Je suppose que c'est pourquoi ils appellent ça le bleu

What to do when the north of France has lost some of its romance?

Bring on the south of France, and particularly the Cote d'Azur, where the vineyards of luscious grapes that bring rose to the table dip and climb for miles. The view from anywhere above two stories is simply spectacular--fields of green against a gorgeous blue sky that doesn't have a match in the Crayola box; it's too perfect to replicate. Pale yellow and sand-coloured villas dot the landscape, often clustered in small towns. The scent of lavender just tickles your senses. 

Destination Saint Cyr sur Mer, holidaying with family-in-law in a lovely villa whose fig trees provided the perfect canopy for reading a book in the shade during the hottest hours and whose pool offered the right amount of cooling off. A short walk away the beach waited for when the day called for a stroll and a swim in the Mediterranean.

Tim and I didn't do much--that was the plan having had a wonderful trip to America that was filled with family and friends but as you would expect not a lot of down time. My plan was to sleep in, swim in the pool, have the occasional outing, eat well, sleep in, finish reading my current novel (a terrific story by Barbara Kingsolver called The Lacuna, which I highly recommend), swim in the sea, eat well, sleep in--you get the idea. I did want to see a few places nearby--nothing definite discussed ahead of time, though we'd intended to rent a car for a few days and see some of the French countryside.

And we did. Cassis, teeming with people on a Sunday that there wasn't a place to park the small Yaris anywhere but the very top of the hill that even for me was too far to head back to centre. A drive from Cassis to La Ciotat along the nine-mile routes des Cretes that I'll admit had me a bit nervous about looking over the side, where the drops were steep and the sights breathtaking.

 There was also Aix, where we had a family outing to see the Matisse exhibit and have lunch at an outdoor brasserie on cours Mirabeau, just down the road from the Cathedral. The cathedral is a beautiful national monument that has roots back to the fifth century and is said to have been built on the site of a temple dedicated to Apollo. And there was a short hop to perhaps the most picturesque of all of our journeys, La Cardiere, a small town with winding, narrow streets of cobblestone with quaint shops and a very lovely restaurant, Le Regain, where we had had dinner.

I think that it was the first time, perhaps ever, that every meal on holiday was al fresco. Breakfast was on the porch where the sun hadn't yet arrived, a perfect spot for morning coffee. Fresh baguettes and croissants were bought each morning by the person who happened to get up first. Lunches of cold meats and cheeses, inspired and interesting salads by our hostess, and the occasional bottle of rose were simply lovely. By dinner time the mozzies were also ready to feast, yet with the right bit of citronella and those funny green coils (along with a dab of DEET on the arms and legs) it was positively blissful to be out of doors--grilled prawns, roast chicken, and even pizza from the local place found its way to the table. And yes, more rose from Provence, please!

One of my favourite late afternoon days was sitting in the square of Saint Cyr with the Statute of Liberty--yes, you read that correctly--standing over us. The sculptor, Frederic Bartholdi, donated the gilded replica to Saint Cyr. It's hard to find out why, even on the internet; in one web page I read that it was actually donated by a local businessman who acquired it from Bartholdi.

The square is perfect for relaxing with a glass of something (more rose, s’il vous plait) and peoplewatching. There were no American or British accents around us; this is a decidedly French spot for holidays! I didn't mind; even though my French is quite poor I can pick out a few words, toss a few phrases in greeting, and otherwise be quite blissfully unaware of the conversations around me.

  

What's not to love? Very little, though one or two disappointments. The beach near us was not as pretty as I'd imagined, having had this grand, dreamy idea about the Mediterranean shores, and nearest our villa it was shingled (aka pebbled) and a bit rocky to enter and emerge from the sea. There was simply no way to be elegant about it: every man, woman and child stumbled a bit before diving in or out! Yet the water was warm and lovely, and the waves just enough to keep the children happy. Me too.

We did manage to lose our way a few times, too; signage not being wonderful, "touts directions" didn't always take us where we wanted to be. It did give us an opportunity to see the seedier site of Marseilles when our GPS didn't provide quite what we expected, and I suppose given it was broad daylight and we did wind up where we needed to in the end, it was only a minor detour. We didn't spend much time in Marseilles but in the car, and to and from the airport, and I expect there are things to see that may bring us back there.

I would like to go back, perhaps be more adventurous the next time when my body and mind need less repair and when the weather is cooler where traveling around takes less energy. This taster was a lovely way to be introduced to the south of France and has whet my appetite to see more . . . who knows, I may unearth my language tapes and learn a bit more than Je nais parle pas Francais!

A bientot!

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.

