holiday record 2009: the inevitable ski holiday, february in innsbruck, part 1

until this february, i had been skiing exactly once- madriver mountain, bellefontaine ohio. i hated it. i couldn't even get my balance on the t-bar. okay, maybe i had had one too many g & ts mustering courage, but...ugh, it was a dreadful experience.

so now i've been skiing twice. i didn't fare any better this go-round.

chris enrolls joe and me in a beginner's course on the baby hill. my instructor informs me that i'm only the second adult to be permitted upon this incline. "the other was just last week - he was a 65-year-old man. we were worried to send him any higher." i cut my eyes at chris, who is basically supporting all of my weight so he can't intercept the look i'm shooting him. what did he say to this guy for him to make an exception for me?

i fall on every "run" but two during our three-hour lesson. joe looks on worriedly at first, in between his little whizzes down the slope, but then he basically waves me off with a "bah."

afterwards, we meet chris and our friends, david and jessica, in the lodge. i assume that this is my reward, the bit where we will all sit on deep sofas in front of roaring fires sipping frothy mugs of cocoa. this is not the case. we queue up with dozens of other much more successful skiers in a buffet line. everyone clomps around with bits of snow and ice falling from their boots and big drafts swoosh through the vast dining hall as more and more skiers make their way inside. this is not cosy or picturesque or in any way like i envisioned it, courtesy of soap operas and sit-coms and movies. "i just want a beer," i moan. "a big one."

so we sit around and everyone makes over joe and his success, and david and jessica and chris dissect their brilliant runs and discuss the quality of the snow while i pray for a swift ride back to the hotel and a scalding hot bath.

on our way back to the hotel, we can see the ski jump used in the olympics. everyone wants to check it out and david and chris want to try the bobsled run. next day, they do. they return with loads of fotos of them on the run, wide grins on their faces, beers in hand and talking about how they "thought it would be faster" and "it definitely isn't the same kind of thrill as jumping out of a plane" and i look on incredulously and think that this definitely isn't a holiday

for me...

european obsessions: the circus

i love the circus.

i love being fooled and know i am being fooled and playing right along with it.

we take joe to his first circus at age three.  "isn't he a bit young?" chris asks.  "no!" i snap a little too quickly.  "um, he'll enjoy the, um, overall fanfare, the animals, the music---" i begin, ticking off the features on my fingers.  "one word," chris replies, "clowns."  i say, "clowns, schmowns.  we're going."

the richmond (virginia) coliseum is a large venue for a circus.  from our seats, we can't even see the facial features of the clowns.  i inwardly sigh with relief  (can't be blamed for that phobia later in life!)  this means nothing else is in clear view, either.  i scan the floor for the ring-master.  but in place of the proper, top-hatted ringmaster is a crowd-cajoling emcee.  "everybody dance!" he orders us, waving his sequin-shirted arms above his head in time to the music.  duh-duh-dududududu-duh-duh.   no tinkling calliope.  no exotic bongo drums. just regular sporting event music, including "charge!"  it's probably the same tape used in the previous night's hockey match.  

this is not a circus.

cut to europe...

circus 1: robert renz, breda, the netherlands  

the robert renz circus hails from germany and it feels a bit like a cabaret.  small venue featuring burgundy velvet curtains, chandeliers lining the perimeter, a neat little orchestra suspended above the stage.  a divine setting.  in the first half, we see dancing poodles, seals balancing balls on their noses, trapeze artists. the story-book works.  this is one classy circus.  

intermission.  joe turns to me.  "that was great.  let's go."  "but we still have another hour," i reply.  joe levels his eyes at me, then casually cuts them to the vending ladies.  he's got me.  i count my euros, and then load up accordingly on sweet popcorn, bags of haribo, lollies so big they will last at least another hour, and two of those unwieldy spinning light-up wands which are certain to be dropped and domino the popcorn, the haribo, and the stain-threatening red and blue slushies joe and tally balance between their wobbly little knees.... it pretty much all turns out like that two minutes into the unicycle on the high wire act, and no amount of "paper" napkins can salvage the carnage.  and it then takes me two days to wash all of the lolly out of tally's hair.

