets. Breakfast out, complete with bacon and hash browns? Bring it on! (I’ll confess to having relapsed to Greek yogurt on a couple of mornings.) Portion control? I’m on holiday! (I could never eat all those hash browns even when I lived in the US.)

With Barbara, Jimmy in background!

Our first night was a real treat—a home-cooked meal at a dear friend’s gorgeous apartment not far from our hotel. David and Robyn and Jimmy were joining us, a reunion probably ten years in the making as David hadn’t seen Barbara in that long. Barbara always has the most interesting and delicious nibbles—wasabi gouda; Mary’s Gone Crackers organic pretzel sticks; spicy hummus; the list goes on! Jimmy brought a whopping tray of crunchy, juicy jumbo shrimp he prepared and a fabulous cocktail sauce for dipping. And we hadn’t even started dinner . . . delicious chicken with another raft of sides to delight us.

And oh how we chatted the hours away—I was convinced I’d be shattered by early evening as my body was still thinking plus five in hours, but the time simply flew . . . and that’s how a lot of the time away went.

My desire to have what Tim would call “proper” pizza came from an unexpected and delightful source—Brooklyn. Having decided to spend the day together and (my) wanting to venture into New York, Jimmy suggested the “Brooklyn flea” which is a well-known market for its eclectic stalls and food tents. Jimmy likened it to Portobello Market where we visited when he and Robyn came to visit when I first moved to London. We drove rather than taking the subway, which was a real thrill for Tim who managed a few photos while on the Brooklyn Bridge. The market didn’t disappoint, but it was a hot day and after a bit of walking and window shopping we were inclined to find a place inside with a bit of AC (air conditioning) to have lunch. Just off DeKalb Avenue there are lots of pizzerias to choose from, and we backtracked to find one Jimmy had spotted earlier, called Graziella’s. We ordered some wine and two 16-inch pizzas—the classic margherita and one with prosciutto and mozzarella. Verdict? Well, I don’t think you can get a bad slice in Brooklyn if you stay away from the chains, and this was “proper”!

I was in slice heaven. Tick, one important trip task done!

We found our way back to Manhattan and strolled a bit along the High Line, a mile-long elevated walking path from Gansevoort Street to 30^th Street along Tenth Avenue that opened just two years ago. It was crowded with strollers like us, but well worth the views! With no real plan we opted to stay in the city for drinks at Frankie’s, a favourite of Robyn and Jimmy’s, and eventually found our way to a table indoors just steps from the open windows along Hudson Street. Another delicious Italian meal—I had the grilled calamari—and another memorable day back home.

Sunday was the big event—well, the biggest gathering to be sure—lucky 13 for dinner at (yet) another Italian restaurant, this time in Bayonne, to see my sister Debbie and her family. We’d popped in on them a little earlier in the day, and Danny and Tim took a walk to the baseball diamond where he plays and to see the river while Debbie and I caught up a bit. Most of you know that Debbie is bravely undergoing medical treatment and this trip for me was as much about seeing her as having some time away, so the time together was important to me, and really wonderful. (I’d love to post a photo of the two of us with the lovely Alyssa, but I don’t want Debcham to be made at me so compromised on a photo with me and Alyssa!) It was nice to catch up with all of Debbie’s family—all so grown up now, and even Danny is as tall as me!

With Alyssa

The prize (and appreciation) for coming the longest way—on a Sunday, in the summer, when the traffic is horrendous—hands down goes to Regina and Pat. I hadn’t anticipated seeing them—it is a brutal drive in the summer where everyone is either heading to or coming back from the Jersey Shore, where they live (in a very nice area, nothing like the reality show)—so to have them join us was marvellous.  Judy and Carroll were great fun to catch up with, too, as ever. Tim chose to bring wind-up “Royal Racers” for Judy, funny little wind-up dolls of HRH and Charles, which were a hit. (Judy is an Anglophile Extraordinaire.)

While Debbie was slightly disappointed in the dinner and the venue—our private room was “shared” with a group of rather loud gents, and the food in her opinion was not up to its usual standard—it was a wonderful evening with a little bit of musical chairs to have a chance to talk with everyone, and lots of those long, warm hugs that you just don’t get over the internet.

The next two days found Tim and me either at Tops catching up with David, at Debbie’s, or at the place that will always be the place for eggplant parmagiana, Nino’s in Harrison. David joined Robyn and Tim and me for our last dinner of the trip together, and I am pleased to report that Mr Nino did not disappoint! The recipe is the same, and it is still the best eggplant parm I’ve had anywhere. Now, I will say that our little neighbourhood joint, Trattoria Sapori, at Newington Green in London rivals . . . perhaps it’s just the fact that Nino’s is where it is, where Robyn and I had many a dinner and conversation, that makes the eggplant parm there above all others.

Robyn and Tim at Nino's

The first half of the journey home was coming to a close, and the hugs even more heartfelt. David was off, too, back to Texas while Tim and I were driving south to spend two days in Cape May. If you witnessed the long goodbye in the parking lot between Robyn and me, you’d have felt the love. Truly. I think it took me a while to get over that; I don’t think I even spoke much for a bit—Tim, ever the perceptible gent, knew, and understood.

