Posts filed under 'Travelin''
Among the many, many reasons you should feel sorry for me is the fact that I never went to camp as a child. In Britain, people just didn’t send their kids off to camp. (They may today, but I’m not certain.) When we moved to the states when I was about 10, camp was a distinctly American tradition, largely saved for people who had the means and, I thought, didn’t like their kids so much. So while a handful of my friends trotted off to camp for weeks on end during the summer, I remained behind, largely puzzled and only mildly envious. I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy camp nor was I sure why kids would want to sleep in bug-filled cabins, swim in murky lakes and fashion macrame bracelets when they could stay indoors all summer watching sitcoms.
So you can imagine it was a little odd and, surprisingly, a little thrilling for me to shop for my trip up north to the Bear River Writer’s Conference at Camp Michigania last weekend. As I tossed bug spray into my basket at Target and mulled over the right flashlight to take (who knew there were so many flashlights?), Chris assured me that if I got lonely and the other writers made fun of me, I could come home at anytime.
As it turns out, the conference was a terrific experience. For the past few years, I’ve made a point of attending a summer writing workshop, saving my pennies and signing up for five-day sessions at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. But at the urging of the generous and lovely Nick Delbanco, I opted for Bear River this year — largely because the special guest was, as I’ve noted here, one of my favorite authors, Amy Hempel.
One of the unique things about Bear River, as compared with other writing conferences and workshops, is that it focuses squarely on producing new work. It’s not the place to drag along the manuscript you’ve been working on merely to expose it to a new set of critical eyes — or as often happens, let’s face it, in the hopes of receiving unqualified praise and encouragement. Instead, it’s about inspiration, greasing the wheel and writing on the spot. Which is just as well, because I’m so far behind where I’d like to be with my current writing project that being in an environment that forced me to exercise my writing muscles was precisely what I needed.
I took a workshop on Painting and Fiction with Elizabeth Kostova, she of the best-selling vampire epic, The Historian. It was, in retrospect, perhaps not precisely the right workshop for me. While I thought we would focus on how the process of writing compares with the process of painting, and how the latter could inform and influence the former, the workshop leaned more strongly towards the use of paintings in our writing — as inspiration but, more directly, as subject. And I confess to being surprised by the number of people in our ten-person group who were specifically interested in including paintings in their fiction, for the most part in historical novels.
But the experience of attending Bear River was still good for me for two key reasons. First, I tend to forget that I know how to write. As silly as that may sound, and despite the fact I make my living as a freelancer, I do. I get so cowed by my fears and what feels like the weight of writing that I forget I’m even capable of it. Confidence among writers — more specifically, among this writer — is so fleeting, so difficult to maintain. Our free writing exercises and our homework, as rusty and slap shod as they were given time restraints, reminded me that I can do this, that I can string words together.
The second reason is that I remembered I like to be around people and that I am, for the most part, pretty good at it. As someone still relatively new to Ann Arbor and who works from home, I spend a tremendous amount of time by myself. Most of my time, in fact. Again, my memory proves tricky and, locked away in my office typing on my keyboard, I forget that I can meet new people, that I can make conversation with strangers and that I am, at least as a general proposition, likeable. I forget that I’m funny. I forget that I can find things in common with writers from all different backgrounds, from all walks of life, with all different interests. I was fortunate to be paired with cabin mates who were friendly and funny and I crossed paths with all sorts of interesting folk I’m grateful to have known, however briefly.
I think when I sit at home alone in my office, my fear can so easily eclipse my passion and, as a result, my productivity (which is weak under the best of circumstances) grinds to a halt. Over dinner the night of my return, Chris noted the extent to which I come home from these things energized and excited about writing and he suggested I look for at least one more to attend during the year. Such a smart man that husband of mine. (If you have any suggestions for great writing workshops, perhaps during the winter to balance my summer excursion, please let me know!)
Of course, the real initial draw for me to Bear River was the chance to meet Amy Hempel. She is, as I’ve noted here, pretty much the reason I wanted to become a writer. And when I glimpsed her across the room the first night — petite and pretty beneath a mass of long white hair — I was practically catatonic. I became a bumbling dork, moving closer to where she sat and glancing furtively at her out of the corner of my eye.
By the second day I worked up the courage to assault her, just as she was on the way into the craft talk she was scheduled to give. Clutching my hard copy of her collected stories, I blabbered on, slathering her with praise and actually (I kid you not) getting misty as I spoke with her. She was, fortunately and not surprisingly, extremely gracious and was kind enough to sign my book rather than having me escorted from the building.