circus 2:  unidentified circus, same location in breda

i can tell by trailers encircling the market's car park that the circus is back.  i can barely contain my glee.  

the kids and i go on the first day and score seats in the second row.  "now we can see all the good bits," i tell them.  they are nonplussed until an entire group of school children file into the row behind us.  

they immediately turn around to catch that action, and i focus my attention on the ring.  two phrases: politically incorrect -- "here come the fire-eaters straight from the heart of the deepest Congo!" and low-rent.  from my position i see the tears dripping down the face of the man walking on glass and the daggers the woman on the wheel of death shoots from her eyes as her partner barely misses her with his very real and very sharp daggers.  and i hear the strongman swear as he drops a weight too close to his toes.  oh the humanity of it all!  i watch with my hands over my eyes -- but fingers spread.  

right before the karaily brothers from kahzakstan attempt to create a human pyramid with about 16 family members using JUST THEIR ARMS, the clown makes his appearance.  he is sad and wants some cheers.  he begins to cry...the kids are ogling the kids behind them so they aren't prepared when he spews REAL WATER and A LOT of it from his clenched fists.  and since we're in the second row...

circus 3:  chiswick, london

i book tickets on a weekend so chris can join us.  "no way am i missing the unicycle on the high wire OR the act where two brothers balance an ENTIRE family on JUST THEIR ARMS" i tell him, "so if  joe and tally start crying or get bored, i'll just meet ya'll at home."  he looks at me in disbelief.

zippos turns out to be a nice family circus.  a little of this.  some of that.  yes a unicycle on a high wire.   no human pyramid.   yes a proper ringmaster who enthralls with a deep voice and slightly sinister blue eyes.  no wheel of death involving knives, but yes one involving the "crazy columbians" who basically log-roll on a giant hamster wheel which in turn circles like a ferris wheel.  at one point brother eduardo slips and clings for his life from the uppermost point of the rotation.  i gasp,  "he's going to die!"  chris laughs and says "it's all part of the act. they're just building suspense."  i purse my lips and shake my head.  be gone, you non-believer.  

i can't wait til next time.

remembering sunshine: beach holiday, june 08

the ritual is: when in rains, revisit the sun.  some way.  any way.  and it rains here.  a lot.  like today.  

here are my sun pictures.  ahhh.

we plan our 08 beach holiday for the end of june.  we know it will rain.  it always rains in holland in june.  and june in the rain just isn't right.  

so, we travel to crete for week.  the travel agency nearly guarantees us sun.  and we do end up receiving it, in abundance, at the GERMAN resort at which we are booked.  when our agent recommends the resort to us, she does inform us it is german, but we assume it is more international, given that she is putting a family of american non-german speakers there.  we should KNOW better than to assume these things by now...

we learn it really doesn't matter that we can't understand one word because we get SUN.  every day.  the first morning, chris and i drop joe and tally at "club roby" -- the kinderclub -- so we can get maximum absorption.  we watch them hang back initially in the crowd of little german children.  i envision joe thinking "you've got to be freakin' kidding me -- they put me in yet another place where i don't speak the language," but it turns out to be fine because one of the counselors is from holland, so she not only speaks dutch, but perfect british english.  the kids love her.  we pull out his netherlands football jersey and send him to club roby in it the next day, which effectively seals his status as "pet."  we've learned what works.

so the kids do their thing in the mornings with club roby and we take them into the pool for the afternoons, from 1-3, because the capacity crowd deserts the pool at this time every day.  there is NO ONE in any of the pools at this time. EVER.  everyone eats meals at the same time, swims at the same time, naps at the same time.  chris and i are amazed by this regimentation.  but we take advantage of it.  besides, this is the only time we can get a lounge chair by the pool.  we become convinced that our fellow holidayers towel-secure their spots in the dead of night because as anyone knows who knows this family, we are up with joe at DAWN.  and the deck is already, well, be-decked with towels -- before first light.

