You Are What You Eat

I suppose I always knew that what you take in has a profound impact on what you look like, but never has it been more apparent than in the last three months.

Having seen several doctors and read hundreds of pages of information on the internet, I have come to the conclusion that the urticaria I’ve been diagnosed with—after ruling out all types of allergens—is directly related to the foods I take in, and the only way to help myself is to take in less of those that make a bad situation worse.

Urticaria and its companion angioedema have plagued me on and off since just after Christmas. The former is often controlled with antihistamines, as it is related to histamine intolerance. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice to say that my body is producing more histamine than it knows what to do with, and while large doses of anti-histamines have been prescribed, it’s not been enough to control the problem. It seems like every week I have a flare up, with swelling above and below my eyes (the angioedema part) and a deep redness around my eyes, usually starting in the outer corners and spreading below. It ain’t pretty.

When I visited the dermatologist who diagnosed me with urticaria, we briefly discussed a few foods I should stay away from—citrus, sugar, fizzy drinks, and aspirin or aspirin substitutes—none of which were part of my regular diet anyway. A substantial dose of anti-histamines to take for four weeks was meant to control the problem—you never cure urticaria, you simply tolerate it by keeping it in check.

But then I’d wake up one morning with the red swollen eyes all over again, wondering what might have been the “trigger” and knowing I didn’t eat any of the taboo foods. More reading on the internet and I found a restricted diet on the Urticaria Society web page that included most of what I in fact did have in my regular diet—fish, tea, chocolate, wine, eggplant (aubergine), spinach, soya, tomatoes or tomato products like sauce, most berries, yogurt, leftover meat, olives, vinegar, mustard—and that’s not all of it. While wheat was specifically mentioned, the breads and cereals section suggest “plain” breads and pasta, while I have generally gravitated to the whole-wheat kinds for both flavour and fibre.

The idea is to restrict one’s diet of the “trigger” foods for one month and then slowly re-introduce foods to see which ones your body can tolerate. It has been slightly daunting thus far to introduce variety—a lot of porridge (aka oatmeal) for breakfast, plain pasta for dinner with a variety of vegetables like broccoli or peas or bok choy with garlic and olive oil, and a simple salad with olive oil, salt and pepper—no bottled dressing allowed.

Perhaps some of you are not challenged by the list—I have to admit the hardest part of the day is actually lunch, where four days a week I would usually head out for a sandwich (alas, no processed meats or fish these days) or a salad (and no cheese or tomatoes); there’s not much left on offer! I have found a vegetarian wrap of falafel that has the smallest amount of yogurt, at the EAT takeaway just across the road, and for now that will suffice. There was one day last week where I went to four places near the office to find something that had only the allowable ingredients, and came up empty and marched back to EAT. I would have settled for oatmeal again, but most places stop serving porridge, typically a breakfast meal, at 11 am. I think I will start making lunch at home, or having cereal at midday, which thankfully has always been a favourite no matter what time it is!

I returned to the doctor today and requested blood tests to rule out an auto-immune disorder or a thyroid problem, whose symptoms are not all that dissimilar to what I’m experiencing. If nothing else, I’ll be relieved to know I’ve had some additional testing and perhaps it’s just this chronic urticaria that I will have to learn to live with. I also asked the doctor to consider a second anti-histamine—not that I want to be pill-popping, but combination therapy to mediate the inflammation while also treat the symptoms sounded like an approach worth taking after reading about it and having a chat with a few people at the office who have similar issues or know others who do. Fingers crossed, as they say.

Time heals, and I keep digging down for a bit more patience and strength to just keep calm and carry on. It is the chronic nature of this urticarial that makes it so frustrating, and while it is not life-threatening or even remotely a terrible disease, it distorts my ordered life in the smallest of ways that drives me crazy. Right now my eyes are sore, red, and probably a half day away from being swollen. I will not sleep well—it’s hard when your eyes feel odd, as though they do not fit properly in your head.