I have to say, even in my starry-eyed state, I found her craft talk a little hard to follow. She warned us at the start that it would not be linear as she doesn’t think in a linear way and, in turn, doesn’t write linear stories. And while that’s part of what I admire most about her stories — along with her use of humor and pathos and her ability to plum the depths of emotion without being sentimental — it doesn’t necessarily make for a riveting craft talk. I came away with a page full of notes that included the names of poets she likes, some quotes from writers and not much sense of how Amy Hempel writes or how to apply it all to my own writing life. While a tad disappointing, it was also somehow comforting. I’m not sure that I want my writers to be completely polished, to be dazzling orators, to be good at every mode of expression. It helps to know they are imperfect in life, even as I may make them perfect on the page.
Hempel also did a reading in the nearby town of Petoskey, along with the very funny and talented poet Jim Daniels, at the Crooked Tree Arts Center. It was a brief but enjoyable reading and the Center is stunning — a Victorian church repurposed, and beautifully so, into a community Arts Center with a small stage and gallery space. I have a feeling the world might be a much better place if we repurposed all the churches in this manner. (We also had time to visit the current show, a collection of photographer Bill Eppridge’s 1968 campaign photos of Robert F. Kennedy. Extremely moving and while it could be argued that I’ve been crying at everything of late, I’m certain this would have yielded the same results under any circumstances.)
The Bear River experience was so different from that of the Iowa workshops I’ve attended and, at the risk of blasphemy (although, given the previous paragraph, that may seem a disingenuous concern), I enjoyed it far more. At Iowa, the workshops and homework seemed a bit more intensive, but once you’re outside of the classroom, you’re largely on your own. Everyone stays different places and no meals are provided and although the isolation can prove productive, it can also be, well, extremely isolating.
At Bear River, you share a cabin (that’s mine above, #14) with other writers and take all your meals in the dining hall. (You can, of course, skip them if you like and wander off grounds or hole up in your cabin with a bag of nuts, so to speak.) The result is a much greater sense of community. With about 90 attendees, by the end of four days, you know just about everyone by sight if not by name. And while I’m blaspheming, I’ll even go so far as to suggest that, in my limited experience, the overall talent at Bear River was superior to what I’ve encountered thus far at Iowa. Again, no offense. To anyone. Anywhere. Ever.
In addition, the setting is so bucolic, with meandering camp grounds along the shore of the same Lake Walloon that inspired Hemingway. I found it a great deal more inspiring than the campus of the University of Iowa, with its sterile air-conditioned classrooms, and the surrounding streets of Iowa City. (No offense, Iowa City.) Even on the rainy days — and two out of the four were overcast and drizzly — there was a mysterious fog that settled over Camp Michigania of precisely the sort we writers enjoy. Each morning, whether the lake was illuminated by the beating sun or hidden by mist, I felt a deep sense of peace as I trudged through the wet grass, warm coffee in hand, across the wooden foot bridge to my workshop in north camp. I don’t necessarily make a habit of communing with nature — we’ve found we don’t often have much to say to one another — but it was beautiful and quiet and I loved it.
On the last day, as tends to happen at these things, participants signed up to read their work. (I never sign up for these things; I’m never sure I have anything I want to hear myself read.) While these things are always hit and miss, I was blown away by some of the writing, and especially moved by the funny, smart, emotionally surprising work of the Ann Arbor Youth Poetry Slam team members who were there. I’d seen these teenage boys bumbling around camp for three days, wondering who on earth were these yahoos playing football with a soda bottle on the front lawn — only to be wowed into reticence and deep admiration by their rhythm, vocabularies, perspectives and humor. (If you’re in Ann Arbor, you should find a way to check them out.)
Unfortunately, a pall was cast over our last afternoon when a woman suffered what turned out to be a cerebral hemorrhage while reading her poem. It was scary and threw everyone off and even though the evening’s reading continued as scheduled, I think we were all a bit shaken and worried. We learned at breakfast our last day, before heading out, that she’d been airlifted to a hospital in Detroit and was in critical care. Should anything awful happen as a result, I hope there’s some comfort to be taken in the fact that she was doing what she loved when tragedy struck.
June 5th, 2008
Our trip to Scotland was scheduled so that we could enjoy two celebrations: the wedding of my oldest friend Deborah and my Grandma’s 90th birthday (a few days early.) Deborah and I met when we were four years old and we’re absolutely the worst when it comes to staying in touch with each other. Still, we have that kind of friendship where even though we go months without emailing, we have enough history that we know the other is floating out there in the universe and will be there for the asking.
