In Pursuit of a Turkey

"Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with what there is."

Ernest Hemingway

As our first Thanksgiving day living in Italy approached, I was shocked to learn that the local supermercato did not sell whole turkeys. They did have cut-up pieces, so I resolved to buy some of those and make the best of it. After all, what the Italians called La Festa del Ringraziamento was not an Italian holiday.

A few days before Thanksgiving, however, our family received an invitation to join some American expat friends for dinner that day. Since the husband worked for the U.S. Department of Defense, they could buy a turkey at the local naval base. I offered to bring an hors d’oeuvre, mashed potatoes, a pie, and Italian wine.

Since it was not a holiday in Italy, my husband had to go to work that Thursday at his Italian company, and I spent the morning shopping with the children. (Their international school had the day off.) First stop was the waterfront fish market on the docks in Pozzuoli, where I bought some fresh shrimp for the hors d’oeuvres. Next stop was the GS supermercato for the rest of the needed ingredients and a pie pan. We then went to the UPIM department store to look for a potato masher, but I had to settle for a type of hand beater.

After returning home, I cooked and chilled the shrimp, made an apple pie, and mashed the potatoes. My husband left work early, and we went to our friends’ home for an early evening dinner.

As expected, they had gotten the turkey at the base, but even the American supplies were limited. They could not get a large one, but two small ones tasted just as good. It was a memorable American holiday meal with great friends, enhanced by Italian wine, including Marsala all’ Uovo with dessert. We had a lot to be thankful for and had no idea the next year would bring a different challenge.

The following year, I was more prepared for a turkey hunt. With a better grasp of Italian, I went to an outdoor produce market and ordered un tacchino intero (a whole turkey) 10 days before the holiday. I was excited and agreed to pick it up the day before Thanksgiving.

 On Sunday, November 23, four days before the holiday, we attended a professional soccer game with friends in the town of Avellino. Afterward, we returned to their home, and while sitting around their dining room table, the chandelier swayed for several minutes, and we felt the earth move. The children had been playing outside, and we found them overexcited and saying the shaking ground made them fall down. We soon learned that it was a terremoto, an EARTHQUAKE of 6.9 magnitude and that it was centered in the mountains not far from Avellino, where we had come from. In fact, the soccer stadium field was being used for the rescue helicopters to land. Whole mountain villages were destroyed, and even in the nearby city of Napoli, buildings had collapsed. We lived north of the city and had no damage, but in the following days, news reports showed widespread devastation south and west of us.

On Wednesday, I drove to the outdoor market. It was open, so I asked about my turkey. The vendor looked at me like I was crazy and chided me for expecting a turkey delivery in the aftermath of an earthquake that killed so many people. (I later learned that almost 2,500 people died, 7,700 were injured, and 250,000 became homeless.) I felt foolish and selfish for asking. I don’t remember what we ate that Thursday, but three days later, we invited some Italian friends for dinner, Italian style.

For our third Thanksgiving in Italy, we decided to spend it in Firenze (Florence), in part because we love the city and its art. We also reasoned that we might be able to have turkey there because it has so many American tourists. The only restaurant offering a turkey dinner, however, was in a five-star hotel, and the price was astronomical, especially for a family of four. We love Italian food, so it wouldn’t be a hardship to have it for our holiday meal. Since I was eager to visit the nearby town of Prato, having learned about its textile industry, I suggested we drive there. We could have our Italian dinner after seeing the sights. Wrong. For some reason, many places were closed, including restaurants. We finally found an open one that was far from traditional for Italians or Americans. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Italy, eating at a Chinese restaurant!

Even Idyllic Vacations Can Have Challenges

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”

Anthony Bourdain

During the last two weeks of September, I was fortunate to enjoy a trip to the Spanish island of Mallorca with my husband. We’ve been to Spain a few times but never to the island, so it was a trip of new discoveries. We enjoyed many wonderful moments, but as always with travel, there were also some challenges.

Our airport experiences and flights went well, but challenge number one came at the rental car pickup at the Palma de Mallorca airport. We used OK Mobility, a Mallorcan rental car company and they assigned us a DS automobile, a French luxury marque of Citroen that we were unfamiliar with. The challenging part was that all the controls were marked with symbols that were hard to decipher and there was no instruction booklet. For starters, we had to ask one of the rental guys how to open the trunk so we could load our luggage. The automatic gear shift took some figuring out because it was counterintuitive. After you pushed a side button, you had to pull the whole thing up and back to drive forward and push it down and forward to reverse. Even opening the windows required some exploration. They were operated by sleek levers on the center console marked with right angles. Through trial and error, we found the GPS navigation (an upright triangle) and learned how to control the temperature and fan on the touch screen. One cool feature was that when you used the remote to lock the car, the door handles went flush and the side mirrors folded in. My husband did a great job driving and I did the navigating by synching my phone with the GPS as we ventured to different parts of the island. It was a real learning experience.

The second challenge happened during arrival at our hotel in the beach resort of Alcúdia after a 45-minute drive from the airport. It was around 8pm, so it was getting dark. My husband, for some reason, got out of the car with his Visa card in his hand. Wrong move. It slipped from his hand and fell into a grate in the road. He mentioned it to the woman at the hotel reception desk and she immediately went outside with a flashlight to look down the grate. She said that she had to think on it but promised to look into solving the problem. She sounded confident, but we went to sleep that night figuring the card was gone. Morning brought a wonderful surprise, however. While we were eating breakfast in the hotel restaurant, the hotel handyman approached my husband Walter with a big smile on his face and held up a Visa card still wrapped in its security sleeve. He asked my husband his name then said it was for someone named Antonio. It was obvious that he was teasing. We responded with profuse thanks and amazement that the card was retrieved.  He showed us 2 long screwdrivers that he used to lift the heavy metal lid of the grate. The restaurant manager had come with him and noticed that the security sleeve was wet, so she took it and dried it under a heater in the kitchen, a thoughtful gesture. We went to the reception desk to thank the woman there for acting on her promise to do something and she told us she had been worried that a shower during the night would wash the card away. It was an incident that revealed a friendly and caring hotel staff. For the length of our eleven-day stay, they often checked on our welfare and the restaurant manager even sent us on our way with hugs.

The third challenge happened when we ventured into the capital city of Palma and my husband discovered that his wallet had been pickpocketed. It was a bummer and the first time either of us have experienced such a thing during many years of traveling through much of Western and Eastern Europe, Asia, Africa, Central and South America, Canada, and throughout the United States. Though some cash, his driver’s license, bank debit card, medical cards, and Costco card were taken, the upsides were several: One Visa was in a different pocket and not taken, and his other Visa card was left at home. I had cash and my own cards if we needed them. The license and other cards are easily replaceable. Our bank notified us right away that the debit card was used and we were able to report the fraudulent transactions and have the card disabled while we were still in Palma. We also were able to file an online report with the Spanish police. This incident didn’t end as happily as the previous two challenges, but it could have been worse.

Overall, we had awesome beach and exploratory days, met nice people, and had good food and wine. So, the trip was definitely worth it.

When Dog Emigration Met Italy's Underground Economy

“Exploring the underbelly of the city, I feel like I would be more likely to encounter a phantom from Pompeii than a government agent.”

From “The Hustle Napoletano” by Kate Bolongaro, journalist

 This is a memory of a journey I navigated on behalf of our dog.

Puntina was a small Italian-born mixed breed with a Sheltie look. We met her mother and her owners at a hotel while house hunting near Naples, Italy many years ago and she and her littermates were the result of a surprise encounter by the pool of that very same hotel.

Approximately two months after we moved out of the hotel, a birth announcement was made and our kids just had to see the puppies. With a coat of orange and white and a pink dot on her nose, Puntina captured all of our hearts right away and we adopted her.

She loved her Italian home, as did we, but my husband’s employment dictated the length of our stay. After two and a half years, his job was done and we needed emigration papers for our Italian dog. The Italian Government requires that all cats and dogs traveling from Italy to the U.S. must have a Pet Export Certificate that can be obtained from an authorized veterinarian of the local ASL (Azienda Sanitaria Locale), who will check the validity of the vaccination against rabies.

I went to our Italian vet near our home in Arco Felice and he told me that emigration papers were only issued in one central office in Napoli. Okay, not a problem. I would go there. "Where is it?"

He shrugged and said, "Boh," Neapolitan for "I don't know."

This flummoxed me; how could he not know?

He hesitated, smiled apologetically, and said that it was hard to keep track because the office moved quite often. I had lived in Naples long enough to understand that he was alluding to the Neapolitan "system" for avoiding taxes; the government couldn't tax you if it couldn't find you. It was an example of Italy’s Underground Economy. Though often associated with illegal activities, such as the purchase and sale of banned drugs or the illegal sale of weapons, an underground economy can also include businesses that do not report income.

The veterinarian said that the office was most likely downtown somewhere, but Napoli was a large, congested city with a warren of alleys in addition to busy boulevards. I would just have to drive around, make inquiries, and hope for the best. We weren't leaving the country without our dog!

 One morning, I headed for the port area of the city thinking it was a logical spot for an emigration office, but nothing stood out. As I headed up Corso Garibaldi, a wide boulevard climbing the hill from the port, my peripheral vision caught sight of a few people entering a building with dogs in tow.  Curiosity piqued, I found a parking spot and checked it out. Through the massive arched doorway was a large courtyard and balconies ran along each side on several floors. My attention was drawn up to the left where I heard yips and yelps and saw a long line of people with dogs! I went up, made inquiries, and found out that it was the right place. All I had to do was go home, get Puntina, and come back before the office moved.

 A few days later, emigration papers secured, Puntina was on a plane bound for Boston. I still couldn't believe that I did it!

Paddling the Rangeley Lakes Region

“So lovely was the loneliness of a wild lake.”

Edgar Allan Poe

 My husband and I got into kayaking back in the late nineties thanks to the encouragement of a Maine neighbor who had been a whitewater kayaker guiding river rafts. He steered us toward more stable touring kayaks for enjoying our lakes and rivers up here in the western mountains. We bought two fourteen-foot Perception Spectrum sit-in touring kayaks. Built of sturdy polyethylene plastic, his is yellow, mine is granite colored, and we still use them.

Through the years, we have paddled them on a multitude of local lakes and rivers, many with Abenaki Native American names, in and near Rangeley Maine.

Rangeley Lake, the body of water we have a view of from our house, is about seven miles long and 4 miles wide with a shoreline of about 37 miles and we’ve explored most of it by water. We’ve launched from our HOA beach and paddled south to Greenvale Cove, north to the town cove, and west to Maneskootuk Island. We’ve paddled Hunter Cove, a great place to see herons and loons, by entering from a nearby launch near a bridge and we’ve explored the South Bog islands at the northern end of the lake from both the Oquossoc marina and (with permission) from the L.L.Bean property on the west shore.