I will of course persevere. Tim has adjusted beautifully to my (or shall I say our) eating habits and is genuinely wonderful about bringing home the right kind of oatcakes and beans and apples along with a dozen roses to lift my spirits. The other night he called my sister Robyn to have her chat with me, one of those nights when I was really feeling a bit sorry for myself and lost about what to do but crawl under the duvet and pout. And you know what? It was terrific to hear her voice, to get a little of the angst off my chest, and to laugh again with my best friend. Gosh I needed it, and it worked a treat.

Even in my most miserable moods, Tim offers a hug, an embracing solace. And when I am in that way, there is nothing that beats the feel, the smell of a warm hug—a lean on the shoulder, breathing in the odour of warm cotton on warm skin. That will make me smile no matter what the day brings.

Love is Blind

Your first question, perhaps, is where have I been? Read on . . .

After a wonderful Christmas with Tim--just the two of us for the first time since I’ve been living in England--starting with a sumptuous meal and then a quiet evening together followed by friends for Boxing Day and then a delightful trip to the Isle of Wight with Tim’s mum that included celebrating New Year’s eve with friends Mark and Kim, well, it all went a bit downhill from there.

A few days after Christmas, I started having a minor bit of swelling under my left eye. A cold compress alleviated some of the swelling, and a bit of make up disguised the rest well enough for me to carry on my usual work and social activities.

When it first happened I was trying to figure out the cause—and thought perhaps that it was due to the feast of excess over the holidays—roast dinners every night, some which included rich Christmas pudding and cheeses, and of course more wine than I would normally drink. But that over-the-top wining and dining was short-lived; by New Year’s Day I was back to a relatively healthy lifestyle of balanced meals more Mediterranean than the English meat and two veg, and a more normal routine overall.

Returning to the routine, though, didn’t seem to matter; a week later both of my eyes were swollen, so much so that I didn’t recognise myself from the nose up. More cold compresses and this time a trip to the GP, who suggested an over-the-counter antihistamine to relieve the swelling, and a bit of the wait and see (which I find is the NHS way of dealing with issues that don’t appear to be life-threatening). Well, it didn’t help much to give it a few more days, and I returned to the GP office and saw a different doctor who entertained my suggestion that perhaps I was still reeling from too much animal protein—hey, why not? He tested my proteins—normal.  A stronger dose of antihistamines as well as a course of antibiotics was prescribed, my skin cracking on my face and leaving me known to infection. I was sent home to recover.

And I did, just a bit, though the swelling had moved to the bottom of my face and I was looking a bit Godfather-ish. Not a good look on a woman, I might add. My skin was quite dry and tight, and shortly after I felt I was improving all hell broke loose on my face. I was devastated. I cried. Just a little. I asked Tim to take me to the A&E. At Homerton Hospital I saw a lovely gentleman who suggested that I should visit Moorfield’s Eye Hospital immediately to be 100% certain it was not something wrong with my eyes that was causing the swelling. The first A&E leg took about two hours; the Moorfield’s Eye Hospital visit immediately after was another three. On a Saturday night. Poor Tim!

Moorfields’ specialists concluded that it was not my eyes and perhaps a contact allergy . . . but there was nothing new I’d tried, so it didn’t make sense. Nonetheless I was given stronger antihistamines and sent home to let it all calm down. Including me. I did, actually; there’s something of a relief knowing that you’ve seen a doctor and you have some meds.

Once again I saw progress in a few days. And then the inflammation happened again. I now resembled an embarrassed Michelin Man, with my face swollen and inflamed. I did apply some cream to my face—a prescription—but it stung and I wiped it off immediately.