And so Chris and I were thrilled that we could be there on her big day, which took place at the lovely Shieldhill Castle, about an hour outside Glasgow. (That’s Deborah & her husband, Patrick, below, in case you hadn’t put two and two together.)
This is Ruby, Deborah’s niece and flower girl, reacting (probably quite rightly too) to something Chris was saying to her.
And Libby, older sister of Ruby and also a flower girl. (Sans wand but with basket for flower petals.)
Jennifer, mother of the bride, looking pleased-as-punch just minutes before the ceremony.
Deb’s brother, Ed, and father, Neil, striking dashing poses.
Imparting a bit of motherly wisdom to the new bride, perhaps?
Toadstools and daffodils.
Each of the rooms at Shieldhill is named for a Scottish battle. Although this wasn’t ours, the name seemed to fit me quite well…
And, on the day following the wedding, me donning a top hat because, of course, that’s what one does…
And, of course, more photos of the big day in this Flickr set.
May 12th, 2008
I’ve added a new plug-in for my blog, which uses PicLens Lite to create slideshows of photos posted here. If you wanna give it a whirl, click the link at the bottom of the post. It’s a very cool thing.
Below’s a shot of Cleveden Crescent, the Glasgow West End street we stayed on our first night in town this trip. There are a number of these crescent-shaped streets around Glasgow, redolent with the Victorian architecture that is the city’s hallmark.
One of my favorite things about the Victorian architecture is the details… like this beautiful period doorbell below. Why don’t we make things this simple and lovely anymore?
Speaking of lovely details, behold this rainy rooftop, the view from our room at the White House Apartments.
As regular blog readers will know, I have a particular (and peculiar) fondness for the image of a lovely cup of coffee and I take shots of my coffees on my travels the world over. This one’s a white coffee, as they say, set against the pink formica table tops of the University Cafe on Byres Road. I love the fact that the Uni, as its called, has been around forever and my mom and dad came here on dates, probably sitting across from each other at this very same table.
 
Some of the best details of Glasgow’s architecture requires a glimpse upwards. Behold this birdie perched on a beautiful spire. The stained glass on the bay windows of the red sandstone tenements are another architectural hallmark of Glasgow’s West End.
There is a very specific quality to the light in Glasgow. I’m a sucker for how it hits the red sandstone tenements in the morning.
Speaking of tenements, below is the view from the kitchen window of the flat we rented for the majority of our stay. At night you get a glimpse into other people’s worlds, somehow both sweet and voyeuristic…
Again with the Victorian details: gorgeous green glass tiles adorn the fireplace of our rental flat.
On one of our days, we took a trip to the People’s Palace and Winter Gardens, the museum to Glasgow’s social history. While the museum proper wasn’t the most riveting thing we’d done, there was a concert of multicultural music in the Winter Gardens, complete with wee kiddies banging along on percussion. Lovely and very moving.
Did I mention the weather was glorious while we were there? Stumbled upon this oeuvre en produce at a green grocer’s on Byres Road on our way to the Botanic Gardens. Never have I found eggplant quite so beautiful.
This is Kibble Palace at the Botanic Gardens. Apparently the glasshouse underwent a massive renovation in 2006.
Botanics, fittingly enough. Sunny days like these are not what one typically associates with Glasgow. It was a stunner.
Don’t let this pretty green plant fool you — it’s in the carniverous section!
I often forget to take photos of actual people when I’m traveling, but here’s actual proof that Chris was with me!
Sigh. I know. For someone who professes not to be such a girlie girl, I’m a sucker for stunning pink blooms. I don’t know what these flowers are but I remember them from when my grandma and grandpa would take us to the Botanic Gardens. Anyone know?
I’m also a total sucker for meringues. I managed to get away without eating one of these fluffy wonders (from Kember & Jones on Byres Road) but not without snapping their likeness.
And proof that I was there too — along with my aunt Noriko and my uncle Douglas. Coffee and people watching at the Patisserie Francaise on Byres Road, our last afternoon.
(For those who wish to see even more shots of our brief visit, visit my Flickr page here.)
May 11th, 2008
I get to Glasgow and I have great intentions of posting regularly, keeping you, my dear readers (and, especially, family members) apprised of our every move across the great pond. Then I wake up and it’s our last day and I haven’t written a word. Yet. It’s also an unbelievably beautiful day, so I won’t be spending much of it posting here. Glasgow in the spring is something to behold indeed, almost gorgeous enough to justify the massive rise in the ticket price compared to our usual October-November visits. Almost.