Beaver Mountain Lake (Long Pond) lies to the south of Rangeley Lake along Route 4. In fact, its outlet, Long Pond Stream, flows north into Rangeley Lake. The boat launch ramp where we put in is just off to the right side of the road. It’s a smaller lake of just over 500 acres and it’s easy to paddle the whole shoreline in a couple of hours. A marshy area on the southwestern end is a popular moose-feeding spot and we’ve seen mergansers skittering along the water in the stream at the northern end.

Mooselookmeguntic Lake, which is just across a land bridge from Rangeley Lake, is much larger with 57 miles of shoreline. We’ve put in at Haines Landing on the northeast shore, at a boat launch on the west shore, and from a campground on the south shore, from which we’ve paddled out around Toothaker and Students islands.

Cupsuptic Lake, which is directly connected to Mooselookmeguntic, used to be a separate body of water dissected by a short, narrow river. They were joined when the water level of Mooselookmeguntic was raised fourteen feet after a dam was built in 1850. We’ve put into Cupsuptic Lake by turning south from a boat launch on the Cupsuptic River and also via the boat launch on the west shore of Mooselookmeguntic.

Upper Richardson Lake is west of Cupsuptic on the south side of Route 16 and we’ve used the boat launch at the northern end. The lake is long and narrow (about 14 miles by 1 and ½). We’ve paddled to Upper Dam on the northeast edge and past the home of Carrie Stevens who revolutionized the world of fly tying at the end of the first quarter of the twentieth century. She had a shop at the home called Rangeley Favorite Trout and Salmon Flies. Her most famous fly was called The Gray Ghost and one of the trails at nearby Saddleback Ski Area is named after it.

Continuing further west toward the New Hampshire border, Lake Azizcohos lies on the north side of the road. The shoreline is mostly undeveloped. The lake is narrow but 18 miles long and was created by a dam on the Magalloway River, the lake’s main inlet and outlet. We’ve put in at a public boat launch by Black Brook Cove Campground at the southern end. From there, we paddled around an island and explored a couple of coves on the eastern side where we found large pieces of driftwood that we loaded on the kayaks and brought home for outdoor decoration. One time, we decided we wanted to explore the northern end but didn’t want to paddle so many miles up. Instead, we checked the map and took some logging roads toward the upper eastern shore. We got lost once but luckily a truck came by and set us right. On the way, we passed an inscription on a granite memorial stone. It read, “THIS WW2 MEMORIAL IS DEDICATED TO THE CREW OF THE B-17-J 43-38023 WHICH CRASHED ON THIS LOCATION ON 11 JULY 1944 THEY GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR THIS COUNTRY.” The names of the crew were listed as well. When we finally reached the lakeshore, we saw Bosebuck Mountain Camps across the way on the western shore and we launched our kayaks to explore the northern end of Azizcohos.

Lake Umbagog is a little further west along Route 16 and lies in both Maine and New Hampshire. It’s fed by the Magalloway River coming from Azizcohos in the north and the Rapid River coming from Upper Richardson to the east. (A cabin on the shoreline of the Rapid River close to Umbagog was the home of Louise Dickinson Rich, author of the book We Took to the Woods published in 1942. It was set in the 1930s and was described as "a witty account of a Thoreau-like existence in a wilderness home.”) Lake Umbagog is almost 11 miles long and is part of the Umbagog National Wildlife Refuge. We’ve put in on the south shore from a public boat launch at Umbagog Lake State Park, paddling around to observe some of the wildlife, including bald eagles. The lake is the source of the Androscoggin River which runs southeast to the Atlantic Ocean.

When we head east from Rangeley, we come to huge Flagstaff Lake which has 147 miles of meandering shoreline. It’s extremely shallow in places, especially in drought years.  We’ve put in from the bridge in Eustis near the lake’s midpoint and also from the extreme southern end near Carrabassett Valley. The lake has a drowned ghost town beneath the surface which was created in 1950 when the Central Maine Power Company built a hydro dam on the Dead River that feeds into it. It enlarged the lake and flooded the village of Flagstaff and several surrounding towns.

In addition to the larger lakes, we’ve paddled smaller rivers, lakes, and ponds as well– the Kennebago and Cupsuptic Rivers, Lower Richardson, Little Kennebago, and Loon Lakes, Haley, Dodge, Gull, Sandy River Ponds, as well as Chain of Ponds near the Canadian border.

Paddling has given us, not only exercise but also a peaceful way to explore the beauty of wilderness areas. While our muscles work, our minds destress.

A Short Trip to Saint Croix

“I think the Caribbean countries face rising oceans and they face an increase in the severity of hurricanes. This is something that is very, very scary to all of us. The island states in the world represent - I remember this number - one-half of 1 percent of the carbon emissions in the world. And they will - some of them will disappear.

Steven Chu, American scientist

My husband and I often get bitten by the travel bug and this year we wanted to explore somewhere we’d never been as part of our wedding anniversary celebration. Due to commitments, we had only a short period for a getaway, so a Caribbean island only a few hours from Florida, seemed a good choice. With a little research, we booked a hotel for five nights on Saint Croix and were able to get a flight there from Fort Lauderdale. Saint Croix is one of the Leeward Islands in the  Caribbean Sea and is part of the  United States Virgin Islands (USVI), an unincorporated territory of the United States.

The island has had an interesting, if chaotic, history. It was inhabited by several indigenous groups in previous centuries and had different names. Its Taino name was Ay Ay ("the river"). Its Carib name was Cibuquiera ("the stony land"). From 1625 on, the island was ruled at various times by Dutch, English, French, and Spanish settlers until 1695 when it was abandoned and lay uninhabited for many years. In 1733, the Danish West India Company bought Saint Croix. For nearly 200 years, Saint Croix, St. Thomas, and St. John were known as the Danish West Indies. In 1916, Denmark sold those islands to the United States. Formal transfer to the U.S. took place on 1 April 1917. The island's inhabitants were granted United States citizenship in 1927.

We picked up our rental car at Henry E. Rohlsen Airport upon arrival. Though it was set up like any U.S. car with a left-side steering column, the island requires that you drive on the left side of the road—odd for a U.S. territory. My husband opted to be the driver and relied on me to navigate and keep reminding him to keep left on turns. It took some getting used to, but he did well despite narrow, winding, and hilly roads.

Our hotel on Grapetree Bay was lovely but quite a distance from either of the island’s two towns, Christiansted being ten miles away and Frederiksted twenty-five miles. Thus, restaurants and shops were not within walking distance, but some were worth the drive. I would highly recommend Susan Mango, a women’s clothing boutique in Christiansted. It specializes in “island style” items and supports indigenous businesses around the world run by women. One dinner restaurant that we enjoyed was Duggan’s Reef, set on pretty grounds overlooking Teagues Bay, east of Christiansted. A white fish in passionfruit sauce that we had there was memorable. We had a nice catfish lunch at the Beachside Café at Sandcastle on the Beach in Fredericksted, and the Christiansted waterfront had quite a few eating places to choose from.

Though we had a seafront room at our hotel, we were on the rocky south shore and the good swimming beaches were on the north shore, requiring long drives to reach them. The hotel does have a great pool though. Some nice sand beaches that we found for swimming and snorkeling were Cane Bay in the north, the Fredericksted beachfront on the western side, and Cramer Park toward the northeastern point. The latter is on the way to Point Udall, the easternmost point in the United States of America.

Saint Croix has taken a beating over the years due to hurricanes. In 1989, Hurricane Hugo struck the island with Category 4 winds. The U.S. Army, the FBI, and the U.S. Marshals Service restored order. The island is still showing some of the effects of Category 5 Hurricane Maria which hit in September 2017. Sustained winds of 150 mph and gusts of up to 250 mph damaged or destroyed 70% of the buildings on St. Croix, including schools and the island's only hospital. Many buildings in the main towns have still not been rebuilt.

Since Maria hit the west side the hardest, Christiansted, the former capital of the Danish West Indies, is faring better than Fredericksted. Though reconstruction is ongoing, Christiansted has preserved many of the 18th-century solid stone buildings in pastel colors with bright red tile roofs lining the cobblestone sidewalks. They combine Danish architectural style and African influences because the town was constructed by African slaves.

Saint Croix is an island of haves and have-nots. There are simple dwellings in the valleys and multi-million-dollar homes on the hillsides. It also seems to be a place that attracts diverse people from the mainland U.S. looking to leave old lives behind and start fresh in a tropical setting. We met a teacher from Seattle working at an island elementary school whose library was destroyed by the last hurricane, a singer who left the Midwest to entertain island-style, a waiter from Michigan with a degree in advertising and a minor in English hoping to write a book, a woman from Buffalo, New York swapping lake-effect snow for sunshine and warmth, and an artist from Maine working in a shop and exhibiting in a Christiansted gallery. They all seemed happy with their decisions.

On our last day on the island, we stopped at Salt River Bay National Historical Park and Ecological Preserve. Columbus landed there in November 1493 and immediately was attacked by the Kalinago tribe. It was the first recorded fight between Spanish explorers and a New World native population. The Spanish never colonized the Island but most or all of the native population was eventually dispersed or killed. Columbus did leave one lasting thing on the island, however. He named it Isla de la Santa Cruz (meaning "island of the Holy Cross”), which the French translated to Sainte-Croix The French name was partially retained under Danish rule as Sankt Croix and the island was finally given its current spelling, Saint Croix, following the US takeover.

From Zero to 52

“Love is the condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.”

 Robert Heinlein, Author

 This year, my husband and I are celebrating 52 years of marriage by taking a five-day trip from Florida to St.Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

Over the years, we have toasted our wedding anniversaries in many places. We were married in New York in 1971, but I was pregnant with my daughter and we lived in New Jersey when we defrosted the tiny top layer of our wedding cake and celebrated #1. I was also pregnant for #2, that time with my son, and we had moved to Massachusetts. Anniversaries 3 through 8 were marked in the Bay State as well.

My husband’s work took us to Italy where we had our 9th, 10th, and 11th celebrations then we partied in Massachusetts again for numbers 12 through 15.

Another work-related move to Germany allowed us to celebrate anniversaries 16 through 21 there.

Back in Massachusetts again, we celebrated quite a few (numbers 22 through 31. Those years included our Silver Anniversary (#25) when our children gave us an apple tree which we planted in the backyard. And I remember a dinner on a deck overlooking the Essex River for our 30th.

For number 32, my husband and I took a trip to Ireland. We rented a house in the southwestern coastal town of Schull for the first week, spent time in Dublin and Galway after that, and explored some of my Irish roots in Askeaton, a small town not far from Limerick.