Five (and counting)

I recently hit a milestone worth sharing–my fifth year in England. It was on the 26th of May in 2008 that I boarded an overnight flight to London, 61 pounds of luggage in hand. Within hours of landing I was settling in to my first “foreign” residence—an apartment hotel in the Barbican section of London—and then going about doing the necessary things to begin life in another country: getting an Oyster card (the equivalent of a Metro card), buying a mobile phone, opening a bank account and getting a debit card, and figuring out how to get to the office the next day. There was no time to waste: my new work life was set to begin on the 28^th!

I am amazed that five years have passed. Then again, when I think about where I’ve travelled, whom I’ve met, and what I’ve accomplished, well, it’s been five years crammed with wonderful things. I thought I’d stop to think about each of the five years and my fondest memories of them—no research, just what’s off the top of my head. Here goes.

2008 was the year I met some wonderful people who I am happy to call friends. Having worked on a few projects with the England-based team I’d already known quite a few people who were to then become my colleagues, and some of them I counted as friends too—it made the transition far easier, I think. In the first several months of being here I met the women who are now affectionately known as The Pizza Club—Leah, Taron, and Claire along with former and now once again office mate Kelly. We’ve done so much together, but our quest for good pizza is probably the thing that keeps us meeting up regularly. And among us in the last five years we’ve been to three weddings—our own—all here in England.

It was also the year that I realised that I could—would—travel to places I’d not have imagined I’d go to when I lived in America: Kenya in 2008, and in later years Morocco, Sri Lanka, and Vietnam. There was something about being in Europe that made faraway places seem more approachable.  My eyes were opened to a larger world, and my new friends—including my dashing sailor—influenced quite a bit of my travel plans; outside of a solo trip to Kenya I was experiencing these places with them.

It was no doubt the year I fell in love with what has become my new home. On weekends I’d often get up early and take a bike ride down Portobello Road, or walk across one of the many bridges, take in the view, and pinch myself that I lived in London. It didn’t seem real, and yet I’d managed to put it all together and get oriented at work, find a flat, make some friends, and settle. In the first year I’d no assurance I’d be staying—I had a one-year work contract and a storage room full of furniture in New Jersey for when I returned—and so I was determined to experience it all and enjoy it in 12 months. In the summer when it’s light out until 9:30 pm I would find myself looking for something to do in the 4+ hours after work so as not to waste the day—museums, walks, neighbourhoods, shops, anything to make the days full. (Thankfully I’ve settled down now and realise I didn’t have to always be doing something, LOL.)

And it was the year I invited visitors and proudly showed them around London—or sometimes it was them showing me! I’d purposely chosen a two-bedroom furnished flat to accommodate guests and encouraged them all to come to England while I kept the place—probably just for a year as it was far more than I should have been spending in rent.  And what a treat to have friends and family come. I was still learning about what to see and do in London, and it was great to be exploring some of it for the first time. I still have some favourites—Covent Garden, the British Museum, Tower Bridge, Bloomsbury.

Mirepoix the Cat made her way across to England in November that year; I had to leave her behind while she waited out the six-month quarantine period in America to assure the UK that she did not have rabies, which is practically non-existent here. I remember so clearly the day the service brought her to my door and I opened the carrier—she slinked out, low to the ground, and walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, once, then again. I picked her up to show her where the litter tray was—in another room—and then put her back down and she promptly hopped up on the couch and stared straight ahead, giving me no notice. She barely moved from there day and night. On her third day she’d forgiven me for leaving her behind and making her take the arduous journey in climate-controlled cargo, and finally leaped up on the bed to settle in for the night with me, just like old times.

A short year—just seven months—but 2008 was packed with wonderful things.

Perhaps the most unexpected of events happened in 2009—I fell in love with a blue-eyed barrister. In the previous year Tim was a semi-regular friendly companion of mine for exploring London. We’d met in October of 2008 to arrange some time for when his cousin (my dear friend) Karyn was coming for a visit. Still new to London, I was happy to find someone who had a few of the same interests as me—willing to go to the opera or try a new restaurant—things that are more interesting when done with a companion. It was a lovely friendship—I felt like I could tell Tim anything (and trust me, I did) and he was a wonderful listener.  Several months of occasional outings blossomed into a courtship that I’m not sure either of us expected when we first met several months before to discuss Karyn’s itinerary over a coffee. 

I gave up my flat, moved from west to north London, and re-settled with Mirepoix into a “relationship.” I hadn’t acquired much while living on my own—books and CDs shipped from home, a few more articles of clothing, and small items to adorn my first furnished flat. In two carloads I was transported into a wonderful new life that, when I pause to think of how it all came to be, still surprises me.