Revisiting Cape May after a five-year absence for me was, well, a treat. I was anxious to show it off to Tim, but not convinced he’d share my enthusiasm for the sandy beach, the pretty Victorian homes, and the pedestrian mall filled with shops and restaurants. With only a day and a half there it was more of a taster, and while it was hot and humid we did stroll down the main streets where the B&Bs sit one after another in pretty Victorian splendour with wide porches and lots of gingerbread. I was happy to be walking along Hughes Street, my favourite, and Jackson Street, where I’d stayed so many times before and this time, too. I chose the Carroll Villa Hotel because I knew the breakfast would be lovely—the Mad Batter restaurant is well known—and it is nicely located a half block from the ocean and connects to the pedestrian mall. The room—like most in the area--was small but nicely appointed, and the bed stood high enough off the ground to make me hop up just a bit to climb in—just like in 1882 when it first started accommodating guests.

The ocean was cold to me—Tim used the word “bracing”—so while he went for a full-fledged swim (I only walked along the shore and up to my calves) I sat on the beach and soaked in a bit of sun. I reminisced about the time Robyn, Debbie and I took a girls’ weekend and stayed at the Southern Mansion, and other trips I made solo on early mornings to sit on a bench with a good cup of coffee and watch the sun rise.

While this was a trip about family, it did allow me a few indulgences to see some friends, and we were so happy to have dinner at the Blue Pig Tavern, in Congress Hall, with my high school “buddy” Jill and her husband Mike. They made the drive down – about 95 miles – to catch up.  There’s something that transcends distance when you know someone 30-odd years; you tend to think less about how long it takes and more about just getting there to spend time together.  What a wonderful time we had, and the dinner was quite good, too. Outside of getting a few mosquito bites from dining al fresco, it was a perfect evening.

Jill and me at Congress Hall

I think Tim must have enjoyed Cape May—he did buy the tee shirt! Not one to collect too many things, I did buy a lovely oblong glass dish with a trio of silver starfish at one end as a little treasure of my trip. When I lived in New Jersey my home had quite a few trinkets from the shop, Mariah’s, but I had left them all behind and wanted something to have as a reminder. It now sits on the kitchen counter in Cowes, my new seaside home that has little in common with Cape May except the glittering water . . . and perhaps the sea-inspired tchtochkes you see in the high street shops. Both places make me very happy.

The last few days of our journey were spent in Virginia . . . and on the Isle of Wight.

Let me explain. Tim (and I now) have family in Chesapeake and Virginia  Beach, and while crossing the Delaware on the Cape May-Lewes Ferry he spotted a map of Virginia that showed the Isle of Wight . . . which is coincidentally where Cowes is; clearly where the colonists borrowed the name from back in 1628! When we arrived in Chesapeake to warm hugs and a delicious cold supper (recipe for the curried chicken borrowed), Tim asked if we could take a trip to see the IoW, and one afternoon we did just that, finding a quaint area that has towns called Smithfield (akin to the meat market in London) and Windsor (no explanation required). Smithfield is famous for its hams (though I think that’s a decidedly American thing), and there is even a little museum that has the oldest ham . . . the rest is really lovely, trust me!

In front of the museum in Virginia

We sent postcards to our England Isle of Wight friends, one who said she was surprised by the card (we live across the road from each other in Cowes) until she saw it was from Virginia, USA. It was a delightful, unexpected find for us while down south.

I must say I do think E&P have done well in choosing their new home: on a lake (complete with a paddle boat), in a lovely community, and with a garden whose hydrangeas rival the ones we have in London that I enjoy so much. The house is filled with light and space, primarily stretching out on a single floor except for an office up a few stairs filled with Pat’s memorabilia of his years of service (including a letter from President Obama). It is filled with wonderful pieces of furniture and art from the places they lived while Pat was in the service.

Tim's first hot dog at a baseball game!

There were a lot of wonderful moments with E&P: leisurely breakfasts over coffee, sharing stories of time past; Tim’s first baseball game where Pat provided the commentary to teach Tim a bit about the game; seeing Kat and her lovely daughters and swimming at Virginia Beach; a drive to the nearby base to see the old fighter jets; relaxing on the deck watching the ducks swim by. It was a much-needed winding down for our mid-year time away from the demanding world of work and the faster pace of simply living in London.

I’ve no doubt forgotten some highlights . . . even now I’m looking at photographs and recalling how nice the whole trip was, top to bottom, and how I have been momentarily sated of my “things I miss about home” like pizza and baseball and swimming in the ocean. I will never not miss my family; that can never be slaked. Technology fortunately provides some reprieve—we’ve checked that we all have each other’s Skype names and can use the app on our smartphones, and there is still texting and email that is generally instantaneous, as long as one remembers the five-hour difference in our days and nights.

So if I slipped on a pair of ruby slippers, clicked the heels together and said “there’s no place like home,” where would I be transported?  

I’m thinking it’s a multi-journey trip that can’t be booked online.