Anniversaries numbered 33 through 39 were feted back home in Massachusetts, but number 40 was celebrated during a trip to the island of Rhodes, Greece. We started the day in Kalithea, the site of ancient therapeutic baths. The Italians restored the seaside buildings in 1929 and you can walk the grounds, gardens, and tide pools, lounge by the sea, and eat and drink at their cafe. Several movies have been filmed here, including "Zorba the Greek.” On the way back home, we took a detour to the acropolis of Ialyssos where we found lots of peacocks running around free and an interesting mixture of buildings and ruins, including a 4th-century BC Christian baptistry and a 2nd-century BC Palace of Athena.  On the edge of the cliff was a Byzantine fortress and the centerpiece was a lovely Greek monastery with a courtyard from the 15th century AD.  A shaded walk with Italian stations of the cross led to a giant cement cross overlooking a valley. In the late afternoon, we headed to the beach for a while then retreated to our patio before heading out for a celebratory anniversary dinner alfresco in Rhodes Town.

Anniversaries 41 through 43 were in Massachusetts, but we were in Juno Beach, Florida for #44 and the following day we attended a family wedding at the Breakers on Palm Beach Island. We continued our celebration with a road trip to the Florida Keys, staying in Islamorada and Key West, before a long drive home to Massachusetts where we enjoyed anniversary celebrations 45 through 47.

After relocating to Florida, we dined at Carmine’s Ristorante on a marina in Palm Beach Gardens for #48 and at another Florida restaurant for #49.

Our Golden 50th was feted over several days in Florida with our grown children. The main celebration dinner was at Jetty’s Restaurant on the water in Jupiter, followed by Prosecco and a cake frosted with gold leaf at home. The next morning, a mimosa cruise on a catamaran in West Palm was followed by dinner at Guanabana’s Restaurant in Jupiter.

Last year, we made a reservation for #51 at the Beacon Restaurant at Love Street in Jupiter, but the place had to postpone the date due to some issues they were experiencing. They rescheduled us for the next evening, but the same thing ensued. The upside was that they sent us two dinner vouchers, one for each postponement and we celebrated there at a later date.

Though I don’t remember the specifics of all the years, I do know that they were happy occasions, many of them sharing the day with our children. We have been blessed and I’m so grateful.

Exploring Where Famous Writers Wrote

“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.”

E.B. White, author of Charlotte’s Web

E.B. White would have admired the young Stephen King’s ability to write despite less-than-ideal surroundings. Before King became recognized as one of the best horror writers of all time, he was a struggling English teacher living out of a trailer with his wife and couldn’t even afford his own typewriter. He used his wife’s as he worked at a makeshift desk that was sandwiched between the washing machine and the dryer. He would literally lock himself in the laundry room to do his writing. It was there that he created his first hit novel Carrie.

Literature Nobel Prize winner William Faulkner wrote his epic novel As I Lay Dying during the night shift as he worked at a power plant.

Though some famous authors wrote under challenging conditions, some wrote in what were ideal places for them.

Spy novelist John le Carré wrote mostly on trains and a four-hour delay aboard a crowded train gave J.K. Rowling the idea for the Harry Potter series. Others wrote on the move as well. Sir Walter Scott is considered to be the inventor of the historical novel, but he was also a poet. Marmion, one of his most famous poems, was written as he rode a horse. Wallace Stevens wrote his poetry on slips of paper while walking. Gertrude Stein liked to write in the driver’s seat of “Lady Godiva” her Model T Ford while her partner Alice B. Toklas ran errands. Vladimir Nabokov preferred reading and writing in the privacy of a parked car, always writing on index cards, a portable strategy that allowed him to compose on the move while his wife drove him around on butterfly expeditions. Riding of a different kind inspired Joseph Heller, who famously stated that the closing line of Catch-22 came to him on a bus. Tom Wolfe not only wrote about traveling but wrote his book The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test while traveling across America in the LSD-fueled bus with the “Merry Pranksters” Ken Kesey and Neal Cassady.

Many of the writers of the so-called Lost Generation like Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre, Ernest Hemingway, Albert Camus, and F. Scott Fitzgerald hung out at Parisian cafes to connect with other writers and spend time writing, but they often wrote major works elsewhere. Camus finished the. first draft of The Stranger in the dreary Hôtel Poirier in Montmartre. Fitzgerald wanted tranquility and wrote The Great Gatsby in Valescure near the French Riviera seaside resort of St. Raphael.

As a journalist, Hemingway managed to send out stories from battlefields during wartime, but his novels were another matter. Though he and his first wife lived in an apartment on the rue Cardinale Lemoine in Paris, he rented another space, at 39 rue Descartes, where he did his writing. In Madrid, Spain, he sometimes wrote at a table in Restaurante Sobrino de Botin. The library in his house in Havana, Cuba, Finca Vigía, is where he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Old Man and the Sea, and 5 other novels. He also wrote several iconic works, including To Have and Have Not, in a studio on top of a carriage house at his home in Key West, Florida. He wrote on his Underwood typewriter while standing up.

Other writers also wrote while standing, including Lewis Carroll and sometimes Virginia Woolf who also wrote in a basement storage room in a cozy old armchair and later in a garden shed where she wrote “A Room With A View.”

On the other extreme, Truman Capote wrote lying down. Capote went so far as to declare himself “a completely horizontal writer.” As James Joyce’s eyesight deteriorated he too began to write in bed. Lying on his stomach at night in a bright white coat that gave off a kind of white light, Joyce wrote with blue crayons that made large lettering easy to read. Edith Wharton also wrote in bed, her dog under one arm, the other arm occupied with pushing the pages to the ground for her maid to pick up and for her secretary to type. Marcel Proust wrote in bed at night, sleeping during the day and blocking out the noise of the bustling Parisian street by lining the walls with cork. Dame Edith Sitwell wrote brilliant poetry and insightful critiques only after taking a short nap in – not a bed or on the sofa – but in a coffin.

Garden sheds were popular with some writers. Roald Dahl’s shed was a writing sanctuary filled with an odd collection of personal paraphernalia. He pinned a quote from Edgar Degas to the wall: “Art is a lie to which one gives the accent of truth.” George Bernard Shaw’s writing hut was built on a revolving mechanism, allowing Shaw to follow the sun throughout the day as he wrote. He named the hut ‘London’ so his staff wouldn’t be lying when they said he’d ‘gone to London’. Dylan Thomas wrote in a bike shed that sat precariously on stilts on the cliff above his boathouse in Laugharne, Wales. He filled it with pictures of Byron, Walt Whitman, Louis MacNeice, and W.H. Auden as well as lists of alliterative words. Mark Twain (nee Samuel Clemens) wrote some of his greatest works, including The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in a small, wooden, octagonal hut with a brick fireplace. It was built by his in-laws in Elmira, New York where he often summered. It has since been relocated to the middle of Elmira College’s campus.

Agatha Christie created her plots in a large Victorian bathtub whilst munching on apples. Poet Rod McKuen wrote song lyrics in his bathtub. Dalton Trumbo too wrote in the bath at night, although not alone. He liked the company of a parrot, a gift from the actor Kirk Douglas. 

Hotels are popular places for authors to work. Thomas Wolfe, Jack Kerouac, Arthur Miller, and William Burroughs all spent some time writing in the infamous Chelsea Hotel in New York City.

Many famous writers have stayed at the Pera Palace Hotel in Istanbul, but one of the most notable was Agatha Christie, who frequented Room 411. Legend has it she wrote her bestseller Murder on the Orient Express there. Maya Angelou wrote only in rented hotel rooms and liked to rent one in her hometown and pay for it by the month. She required only a bed, a table, a bath, Roget’s Thesaurus, a dictionary, the Bible, and usually a deck of cards and some crossword puzzles. She had all the paintings and decorations removed and allowed no member of staff or management to enter. “Just in case I’ve thrown a piece of paper on the floor, I don’t want it discarded”.

Bars and cafes are often places that attract writers. The first story of the boy wizard, Harry Potter, was mostly written in an Edinburg, Scotland pub called The Red Elephant and at Nicholson’s Café owned by J.K. Rowling’s brother-in-law in the same city. Heinold’s dive bar in Oakland, California was the writing place of novelist Jack London. It was where he spent many hours drinking and writing notes for Call of the Wild. Jack Kerouac was known for pumping out his tales at Vesuvio Café across the street from City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, California. Allen Ginsberg also did some of his best work there. In Dublin, Ireland, you can channel the likes of James Joyce and Brendan Behan while having a tipple at the Brazen Head tavern. They are among the many writers, starting in the 12th century, who drank a pint or two there. However, Joyce wrote Ulysses in Zurich, Trieste, and in Paris where it was published by Sylvia Beach who owned the first Shakespeare and Company bookstore.

The Hunting Cruise

“Everyone’s mood was spread in the air, the tiny streets of Panarea were filled with amorous expressions heard at full volume”.

Michelangelo Antonioni, Italian film director 

(This short story was inspired by my visit to the Aeolian Islands off the northern coast of Sicily last year.)

She was definitely in her element. Though her occupation was humble, she not only owned it, she radiated enjoyment. It’s what attracted him to her, a waitress in a tourist bar on the Italian island of Lipari.

From the moment he sat down at the outdoor table for a late lunch, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. As she made her rounds, he was mesmerized by the way she swayed and smiled at customers and how men’s eyes followed her. Dressed in strappy sandals, an inexpensive black mini skirt, and a simple black tee, she looked both sexy and hip. The women he often dated had their own money and were impressed with his family history. He hoped this one would be lured by the obvious luxury of his Bruno Cucinelli boat shoes which cost more than she would make in a week. In truth, money was his main asset, and he hoped it would suffice to charm her.

 “Buongiorno, Signore. Cosa vuole?”

Her arrival at his table and the sultriness of her voice disarmed him. What did he want? The truth would have been, “Come away with me!” but he was bred not to be impulsive. He requested a menu. “La lista, per favore.”

While perusing the offerings, he explained it was his first time in port.

“You came by ferry?” she asked in Italian.

“Yacht.”

Her eyes grew as large as saucers. “How exciting it must be to cruise on a yacht!”

“You never have?”

“For me, it’s only a dream to cruise our islands, Signore, especially to Panarea.”

He made a quick mental change of plans, and his face relaxed into a benevolent expression. “Then I must make your dream come true.”

“You are a genie?”

“I’m cruising to Panarea this evening. You’re welcome to join me.”

She pouted and fluttered her eyes. “But I don’t know you, Signore, and I could lose my job if I’m not back by morning.”

“Stop calling me ‘Signore.’ My name is Sandro, and I have many friends in high places if you need references.”

“A man with such friends must have a big yacht, no?”

“Sixteen meters—big enough for entertaining but small enough for comfort.”

“It sounds amazing, but I fear Panarea is too exclusive for me. I wouldn’t fit in….”

“You’ll be the most beautiful woman there, and you’ll be with me.”

 “If you’re sure….”

“I’m positive. Besides, this job isn’t worth missing out on A-list, yacht-hopping parties. You’ll love it.”

“You make it sound so exciting. How can I refuse?”

“Come to the harbor tonight at eight and look for the ‘Bella Figura’ at the end of the third pier.  I’ll be aboard waiting to whisk you away for an unforgettable night. Trust me.”