2010 was the year that I fulfilled a dream—to have a place near the sea.  Now living the life of a sailor’s partner, we spent a few weekends in Cowes and I found it delightful. I’d asked Tim to show me the towns on the sea that were easily accessible to London as I started to think about a place where we could relax and enjoy some weekends. No matter what place I saw, none had the same feel as Cowes; the high street is filled with lovely unique shops, and there is a long stretch to walk along the sea and a pebble beach that attracts families in the summer. It is quiet and pretty, and in the off season Cowes has a romance all its own where you may be the only person walking along the parade watching the sun set.

I never grow tired of it—the long walk west to Gurnard, or a trip to East Cowes to have lunch al fresco in the pub that overlooks the marina. I can sit and watch the sailboats glide by from the window, a slice of The Solent in view, or head up to the roof terrace for a wonderful view across to Portsmouth. I have slowly, carefully, filled the small house with furniture, some books from my London collection, and lovely art, all with just a slight nautical touch, and we’ve had crew come and go and come again on racing weekends, many whom have become good friends. It is a place of serenity, of comfort, this home away from home. I am so glad to have it, and truly enjoy sharing it, mostly with the blue-eyed barrister.

Coincidentally the day I received the keys to Harbour House was two years to the day of landing at Heathrow—27 May.

I have a postcard that Tim sent me that says Married in 2011. It was a wonderful, small ceremony at Stoke Newington Town Hall that gathered my new friends from England with my new family and my own family representatives, Robyn and Jimmy, for the afternoon of the second of July. Tim wanted it to be the Fourth, coinciding with that famous American holiday (which would also make it nearly impossible to forget), but in 2011 that would have been a Monday, so we settled for the Saturday before. The string quartet was found at my friend Taron’s wedding in March. One of my favourite moments was an impromptu dance in Tim’s arms while they played the intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana—give it a listen. It will always bring me a bit of joy, those moments.

Our honeymoon in Sri Lanka was the icing on the cake, of course, capping a perfect year. I fell in love with the beauty of the country and the warmth of the people. I can honestly laugh out loud thinking about our trips in the tuk tuk with our young guide Lal who managed to arrange anything we asked, and be an exceptional host. He was proud to show off his country, and we benefitted; I remember how he beamed showing us the wild elephants just off the road and the alligator not far from our resort. I was a little nervous on both occasions, yet glad for the experience.

And it was the year I retired the maiden name for my spiffy new married one . . . yes, well, I know a few of you are thinking she’s been there, done that before . . . but my passport always had the same surname until 2011. It took me a little while to get used to the change—I still occasionally introduced myself with the name I’d been rather used to—though now the slip is rare and the excitement of being Mrs is still there.

Last year, 2012, was a huge year for Britain—it was the year of the Queen’s diamond jubilee, and of course the Olympics and Paralympics Games hosted in my new resident city of London. What a year to be an expat! Of course faithful blog followers (LOL) will remember my brush with the Duke of Edinburgh, Mr HRH, at a Bar Yacht Club anniversary dinner. Tim had the honour of meeting Prince Philip and showing him around. Luckily our table was placed perpendicular to the head table so we could all watch the Duke laugh and chat. He gave a wonderful, funny speech and was delighted to be invited as the Admiral of the Fleet.

Then on the 25^th of July I stood proudly and waved the Union Jack as HRH The Queen came to Cowes to dedicate a plaque in honour of her diamond jubilee. I was thrilled to see her walk down the parade toward the plaque, which my friend Kim and I were standing in front of, behind a barricade but only feet away. The Queen leaned in to accept a posy from a young girl standing inches from me. I gawped, and then came to my senses and managed to take a photo or two. The local County Press for the Isle of Wight proves it—here I am snapping a piccie of the regal Elizabeth. She is absolutely lovely in person, and I was glad that Kim suggested a 7 am start (for a 10 am visit); she was great company for those three hours waiting and we both have fond memories of the day.

And how special to go to the Olympic Park and cheer on the Paralympians for the swimming finals! How fortunate for me that my friend Kelly had a spare ticket, having done all the work to go through the lottery and secure hers! Watching these athletes—many with a missing limb, some being wheeled to the edge of the pool—race for a medal brought mixed emotions of feeling proud of them in recognising their heroism to compete, and sheer joy for the winners. I think, I hope, that the exposure that the Paralympics gained this year will carry on.

Tim and I were lucky to go to the Olympic sailing in Weymouth (thanks David), another wonderful memory of the year. How special that was to me; who knows when the Olympics will again be in my “neighbourhood,” and so to have had the chance to see an event and be part of the experience is perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

On a sad note, 2012 was the year we lost Mirepoix the Cat, my Girly Girl. She had been my faithful companion for almost 23 years, having rescued her from the Teteboro Animal Shelter when she was just four months old. She was a treasure, and I have so many fond memories of her. When she was young  you could toss a small soft ball at her and she’d bat it back with her paw in perfect precision, or carry it back in her mouth to you like a dog would. She was endless fun, and wonderful company; a warm bit of fur at my side when I was feeling under the weather. She and Tim got along well--in fact she moved in ahead of me as a test to be sure that Tim could survive his cat allergy!