This has been a particularly quick trip for us, really only five days on the ground and the first hardly counts as we always spend it wandering around in a daze, having lost a night’s sleep on the way over here. It has been a whirlwind, this two-fold visit: attending the wedding of my oldest friend and celebrating my Grandma’s 90th birthday. There are tons of photos and stories to post later.
But the sun is shining — no guarantee here, even in spring — thus, I’ll wrap it up and get on with my day. We’ll try to work in a visit to Glasgow’s famed Botanic Gardens (which I haven’t been to since I was a wee lassie), but the real priority of the day is getting in farewell visits with family and friends. I see many cups of tea in my future!
May 5th, 2008
I’m finally getting around to writing a bit about our trip to St. Louis a couple of weeks ago. In short, we had a grand time during our brief visit to our old stomping grounds a couple of weeks ago. While I love, love our new life in Ann Arbor, I’ve 17 years worth of friendships built up in St. Louis and there’s just no substitute for that. I miss having so many good friends, the kind who know you really well, the ones who have been around you for years and know your back story. So while it was a tad exhausting going from one date to another and playing catch up, it was also really wonderful.
Amanda and I did Free Candy on the Sunday night and it was a blast. I wish I had some photos to share, but my memory card was full and the few Chris got were not, let’s say, particularly flattering. (I reserve the right to censor such things so that we hosts can always remain in the most beautious light at all times.) The audience was great — I can’t believe that for nearly four years folks have loyally been coming out to catch this crazy live show that began as a goof in a coffee shop.
The evening was linked to the release of the new issue of 52nd City. I know I keep saying this but it bears repeating: but this St. Louis-based magazine is a thing to behold. If you still don’t know it, if you still haven’t picked up a copy or, better yet, subscribed, please, please do so. It’s a collection of some of St. Louis’ best writers musing on art, culture, life, following a specific theme for each of its quarterly issues. This issue’s topic is Foreign Exchange and, as if the print edition didn’t offer up enough solid reading, there’s additional content on the website.
It is a labor of love — and, yes, sometimes frustration — for its dedicated editors, Thomas Crone, Stefene Russell and Andrea Avery and I really want to believe, despite history’s suggestion otherwise, that St. Louis readers can and will support this kind of effort. Phew. I’ve said my piece. For now…and I’m not even IN the current issue. Wait until I get on my soap box for an issue I’m in!
Anyhoo, because we were linking Free Candy to 52nd City, we went with a theme that honored St. Louis writers. Thus, instead of a guest band to play “I Want Candy,” our theme song, we had Thomas do a dramatic reading of the lyrics. And I must say it was one of those moments when I wished dearly we were not non-broadcast, non-recorded, because it was a funny as hell performance I’d love to toss up on You Tube and watch again and again.
In keeping with our writer’s theme, our guests were Debbie Baldwin of The Ladue News and legendary St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist Bill MacClellan, who’s been musing on behalf of the everyman for three decades now. Debbie was a guest on one of our very first installments of Free Candy and she was just a blast again. Having MacClellan on our show as a real “get.” I don’t think he knew quite what to make of us but he was a terrific sport and good fun. He’s a real throwback to the day of the old write-hard, play-hard school of journos, a dying breed, and there’s great comfort to know that a few of these metro columnists are surviving as newspapers “retool” for new readership.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog posting about St. Louis… In addition to visiting old haunts, I also checked out a few new spots. I had tea with Amanda at the London Tea Room on Washington Avenue. Lovely space with tons of tea options and, important for ex-pats like myself, a solid selection of British sweets and foods also for sale.
I also met the aforementioned TC for breakfast on Martin Luther King Day at Rooster, a new spot on Locust. It’s a nice place, decorated with a mish-mosh of deco light fixtures and ancient mirrors on the walls. They’re known for their crepes, but TC and I both opted for egg sandwiches, which were big as our heads (well, my head, maybe not Thomas’) and absolutely delish. Mmmm. In fact, writing this, now I really want one.
We stayed at the Ballpark Hilton again (thank you, Priceline!) and I’ll tell you, downtown St. Louis was crazy-deserted. I felt like I was starring in I Am Julia Legend. Granted, it was a holiday weekend, but there’s that odd combo of stunning architecture, empty streets and signs everywhere for new loft developments that all kind of baffles me.
So we headed to the Loop where, apparently, we had missed some sort of ice sculpture event. Thus, there were a few sad almost-melted statues in front of shops, but also a gigantic pile of ice next to Blueberry Hill, just waiting for some skate punk to jump on, break his or her neck and sue the pants off the city of University City. It didn’t happen while we were watching, but the ruffians were circling and danger seemed imminent.