A satisfied smile spread across her lovely face. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfetto. Now I will trust you. What do you recommend for lunch?”

“The pasta with swordfish is our local specialty.”

“Excellent, and bring me a half-liter of your local red wine.”

“Malvasia. Excellent choice, Sandro.”

He watched her sashay away with a predatory look of satisfaction. That was easy and I don’t even know her name.

#

The sleek, white body of the ‘Bella Figura’ looked splendid gleaming in the evening light. As Elisa strode closer, she saw Sandro on the deck eyeing her. It was time to reel him in a little more. She placed her overnight case on the dock, put her fist to her heart, and pointed to his love boat. He blew a kiss and rushed to meet her at the aft boarding platform.

“You look ravishing this evening. Bellissima.”

“Grazie, Sandro. I hope my dress meets the standards of a Panarea party.”

Heat rose to his face as his gaze raked over her form, rendering him speechless. Instead, he bunched the fingertips of his right hand together, drew them to his lips, and kissed them.

 “I hope that means I’m permitted to come aboard.”

“Yes, but please remove your shoes.”

Her questioning eyes prompted him to explain, “The teak decking scuffs.”

Fussy for a party animal, she thought. She complied before offering her hand. He took her bag and steadied her as she boarded. He was all good manners after that, showing her where to leave her belongings in her own quarters. Then he led her to the helm and offered her a seat next to his own. Thus, they began the short trip northeast on the dark sea, to the smallest Aeolian island—he waiting for her to want him and her wanting something else.

As they rounded the island, the view revealed a hillside dotted with twinkling lights, and the surrounding waters were awash with yachts glittering in the night.

Elisa gasped. “It’s like a fairyland.”

Sandro leaned close to her ear and whispered, “And we can fulfill our dreams here.”

Elisa shivered. I hope so.

 Sandro maneuvered the ‘Bella Figura’ into a skerry-fringed cove where dozens of yachts were moored side-by-side and rafted together. The party was in full motion with pulsating music and lights and oodles of people.

“Ready to join the party?”

“Sure, but how do we get there? Swim?”

“Of course not. I’ll deploy the fenders, move in close to one of the boats on the outer edge of the group, lasso its cleats, pull us close, and secure the ropes on our end.”

“Sounds daunting.”

“I’ve been doing it for years, so a piece of cake. Watch and be impressed, bella.”

His deft execution proved he was indeed an old hand at yacht-hopping. She had chosen well.

“Voila! We can now step into the party instead of swimming to it.”

 Elisa’s heartbeat ramped up as she stepped across to their neighbor’s yacht and scanned the faces caught up in the frenzy. Sandro placed his hand on her waist and steered her forward.

He shouted to be heard above the din. “I’ll get us some drinks then we’ll circulate. Okay?”

 She flashed him a thumbs-up. Circulating was exactly what she needed to do.

Before he pushed his way through to one of the crowded bars, Sandro said, “Wait for me here while I order. I recommend a White Lady cocktail made with Panarea Island gin, but if you prefer champagne, just say the word.”

“I’ll trust your recommendation.”

She had a moment of freak as he disappeared into the thirsty throng. I used the word ’trust.’ I’m losing my edge.

She was torn when Sandro returned bearing two frosty cocktail glasses with frothy, pale-blonde concoctions topped with lemon slices. I’m parched and they look appealing, but are they safe? I need my wits about me. I’ll err on the side of caution.

Sandro handed her a glass.“Cin cin!”

She held her glass high, repeated the toast, and touched the rim to her lips without taking a sip.

“Let’s circulate,” she said. “I want to see everything.”

Sandro took her hand and weaved through the revelers, taking time to introduce her to people here and there, including a French Count who embraced him as a close friend. She was surprised. Many people seemed to like him and he acted like he was proud to be with her. What’s up with this guy? she wondered.

After one go-round, he said, “You’ve barely touched your drink. Would you prefer something else?”

“It’s fine,” she lied. “I guess I’m too excited to drink.”

He set her glass on a nearby surface and drew her close. “Let’s dance.”

“Only if we dance our way to the next boat. I want to take it all in.”

“It will just be more of the same. Let’s enjoy the moment here.”

“But Sandro, you’ve seen it before. It’s all new to me and I need to see for myself. Please!”

“Sorry. I’m being selfish. As you wish.”

He took her hand and they stepped across to another boat. Her search began once more.

His brow wrinkled. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Just committing it all to memory.”

At her insistence, they yacht-hopped several more times, and she pretended to sip a few more drinks, always scanning the crowds.

Around midnight, she pointed to the next one on their path and urged Sandro forward.

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not? Are you bored with me already?”

“You, my dear, remain delightful. That boat has a bad reputation.”

Her senses switched to alert mode.

“Are they into something illegal?”

“Perhaps, but I have no firsthand knowledge. Friends have heard rumors of ill-treated women and other unsavory things.”

“Yet they allow them to be part of this… this party?”

“The owner of the yacht is well-connected in nefarious ways, or so I’m told. People are afraid to make a fuss.”

“So, he gets a free pass to do whatever he wants? Unacceptable!”

“Take it easy, bella. We came here to enjoy ourselves, no?”

“I need to see what’s over there, Sandro.”

“That’s crazy! Are you looking to be mistreated? I can’t let you put yourself in harm’s way.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’ll go on my own.”

Sandro’s voice rose. “Just like that, you’d abandon me? I confess I enticed you to join me to seduce you, but you’re nice and I’ve done my best to treat you with respect tonight. Have I been so boring? Are you one of those women who craves a bad boy experience?”

“Shhh! Calm down, Sandro. Tonight, you’ve surprised me in a good way, but I have a confession to make too. I came here for an ulterior motive.”

“Let me guess. You were interested in my money.”

“No. I was looking for a way to come to Panarea.”

“You want to find someone richer than me?”

“No. I want to find my sister.”

“She’s lost and you think she’s here?”

“She fell for a nasty piece of work with a big yacht two years ago. She said he was taking her to Panarea. I haven’t heard from her since. That unsavory boat I want to hop onto sounds like his kind of operation. I need to know if she’s there.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll rescue her.”

“It’s a noble idea, but even with my help, there’s no chance in hell we can walk her off that yacht.”

 “I know that, and I don’t intend to try. Tonight will be a scouting mission. I’ll smile and schmooze and look around, then leave. If she’s there, my team will do the actual rescuing.”

“Your team?”

“I work for AISI, the internal information and security agency. My AISI team is waiting for instructions. If she’s there, they’ll extract my sister and investigate the evil doings on that boat. So, are you up for another yacht hop, or am I on my own?”

“No way am I letting you go over there alone. Just answer me one question before we visit them.”

“Ask.”

“You’re not  a waitress?”

“Definitely not and that’s a good thing. I was so out of my element there.”

xxx

International Journey of a Curriculum Embracing Technology

“If we teach today as we taught yesterday, we rob our children of tomorrow.”

John Dewey

 In September 1992, the Butler Middle School of Technology opened in a new building in Lowell, Massachusetts. (What is notable is that available technology was minimal at first. The Internet wasn’t made available to the public until the following April of 1993 and the school Intranet was only in the process of being set up.) Technology advances ramped up quickly in the following years and we were eager to learn.

Sheila Kennedy and I were hired as Family Consumer Science teachers for grades 5-8, and they asked us to design a modern and meaningful curriculum. At the same time, Fleet Bank approached the school with the offer of a community partnership if the school would be interested in community service. Sheila and I jumped on the idea and it became the third quarter of our 7th and 8th-grade curriculums.

In early 1993, Fleet provided an introductory celebration in our auditorium and offered seven adult advisors. That year approximately 280 7th and 8th-grade students (including special education, bilingual, and ESL students) participated. We called them the Fleet Youth Leaders.

They identified community needs and formed service teams to help meet those needs. Each team was matched with an adult advisor who was either a staff member, administrator, parent, or community representative. In addition to doing community service, the students were required to research a social issue related to their service, prepare a computer report, and design a poster display. At the end of the quarter, Fleet provided an award ceremony at the Kennedy Library in Boston for exemplary team projects. The bank continued to support us for two more years and our program followed the same format.

At the beginning of 1996, Jacqueline Carr, another Family Consumer Science teacher, and I renamed the program the Butler Youth Leaders and we began to apply for grants to solve the financial challenges and to expand the horizons of the program with the acquisition of more technology. We taught the students how to produce multimedia video infomercials utilizing computer digital video editing to educate the larger community about the needs they identified. We began a collaboration with the computer technology teacher, and the media center director so that students could fully utilize Internet and Intranet capabilities, as well as computer word processing skills for producing their research reports.

 In 1997, some of our students participated in a TV show for MCET (Massachusetts Corporation for Educational Television) demonstrating digital video editing, and in cooperation with our art department, the use of graphics.

We introduced website design into our program in 1998 and, in 1999, the first Butler Youth Leaders website was created. In 2000, we formed a Butler School partnership with Kids Energy Corporation, enabling students to apply online for grants for their projects and to design individual project websites that Kids Energy made available for their use. In 2000, we also added the capability of putting the videos into CD-ROM and VHS formats. (This now sounds old school but it was cutting edge at the time.)

Over nine years, the program was the recipient of a Massachusetts Department of Education Lighthouse Grant, four innovative teacher grants from the University of Massachusetts, Lowell, one service learning grant, and one grant from the Compaq Computer Corporation.

We presented the program at the Macworld Computer Technology Conference in Boston in 1997, at four NELMS (New England League of Middle Schools) conferences in Massachusetts and Rhode Island,  the Christa McAuliffe Technology Conference In New Hampshire, a MassCUE (Massachusetts Computer Using Educators) conference, a Department of Education Technology Conference, a Massachusetts Title I Conference and at several workshops for the Lowell Public Schools Professional Development Program.

 Materials from the Butler Youth Leaders became part of a permanent archive and time capsule in the Smithsonian National Museum Of Natural History, Washington, D.C. in 1999.

.In March of 2000, we received an e-mail message from the Massachusetts Department of Education inviting us to enter our Butler Youth Leaders Program into a worldwide competition for the best information technology projects in the field of education. That July we faxed our project submission form to Rome, Italy where the competition would take place. In September, we were given the tools to link our website to the Global Junior Challenge website. In October, we received two welcome packs and in November we received congratulations that we were one of 89 finalists out of 588 project entries from 49 countries!

In December of 2000, Jackie and I traveled to Rome to participate in the Challenge's final events. We set up our project exhibit at the two-day “iYouth Into the Digital Age Conference” at the Fiera di Roma, along with exhibitors from many countries. On the evening of December 4, 2000, we attended an awards ceremony in Palazzo Senatorio (Rome’s City Hall) on the Campidoglio (Capitoline Hill) where the Mayor of Rome opened the ceremony and the President of the Italian Republic handed out prizes to the top projects. We did not win but received medals for being finalists, which made us proud enough.