I miss her enough to not want to replace her; not just yet. Tim and I still will walk into our home and say “meow” as she was often awaiting our return home, until she became too old /deaf to care! The Girl.

And what of the first six months of 2013? Well, top of the list has to be finally getting the urticaria under control and feeling right with the world again. There was a wonderful little wedding we went to in March . . . most certainly a special occasion to have my dear friend Leah--an American I met in England--marry the handsome Aussie Andrew. The Routemaster bus ride will always be a fond memory!

I have to admit I let my five-year milestone slip by somewhat quietly. I thought it was lovely that Tim’s mum raised a toast in my honour when we recently visited her. It is truly a remarkable event to me, having not expected a future anywhere other than America. For the anniversary I thought I’d make a splash at work, bring in some cakes (which is how the population seems to celebrate events) and maybe have some drinks . . . yet in the end a part of me preferred to keep it to myself, to recognise it from both a personal and career perspective, and smile about my good fortune.

So what’s next? Saving up for my “indefinite leave to remain”! Having visited the Border Agency website I now know that I have to (a) take a “Life in the UK” test to prove my literacy before 19 December; (b) save up enough dosh to pay the piper (currently at a smidge under £1500 for in-person service) and (c) collect those documents that prove that Tim and I have been true Mr & Mrs for the last two years. (I was warned about these when I received my spouse visa.) We had a slight panic when reading the guidance for the settlement form when I realised we were short one document; Tim quickly sorted it by having me jointly responsible (ahem) for the Thames Water bill.

I think he’d like me to stay, then.

Verdict

When Dr Cerio suggested that even though he wasn't convinced that my urticaria was the "contact" kind, he suggested I visit a colleague of his and have patch testing done, to which I agreed. If nothing else it would rule out any allergens that would have come into contact with my eyes that may have caused the repeated inflammation.

Patch testing is done in three sessions over five or six days. On the first visit after giving my medical history and emptying the contents of my cosmetic bag and medicine cabinet, the dermatologist reviewed the ingredients (making a few trips between the office and the lab next door, as I had a lot of bottles, jars, and tubes) and prepared small patches to be placed on my back. Each patch represents an ingredient, and when all was said and done I had about 100 of them in relatively neat rows from my shoulders to mid-back. I brought everything I could think of with me, even if I only used it once or twice and not in the last several months. 

Told to avoid strenuous exercise as not to sweat, I cancelled my tennis game and knew that the British weather would not be a problem--it has barely reached 20 this month (about 70 degrees F). To be safe I also limited my stair climbing at the office--I have a workstation on the third floor but spend quite a bit time in the lower ground training area four floors below (there is a ground floor to be counted in England), and generally avoid the elevator on my journeys between sessions.

Let me pause here to say that this was my first Harley Street experience. The street is well known for private medical offices--in fact since the 19th century the number of offices and people working on Harley Street to support them has grown dramatically. The lovely terraced houses hold waiting rooms and doctor's offices rather than living rooms and families. It's all a bit posh, but don't get the wrong idea--I don't expect to have to pay anything other than my excess (aka deductible) with my private insurer. The waiting room at Dr McFadden's office is bigger than our reception area in London, though it doesn't have half the charm.

Two days later I revisited the dermatologist to see whether any of the ingredients were beginning to react. Some patches were removed, others treated with something to percolate over the next three days. In fact Tim had noticed a few of the little circles seemed red and angry--a sign that I was possibly allergic to the ingredients. Time would tell.

Before I left the office Dr McFadden gave me "homework"--I was to look back into my bag of tricks and see which of them had two ingredients he was suspicious of--methylisothiazolinone and methylchlorisothiazolinone. If you've ever looked at the ingredients for cosmetics or face cream, almost everything is unrecognisable like those!

Not all of the products had the ingredients listed on the container; however, given an assignment, I'm not one to fall down. I dutifully went on the internet and within an hour had determined that four of my products--including my much-loved Palmer's Cocoa Butter lotion--had one or the other of the preservatives. Another guilty product was the facial cleansing wipes, though I'll admit to buying whatever is on sale at Boots rather than being committed to one brand or another. The final two products were my L'Oreal products, one which I'd been using for several months, I'd thought, and thought it odd that I hadn't reacted previously.