Speaking of Blueberry Hill, it has a new flashy sign up over its door. Or, at least, it’s new to us. It features a nice, white retro couple dancing above a marquee that now flashes upcoming acts on the LED screen. It all seems a little Hollywood for the venue, but what do I know? Maybe Joe Edwards got a buy-one-get-one offer on flashy LED screens when he put up the one at The Pageant.
All in all, a very good trip. Never long enough to see all the people I love, for as much time as I’d like. I leave you with one last shot, the Vintage Vinyl tribute to MLK. I’m many days late and more than a few dollars short, but honor his dream, people. Word.
February 1st, 2008
Partly because I had a certain song by The Weepies going through my head, I picked stars as my photo theme for Saugatuck so I could play with my camera settings like a gal with purpose. Given the season, it wasn’t that much of a challenge.
November 30th, 2007
For the past several years, I have been absent much holiday spirit. Since we spend Christmas at my sister’s house in Indianapolis, I stopped putting up a tree years ago — so much hassle and hardly worth it if we weren’t going to be around to enjoy it. My mom died a couple of months before Christmas in 2003 and although we went through the motions, needless to say, spirit and buoyant hearts were in short order. For the past few years, with the Fellowship and moving to Michigan, etc., there just wasn’t “time” to feel the joy.
But I decided that this year would be different. Tucked into bed a few weeks ago, I read the holiday issue of Midwest Living and felt a little stirring inside looking at all the old-fashioned decorations and holiday lights — and I decided that this year, come hell or high water, I would try to get into the swing of the holidays. And in that very issue of Midwest Living was a spread about Saugatuck, Michigan — a tiny town on the state’s west coast — all lit up for the holidays. The article noted the town’s Sparkle ceremony, which lights up the town square and Chris and I decided we’d do a post-Thanksgiving getaway to Saugatuck, ripe with cheese, and try to force a little small town holiday spirit down our throats.
It should be noted that most people flock to Saugatuck in the summer, when its rep as a first-class Lake Michigan beach town means lodging rates are double and the square-grid streets of the small downtown are packed with weekend holiday-ers from Michigan, Illinois and Indiana. So when we told people that we were going to Saugatuck the weekend after Thanksgiving, the most common response was, “Why?”
Besides the aforementioned quest for a little good cheer, Chris’ work schedule is relentless and it’s rare to get him away from his desk — and focus his brain on something else — for a little while. It requires at least 48 hours away — the first 24 to unplug, the second 24 to enjoy. Saugatuck, at a 2-1/2 hour drive from Ann Arbor, seemed a quick and smart way to do that.
We looked originally at staying at the Wickwood Inn, which is run by the Silver Palate Cookbook’s co-author Julie Rosso, and is considered one of the best B&B’s in the country. The Midwest Living spread showed its decadent holiday decorations. But even off-season, the prices were far too decadent for us. After having some trouble finding a cheesy B&B with Friday and Saturday night vacancy, we opted for the rather modern Bella Vita Spa & Suites. It turned out to be a pretty good choice, especially when you can pad across the hall in your robe and get a cranberry facial or a couples massage.
We took great pains to arrive in plenty of time for Friday night’s Sparkle ceremony, even though both cats got quite sick and we spent Thanksgiving night at the pet ER with Allie, who spiked a 106 degree fever due to some still-undetermined infection. (Fortunately, our pet sitter is also our vet tech, so when Allie’s fever was done by early afternoon Friday, we were okay to go.) Upon arrival, we bundled up to protect against the chill and walked the few blocks to Wick’s Park where the ceremony is held. The town was playing its part perfectly — all lit up beautifully, with luminarias lining the pavement, giant snowflake lights dangling from all the trees, their trunks wrapped in strings of white lights.
There were about two hundred people, mainly families, huddled together around a gazebo when we arrived, being entertained by an ambitious but largely inaudible town choir. Within moments, a spunky, gum-chawing young woman took over as master of ceremonies, but without benefit of a microphone. All we heard was something about God and the troops. (Those of you who are familiar with the Gilmore Girls will appreciate that we were feeling distinctly as thought we were in Stars Hollow.)
The organizers stalled for a while, as we were waiting for the fashionably-late Santa to flip the switch on the square. At least that’s what I think we were waiting for. It was hard to hear. Then, sure enough, Santa arrives…via police escort. That’s right, a squad car complete with flashing lights and sirens comes dashing down the street to drop off Santa. That should scar a few kids for life. Not to mention confuse them greatly, as they dash out in front of cop cars racing to the scene of a crime, yelling, “Santa!”