we all enjoy our holiday.  euro 2008 (the european football tournament) is on every night and because germany is doing well, everyone is happy.  the kids end up requesting more time at club roby, which allows chris and me a couple of days to ourselves.   we consider checking out the island, but decide "why go anywhere when we have what we need right here?"  ahhh.  the sun.

when we saw the soldiers by guest blogger joe

we went to windsor.  we got there at night and the castle was big and scary in the dark.  tally started crying.  the queen was there!  i think the queen heard her cry.  the soldiers were there.  they protect her from the baddies.  but how do they know who is a goodie or a baddie?  can you tell me?

in lieu of a proper birthday cake...

for tally's fourth birthday, we eat molded chocolate pumps.  

for her 2nd birthday, in holland, we eat traditional dutch taart, layers of whipped cream and filling in a type of pie shell.  

for her 3rd birthday, also in holland, i make a 45-minute train journey to utrecht, where a baker promises to create a traditional north-american style birthday cake with buttercream frosting.  i learn from that experience that canadian cakes differ from american cakes.  and cost 43 euros.   

i ask tally what type of dessert she would like for her fourth birthday here in england and she replies, "i would like chocolate flamenco shoes."    ???!!!!!!   i explain to her that i fear these may be difficult to come by, and she counters, "just check the chocolatier."  lo and behold, the local chocolate shop DOES carry molded chocolate pumps.  close enough.  but..."it's english chocolate, tally, not belgian."  the first time she tried cadbury, she leveled her eyes at me and proclaimed, "this is NOT chocolate."  but..."i can wear these, though."  i explain all the reasons why wearing the chocolate shoe will be impossible, especially after i see they cost 10 pounds apiece, but tally is nothing if not a girl who knows herself.  so we grimace through white molded chocolate pumps for tally's fourth birthday and she's supremely content, even if she can't walk in them.

remembering sunshine: beach holiday, march/april 07

winter in western europe.  rain, sleet, more rain, snow (!), slush.  november til may.  i find myself frequently clicking thru fotos with sun in the backdrop...  

we take our first european beach holiday with fellow american expats in england, the terrells. we think we find a house online which seems suitable for two sets of parents; an au pair; boys ages 2, 3, 4; girl age 2:  pool, five bedrooms, short walk to the beach, yet in a private neighborhood...

for future home rentals we know now to ask...  

1.  not if swimming is possible all year, but if the pool is heated.  

2.  not if the pool is enclosed, but if it includes a safety cover.

3.  not if we need central heating, but if there is a continual alternative fuel supply (i.e. wood, gas, etc.)

so...

after two nights we pack our bags and migrate to a perfectly suitable hotel which still reeks of the 70s (wood paneling on the walls, modular furniture, orange/olive/turquoise color scheme-- real, not retro-- and fantastic) with ocean views.  and sugared almonds available in enormous glass jars in the lobby.

chris immediately purchases a portugal football jersey for joe with christiano ronaldo's number on the back and which joe wears every day, much to the delight of EVERY local.  smart evertson.  the portuguese people with which we interact are charmed and in turn, turn on their incredible charm.  

we worship the sun as never before.  

we dig in the sand.  

the boys go whale-watching and actually see a whale, but "daddy forgot the camera!!!"  

after receiving reproachful looks from the staff from my copious almond-picking, i pull joe's jersey over his head and drag him to the lobby with me a few times a day to support my new habit and the staff begins to just offer me the jar.

i love this place.

and then we eat out.  

and i love this place even more.

