Anne Easter Smith's Blog

Boys, Boys, Boys!

Any girl who's reached the age 

Of seventeen or thereabouts

Has but one desire in view

She knows she has reached the stage

Of needing one to care about

Nothing else will really do

We've got to have,

We plot to have,

For it's a dreary not to have

That certain thing called The Boy Friend.

- Sandy Wilson, The Boy Friend musical

💞

 Seventeen? I was still in love with Ricky Nelson at seventeen! No, the boyfriend thing didn’t happen for me until I was twenty-one, and even then it was a long-distance romance with a lovely Spaniard from Seville named Juan-Bosco Fernandez Vial (my mum called him Bosco the Biscuit). 

 I met him in 1965 on the island of Menorca, and for 10 glorious days we danced in the moonlight, kissed on the beach, held hands walking the cobbled streets, and I sobbed all the way home on the plane. I hasten to add, though, there was no hanky-panky. No siree, none at all. I was still a virgin and somewhat teased for it by my far more adventurous London flatmates. This was the Swinging Sixties, after all, and mini-skirts, Mary Quant hairstyles, the Beatles, and women’s lib were all the rage.

Bosco and I corresponded for a year—he in his broken English and I with my evening-class Spanish—and then we met up in his beautiful hometown the following year for a few idyllic days when two girlfriends and I spent two  months traveling through Spain and Italy. We were still in love, still holding hands, and again I cried when I had to leave. 

Another year of letters and a meeting, but eventually the flame died in me. But not before he shocked me by saying he had been intending to ask me to marry him. I was naive enough to think that, because he had never attempted to “get into my knickers,” our relationship was not serious. All my girlfriends had slept with their husbands before they married, so why had Bosco not even tried? Boy, did I have it wrong. “In Spain, a man who is serious about a girl would never go to bed with her,” he explained, astonished at my ignorance. What a sad cultural misunderstanding! (But, in a postscript to this story, I was relieved to find out that I was spared the birthing of eight children, which Bosco’s wife was subjected to!)

💞

There was something about being six feet tall and unconfident that rendered me unattractive to English men—at least that’s my excuse for living five years in London without ever having more than a few one-night stands. Yes, it depressed me a little, but I was so busy having fun at parties and outings with girlfriends and their boyfriends that I just made the best of it . 

And then I went to Manhattan. It was 1968, and I was now twenty-four. ( Photo: Here I am on a Long Island beach in August of that year.) I suddenly felt free of the boring English traditions and having to prove “who I was” in the class-ridden circles of England. I was a novelty and could shed my very proper English persona. Even my height complex dissipated. American men just didn’t seem to care! It was so refreshing. Before the first week was out I had had a date! I couldn’t believe it.

However, it was not an American lad, but a rather self-important, rich young German guy, Michael Schecker, who wooed me into bed for the first time. We were both new to New York and enjoyed the singles bar and party scene together, until he became abusive and my roommates insisted I dump him. Shitty Schecker they dubbed him, and eventually I too saw the light and drew the line when he bit me hard on the arm. So much for a boyfriend—it lasted two months.

Warner McNeil Wells III from Greenwood Mississippi lasted somewhat longer! He was a real Southern gentleman, and I felt a bit like Scarlett O’Hara being wooed by him. Once, while we were dining, the server asked how we could be in conversation, because, he said: “I can’t understand either of you.” But when he moved to Atlanta for a job, the romance came to an end, and saddened, I moved out to California for the next leg of my US journey.

💞

Sharing an apartment outside Sacramento with two Air Force nurses, I felt confident the USAF would provide me with ready-made boyfriends. The apartment complex was full of young pilots, and there was no shortage of boozy nights. At once, I too easily fell for my next-door neighbor—just my type, 6ft 2in, lanky, athletic, blond and blue-eyed with just enough skepticism to be interesting. Mike was a pilot in the T-29, and his roommate was in love with one of my roommates, so we all hung out at the pool and around the dinner table. I was crushed when I found out he was practically engaged to a beautiful Spanish air hostess (we called them that back then). There was nothing I could do or say to sway him in my favor it seemed, and my efforts failed dismally. I am happy to tell you, though, that he and I are still friends—and he remains a bachelor. I know he never loved anyone but Pilar his whole life, even after she left him to marry someone else. He is a very special man.

💞

And then along came Lou Currier. Just back from Vietnam, where he had distinguished himself as an OV-10 pilot in one of the most dangerous flying missions in the war. He flew missions over Cambodia when the US “wasn’t in Cambodia.” He moved into Mike’s apartment  next door after Mike and his roommate had been reassigned. I was 26, and was totally unprepared for Lou’s courting of me. Chocolates, flowers, gifts, not to mention dinners in San Francisco and weekends in Mendocino undertaken in a gorgeous red E-type Jag! He was courteous, generous, spoke fluent French, and was happy to talk literature and travel with me. We thought the stars were aligned when we discovered we had exactly the same birth date. (I have to say, right from the start of our courtship, he was self-conscious about being shorter than me, and as our marriage began to unravel ten years later, he chose to complain about it.)