I have to admit I've been skeptical about the contact urticaria bit. Since January I'd barely put any ingredient on my face with the exception of an aqueous cream mostly made of paraffin. I'll admit to the occasional dalliance with the mascara brush to open up my eyes and pressed powder to take away the shine on special occasions, but those were Clinique products! Aren't they meant to be the best? And hypo-allergenic? 

The day of reckoning comes; it is Saturday, and I've missed a trip to Cowes--and the first race of the sailing season--for a mid-afternoon appointment to get my results. I proudly present my findings to the doctor, and he confirms that those are in fact the patches showing raised red skin. No more metho-whatever should touch my face.

In addition, I show an allergy to nickel--something eyelash curlers are often made from, and yes, I keep one in London and one in Cowes. Well, I did. I've also been cautioned about handling nickel-based products and water-based paint. And, gasp, no jewelry less than 18 carat gold! The doctor seemed to get a kick out of telling me I could tell "my partner" that he'll be caught red-handed if he dares buy anything less!

I walk down Harley Street back toward the bus on Oxford Street (with a short detour through my favourite department store, John Lewis, to window shop), satisfied that I have at last result. But I'm not 100% convinced that there isn't something else going on here. I am thinking about flares that I've had in the last few months--albeit few and far between--and trying to recall whether I'd used any of those products. Certainly the Palmer's, now relegated to the trash, though only a trace on my face that may have remained on my hands after applying it on my body after a shower. What about those pearl earrings I bought in Vietnam--I suspect the posts are not 18 carat gold; could they contain nickel? I do have a habit of touching the back of my earrings. I suspect I don't wash my hands before going near my eyes when I do it, either--it's more of an unconscious, casual tug of the earlobe.

The dermatologist told me something I found interesting that I didn't know--when you use a product it binds to the proteins in the skin, and so it will remain there until the layer of epidermis replenishes itself, which takes about a month. No wonder the healing process seemed to take ages! 

Was it ever about the food? I don't know. I have now disposed of any product that had those offending ingredients, have shopped at Boots for new creams, cleansers and cosmetics and suppose I should do the safe thing and introduce them one at a time, in case there is a reaction. 

And the same, then, continues with food. I've still not reintroduced some things--I haven't had wheat or aubergines or tomato sauce, among a few other high-histamine foods.I had pizza I recall over the last month and had a slight flare, so took a few steps back. I did have an avocado last weekend in a baguette on the Isle of Wight, and survived it. I've had my favourite Greek yogurt two days in a row now with breakfast. It's nice to get slowly back to normal.

The thing about histamine intolerance is that you don't eat one thing and suddenly get inflamed; instead the histamine your body can't get rid of accumulates for a bit, and only when it reaches its tipping point do the eyes swell. So, one ingredient at a time, a pause to let my body think about it, and so on.

I'd like to think mystery solved. I need to stay on antihistamines for at least another week until my back heals, and then perhaps take a lesser dose until I completely wean off. I am experimenting with the histamine blocker--what I considered the miracle that kept the inflammation in check--by only taking it when my eyes start to feel funny. My last tablet taken was on Friday. And I will hope that just as it comes close to five months of dealing with uncertainty, the issue will no longer be there. Five months happens to coincide with my five-year anniversary in England at the end of May. Truly a reason to raise a toast!

My Most Recent LOL Moment

Sometimes you can’t help but laugh out loud . . . and count yourself lucky at the same time.

Over a year ago Tim and I purchased aging but working “banana” bikes from one of our dear Cowes neighbours, Ray Bulman, for the princely sum of £50 for two, including the locks. The bikes are fine for local travel, but mine is the really old-style version: in order to stop, you pedal backwards. You DO remember those, yes? In fact my first bike was one of those. I can still remember riding up and down Lexington Avenue, and on warm summer days when it was still light out taking the round trip from Lexington Avenue, turning right on Kennedy Boulevard to Oxford Avenue and heading down that narrow street that didn’t get much traffic, then another right and a fast pedal on the not-so-safe Bergen Avenue before heading right down Lexington Avenue again. We’d lived on Lexington Avenue for years and most of the people who lived there with us, including the less savoury characters, knew us as the kids on the corner and let us be as we zipped by. (Well, all of us except my sister Debbie, not one to exactly “zip,” but I’ll save that for another time.)

Not mine, but very similar!

I had been looking to upgrade those bikes, mostly because I do love to cycle and the Isle has wonderful paths but you need a sturdy bike with good tyres and gears to handle the terrain. Previously we’d hired bikes from the local shop when we wanted to do more than just go up and down the seafront. I had been eyeing an ad in the Evening Standard for folding bikes, but they could only be delivered to the UK mainland and not the IoW; not a show-stopper, but a bit of a faff. Then there was an ad in the local IoW paper for two like-new folding bikes in Cowes for what was a reasonable sum. Tim contacted the seller and we arranged to meet, and at the appointed time we walked over to Fellowes Road to inspect them.