a shack on the beach.  the owner sizes us up and hands us a menu including BEANS ON TOAST.   (foreshadowing, i know now).  chad loves to eat good food more than anyone i know, and he pulls the lady aside and tells her we want to eat what she would feed her family, not what she feeds the british tourists.  she shows us another menu, written in portuguese, with entrees especially for the easter holiday.  we tell her to make us what she likes.  she seems dubious, but complies.  and thus we eat fabulously.  baccala, green wine, fish stew, green wine, roasted squid, green wine, pork, green wine.  a portuguese "big night."

a restaurant under the railroad tracks.  dogs on leashes, babies in laps, football on the big screen.  whole fish, green wine, fish stew, green wine, you get the picture.

portuguese food is like the best country cooking, liberal on meat grease, but with the addition of seafood.  it is divine.

lasting results?  chris and i still have our local wines shop order us bottles of green wine.  the kids watch football just to hear the announcers yell "and ronaldo scores!"  then they cheer like crazy.

mr. stefanovich's visit ...or why not to eat british street food

just when we think we might have to haul it in, head back to the states because our tolerance for rain diminshes by day, along with our patience with public transport, mr. stefanovich blows into town for a weekend to revive us all.  the kids laugh with abandon like, well, kids, when they see him.  chris and i chatter with abandon like, well, americans.  we realize we miss animation.  and energy.

that energy propels us to indulge in the full british premier league football experience.   we secure a child minder so chris, andy and i can hit the pub before and/or after the match.  andy is always a good sport; he is eager to sample all of the local "delicacies."  chris and i reluctantly humor him.  we order pints and crisps and fish and chips at the pub prior to the match, a standard order which is visible on nearly every table around us.  after we finish, our bellies full, but not pleasantly so, we traipse down putney high street to cross the bridge to the stadium.  along the way, we hit upon a street vendor.  chris and i do our best to convince andy that he doesn't want the bacon bap (bacon on a bun) with a slice of cheese, but...well, andy's stomach holds up for the game, but not for long after that.  poor guy.  but look at the sandwich.  would you eat that???

chris and i search high and low in the city proper and our borough for street food and diner fare that suits our very-american-yet-spoiled-by-the-continent taste.  we realize early on that we can't eat breakfast out:  we cringe at the sight of tinned baked beans on toast and at the taste of eggs and bacon fried in OIL.  why does bacon need fried in OIL?  we also learn to avoid the much-heralded british chippy (fish-and-chips stand).  mushy fries and fish dripping oil from the waxed paper turns our tummies.

in holland and especially belgium we still seek out the frituur (french fry stand).  i still like mine with an enormous glob of mayo on top.  in the states we stop for a hot dog, or, when in north carolina, barbeque.  we generally feel that the vendors are proud of their reasonably-priced food in those places.  here...well...  we console ourselves with the idea that our stomachs are becoming resilient or we'll have to admit that mr. stefanovich's visit actually also makes us homesick for not being sick.

chinese new year is...

a big fat bust.   london's celebration of chinese new year is touted as the largest outside of china itself.  for weeks, i research the best areas in and around chinatown to watch the lion parade and the acrobatic shows.  i learn exactly on what blocks the vendors ply their wares.  i even line up a restaurant far enough away from the main drag to eat our authentic chinese feast in relative peace.  at home we read books about chinese new year and create our own masks.  in joe's classroom, mrs. upritchard sets up a chinese restaurant and actually enlists a volunteer to prepare a chinese feast for all thirty children.  we over-prepare ourselves for the official celebration.

on the day, tally awakes with a fever.  she's too tired to even turn her head towards the telly.  joe gets to choose his chaperone for the day.  no way does mommy even come close in that tally.  so, he and daddy bundle up for the at-freezing temperatures.  after he is mostly layered, joe whines, "i can't move!"   we explain to him that he has no choice, but he only grows more vocal in his protests, "i can't put my arms down properly," he complains. "we're going.  now." says daddy with not a hint of patience.  so finally off they go.

they return just a few hours later.

"how was it?"  i ask, all chippery smiles.