And I cried, for the second time, over my situation. I felt truly helpless and just wanted it to be over with, and here I was, once again looking positively ghastly when the day before I was nearly normal. I told Tim I needed to return to the Homerton A&E. Another Saturday night, coincidentally, though early enough before the emergency could get too ugly with London’s casualties of pub brawls, domestic squabbles, and the occasional accident. It was busy, and we did wait over an hour to be seen by a consulting nurse who took the details and made an assessment to send me to the urgent care team, as it was a shorter queue and I was swelling more by the minute. A GP looked at me, frowned a bit at my swollen self and then smiled and asked what had happened. The story is retold. I tell the GP that I cried while waiting to see him; I’m not sure why I told him, but he said he understood. I had to laugh when I showed him the cream I’d used earlier that day, prescribed by one of the GPs in my local surgery for when my face felt dry and irritated; he looked at the tube, said “NO, NO, NO” and I believe tossed it in the trash. Fortunately it had only cost me a few quid.

This doctor prescribed an oral steroid to bring down the swelling, suggested I keep on the antihistamines and in fact add a second over-the-counter version to the mix, and recommended an aqueous cream to keep my face from becoming so dry and tight to react so severely. He explained that the first inflammation can seem almost mild, and that subsequent ones are usually more severe. Yep.

Another few days and slow progress . . . and hope. I travelled back to my GP, who had all my A&E notes, and suggested that perhaps I could see a dermatologist. She examined my face, which was still a bit inflamed around the eyes, and suggested instead that I give it another week and see if my face calms down and, possibly, the swelling completely goes away. I prod her with a name of a dermatologist; she still wants to wait  the week and prescribes a different cream that is thicker and is a better moisture lock for my face to heal, and also gives me a topical steroid for the angry red patches under my eyes, primarily my left one where it all started. I make an appointment for a week later.

And I am confident enough to take a lovely weekend journey with Tim to Brussels to see the Belgian contingent. What a wonderful weekend we had spending time with the kids, enjoying a delicious dinner at home with fabulous food, wine, and conversation, taking a trip to the Magritte museum, and enjoying each other’s company; it felt comfortable, easy. I garnered a fantastic salt shaker in the shape of a lighthouse from the restaurant Leon that will no doubt be a talking piece on the Isle of Wight. It was a chilly weekend—it even snowed as we wandered around Brussels Grand Place—but it didn’t matter much, and I was happy to get outdoors and spend time with family.

Upon my return I re-visit the GP. I am determined to leave the office with a referral, and I do, but I am also told that the NHS wait to see a dermatologist is 2-3 months. I ask her to repeat that last bit. Yes, likely three months.

I am one of the fortunate who has private insurance through work, and so I give them a call instead of waiting for the NHS to ring me, and provide the insurer the name of the dermatologist I want to see, recommended from Tim’s mum. He’s on their list, thankfully, and they remind me that my excess (aka deductible before the insurer starts paying a dime) is £100. I don’t blink; it’s well worth it. I call the doctor’s office at the London independent hospital and get an appointment—for just five days later. A far cry from the wait going through the free NHS service!

Dr Cerio is lovely. I ask if Tim can join me in the consultation, as he’s lived with all of this for the last several weeks, and Dr Cerio says fine; he adds that it’s usually the wife who interrupts the husband so not a problem here as it’s me who’s the patient and not Tim. We go through the story; I show him the photos I took of myself each day from the first time both my eyes were swollen. He tells me they are quite helpful, and pulls out his own set of pictures; I agree, yes, that looks familiar. OK, allergy; but to what?

I give enough blood to go be tested for the whole lot—airborne, food, and contact allergies. I ask if I can start wearing contact lenses again, as my eyesight is not optimal in my glasses which are now three years old and only worn occasionally. He says yes. I ask if I can wear make up as I’ve been using the same stuff for ages and never had a problem; he says yes, adding “you know it’s not the make up” which makes me laugh. It has been such a difficult journey that I’m literally scared to put anything on or near my face, but I trust that he is right. He suggests I put a bit of the make up on another area of my body, near my wrist, to see if I react, and if I don’t to go ahead and use it. I leave happy if not a bit drained of some blood and buy Tim a nice pub lunch at Paternoster Square looking toward St Paul’s Cathedral. What a trouper Tim has been! Another Saturday in yet another hospital, only this time at a decent hour and without all the swelling and tears. Amen.