 In 2001, the program was used as the case study for MIT's ‘We Wired the Classroom’ conference. The conference gathered teachers, professors, media professionals, researchers, and writers to discuss the roles of new media in the development of educational materials.

Those nine years were a teaching high for me. I had the best co-workers and enthusiastic and productive students. I like to think we made a small difference.

Advice from Fictional Travelers

“To move, to breathe, to fly, to float,
To gain all while you give,
To roam the roads of lands remote,
To travel is to live.”

― Hans Christian Andersen, The Fairy Tale of My Life: An Autobiography

In real-life travel, I am a flaneur. I love to aimlessly wander cities to experience them as they are, not as I’m told they should be. I enjoy the spontaneity, serendipity, and surprises of having no set itinerary.

In literary travel tales, I enjoy being a voyeur. There is nothing better than immersing oneself in a place made interesting by good writing. And some authors, through their traveling characters, have given eloquent advice that stands the test of time.

Odysseus is the hero of Homer’s 8th or 7th century B.C. epic poem Odysseus. He is depicted as being renowned for his intellectual brilliance, guile, and versatility. One of his profound statements is, “A man who has been through bitter experiences and traveled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time.” In other words, time heals all wounds such that we can look back and laugh at our worst moments.

Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales in 1392, but some of his advice still resonates today. This one is from The Wife of Bath Tale: “It seems to me that poverty is an eyeglass through which one may see his true friends.” 

The traveling duo of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza was created by the 17th-century Spanish novelist, Miguel de Cervantes. Though Don Quixote is a crazy gentleman with delusions about chivalry, he occasionally gives some good advice, such as: “all human efforts to communicate—even in the same language—are equally utopian, equally luminous with value, and equally worth the doing.” 

In Gulliver’s Travels, written in 1726 by Jonathan Swift, Gulliver experiences the disorientation of being different from the locals but he keeps an open mind. He learned from his experiences and passed on this advice: “They have a notion, that when people are met together, a short silence does much improve conversation: this I found to be true; for during those little intermissions of talk, new ideas would arise in their minds, which very much enlivened the discourse.” 

Mark Twain (a.k.a. Samuel Clemens) wrote his novel Huckleberry Finn in 1885. It’s a morality tale about a white boy and a black man both seeking freedom from oppression. Huck dispenses his advice in a southwestern U.S. dialect:  “Right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better.” And “If you tell the truth you do not need a good memory!”

In the novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, written by L. Frank Baum in 1900, a young girl named Dorothy is sent on a journey when she is caught up in a twister. Along the way, she dispenses advice to new friends: “A heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others” and “True courage is in facing danger when you are afraid...” 

In the Harry Potter novels written by J.K. Rowling (1997-2005), the characters travel in mind-blowing ways—by a train invisible to non-wizards, by apparition, and by flying broomsticks. Some of them give excellent advice:  "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends" (Albus Dumbledore),  "Time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead." (Harry Potter), and  "If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals" (Sirius Black).

Cooking Adventures

 “Cooking is an act of love, a gift, a way of sharing with others the little secrets -- 'piccoli segreti' -- that are simmering on the burners.”

  Sophia Loren  

Living in Italy awakened my taste buds and inspired me to learn how to cook Italian food

My first foray into cooking classes was with a guy named Tony who had been a chef on a cruise line.  The classes took place in Pinetamare, a coastal resort north of Napoli. Each session had at least 10-15 people and he demonstrated while we took notes. Afterward, we got to taste the results.

Perhaps because he was used to cooking for large groups, his recipe amounts were often large. For example, his Pesto Alla Genovese serves 30 people and both his Mozzarella in Carrozza and Pasta e Fagioli Alla Napoletana serve 14. His Melanzane Alla Parmigiana recipe uses over 5 pounds of eggplant!

 Before showing us how to make stuffed Calamari, he instructed us how to buy and clean the fresh squid: 1. Wash well in cold water. 2. Pull out the tentacle section from the body cavity. 3. Remove the guts being careful not to break the sac of ink. 4. Cut off the eyes. 5. Pull out the mouth. 6. Remove the spine. (He added a warning: If the calamari are not shiny, they’ve been frozen.)

About a year later, I had the opportunity to participate in a more intimate setting. I went with 2 other women and spent many mornings in the home kitchen of Marianna, an Italian woman who lived in Posillipo, one of the hillsides in Napoli. We would chat, watch, learn, take notes, and then sit down for lunch with Marianna. The meal was always paired with a bottle of red wine—Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. I have almost 5 dozen of her recipes and often use them. Some of my favorites are Pasta Ai Quattro Formaggi, and Pasta Con Melanzane, Panna, e Salsa. She taught us to make rollups similar to filled manicotti but using crepes instead of pasta. That dish was covered with Ragu Napoletana, a thick tomato sauce which simmers for 7 hours. She also taught us how to make 2 different versions of quick tomato sauce. One has olive oil, onion and dry white wine added to chopped tomatoes. The other adds oil, garlic, basil, and parsley. The latter can be varied as All’ Arrabiata by adding hot pepper, as Alla Puttanesca with black olives and capers, or as Alla Pizzaiola with oregano.  For good pasta, she recommended Dececco or Voiello, and for good olive oil: Dante, Bertolli, or Carapelli.

While in Italy, I met a French woman named Jacquie who offered to teach a small group of us how to cook some French cuisine. We met at her home and it was a similar format to Marianna’s— chatting, watching, learning, taking notes, and then sitting down for lunch with Jacquie. I have almost 3 dozen of her recipes. Some of my favorites are Roasted Gigot, Coq Au Vin, and Sauce Rémoulade

When we moved to Germany, I didn’t take German cooking lessons. However, I did learn how to cook some Chinese dishes from a Chinese/American woman named Dinah. A few friends and I joined her in her kitchen for lessons and lunch once a week for a month.  We made such things as Spicy Chicken Wings, Stir-Fry Beef with Julienne Vegetables, and Mu Shu Pork with Pancakes.

My travels have taught me to appreciate cooking with fresh ingredients and to enjoy wine, mussels, fresh crispy bread, and a variety of cheeses, my favorite being Gorgonzola.

Reverse Crossings

"The immigrant's heart marches to the beat of two quite different drums, one from the old homeland and the other from the new. The immigrant has to bridge these two worlds, living comfortably in the new and bringing the best of his or her ancient identity and heritage to bear on life in an adopted homeland."

Mary McAleese, Former President of Ireland

My only grandparent not born in the U.S. was my paternal grandmother Mary. In 1890 at the age of seventeen, she left her family, impoverished by years of the Irish famine, high taxes, and unfair laws, and she emigrated to New York City. She traveled by the Cunard ship Bothnia and found work as a domestic servant for a wealthy family on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Later on, she married and had six children, five of whom lived to adulthood. During World War II, she was considered a Gold-Star Mother because all five of her sons served in the U.S. Armed Forces. Our extended family gathered every Sunday and holiday at the home she and my grandfather owned. Grandma died in 1968 at the age of 95.  

She often told us that she had come from Cork and had lived in Ballyengland. However, thanks to my brother’s genealogical research, we learned that her ship had left from Queenstown (renamed Cobh in 1921), a seaport in County Cork. However, she was born and raised in a townland called Ballyengland within the small town of Askeaton in County Limerick. The town is on the N69, the road between Limerick and Tralee and is built on the banks of the River Deel some 1.8 miles upstream from the estuary of the River Shannon. Among the historic structures in the town are a castle dating from 1199 and a Franciscan friary dating from 1389.

 A townland (Irish: baile fearainn) is a small geographical division of land used in Ireland and in the Western Isles in Scotland, typically covering 100–500 acres. The concept of townlands is based on the Gaelic system of land division, and the first official evidence of the existence of this system can be found in church records from before the 12th century. It was in the 1600s that they began to be mapped and defined by the English administration for the purpose of confiscating land and apportioning it to investors or planters from Britain. Until the 19th century, most townlands were owned by single landlords and occupied by multiple tenants.  Mary’s family were tenants who worked the land at Hollywood House in Ballyengland.

In 2003, some 113 years after Mary made her long voyage of survival, I flew to Ireland to see where she came from. Unlike hers, my trip was a vacation. I found Askeaton to be a picturesque town that was prospering. Coolrahnee House, the B&B on the outskirts of Askeaton that my husband and I stayed at, was fairly new with modern amenities and the owners were welcoming. When I mentioned my grandmother as we enjoyed a cup of tea with them, they perked up at hearing her maiden name. They knew locals with the same name and made a call. Soon, a young guy showed up, and listened to my story, but said he didn’t think his family was related to my grandmother. However, he suggested that we talk with his elderly mother who might know who my relatives were and if they were still in town.

We met his mother outside of the church where she had attended Sunday services and she said she would show us around Ballyengland to look for my relatives. We stopped at a home where the surname was the same, but again, no relation. They did, however, give our local companion directions to Hollywood House.

We came to a large walled estate that we were told was now owned by an Italian woman who exported textiles. The gate was locked, but through it, on the grounds behind the large main house, we could see a thatched-roof cottage which just might have been Mary’s Irish home.

My brother, who did the genealogical research, hasn’t just visited Ireland one time like me. He applied for and received dual citizenship. Though all of our great-grandparents were born in Ireland, it was only Grandma Mary who made his bid possible. Under the Irish Nationality and Citizenship Act of 1956, people born outside Ireland can claim citizenship if a grandparent was born there. As a musician, my brother performs in both countries. In 2003, he wrote a song called “Balleyengland” for his first album. Like Mary, he has bridged both worlds.

Word Journeys in the Age of Technology

“There is nothing permanent except change.”

Heraclitus

Many English words have been appropriated to mean something completely different online. The pre-Internet meanings are still valid in their original contexts. The technological vocabulary does not replace them, but rather adds another layer of meanings for specific use.  Here are some examples:

Boot

Pre-Internet: a sturdy item of footwear covering the foot, the ankle, and sometimes the lower leg; a hard kick

Online: to start up a computer

Bump

Pre-Internet: a light blow or a jolting collision; a protuberance on a level surface

Online: an online slang term for the practice of posting filler comments to move a post to the top of a discussion thread, increasing a message or thread's status and visibility.

Block

Pre-Internet: a large solid piece of hard material, especially rock, stone, or wood, typically with flat surfaces on each side; make the movement or flow in (a passage, pipe, road, etc.) difficult or impossible; impress text or a design on (a book cover).

Online: to prevent someone from contacting you on a social network or from viewing your profile.

Canoe

Pre-Internet: a long narrow boat that is pointed at both ends and that is moved by a paddle with one blade.
Online: a Twitter conversation with more than three participants

Catfish

Pre-Internet: a freshwater or marine fish with whisker-like barbels around the mouth, typically bottom-dwelling.
Online: a person who sets up a false personal profile on a social networking site for fraudulent or deceptive purposes.