And then it happened. In one ill-timed fell-swoop, with the freezing crowd counting down (badly, I might add) from ten, Santa flipped the switch and…voila! Exactly four trees lit up. Yes, four. THAT was it. THAT was Saugatuck’s Sparkle. More of a flicker, really. Sigh. So much for magic and beauty. So much for holiday sensations. We hoofed it out of there, bracing against the stiff breeze that came in off the harbor, squeezed into one of the packed downtown restaurants for dinner and were in bed, lights out and seconds from sleep by 9 pm.
We spend Saturday and part of Sunday wandering around the town, me snapping a jillion photos along the way. It was peaceful, silly and fun. Here’s what I saw:
A cheeky sculpture by the town hall.
Families shopping, bundled against the cold.
A beautiful wagon wheel on the side of a building.
A hot cup of blood orange infusion tea, which smelled and tasted like heaven.
The harbor, with an old steam ship on the far shore.
A wonderful little shop called the Olive Mill, where we tasted a zillion balsamic vinegars — fig, black currant, apple — and olive oils before walking away with a bottle of gorgeous organic olive oil and a decadent tangerine balsamic.
And lots and lots of holiday spirit:
Before we left Sunday, we took a quick drive over the bridge to neighboring town Douglas to get a look at Oval Beach on Lake Michigan, where Chris, a seagull and I tried to stave off the freezing wind:
And, where, just for good measure, a giant billboard in the middle of a residential street reminded us of the real meaning of the holiday season:
November 28th, 2007
We’ve been in Washington, DC since Friday, visiting family and friends, a trip built around yesterday’s Marine Corps Marathon which I ran in record time. Wait. No, I didn’t. Chris and his brother-in-law Mike ran it. That’s right.
Having accompanied my spouse on more than a handful of his 22 total marathons, I can say that this one — from a crowd perspective — was a doozy. I thought I’d been with Chris for the DC run before, but it turns out I was thinking of the time he and Mike ran Chicago together. This one was super-insane, people. There were 22,000 runners and the set up, which I’m told is different from previous years was, if you’ll excuse my French, a total clusterfuck.
The job of a marathon supporter is not an easy one, my friends. It involves dashing around from one point to another, elbowing your way through spectators in the hopes of catching a glimpse of your runner as they dash past, perhaps tossing a gatorade or goo packet at them if they need it. Then it’s off to do the same at the next spot along the course.
Yesterday, it was Chris’s sister (and Mike’s wife) Julie, my niece Kate and I dashing to spots at miles 13, 15, 22 (which we ultimately abandoned) and the finishing line. In some places, the crowds were really pushing in narrowly on the runners, in others, we were so far back, it was hard to see anything, let alone let your loved one know you were there. At the finish line, the set up was so wonky and weird that it took trekking hither and yon on mud-soaked ground to figure out how to spot your runners, then another long trek to meet them at the gathering spot.
And there were all these people. People in the Metro stop, where there was a delay and folk were shoving and pushing and packed into the train cars like sardines — which little ol’ claustrophic me just loved. Everywhere you went, you had somebody either crossing your path in the opposite direction or simply standing still in the middle of traffic. As someone with a well-documented hatred of crowds, it was a treat.
What’s that? The runners? Oh, sure. I bet it was a bit tough on them too. On the plus side, they had a glorious day for it. Mike and Chris finished, ignoring any time goals for the mere thrill of crossing the line. I haven’t seen Mike yet today as he was off to work before I arose, but Chris seems in remarkably good shape for a man who did something as silly as run 26.2 miles, on purpose, again. I promise some pics once I get back home and can upload them.
On a side note, we got to dine Saturday night with our good friends from the fellowship, Drew and Sally. It was great to have them meet Mike and Julie, as they live in neighboring areas and have friends in common, and wonderful to see their faces — but not nearly enough time for catching up.
In other important news, I have experienced the bliss that is the combo of vanilla frozen custard topped with sour cherries from the Dairy Godmother here in Alexandria and I may have tasted heaven.
Also, my nephew Lee, who’s 17, read The Catcher in the Rye yesterday afternoon and thinks it’s boring. I have a theory that the “novelty” of Holden Caulfield’s teen angst, which made the book remarkable at the time of its publishing, is so commonplace to a generation weened on teen-angst dramas like The O.C. and The Hills that the book probably does seem boring. Still, he’s promised to read it again in a few years and see if his opinion has changed.