"terrible," says joe.  "there were too many people."  then he ticks off a list of things cancelled due to the temps:  the parade, the acrobatics, the food vendors, etc.  "did you at least eat some dumplings?" i ask.  "no, daddy said 'the heck with this' and we went to bk.  i had a great cheeseburger."  "and," he continues, "i did get these."  lovely -- snappers.  i send him back out in the freezing temps so he can use them up all at once.

"shall i go ahead and call for delivery?" i ask chris.  he nods.  so we all celebrate the new year with our eat-in chinese as we watch the liverpool-chelsea match.  gung hey fat choy!

"joe is american. i am dutch": part two

a few days later, i peek unnoticed into tally's room during her quiet time.  her dollies sit on their pint-sized furniture in various positions of slump as tally hosts an elaborate tea party.  she addresses each doll by name: gracie, lotti, evy, madelief, annabel, anastasia - a gathering of her friends from the states, the netherlands and the uk.  i smile even as the tears well up;  these names and the memories associated with them are the important bits of living here-and-there, reminding me that all we've seen or eaten or spoken or experienced becomes relevant only when shared with the people we enjoy and love.  we miss everyone.

"joe is american. i am dutch": part one

tally pushes her plate of fish and chips away with disdain and lays her head upon her arm.  she sighs.  again.  and again.  i assume this is a protest against eating fish and chips.  i ignore her.  finally she says, "joe is american.  i am dutch."   i cut my eyes to joe.  he nods his head.  "i am english and american," he says.  "and tally is dutch?" i probe.  he nods.  "she likes worst.  and dontcha remember her there?"

we do all remember her there.  
tally's childhood lays a channel away.  we remember her tromping about the markets, nonchalant about the rain because she loved to carry her umbrella.  we remember her eating worstbroodjes (sausage rolls) on her way to and from anywhere, like all of the dutch children.  we remember her singing the first song she knew by heart, lang zal ze leven, the dutch birthday song.  our memories of tally in holland are so strong because that's where she learned to really walk, talk, and 
well, just be tally.  even joe is unable to shake those images and sounds from his mind.

but tally remembers almost nothing from holland, though we've lived in england less than half a year.  when i read books in dutch tally wiggles and becomes disinterested quickly or asks me to read in english.   we look through fotos and talk about them, but she remembers fewer and fewer places and activities and almost all the cuisine, except for worst and dark chocolate (bless her, she's just now getting used to cadbury.)

what does she remember?

last week, her key teacher at nursery informed me that tally wanted help drawing a rabbit, and repeated again and again:

"a konijntje! a konijntje! don't you know a konijntje?"

konijntje is the word for bunny (iconic miffy is known as konijntje in dutch).  

so is that it?  has she only retained one of the oddest-sound words to english-speaking ears? (tbc)

a panto for the new year

"panto" is the abbreviated version of "pantomime," the traditional british play/comedy/musical which involves women acting in male roles, ala gwynnie in "shakespeare in love."  no one says "pantomime" here and everyone attends one during the christmas season, even though the papers routinely pan them because they lack this or that.  but who doesn't like ribald humor?  who doesn't like to boo and hiss?  and who doesn't like a show full of broad jokes where parents can wink at each other over their children's heads?

we see ours, "peter pan," at the richmond theatre, which is where the film "finding neverland" was shot.  located in a lovely spot right off the richmond green, it is small and ornate and lit just enough to make it cosy and intimate rather than cold and formal.  we arrive fifteen minutes early, enough time to purchase the mandatory thematic glow sticks for the kids and contemplate a drink at the bar on our level.  "champagne?" i ask chris.  it is, after all, our 11th anniversary.  "we only have it by the bottle," intones the server.  chris raises his eyebrows and gives me a hopeful grin.  geesh, i think, we are not 38 going on 18.  "we are not chugging champagne," i scold.  the server interrupts, "you can drink in the theatre..." i raise my eyebrows now, and give chris the green-light smile.  he can barely contain his glee.  