Cloud

Pre-Internet: a visible mass of particles of condensed vapor (such as water or ice) suspended in the atmosphere of a planet.
Online:  any of several parts of the Internet that allow online processing and storage of documents and data as well as electronic access to software and other resources.

Firehose

Pre-Internet: a large-diameter water-filled tube used to extinguish fires.

Online: a very large stream of data.

Footprint

Pre-Internet: a track or mark left by a foot or shoe.
Online: a unique set of characteristics, actions, etc., that leave a trace and serve as a means of identification.

Friend

Pre-Internet: one attached to another by affection or esteem.
Online: to add a person to one’s list of contacts on a social networking website.

Follow

Pre-Internet: to go or come after or behind someone or something; to pursue in an effort to overtake
Online: to subscribe to someone’s updates on social media

Handle

Pre-Internet:  a part of something that is designed to be held by your hand; to manage

Online: your screen name; the name you go by on the Internet.

Like

Pre-Internet: similar to
Online: to indicate one’s enjoyment of, agreement with, or interest in website content, especially in social media

Meme

Pre-Internet: an idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture
Online: a cultural item in the form of an image, video, phrase, etc., that is spread via the Internet and often altered in a creative or humorous way

Ping

Pre-Internet: a sharp sound like that of a striking bullet
Online: to contact someone by sending a brief electronic message, as a text message

Profile

Pre-Internet: a representation of something in outline; a concise biographical sketch
Online: the personal details, images, user statistics, social-media timeline, etc., that an individual creates and associates with a username or online account

Sandbox

Pre-Internet: a low box filled with sand that children can play in
Online: an environment in which software developers or editors can create and test new content, separate from other content in the project

Swipe

Pre-Internet: a criticism or insult that is directed toward a particular person or group; a swinging movement of a person’s hand, an animal’s paw, etc
Online: to move the fingers across a touchscreen

Tablet

Pre-Internet: a flat piece of stone, clay, or wood with writing on it; a pill

Online: a general-purpose computer contained in a touchscreen panel

Tag

Pre-Internet: to attach a label to; to add to something, especially as an afterthought
Online: to link to someone else’s profile in a social media post, commonly a photo or status update

Text

Pre-Internet: a book or other piece of writing, especially one that is studied

Online: to send an electronic message by mobile phone

Timeline

Pre-Internet: a table listing important events for successive years within a particular historical period
Online: a collection of online posts or updates associated with a specific social-media account, in reverse chronological order

Troll

Pre-Internet: a dwarf or giant in Scandinavian folklore inhabiting caves or hills
Online: a person who sows discord on the Internet by starting arguments or upsetting people

Tweet

Pre-Internet: a chirping note

Online: a very short message posted on the Twitter website

Unplug

Pre-Internet: to disconnect something, such as a lamp or television from an electrical source or another device
Online: refrain from using digital or electronic devices for a period of time

Viral

Pre-Internet: of, relating to, or caused by a virus
Online: becoming very popular by circulating quickly from person to person, especially through the Internet

An Emotional October Pilgrimage For a Book

“Kindness is the golden chain by which society is bound together.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 My second YA mystery, published in 2015, is set in Munich, Germany. In addition to what I learned living there for six years (from 1986-1992), I did a lot of background research about the city during the era of Hitler’s National Socialism, and the book has a mystery connected to those times.

In October 2014, with the book manuscript finished but as yet unpublished, my husband and I made a return visit to Munich. It was a pleasure trip, but I also wanted him, an excellent photographer, to take some photos as inspiration for the book cover.

One spot that intrigued me was the Geschwister Scholl Platz (the Scholl siblings’ place) in front of one of the buildings of Ludwig Maximillian Universität in Munich’s Schwabing neighborhood. Stone tablets embedded in the walkway are copies of the anti-Hitler leaflets distributed in 1942 and 1943 by a few brave students and one of their professors who were beheaded for their efforts. They called themselves “The White Rose.”

Though my book isn't specifically about the White Rose, the group does play a role in influencing my characters, and I wanted some photos related to it. With that in mind, we rode the Ubahn to Universität and walked to that historic Platz. It’s located outside the entrance to the university building where students Sophie and Hans Scholl threw leftover leaflets from a high balcony into the lobby atrium as students were leaving classes. (Most leaflets were left in telephone books in public phone booths, mailed to professors and students, and taken by courier to other universities for distribution.) 

On the day we were in the Platz, some workmen were busy tearing up some of the sidewalk, but we didn’t pay them much mind. My husband was busy taking pictures, and I was engrossed in reading one of the embedded leaflets when a man approached me. He asked me in German where I was from and said he was curious to know why I was interested in the leaflets. When I explained about writing the book, he said he wanted to give me a Geschenk (a gift). He handed me a stone fragment with writing engraved on it. The text was from one of the anti-Hitler leaflets.

His kind gesture nearly brought me to tears because of what it represented, and because it had special meaning for me after all the hard work on my book. However, I was unsure if it was all right for me to have it and I asked. He pointed to a nearby area where his truck and equipment stood and said that he was a city worker and his job was to replace worn stone leaflets with new versions. He could dispose of the old ones as he saw fit.

Then he told me that there was a memorial to the White Rose inside the building that we might like to see. I asked him if it was open to the public and he said it was okay for us to go in. I thanked him sincerely and entered the building, grateful that I was able to understand and speak with him.

In the high-ceilinged marble atrium, we were able to gaze up at the balcony where the Scholls had stood on that fateful day when they were arrested. A commemorative plaque created in 1946 by Theodor Georgii and honoring the seven executed members of the White Rose resistance group (Willi Graf, Professor Kurt Huber, Hans Leipelt, Christoph Probst, Alexander Schmorell, Hans and Sophie Scholl) is located on the atrium wall. There is also a bronze relief sculpture dedicated to them. It was created by Lothar Dietz and unveiled in 1958. A bronze bust of Sophie Scholl by Nikolai Tregor was adorned with a fresh white rose in a bud vase.

My stone fragment has words from the 6th leaflet, the one that got the Scholls arrested. The full text reads:

“Erschüttert steht unser Volk vor dem Untergang der Männer von Stalingrad. 330,000 deutsche Männer hat die geniale ­Strategie des Weltkriegsgefreiten sinn- und ­verantwortungslos in Tod und Verderben gehetzt. Führer, wir danken dir!

Es gärt im deutschen Volk: Wollen wir weiter einem Dilettanten das Schicksal unserer Armeen anvertrauen? Wollen wir den niedrigen Macht­instinken einer Parteiclique den Rest der deutschen Jugend opfern? Nimmermehr.”

English Translation:

“Our people stand in shock at the demise of the men of Stalingrad. The ingenious strategy of the World War II corporal drove 330,000 German men senselessly and irresponsibly to death and ruin. Leader, thank you!

It is fermenting in the German people: Do we want to continue to entrust the fate of our armies to a dilettante? Do we want to sacrifice the rest of German youth to the low power of a party clique? Nevermore.”

A Post-9/11 September Vacation in France

“Ask anyone old enough to remember travel before Sept. 11, 2001, and you’re likely to get a gauzy recollection of what flying was like. There was security screening, but it wasn’t anywhere near as intrusive. There were no long checkpoint lines. Passengers and their families could walk right to the gate together, postponing goodbye hugs until the last possible moment…Two months after the attacks, President George W. Bush signed legislation creating the Transportation Security Administration…"

David Koenig, apnews.com

 To go or not to go? That was the question. On September 19th, 2001 our long-planned flight from Boston to Paris was canceled. Eight days earlier on September 11th, terrorist-flown planes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York, a field in Pennsylvania, and the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia. British Airways, due to the turmoil created by those traumatic, destructive, and deadly events. and the resulting uneasiness about flying, had consolidated many flights.  We were rescheduled for the next day, but our transatlantic flight rerouted us to London instead of Paris. My husband and I debated postponing the trip because of worry about more attacks and fears of being separated from our family at a time of crisis. However, we bought our first ever cell phone to keep in touch with loved ones and forged ahead with our plans hoping for the best.

 Because a London to Paris connection wasn’t available until the following morning, we stayed overnight at the Heathrow Hilton. We landed in Paris on the 21st, picked up a car (a Peugeot) that we had arranged to lease through "Europe by Car,” and drove from Paris to the South of France. Our destination was Seillans, one of the many villages perches (hill towns) where we had rented an apartment online.

Seillans looked like a fortress from a distance, its high walls spiraling up the hillside. A narrow road followed the spiral upward and our apartment on Rue du Presbytere was near the top. We followed the owner’s directions to a tiny resident parking space. At the edge of the parking area, we passed through an ancient archway and entered a narrow alley lugging our bags over cobblestones until we came to the compact but charming apartment we would use as a central location for day trips.

The following sixteen days consisted of forays to outdoor markets and explorations in other hill towns (Tourettes, Fayence, Mons, Cavalaire, St Cezaire, Bargemon, Draguignon, Callian, and Montauroux), and  to nearby coastal resorts (Hyeres, St Tropez, Cannes, Frejus, St Raphael, and Nice. We also hiked around a lake (Lac du St Cassien) and took a trip inland for another hike at Les Gorges du Verdon (France's grand canyon). We visited Grasse with its many perfume businesses, Fondation Maeght in St Paul de Vence for a special exhibit on Kandinsky, and Renoir's home in Cagnes sur Mer. Two ferry rides on separate days took us to two different islands in the Mediterranean—Ile St Honorat where we had a picnic and visited the Abbaye des Lerins & Monastiere and Ile St Marguerite where we did some hiking and swimming and had another picnic. The latter island has a sad memory for us. It was where we learned via our new cell phone that a friend was gravely ill.

When our stay at Seillans was over, we cleaned the apartment and headed west, stopping at an artisan fair and some markets in Aix en Provence.

Our next apartment rental was in southwest France in St Thibery on Rue De La Cave. On the following day, we went to a market in Bessan then to the beach (Vias Plage) in Cap D'Agde and a flea market (Marche aux Puces) in nearby Marseillan Place. Other day trips were made to Beziers, Pezenas, Narbonne,  another beach (Portiragnes Plage), and the lovely university city of Montpellier.

After a week in St Thibery, we cleaned that apartment and headed north. We visited Nimes and spent two nights at the bucolic Logis Hôtel Résidence Les Cèdres in Villeneuve lez Avignon. Day trips from there were to a large antique market on L'ile sur la Sorgue and to Avignon, a medieval city with papal history.

Heading north again,  we visited Vaison-la-Romaine before making two one-night hotel stops—in Vieux Talant and Montceaux.

Our drive ended in Paris where we returned our leased car and boarded a flight to London. From there, we flew to Boston, thankful to have three terror-free weeks and to find our family in the U.S. safe and sound.