Forgiving the one tyre (it’s spelled that way here) that kept going flat, and the one hand brake that needed adjusting (which the seller promptly had a neighbour take care of), the two bikes were in good nick, and after a trial ride we decided to take them, the single broken reflector that could easily be glued back tucked into my pocket.

Stay with me, the laugh is coming . .  .

Thrilled with my purchase, we took the short cycle ride back to our place.

Pause. Yes, you read correctly that we had a flat tyre when first inspecting the bikes. The sellers didn’t have a pump, so Tim was going to walk back to our house to get our pump while I lingered on the sidewalk with Ellie (the seller) and her beau and chatted about her studies in veterinary nursing at uni. Not more than two minutes later Tim reappeared, a pump in hand that was not ours—in fact there was no way he could have been to our house and back that quickly. It turns out that he coincidentally saw someone on the next road with a pump in hand and asked if he could borrow it. Without hesitation the stranger handed it over, no questions asked. How can you not love the IoW?

New folding bikes now in our possession, next to consider was what to do with the old bikes. We offered them up to Ellie as she had a friend who recently had her bike stolen along with her colleague’s. They are members of the RNLI team who need to get to rescue quickly—their one-minute bike ride had suddenly turned into a four-minute sprint, and while that doesn’t sound like a lot of difference, trust me, it is a world of difference when you need to be rescued in The Solent.  We gave our address, Ellie had my mobile, and we waited until the next day, Sunday, to offload them in case we heard from Ellie’s friend Heather.

We did not. Tim remembered a charity shop not far away, and it was nearing lunch time, so we decided to make it an outing—we often have a cheap and cheerful lunch on Sundays after a long walk, and usually in a place with a view, to absorb every bit of the time we spend being near the seafront.

Right. To the shop, then.

Tim’s second question (after enquiring about where we’d have lunch): where’s the car key? The key is always placed in the same drawer in the house so that regardless of who needs it we always know where it is. The key, alas, is not in its place.

I remind Tim that when we were unloading the car the previous day of boat-related goods now that Coh Karek was in the water I needed to have an urgent break, and left the key for him to lock up—Maggie (aka The Blue Peugeot that Could) can be fidgety when you press the Lock button on the key, and will simply demand you open one of the doors and lock her the old-fashioned way. She’s just that kind of girl.

Having relived that moment, the thought occurred to me to look out the window of the kitchen, where the top of Maggie can easily be seen.

Sitting on top of the car roof. In plain sight. One entire day later. The key to the car.

Cue laughter. I do love the Isle of Wight.

Our parking area is a public walkway. Dozens of people stroll just to the left of our front door through a small alley to cut across to the high street, or simply because they live in the mews or nearby. Our next door neighbour has a bright motion light that flashes on whenever someone passes in the evenings. The key, naturally, would have been in plain sight at night as well as during the day. No one bothered. Okay, she’s old, but c’mon, she’s still “wheels”! Heck, neighbours did have their bikes nicked recently; why not Maggie? Truth be told with her fiddly locking nature we have more often left the car unlocked for days while we were working in London, so I suppose I should not have been surprised that the key was perched untouched for 24 hours on the rooftop.

The story concludes: we managed to get the two banana bikes into Maggie and headed to East Cowes – usually a quick ride over the chain ferry that spans the River Medina, but currently out of service while being refurbished.  A lovely day, we happily took the longer journey, found the charity shop open, and were delighted that they were willing to take the bikes off our hands. We also offloaded some old cushions, in good shape but collecting dust in the utility room where the folding bikes now take up less room than the previous bikes and await adventures across this beautiful island.

The view from the Folly Inn.

Lunch, by the way, was at The Folly, a well-known pub in nearby Whippingham where Saturday night it’s the place to be if you want to hop onto a table and dance to disco. Really. I’ve not. Been. Yet.

I suspect that may be another LOL moment.

In Praise of the Independent Shops

Yes, I go to Sainsbury’s or The Cooperative supermarket when the loo roll (aka toilet paper) and kitchen towel (aka paper towels) run low, as those are the only places locally in Cowes to restock. But let me need to buy dinner, and you’ll only find me at the supermarket when my local butcher or fish monger is closed; I am a born-again fan of the butcher, and all local shops for that matter.