we schlep the kids and our drinks into the theatre.  we can tell from the outset that it will be an entertaining production, and we actually have lived here long enough that we think we get the cultural references.  well, at least we laugh knowingly in the right spots.  tally vacillates between wanting to believe the characters are real and knowing they are actors, so it holds some magic for her still.  joe blurts out immediately about peter pan, "{s}he's not really flying -- i see the strings -- look!!!" and i clap my hand over his mouth so he doesn't steal the unreality from tally. 

we boo and hiss at captain hook, sing "what will we do with the drunken sailor" loudly and with much merriment and generally have a great time.  chris and i grin at each other every once in awhile because we are DRINKING IN THE THEATRE.  so, no, there are no grown-ups on- or off-stage on this day.

flashback: adventures in italy -- part 3

we spend the afternoon exploring the old part of the city on foot.  naples is known for its biblical kitsch, in molded ceramic or plastic or rubber.  i become convinced that we absolutely NEED an electrical biblical pastoral scene, something i can display in the front window at christmas that will make passers-by really wonder who we are.  we collect a few of those pieces and then add a piece in which a man shovels pizza into an oven with the flick of a switch.  "that'll really shake em up," i think.  i am completely tickled by the little start to my collection.  joe and tally come away with little plastic figurines-- joe a biblical warrior, tally a busty lady with a baby on her hip.  (she lives now in tally's doll house) 

as we walk, i repeatedly dial 
the number for a doll hospital that is located in this part of the city.  i know that tally will love something like that.  at first i only receive a recorded message, but then a man answers.  he speaks no english. undaunted, we head toward the address.  

the shop is locked up tight.  but in the window we behold an array of dolls and puppets, some intact, some in various states of amputation.  i can't peel myself from the window and i prattle onto tally about what we see.  she looks for a long moment, then turns to me with big eyes brimming with tears and says "mimi."  she is so distraught by the sight that she needs her pacifier!  i hand it over, and she stays for a moment longer, sucking the life out of it and rubbing the decapitated head of a doll that sits in a planter in the front of the shop.  

to cheer everyone up, i suggest cocoa.  aah, the soothing properties of chocolate.   this stuff is the real deal - melted chocolate in a mug.  the kind that will forever leave faint marks on the kids' clothes.  

we then head back to the hotel.  chris secures a sitter so we can go out for dinner.  she speaks no english but the kids could care less.  this isn't their first sitter who speaks no english.  "no" is universal.

we decide over our dinner (which we eat like real italians -- all courses --  and they are all fabulous) that we cannot keep the kids and ourselves entertained in the rainy weather in this city.  when we get back to the hotel we book a flight back home, via milan.

we finish out our stay in naples by losing our way to the airport and having our car attacked by a pack of dogs.  we comfort ourselves with the thought that once we hit milan, it will be smooth sailing.

we do have a quick turnover in milan, but somehow we make it to our gate with time to spare.  

and then we realize that my new collection is back in the overhead bin.  "you have to go back for it," i plead to chris.  he does.  the children and i wait for him.  and wait.  and wait.  and wait. the airline announces final boarding and the woman behind the counter implores me to board now.  at that moment, chris whips around the corner, in full sweat.  empty-handed.  

"they apprehended it."  

"what do you mean?"  

"they thought it was a bomb."

"you're kidding, right?"

"it was whirring, jenesse."

the switch for the man shoveling pizza must have somehow been jostled into the 'on' position.