Leaving Boxford

 “As a whole, Boxford is a fine old farming-town; pleasant to live in, healthy, and the many natural beauties of her landscapes, with the sweet warbling of the native songsters, that inhabit the glades, and the exquisite ferns in the spring unrolling from their wooly blankets, the cardinal-flowers of the late summer, the golden-rod and asters of the autumn, and all the lovely sisterhood of flowers which adorn our hills and meadows, give a continual glow of pleasure to the heart which loves the truly beautiful and the wonders of creation.”

The History of Boxford, Essex County, Massachusetts by Sidney Perley, 1880

Four years ago our home of forty-five and a half years was sold. It was time and we were moving on to new adventures, but at the time, I was flooded with happy memories that made it bittersweet.

Transplanted by a job relocation to Massachusetts in 1973, I “discovered” Boxford as I drove around the Northshore area with a book of town maps and my newborn strapped into a car seat.  When my husband arrived at our hotel after work, I told him that I had passed through a pretty and seemingly unspoiled town that he had to see.  He liked it too…and thus began our sojourn in a green pocket tucked into the surrounding urban bustle and suburban sprawl.  

Over the years, we trekked through many of the town trails.  We observed the wetlands coming to life in spring, took refuge in their shady glens in summer, photographed their leaf-strewn beauty in autumn, and snow shoed through the quiet stillness of a winter day.  Wildcat, Bald Hill, the State Forest, and other areas preserved endangered flora and fauna and gave such pleasure during each foray.

My sanctuary was our plot of land and home.  In addition to its being part of the beauty of the town, it was filled with memories.  My children are adults now but their Boxford childhoods always came rushing back as I looked around.

A look at our driveway recalled our toddlers racing their Big Wheels down or pulling a red wagon up, our preschoolers disembarking from a nursery school carpool or rushing out to the station wagon in their swimsuits, eager for their swim lessons at Stiles Pond, and later on, our dog wagging her tail as they arrived home on the elementary school bus or took off on their bikes to meet friends.

The tiny bump of a hill in the back let me visualize them testing their first pairs of skis or yelping with delight as their sleds picked up speed. At the edge of our wetland, I saw them playing with Tonka trucks in the spring mud, swinging from a rope on the oak tree in summer, jumping into autumn leaf piles, or building snowmen and snow forts in winter.

Out in front, I saw them finding snake skins in the stone wall or licking their dripping ice cream cones from Benson’s West Boxford stand.  My mind replayed their many costumes as they headed out the door holding their Dad’s hands to go trick or treating. I remembered their enjoyment as they returned to the house with cheeks reddened from ice skating at Sperry’s Pond.

Even our garden was full of them…smiling as they ate fresh peas right out of their pods, or got excited when they found toads or worms. Watering the plants was fun; one squirt was for the tomatoes and another for their wading pool.  And how they loved to run in and out of the sprinkler!

I remember one testing the air out back for a science project and another twirling a baton on the lawn.  One helped to drag the Christmas tree to the door and the other made a scarecrow to sit on the mailbox. A backyard apple tree was a gift from them for our 25th anniversary. 

The path through our woods reminded me of teaching moments inspired by nature.  Little hands learned how marsh marigolds, jack in the pulpits, and lady slippers needed NOT to be picked to ensure their survival.

The grass of our backyard used to be lively with their soccer, baseball, badminton, Frisbee, and other sports activities, and our deck would be filled with giggles as piñatas were smashed at their birthday parties. 

To the passersby, all seemed pretty quiet on our property in those last years before we left,  but I could hear the laughter until we drove away for the last time.

Paddling Up the Cupsuptic River

“Rivers are places that renew our spirit, connect us with our past, and link us directly with the flow and rhythm of the natural world.

Ted Turner

My summers are spent in the scenic western lakes and mountains region of Maine. The area boasts over 110 lakes and ponds. I’ve paddled quite a few of the larger ones—Rangeley, Mooselukmeguntic, Beaver Mountain, Cupsuptic, Flagstaff, Little Kennebago, Loon, Aziscohos, Richardson, and Umbagog Lakes and Haley, Gull, Round, Sandy River, and Dodge Ponds. The region also has at least seven rivers. I’ve gone tubing on the Magalloway and paddled several of the others—the Kennebago, South Branch of the Dead, and the Cupsuptic.

One of my favorite paddles is up the Cupsuptic River, and my husband and I make the trip at least once a year in our kayaks, sometimes with friends or family. Our son and daughter-in-law and their German wire-haired pointer joined us on paddleboards this year.

The river’s boat ramp is about a half hour’s drive from our house and it has an easy launch area. Once in the water, we steer upriver to the right. A handful of cottages dot the river’s edge at the beginning of our trip, but soon the river twists and turns as we head north, and only thick forests line both sides.

The paddle is mellow and the air has a mild earthy scent. When the water is low, we pass a lot of grassy islands and sandy shores littered with driftwood. When it’s high, they remain invisible and we see only rocky and wooded banks and occasional floating sticks. It’s a true wilderness area and often, only slapping paddles and occasional bird cries break the quiet. Sometimes other kayakers and canoers might wave or yell a greeting in passing.

About a mile up the river, we head for our first goal—a high piece of land that juts out on the left. It’s not easy to pull in here because there isn’t much actual shore. On high-water days, you need to find a way to keep the kayaks from drifting before you get out. When the water is low, it’s better, but the climb up the embankment is steeper.

At the top is a rough wooden sign nailed to a tree that says, Hinkley’s Café. Nearby campground owners put it up as a joke. There’s no building, no wait staff, and nothing for sale but the picnic tables and cleared campsites are as close as you get to good service in the backwoods. It’s a nice spot to have a picnic lunch.

As I look out over the river from that high perch, I always enjoy the sweet smell of pine needles and feel myself absorbing the peacefulness. Mountain peaks, including West Kennebago, are visible to the east.

After a rest and some nourishment, we continue upstream and head around an island. The river on the backside of it is dotted with the remains of large trees that look like driftwood sculptures. As we weave around them, we’re careful to watch for underwater logs and rocks. Sometimes we see man-made, floating, wire tents set out for loons to nest in.

After rounding the island, we head into tall grass growing out of water deep enough to paddle through. It leads us back to the main river stream and we head left around a bend in the river into a narrower section.

The turn-around spot is a short way up. It’s where a lone cabin called Moorhens stands close to the water’s left edge. Here the river becomes a rocky stream that’s too narrow and shallow for the kayaks to continue.

After a slow paddle back to the boat ramp, the whole excursion on the water is around two miles and takes about two hours to explore.

Visiting Poland Before Solidarnosc

“To forget one's ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.”

- Chinese Proverb.

My husband's parents were born in Poland.  He learned Polish before English, and went to a Polish-American elementary school, but had never visited Poland himself.

In 1980, we were living in Italy, where he had taken a job for his American company, and we decided to spend a two-week summer vacation driving to Poland to find his roots..  With our two young children in an orange Fiat with Italian plates, we drove north from Napoli into Austria and then West Germany.  We skirted still-segregated East Germany and headed for still-united Czechoslovakia.

Upon arrival at the Czech border, our papers were carefully scrutinized and we were informed that our visas were only one-way - a scary thought in the Eastern European political climate of those days.  To reenter the country from the east, after our visit to Poland, we would need to fill out applications in Prague.   We spent a good part of a day in an upstairs government office applying for visas that would assure our later return home.  With much relief, they were granted and we headed for the Polish border.

Passage through Polish customs seemed much easier except for the fact that we were told to account for our whereabouts for every day of our visit.  Aware that "Big Brother" would be watching, we ventured into the land of my husband's forebears.

Our first impressions were disappointing because the approaching evening forced us to find rooms in the bleak industrial town of Katowice.  The only available hotel was far from western standards in both amenities and cleanliness but we had a roof for the night and we were feeling adventurous.

The next morning, we drove through miles of farmland dotted with artfully shaped haystacks and made the capital city of Warsaw our goal.  The first impression we had was of a city of wide boulevards dominated by monstrous Stalinesque architecture.  We drove past once-fashionable shops that seemed to have little in the way of consumer goods.  Occasionally, there was a line that began inside a shop and wound its way down the block.  We later learned that shops often received scarce supplies only once a week.  If one wished to purchase meat or chocolate or some other "luxury" item, it was costly and required waiting in line.

Our Warsaw hotel was a large plain building that had a sliding scale payment system.  Eastern Europeans paid the lowest rates and Americans the highest.  Western European rates fell somewhere in between.

Exploring the boulevards on foot made their hardships even more evident.  On a street that, in another time would have rivaled Fifth Avenue, canned food, instead of stylish clothing, was stacked attractively in shop windows.  Textile goods in a major department store were of poor quality.  Entrance into each department for browsing among the racks was limited and monitored by security matrons.

Crossing a bridge on foot over the Vistula River, we were approached by someone wanting to discreetly exchange money, despite the strict laws against it.  The best goods available in the city were available only to those possessing foreign currency.

We were pleasantly surprised then to come upon a picturesque section of the city that had quaint cobble-stoned streets and charming restaurants.  We were also struck by its upkeep.  It looked almost brand new, like a Disney replica of someplace ancient.  Later that evening when we returned there for dinner, we found out that it was, in fact, not old.  It was the completely reconstructed former Jewish ghetto that had been destroyed along with many of its inhabitants during World War II.  It made for a dinner filled with unease. Our discomfort was increased by our encounter with a young East German student also having dinner.  We struck up a conversation and found that he was very bitter.  He grilled us about why we had chosen to visit Eastern Europe when we had the freedom to travel almost anywhere else.  He said that he was there only because his options were limited.

After Warsaw, we headed to the southeast, first stopping in Rzeschow, a university town.  No hotels were available but we found lodging in a university dorm.  Like dorm rooms in most countries, it was not your mother's décor but it was funky and we endured.

The bathroom was a triangular-shaped room down the hall, and it was so small that you had to squeeze in.   If someone had tried to open the door while you sat on the toilet, the door would have banged into your knees.

The next few days consisted of visits to the small country towns of my husband's family members.  We were welcomed warmly and they shared what little they had.  He had a chance to see where both of his parents were from and to meet elderly aunts and uncles he had only heard about previously. For my six and seven-year-old children, it was eye-opening and they learned much. They saw that warmth and humanity overcome language barriers and watched as their Dad resurrected a language from his childhood and acted as translator. They rode a tractor for the first time with a teenage cousin and each took turns shooing the chickens away as the other used the outhouse.  They began to realize that American prosperity doesn't exist in many places.

As our trip wound down, we stopped in Krakow, my favorite Polish city.  Another university town, it has a medieval look to it with nice squares and interesting architecture.  We had almost forgotten the poverty and restrictions encountered elsewhere until we dined in a lovely restaurant there.  The menu was like a book with perhaps a dozen pages but many items were unavailable.  The only entrees not crossed out contained variations of chicken or eggs.