I say born again because some of my earliest memories of shopping go back to visiting Mike the butcher on the Boulevard in Jersey City, where it was the occasional treat to get fresh mince (chop meat for the Americans) or a fresh bit of rolled meat for Sunday dinner. It was, I recall, not often that my mother or grandmother would go there—quality notwithstanding, buying from the butcher cost more than from the supermarket. Heading just across the boulevard to Mike’s—we lived within view of his store—was more out of necessity when other options didn’t exist—the local A&P was a bit of a walk and there wasn’t always transportation to the PathMark or ShopRite on Route 440, too far to go on foot.

If you were chosen to walk over to the butcher—it was never all of us, usually just one or two—you were almost always treated to a slice of bologna while you waited. I never really liked bologna from any other place but Mike’s, and wouldn’t seek it out today, but there was something about that fresh, slightly thicker slice of Thumann’s that made it worth the trip. Our neighbours Helen and Barbara would sometimes ask if we wanted to walk over, when my sisters or brothers and I were playing something or other on the sidewalk—wiffle ball, badminton, or jump rope.  Off we’d go, hoping Mike would find the time to put the bologna on the slicer and pass one across the counter.

The experience of visiting the butcher is a bit different now—not that I wouldn’t turn down a slice if the gentleman at Hamilton’s offered me, LOL. I first pause in the shop window first, under the striped awning, to think about what I want. In many cases I already know it’ll be steak or lamb, but I still like taking a look; it’s mostly because I want to see if they have what I want on offer. The butchers are friendly, like Mike was, and I am occasionally asked something about America as my accent gives me away. There are lovely other things in the shop—local cheeses, jars of condiments and local relishes, local produce. I rarely turn down a small package of Isle of Wight tomatoes sitting on the counter as they are superb or the roasted garlic bulbs perched in a basket.

As with most things, simple preparation best suits—an onion sliced and sautéed in olive oil before the steaks are grilled, the pan piping hot; a bit of garlic infused into the lamb before roasting in the oven. And each time, Tim and I will look across the table at each other and find some superlative to describe that first bite. Think delicious. No, think amazing.

The same holds true for the local fish shop—such a pretty array of choices, often locally sourced, that taste far better than anything supermarket bought. I am most pleased when there is samphire in a silver bucket on ice in their window; it is a plant that looks like miniature cacti and tastes of the sea, fresh and salty. Granted, some of the larger supermarkets in London have delightful fish counters, but here on the IoW I’m more inclined to have pasta or vegetables on those evenings when I arrive after the shops on the high street have long shut, and then start planning the dinners at home with Tim by what looks good under the awning or on ice across the road the next day.

The high street in Cowes boasts quite a few independent shops, in fact, including a health food store, a vegetable shop, a food hamper that has an interesting array of different items from wasabi to unusual sweet and savoury biscuits, and a fantastic wine shop that will sell you small tastes of numerous bottles. It’s where I know I can buy my newest favourite, torrontes, a fresh, vibrant white from Argentina.  And I’m excited to read in the local paper that there will be a monthly market on the high street on Sundays this summer, with stalls crammed with local produce and crafts. I will want to make sure that the market coincides with the weekends I find myself here, walking along the sea front and daydreaming about a fantastic dinner at home.

Tim and I seem to manage in the small Cowes kitchen. Our duties are often the same as when we are in London: I prepare the salad, set the table, and assist with the preparation. I make suggestions, but usually let Tim handle the pots and pans. He peels the potatoes and the garlic. I know the right place in my palm to press and then gentle do the same to the steak to be sure it’s medium. I pour the wine (though we often choose together what it will be) and keep the water glasses filled. I usually load the dishwasher, though Tim often volunteers (and in London I often let him have at it).

We don’t always eat in, and have our local favourites—the Cowes Tandoori shop that sits between two others on the high street that serves delicious food and of the three has the best service, hands down. The two waitstaff will wave to Tim and me when we pass along the high street, in fact; I find that charming. We less often go to the Thai place, though we always enjoy it—the women there are quite amusing with their abrupt manner of service yet they treat us well and the food is superb. Naturally we find our way to the pubs now and again. Always popular is the Island Sailing Club where the bartender is friendly (and has forgiven me for “ruining” his dark and stormy by, gasp, stirring it) and the food is always good, plentiful, and inexpensive. The club wins for having the best view this side of Cowes, situated directly on the waterfront, and it’s a wonderful place to bring newcomers to the Isle or meet our friends, most of whom are also members.

And before you think that I am a snob who pooh-poohs the supermarket, I will say that our local Cooperative carries a brilliant stash of local produce and other locally-sourced items from the Garlic Farm and the bakery, etc, which I keep in mind when I shop.