"and you don't know what it took me to get back here so don't EVEN be angry.  i took a wrong turn and ended up outside the terminal.  OUTSIDE.  and you have the tickets.   all of the sudden i turned around and there was NO ONE THERE.   it was like the twilight zone."  

i can do nothing but laugh and laugh, because i know now exactly what this trip has been, and it's not an episode of the simpsons nor a scene from an independent movie.   it has been a journey into the twilight zone.

flashback: adventures in italy -- part 2

after a fitful sleep under piles and piles of quilts, we awake to face the day.  "can you believe this rain?" chris asks.  "like nothing i've seen in many, many years," i deadpan.  he doesn't laugh.

the extended forecast screen gives us little hope for a fall beach holiday -- copious amounts of rain predicted for the amalfi coast until our scheduled departure day.  "let's make the most of the situation and go to naples," suggests chris. (we know now that no italian, a neopolitan included, or any somewhat seasoned european tourist, for that matter, would ever suggest that destination as an alternative.)  but i agree, and we blithely carry on with our preparations.

our rent-free holiday a bust, we aim for a cheap hotel and find a holiday inn suite that suits (cough back your sneers.  the holiday inns and hiltons in europe are far superior to the 295-euro-a-night boutique hotels which supply lots of psuedo-chic or faux-old-worldy atmosphere and few amenities, like babysitting.)  we repack all the gear, the sand shovels and buckets, frisbees and water guns (oh, how hopeful we were) and form a short queue at the door, halted by what we see.  the rain descends in sheets.  "it's like the car wash!" joe exclaims excitedly.  (he loves this vacation.)  we have no choice but to run.  

because positano is built into a cliff, the rainwater rushes continually down the stairs, never pooling.  we throw ourselves into the car and begin wringing out what wasn't covered by our waterproofs and boots.  chris still must retrieve the luggage.  i notice the water dripping from the end of his nose and can't resist:  "told ya to bring the one with the hood."  he glares.

eventually we make it into naples, make it to the holiday inn and up to our room.

we dump baggage, take hot showers, regroup.  

fortunately, i can present chris with a list, albeit a short one, of things we might do in the city. even in the varying degrees of rain.  but not with the added obstructions associated with the pope's visit that morning.  

we settle on lunch and a walk.  

it pains me to recall the harrowing ride thru naples to the lunch spot.  i believe it's because we were on the verge of death many times.  one-lane alleys, often obstructed by enormous piles of trash.  roaming mongrel packs.  angry, gesticulating italians.  joe is awed, face pasted to the window, more under-his-breath-repeated-wowing.  it's a third-world country.  it's an urban nightmare.  it's an independent movie in which the next plotline involves chris hitting something with the rental car and us being taken to a jail where no one speaks english. 

the pope's retinue requires us to backtrack several times, but we make it to our lunch spot, a wine bar with a 5-6 table eating area behind.  no one in the restaurant speaks english.  not even a bit.  but we manage to secure a table and we can read the menu like anyone can read an italian menu.  while we wait for our food, we watch the steady stream of patrons come in off the alley and hand the bartender plastic 1.5 litre bottles which he fills at a tap.  for 2.50 euro.

our food arrives.  it is the best, simply the best, food ever.  chris eats whole grilled calamari with sea salt.  the rest of us eat pasta and pizza.  we drink wine.  the manager comes and kisses tally when she begins to cry.  she pulls off her wellies and socks and begins toddling to the other tables and petting the house dog.  the manager brings the kids special desserts, picks tally up and parades her around.   he gives joe a tour of the kitchen.  we are enveloped in a warm glow of wine and italian hospitality.   suddenly we love naples.  before we leave, we get pictures with the manager, the cooks, the barkeep.  the manager even takes a few himself.  were are refueled, rejuvenated, ready for the rest...  (tbc)

flashback: adventures in italy -- part 1

mid-october, 2007, we take advantage of an opportunity to stay at the family home of one of chris' states colleagues. the ferrigno family (yep, relations of that one) house is located in positano. because the weather is still good along the amalfi coast in october - jeans and light sweater weather - and because the sand is still warm, we plan a 5-day get-away.  

unfortunately... well, read on.