As our vacation neared its end, we headed west for the border.  We arrived in the evening and our children had fallen asleep in the back seat.  Polish customs agents who searched our car with flashlights awakened them.  We worried that the agents would confiscate a painting that we had purchased from a student instead of from the government store.  The painting was safe, however.  They were looking for crystal items that were being smuggled to avoid export taxes.  We didn't have any and we proceeded through the barricades.

We worried about entering and exiting Czechoslovakia but our newly acquired return visas did the trick.  When we finally crossed the border back into the West, the contrast was immediate.  Gone were the small, slow-moving Lada autos and gray buildings.  All around us zoomed high-speed, German-made luxury cars and colorful advertisements abounded. It was like moving from black and white to Technicolor. 

After crossing the border back into Italy, we stopped for something to eat. The noise level was notable. The buzz of conversations and the warmth of the laughter wrapped around us like a security blanket. It was good to be back in our temporary (and free) home.

The Stages of My Motherhood

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

PRENATAL

The months that I carried each of my two children were a mix of excitement and worry. I worked at full-time teaching, kept my prenatal appointments, followed my doctor’s advice, kept as active as possible, took care with my diet, attended Lamaze classes with my husband, and hoped that all would result in easy births and healthy babies.

INFANCY

It was a time of wonder and nervousness. Each baby was a miraculous bundle that I wanted to nurture and protect. I became a stay-at-home mom. I cuddled, crooned, and played, introduced them to mom-and-tot swims, fed, burped and changed them, engaged them with chatter and books, took them to the pediatrician for their shots and checkups, walked them in their carriages in the fresh air, and recorded and rejoiced over each developmental milestone.

TODDLERHOOD

This was when I babyproofed the house with electric outlet covers, gates at the tops of stairs, and breakables moved to higher shelves. An empty dining room was used as a carpeted playroom with low shelves for safe toys. Our backyard provided a place for their exploration of the natural world, like frogs and mud and where they enjoyed helping me with my garden. I packed them for travel via plane and auto and we put them in our backpacks for outdoor adventures. I had playgroups for each of them when they turned two. Each group had four children and I took turns with the other mothers having them at home for free play, an art activity, and a healthy snack.

NURSERY SCHOOL

Those years began when I drove each of them to the Village School in town and they joined, first the three-year-old class then the four-year-old for weekday mornings. I was still a stay-at-home mom, except for occasional stints at part-time work. I carpooled with other mothers for drop-offs and pick-ups. During those years, my husband and I introduced them to skiing. We started off on rope tows, each of us with one child on skis between our legs. I took them to the YMCA for swim and gym classes, and in summer, to the town beach. I spent a few evenings a week pursuing a graduate degree.

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

My daughter took the town school bus, so I was no longer her driver. It was the same year my son started nursery school, so I was still carpooling for him. My husband and I took them skiing on weekends, and occasionally during the work week, I’d head north with another mom and we’d take her kids and mine to the slopes. 

Two years later, our lives had a major shift and we moved to Italy, where I helped them deal with a new culture. Both children rode a mini-school bus that picked them up and dropped them off at the bottom of the hill we lived on. I drove down to meet the bus every afternoon. (My husband brought them in the morning on his way to work.) I enrolled in Italian lessons, volunteered to do art classes at their school, and made sure we read books to help them learn about their new environment. When we took holiday trips to other parts of Europe, I supervised their school assignments, which were usually illustrated travel diaries. They became involved in sports. I drove both of them to an Italian swim club for lessons and my son to a stadium for his Italian calcio (soccer) lessons. We also joined an American-run park where I took them for swim lessons and T-ball teams, and I volunteered to be their assistant soccer coach, despite my lack of experience with the game. Luckily for me, the head coach knew what he was doing.

Two-and-a-half years after that, we were back in the States and I helped them deal with reverse culture shock. They took the town bus to school and I found a full-time teaching job. I assisted my husband as he coached our son’s soccer team. My weekends were busy attending soccer games for both kids, and our family skied as much as we could in winter. We traveled often to Maine where we bought land and built a vacation house. I was my husband’s building apprentice, hauling, hammering, and doing odd carpentry jobs. We took the kids hiking and swimming in the lake up there and let them help with the house in small ways, like helping to clear brush and making small projects with wood and nails. 

MIDDLE SCHOOL/HIGH SCHOOL

I did a lot of juggling in those years and a lot of navigating pre-teen and teen dramas. My daughter chose a small private middle school which was in the opposite direction from the school where I worked, so I had to rely on another kind mother to drive her. My son still took the bus to elementary school then two years later to the local middle school. Because it arrived after I had to leave, a neighbor mother allowed him to wait at her house with her sons. My job was to be home for both kids when they got back in the afternoons, to have dinner as a family, and to supervise their homework. I attended many sporting events and school activities that they participated in. In her last year of middle school, I helped my daughter with her applications to several prep schools and accompanied her to interviews. 

The following year, she started ninth grade as a boarding student. Then halfway through the year, our family had a major shift again. My husband’s job was moving to Germany which meant big decisions had to be made. I took a two-year leave of absence from my job. My daughter asked to stay at her boarding school. Three of us left for Germany. I tried to help my son deal with another new culture and be a telephone sounding board for my daughter who missed us. The following year, she joined us in Germany, and I tried to help her deal with the cultural change. I went to cheer them at their soccer games and ski races. I was also busy taking German classes and teaching English at a language school.

For our third year, both kids chose to go back to the States to boarding schools and I relied on the telephone for communication with them (no internet yet), except for the vacation times they joined us. My husband’s job wasn’t over, so I requested an extension of my leave. That year, I began the first draft of my first YA novel and took a teaching job at an international school. 

My husband and I ended up staying in Germany for six years. Vacations were spent with our visiting kids introducing them to a variety of countries during extended car trips. In summer, I drove them to their summer jobs. Trips back to the States were kid-focused: attending my son’s lacrosse game, visiting potential colleges with my daughter, and later with my son, attending their high school graduations and delivering them to college out west. 

EMPTY NEST (AT TIMES)

During the college years I looked forward to their phone calls and emails and having them home for holidays and summers. I empathized with their woes, shared their joys, and felt pride as each got their diplomas. I also pursued another graduate degree.

Post-college, I’ve watched them navigate the adult world, struggling at times but eventually succeeding. I’ve welcomed them home when they needed it and helped them move away when they wanted to pursue their dreams. I still offer advice, but more and more, they have skills that I don’t, and I learn things from them. I enjoy their adult company and visits to their homes.

The Lure of Colorado

“And there in the blue air I saw for the first time, far off, the great snowy tops of the Rocky Mountains. I had to get to Denver at once.” 

Jack Kerouac

Colorado, a state of red rock and many other colors of nature, is noted for its vivid landscape of mountains, forests, high plains, mesas, canyons, plateaus, rivers, and desert lands. It’s a place that lured both of my children to study there and eventually settle. Since then, my husband and I have visited many times and in many seasons. We’ve made the trip by auto and by air. We’ve been to orientations and graduations, house moves and renovations. We’ve gone hiking, boating, four-wheeling, sand-dune sledding, aspen-leaf-peeping, and skiing. We’ve attended festivals and a road race, visited museums, restaurants and breweries and, in general had fun.

Our most recent visit last month combined skiing and other winter activities with spending time with our kids and learning a bit of local history.

Part of the time was spent on the Front Range, based at our daughter’s place. A walk in South Valley Park near Littleton and Ken Caryl in Jefferson County took us along snowy trails amidst dramatic red sandstone spires. Another walk along Clear Creek in Golden, a former gold rush town, let us explore Golden History Park, home to many of the original 19th-century buildings from the Pearce Ranch in Golden Gate canyon. A car ride up Lookout Mountain, just west of Golden, gave us a spectacular view of Denver and the Rockies and also took us to the burial site of William Frederick (Buffalo Bill) Cody. I learned that, in addition to his successful, traveling Wild West Show, Buffalo Bill rode in the Pony Express, fought in the Civil War, hunted buffalo to feed railroad workers, scouted for the Army, was awarded the Medal of Honor by Congress in 1872, advocated for Native American and women’s equal rights, called for preservation of the buffalo, other wild animals, and wild places like the Grand Canyon, and visited 14 countries and 1,400 cities in 30 yrs.

From the Front Range, we drove west on Interstate 70 into the Rockies where we spent three nights in the historic district of a ski town on the Blue River—Breckenridge . It was founded in 1859 by a small group of prospectors, and its rich and colorful history is full of gold finds and mining, exploration and adventure, brothels, saloons, booms and busts. These days, there are lots of restaurant choices and some recommended ones include: Rita’s – Agave Y Tacos, Fatty’s Pizzeria, South Ridge Seafood Grill, and The Canteen Tap House and Tavern. 

We spent a couple of days downhill skiing on the mountain that overlooks the town. The Breckenridge Ski Resort is the highest in Colorado. Even the base is at 9,600 feet above sea level. Oxygen bars located in between shops and restaurants remind one that altitude sickness can be a real concern. The temperatures were in the minuses at night and the teens during the day, so we needed lots of layers. Every December, in a tradition started by the mountain’s early Norwegian ski instructors, Breckenridge celebrates with a vibrant festival honoring ULLR, the Norse god of snow. 

Our drive back to the Front Range included a stop at Cabin Creek Brewing in the tiny mountain town of Georgetown. Their beer is good, but the pizza is definitely worth stopping for. 

The next part of our Colorado adventure took us on a flight over the Continental Divide to the Western Slope and another base at our son and daughter-in-law’s  home in Ridgway, a one-stoplight, cowboy town in Ouray County that has been the location for the making of a number of western movies. It is also the home of a small workshop where the Grammy Awards are made by hand. Check out The Colorado Boy for pizza and beer, if you’re ever there! We enjoyed a walk in nearby Ridgway State Park on trails overlooking the large reservoir, and views of the snow-capped San Juan Mountains were a bonus.

The ski town of Telluride in San Miguel County is 45 minutes south of Ridgway, and we headed there and up to Mountain Village for some more downhill skiing. There was plenty of snow and some sun as well, and we were fortunate to try out some Wagner custom skis, made right in the village by Pete Wagner’s craftsmen (who happen to include our son). The plazas in Mountain Village are filled with colorful gondola cabins, refitted since the pandemic started, with tables for eating. There are also open-air vendor carts selling crepes, grilled cheese, and other handheld foods. Restaurants with outdoor tables surround the edges, and one especially sunny spot with a great view of the slopes is The Tomboy Tavern.

A gondola ride down into the town of Telluride led me to a sign with some local historical information: Telluride’s mountains contain 350 miles of tunnels, enough to reach from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Billions of dollars in gold, silver, copper, lead and zinc have been produced here since 1880 and the area is still being mined.

A flight back to Denver and then two flights further southeast brought us back home to Florida and no snow at sea level. I am enjoying the warmth, but relishing the memories of our latest adventure and missing our Colorado family. Till next time!