That’s it for now — we’re off to take the metro into town to have lunch with my ol’ pal Lisa Lindsey, who I haven’t seen in an age and a half. Then we’ll wander around a bit and, if I’m lucky, I’ll get some good shots of DC. Lord knows there haven’t been enough pics taken of this town. Not sure how much time we have to kill today, but if there’s enough, I’ll hit the National Gallery of Art, but I might wait until tomorrow when Chris will be perusing papers in the SEC reading room all day. Boy does that kid know how to have fun!
October 29th, 2007
Okay, so truthfully we’ve been back for a few days but since it takes me forever to recover from jet lag, this is the first day I actually feel like I’m back.
It’s a bit of a surprise to me — and maybe a relief to some readers — that I didn’t chronicle this trip with a detailed account of our travels. Life’s a little different when traveling with an eight-year-old; there just isn’t a lot of extra time to sit around documenting everything.
That said, I was also blown away by the experience of traveling with my niece Rebecca. As people of the non-parental-variety, Chris and I had some expectations about the week. Considering we’d be logging in long travel hours and sticking her in front of a bunch of grown-ups she didn’t know (and probably couldn’t understand), we were prepared for at least one or two meltdowns along the way. It seemed reasonable that Rebecca would feel homesick and bored and we’d have to mitigate the circumstances.
The truth is, Rebecca was a dream travel companion. I’d gladly take her anywhere. She complained far less than I did about traveling for 17 hours on little or no sleep, gladly rolled with the punches, got along swimmingly with all the grown ups and marveled at every new thing she experienced — whether it was the seemingly minor thrill of riding in the top of a double decker bus or the major experience of Edinburgh Castle.
But besides all that, she was a hell of a lot of fun to be around. It’s an amazing experience when this little thing you’ve known since day one grows into a very cool human being with a terrific sense of humor, a sharp mind and a great perspective on things. I truly enjoyed her company and I don’t think the trip could have gone better.
In fact, there was only one set of tears the entire time (okay, two, if you count my accidentally shutting her finger in the airplane bathroom door), and that was on the last night after she said goodbye to her great grandma and her great uncle. “I always knew I had them,” she said, through sniffles. “I just didn’t know how much I would love them until I met them.” I KNOW! Almost too Hallmark, but true. I had to promise her that I would bring her back to see them again sometime.
So while I don’t have lengthy descriptions of everything we did, here’s a quick glance at our short stay in Scotland:
Meeting Elvis and other wildlife at the Kelvingrove Galleries.
When stuffed animals attack!
Grandma Pringle, Rebecca and Uncle Douglas.
Shopping on bustling Buchanan Street in Glasgow.
Lunch at the Charles Rennie Mackintosh designed Willow Tea Rooms.
A truly magnificent day in in Edinburgh, where Rebecca was romanced by a knight.
Chris and Rebecca at Edinburgh Castle.
Requisite Glasgow dining: chips wrapped in paper and doused with lots and lots of vinegar.
The Glasgow Science Center, with yet ANOTHER new boyfriend.
And a jaunt across the river to check out The Tall Ship.
And a last-night early birthday dinner with Granny P. and Douglas at our little flat.
It all went by way too fast. (Gluttons for punishment can find tons more photos on my Flickr set page.)
October 5th, 2007
This always happens. I scribble notes here and there, but then I get back from a trip and get caught up in catching up and then it’s forever since I was in whatever place I was in and it all seems too daunting (plus, minimally interesting) to go back and give a blow by blow account of said trip, which now seems so far in the past.
Thus, I present to you some highlights of the remainder of our trip to Montreal, in photo form. (I also went back and added some photos to the previous Montreal entries, for posterity.)
Saturday was possibly my favorite day in Montreal, as we hit the famed Jean-Talon Marche, an outdoor farmer’s market near Little Italy that runs week-long but hits its stride on the weekends. Especially on a crisp, sunny Saturday morning.
The abundance of fruits (or, as the French say, fruits) was amazing, especially the giant baskets of “bleuets.” Chris especially loved the signs for “bleuets sauvages” from Quebec. While it actually means “wild bleuberries,” I’d guess he had a more violent mental image going.
Our favorite part was that many of the stands offered up generous samples of their various produce, so we lined our tummies with bites of juicy peaches, pears, apple, mango and chunks of (thoughtfully) lightly salted tomatoes. We also tried some fresh figs (below), which have a strange, watery sweetness something like the consistency of watermelon. Not quite what I was expecting.