we arrange for a mid-sized rental car with two car seats.  we receive a small car with no car seats.  we decide to still make 1 1/2 hour drive along the windy, steep two-lane road. joe perches on his knees, gaping and soft-voice-wowing at the scale of drop into the ocean.  i waver between laughter and tears.  a roller coaster with a spectacular view, but we are certain to perish.  well, i am certain that at least joe will because i CANNOT keep him in an ordinary seatbelt.  so much freedom of movement!  so many frightfully exhilarating things to see! 

we make it positano intact and immediately notice that the streets are strangely empty. we stop at a market to pick up some essentials (beer, wine, beer, wine) and learn that a mini-monsoon is predicted to hit that evening.  "like nothing we've seen in many, many years," the man at the counter says.  is this an episode of the simpsons?

after we park, we lug the children up thousands of stairs and maneuver thru narrow passageways to reach our lodgings.  we drop them unceremoniously at the door and chris looks back down the trail with deep resignation.  we still have five days worth of luggage and beverages in the car.  meanwhile, i wonder if we should plan for 2 or even 3 hours to carry ourselves down to the beach the next day.

i needn't get ahead of myself, however.  

once we all tumble inside, i make for the patio, where i snap the above fotos of the amazing view.  that's the extent of my enjoyment of the patio, however.  i put my camera aside and begin chafing my arms.  it seems as though the temp has plummeted since our climb.  i scurry inside.

an hour or so later, after the luggage and groceries are sorted, the sky turns black and the wind begins to howl.  chris and i search in vain for the heat, and after speaking to the temporary property manager, learn we have no gas at this point in the year.  and no wood for the fireplace. all we can do now is huddle on the floor with nutella and bread.  and wine, lots of wine...(tbc)

boxing day in hampshire

i send chris to the office one day before the christmas holiday with instructions to find out exactly what boxing day means.  the two brits he asks both tell him it is a day for actually boxing -- sport boxing.   one of his co-workers actually grew up with father-arranged boxing matches with his brother, until he was injured one year.  chris is dubious.  the spaniard he asks says, "i believe it has something to do with charity and boxing your old things up to give to those less fortunate."  wikipedia confirms.

one british tradition on boxing day is the fox hunt.  we head out to the hampshire countryside to see our friends david and jessica and witness the start of the hunt.  we then take a walk around the property on which they live.  it's gorgeous. pastures and forest and a view of mid-sized town basingstoke in the distance.  they actually live in one of the property's two cottages.   the enormous manor house is under renovation by a london couple who intend to use it as a weekend retreat.  

their village lies nearby, and as we drive to the hunt we see small groups of residents meeting at the village duck pond.  another boxing day tradition is the village walk, which usually ends at the local pub.

fortunately we eschew pub food for jessica's cooking.  a former caterer, she makes the most sublime dishes.  tally helps her with a chocolate flourless torte, so our day ends especially sweetly.

feast among the foliage

just below richmond hill lies the enclave of petersham.  mick jagger and eric clapton have mansions on richmond hill; the rest of the very well-to-do have big homes behind stone walls in petersham.  the view from the apex of richmond hill includes not only a wind-y portion of the thames, but petersham meadows, where 9 months out of the year, spotted cows graze.  it's such a pastoral scene that it almost appears fabricated for that purpose.  maybe it is.

we walk from our home around the thames and through the meadows (about a 1 1/2 miles) the sunday before christmas.  at the southern edge of the meadow is a black gate.  beyond the gate is a dirt path that follows straight into petersham nurseries.  petersham nurseries is a combination standard plant nursery with a cafe and a restaurant that serves only lunch.  the chef of the restaurant writes a column in the sunday independent and the restaurant is so regarded highly it requires booking a table 2 months in advance.  the food for the week we visit includes very herb-y, tweaked takes on lamb, guinea fowl and fish. the waitstaff creates a rhubarb puree to add to our sparkling wine.  it's a festive table.  what i like best is that we actually eat in a green house with a dirt floor and rustic furnishings.  the waitstaff troops around in tall hunter wellies, as do several of the patrons.  it's a lovely lunch.