I try my contact lenses on Sunday. No reaction, and I’m pleased; I will wear them on Monday to work. And I do. I patch-test my make-up; no reaction. I live it up on Monday and put a bit on, and a tiny bit of powder blush, a hint of mascara. I am starting to feel like myself again—I recognise the woman in the mirror.

Until Tuesday. I am fine in the morning, though by midday I see my left eye looks a bit irritated. It gets worse. I head home and look in the mirror—both eyes have swelling just coming up, and are angry red. 

Relapse.

I wash my face with water, apply a cool compress briefly to my eyes, slather on the Epaderm cream to lock in moisture, and at 8:30 pm, crawl under the covers in bed. I am disheartened. I don’t know what’s going on, and I fear that by the time I wake up in the morning there will be more swelling, despite the antihistamine tablet I take each night, the highest dose reasonably allowed.

Tim has spent the evening at a dinner at Lincoln’s Inn, and when he comes through the door and cheerily yells hello I respond with a mournful whine. He comes upstairs immediately to look at my condition and offer comfort. I try not to be stupid and cry, but I do anyway, if just a little.

I am slightly relieved on waking up the next day that the swelling and redness haven’t gotten any worse, only it also hasn’t improved. I have three important meetings—one a presentation which I ask my colleague to lead while I relegate myself to note-taker, one a visit to the school I volunteer at to pick up an important form, and one a working session with a colleague who is travelling in from a different office especially for the meeting. I decide I am ugly but not unwell, and head in. By midday I realise the rest of what I need to accomplish that day can be done from the comfort of my own living room, and because I was just slightly itchy about my face I decided to pack my rucksack and hop the 341 to N5.

Improving. Again. Still. I will get the results of my blood tests in another week’s time. I will not go back to wearing contact lenses or makeup, at least not until the day before I visit Dr Cerio again just in case there’s another setback. It probably wasn’t the cause of the relapse, but I’m done with taking chances.

Tim and I joke that it’s probably dust mites and we’ll have to pull up all the carpets and move the clothes out of the bedroom and change a few other things around the house. It is pollen season, and perhaps I’ve acquired an allergy to tree pollen, or something else airborne. I’m heartened knowing that I will have an answer, if not a solution, to all this madness, before the month is out.

I am a little proud of myself in some ways—while I did stay home for close to two weeks while my face morphed back from unrecognisable to just a little puffy and red, I have become, because of this, a bit less vain about how I look. My colleagues don’t seem to care—I had one lovely woman say to me today that if I hadn’t told her she’d have not even noticed, and she’s been in recent training sessions with me so has seen me earlier this year before it all went a bit puffy. My routine in the morning has become blissfully simple, and I have more time in the morning to fold the clothes that were left drying overnight or empty the dishwasher or gather the tea cups and glasses from the night before left behind in different rooms.

I do think that when all is said and done I’ll go back to a bit of glamming up—a safe, hypoallergenic mascara, perhaps a bit of blush and most certainly a bit of colour for my lips. But there’s something to be said for keeping it simple. I’m probably spending more money than is necessary for the latest anti-wrinkle cream; the E45 cream is doing a nice enough job and perhaps I can learn to love my wrinkles!

And Tim, well, what can I say? Each morning he greets me with a smile and says I’m looking better, and each night he says he hopes I’m better tomorrow. He has held my hand, wiped my tears, kissed my unswollen forehead even when I looked my most ghastly, and escorted me to numerous doctors and hospitals without a single complaint. He bought me a dozen roses for Valentine’s Day, and a lovely card—even though we send no Hallmark Holiday exchanges.

So, as I write this on Valentine’s Day evening, on the train on the way to Cowes to spend a weekend by the sea and relax, I thank Tim for his love, his compassion, and his kind words through what has not been an easy journey for either of us.

Love is blind, truly, and for that I am ever grateful!

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.