Other beautiful images included aubergine (eggplant) in every gorgeous shade of purple imaginable, from the palest lavender to the deepest, well, eggplant:
Giant clusters of garlic still on the stalk:
Baskets spilling over with ripe tomatoes:
And Chris was in heaven when we found a vendor selling fresh cooked cobs of “maize sucre,” complete with a pot of butter you could paint on with a brush and a sprinkling of salt. I don’t know if it was the fact that we were outdoors on a gorgeous day and surrounded by all the most amazing colors of nature but it was, without question, the best corn I’ve ever eaten. (Chris said it came close to rivaling fresh corn picked from the Iowa fields of his homeland, which is a pretty high compliment.)
We had what was probably our best meal in Montreal at the market. We picked up a baguette, some local goats cheese (flavored with garlic and olive oil), a little tub of stuffed olives and some organic cherry tomatoes and squeezed into a picnic bench in the crowded eating area for an impromptu picnic. It’s something we’ve done on several trips — picked up a few locally made goods for a simple lunch and it always winds up being one of our favorite memories.
It turned out that in addition to walking too far the day before, I’d also pulled or twisted something strange in my left foot — badly enough that, the night before, it had been excruciatingly painful to hobble to the bathroom and I barely made it down the block to dinner without tears. On Saturday, my foot was feeling a little better but I made a real strategic error in wandering for too long around the market before heading out on what I had thought would be the main attraction of my entire trip to Montreal: the fabric shopping district on St. Hubert.
Here in Ann Arbor, there are a few fabric and craft stores and my new sewing jones has me familiar with a couple of great online retailers, but I’d read much about the dozens of fabric shops located just North of a busy pedestrian thoroughfare. I even made room in a suitcase for all the fabric I anticipated finding and bringing back.
However, it turned out that the combo of foot pain and sheer volume of options — shop after shop with bolt after bolt of fabric to choose from — had me quickly overwhelmed. I didn’t have any particular projects in mind and I quickly got the same feeling I get at thrift stores — a little bit of claustrophobia and instant exhaustion at the thought of having to pick my way through so many bolts, squeeze my way down tiny aisles, in the hopes I might find something I liked.
I spent maybe 45 minutes going into four or five different shops, but at that point the fabric were all blurring together. I couldn’t remember what I’d seen where or even think of what I would use the fabric for. There were too many possibilities and not enough specifics. Bargain sections held remnant bolts stacked floor to ceiling. I couldn’t handle it.
In the end, I bought…nothing. Well, I did pick up a little ribbon trim at one shop, mostly because it was pretty and it seemed like a small and easy, manageable purchase. But all that extra suitcase room was for naught. If I return, it’ll definitely be with some projects in mind and at the beginning of the day.
Overwhelmed and ready for a refreshment, we ducked into a Nickels restaurant on St. Hubert. Nickels is a pretty cheesy local chain designed in a fifties-American-throwback sort of way. And it was here we decided to try one of the great Montreal culinary traditions: poutine. Although there are many fancy variations, the basic gist to this beloved snack/meal involves french fries covered in cheese curds and gravy. No, really.
Granted, in its most basic form, it looks like a plate of vomit. It took a little getting used to — it helped when the cheese curds melted — but the truth is, the taste grows on you. Enough that we polished our poutine plate clean. Not so much that we went actively seeking more.
Sunday, my feet feeling a bit better, we spent some more time on Rue St. Denis, which offers up block after block of boutiques, cafes and restaurants. The weather couldn’t have been more lovely and there are plenty of gorgeous buildings — mostly commercial on the ground floor and flat up above — to gaze at. To wit:
Reminded me a bit of Amsterdam in some ways…
You can spend hours ducking into one little shop or another but — from an aesthetic standpoint — Au Festin de Babette is perhaps my favorite. It’s a tea house, chocolatier and ice cream shop that’s just so charmingly set up in what was likely once a residential house.
And inside…so pretty, no?
Monday, we drove out into the Laurentian mountains, which takes about an hour from Montreal. It’s not as rustic as we’d hoped. A lot of ski resorts and golfing developments breaking up walls of stick-straight pines reaching skyward. We stopped for lunch in the charming little town of Tremblant and wandered its few blocks of touristy shops, then headed for Lake Tremblant, which was completely developed and difficult to access if you weren’t staying at one of the resorts on its shores.
And Tuesday, we headed home. End of trip. (If you’re a real glutton for punishment, there are a few more photos from our trip on my Flickr page.) I have to say that, while I enjoyed our trip to Montreal — and probably would have moreso if my foot hadn’t gone all wonky — it wasn’t one of those places that grabbed me (the way San Francisco or London or, even, Puerto Rico have) and made me long to return even after I’d left. I’m glad I went, though, and who knows — maybe Montreal and I will meet again and maybe next time, she’ll understand what I’m saying.
September 8th, 2007
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