I am glad that all of these shops can peacefully coexist on the high street, and am grateful that I can pick and choose where to shop, helping to keep the independent ones thriving. We’ve even got into the habit of doing the same in London, frequenting the grocery on Green Lanes that usually has everything we need but the main course.  We go there often enough to be treated with a warm hello and a hearty thank you. The supermarket isn’t far, but it doesn’t have any of the warmth. You can’t smell the fresh Turkish bread just out of the oven at Tesco, but you can around the corner on Green Lanes. And that reminds me of home, living in Harrison steps away from Pechter’s Bakery where the neighbourhood smelled like fresh-baked bread for a few hours each morning.

Catch you on the high street. I’ll be the one peering in the window, a bit lost in a daydream of some sort, likely about my next delicious meal.. 

Powering Down

Save for a few hours on the 7th of March when my gorgeous friend Leah was marrying her handsome prince Andrew at Woolwich Town Hall I had not taken a day off in 2013. And I have been ready and willing, just unable with a hectic work schedule. 

First, about the married couple--I kid you not, the bride and groom are lovely in more ways than one . . . she is one of my dearest friends in England and hails from America. We were brought together by a mutual friend who upon finding out I was moving to London sent me a note to say that Leah wasn't "icky" and he thought we'd be well suited to each other--and Paul was right. (And I am ever grateful for his intervention.) Leah is warm, generous, naturally beautiful, smart and grounded and thoughtful. She has a knack for remembering names I mention once in conversation, and always asks after my family. Her husband is funny, dashing, gregarious and most important, deeply caring to her. I love the way Andrew looks at Leah. They glow in each other's presence, and you sense their intimacy in a way that is warm and reassuring that love is splendid.

Andrew, Leah, Leah's mum Susan

Where was I? Yes, the wedding, which included a fantastic trip via an old RouteMaster bus from the town hall to the restaurant where the reception was held. Spectacular mode of transport, both for those of us on board and the onlookers who seemed to get a kick out of The Love Bus. The whole afternoon into early evening was filled with special moments--Leah's mum speaking of her happiness for her daughter, so evident in every word she said with a soft-spoken warmth that drew us all in; Andrew's dad, filled with pride about his son settling down into (married) life. Chatting with friends new and old met through Leah, photos snapped, smiles captured. A delight, and how very special I felt to be invited to be there with Tim.

Fast forward to the next time I was scooting out of the office early--Holy Thursday, off to catch a train and ferry and hopefully beat the mad dash to the Isle of Wight. It's been cold in England--the coldest March on record, in fact--and while it's no warmer in Cowes the exodus was much anticipated and not just by me, as the train even ahead of rush hour was packed and the ferry from Southampton to Cowes had every seat taken.

Bliss? You could say that. Tim has been happily spending hours on the boat, scrubbing down her hull and anti-fouling the area that will soon be below surface. It's messy, smelly work but it puts a smile on Tim's face to be on Coh Karek, even when she's cradled at the marina. Me, I'm just happy idling the days, watching the boats go by, reading the paper, staying indoors from the chilly northeasterly wind with a good book or the newspaper. We will see our friends for a drink at the sailing club, and perhaps have a pub dinner. Easter Sunday will be roast lamb with rosemary and garlic, a lovely pinot noir, and just the two of us. If the weather is nice we'll take a long walk along the sea, warm up with a cup of tea or coffee on our return, and perhaps light a fire--I splurged on a wall-mounted fireplace that burns bio ethanol fuel; there is nothing like a fireplace to warm your senses.

View from my window

And the best part is that, fingers crossed, my urticaria is finally in check. Granted it is with the help of three different medications at the moment, but it has taken a huge amount of stress off my shoulders to know that I will most probably wake up in the morning looking normal. I am due to go back to the doctor next week, and will start down the path of decreasing the dosage of anti-histamines to gauge my ability to keep the redness and swelling at bay with less and then eventually no medication. I plan to be patch tested later next month for contact urticaria, which involves bringing lotions, make up, etc to be sampled on my back to see if any reaction occurs over a series of five days and three visits. The dermatologist, while initially saying it wasn't about the make up, is puzzled by the localization of the outbreaks, and I suppose better safe than sorry to have the patch tests rule out any issues. I have moved from restricting my diet to re-introducing foods known to be higher in histamine back into my meals, one every other day, and so far with success. Of course it's hard to know if it's the medicine that's preventing the flares, but at this point I'm happy to be eating fish and drinking wine with dinner. Urticaria has a way of showing up, exhausting your patience and then quietly departing without rhyme or reason. I'll be glad when it's grown tired of me.

Bliss? Yeah, and for a lot of reasons. But mostly because I have absolutely nothing to do for a few days but to watch the boats, to smile at the gulls shrieking as they fly overhead, and to stroll by the sea when I feel so inclined. 

If only I could remember how to sleep in!