We were married fifteen months later and had two wonderful daughters. Although our last few years together were not happy, and I was sorry he never remarried as I did, I was deeply saddened by Lou’s unexpected death at 69. Our two daughters were devastated. I shall always remember his laugh, his sense of humor, and his excellent fathering. I was honored to attend his interment at Arlington National Cemetery.

🙏🙏 R.I.P

I’ll skip over the years between divorce and remarriage, as those temporary relationships I had were overshadowed by my lucky meeting one evening at a bar in Plattsburgh NY, the city to where Lou and I had moved following our stint at the US Embassy in Paris.

💞

   

Scott Smith had wandered into P.B. Finnan’s by himself to hear some music, after having accepted a job as Lecturer in Computer Science at SUNY Plattsburgh. I happened to be the host for Open Mike that night in September 1986, and the rest, as they say, is a long story! Thirty-seven years later, we think we still look like this. 

Happily, I don’t need a boyfriend anymore. It has been fun to reminisce, but I wouldn’t want to go back! How about you?

(P.S. apologies for formatting problems, this Blogger Blogspot platform is really terrible. Looking to switch!)

Dog Days

 It has always struck me as odd why, in general, human beings are either dog people or cat people. Is there a correlation to someone's character, or does it happen because someone grew up with one or the other? Not the stuff of grand philosophizing, and so I will stop there and admit that I am a dog person. 

I have enjoyed being around some cats, but I would never choose to own one. I appreciate the unconditional love dogs give one no matter what one throws at them; I think it is beneath a cat to show anything like devotion--unless the food dish is being filled. I have heard some cats definitely let an owner know when they are displeased, including, when leaving them behind with a cat sitter for a few days, by throwing up in unlikely places as punishment upon the owner's return. A dog instantly forgives an absence and bounds about in ecstatic joy--even after a period of an hour. 

What triggered this quirky topic today was this Gary Larson cartoon, reminding me of my own dog ownership through the years. My family or I have at one time or another owned a german shepherd, three golden retrievers, and Jasper, an Adirondack ridgeback--read "mutt." (In full disclosure here, I have not had a dog for the last 20 years mostly due to both my and Scott's work travel schedules following our beloved 16-year-old Jasper's death.)

This woman in the cartoon could be me--afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night. Here's an example.
When I was married to my first husband, Lou, a USAF pilot, we welcomed a golden retriever pup into our small California townhouse, who Lou named Ayse (pronounced Eye-shay) after his favorite student from his days as a Peace Corps volunteer in Turkey. One night, when Lou was TDY in Thailand for two months, I was awakened by a crash underneath me in the kitchen, where Ayse had her dog bed, and Ayse barking furiously. Did I mention I was afraid of the dark? I froze and grabbed--I kid you not--the softball bat I kept by my bedside. Creeping down the stairs, the barking having stopped, I went into the kitchen only to find Ayse looking sheepishly at an overturned chair. She must have knocked it over in her sleep and frightened herself. Scared the crap out of me, I can tell you.

But my favorite Ayse story was on one night when Lou was home, which meant I shouldn't have been scared. He was fast asleep upstairs early, around 9 p.m., with a crack of dawn flight scheduled. I was happily watching TV, when suddenly Ayse's hackles went up and a menacing low growl began as she sidled towards the front door. Anyone who has owned a golden knows they are bone lazy about bothering to bark or play guard dog! So I had reason to take notice. 
We lived in a new development of townhomes, only half built at that point, and with many of the homes still unsold, it was very quiet in the neighborhood.  Ayse's growling unnerved me. I turned off the TV, tiptoed to the door and listened. Silence. Ayse's growling increased but her tail wasn't wagging, so I knew she was scared too! "Some guard dog you are," I told her, now a bit spooked. "Stop it!"  But as she wouldn't stop, there was nothing more I could do but creep up the stairs that were right beside the door and wake Lou. (No, I was not about to open the door. Sorry.) 
Now Lou, who was not long out of Vietnam, had been trained to sit straight up in bed when suddenly awakened and perhaps in danger. He didn't disappoint. "What's the matter?" he barked, eyes starting from his head and fists clenched. Maybe he saw my worried face or realized the Viet Cong were not after him, but he humored me and got out of bed. "Ayse heard something outside the door and she won't stop growling and her tail's between her legs. I didn't dare open the door," I whispered. The fact that Ayse hadn't followed me upstairs and was still heard gnarling below was a sign for Lou to take me seriously, throw on his robe and get out his service gun. When we got downstairs, I took hold of Ayse's collar and pulled her away. 
Lou cracked the door, gun at the ready. There was nobody there. What there was was a brown paper bag, perfectly placed in the middle of the doormat. Checking to make sure there was no one skulking across the road in the construction, Lou bent down and trained the gun on the bag.  "Perhaps the IRA knew I was a Brit and found me," I suggested (it was the era of many bombs left at stations and pubs in London by the terrorist group). Both holding our collective breath, Lou held the crumpled bag at arm's length and shook it. When nothing happened, he finally opened it and peered inside, his gun still at the ready. And then he chuckled, and then he laughed, and then he roared. (That was a nice thing about Lou, he had a great sense of humor!) "It's a sandwich! Nothing but a half-eaten sandwich, probably discarded by a construction worker." 
We shut the door, disposed of the bag and contents and pondered why someone would walk into our front yard, which even had a low wall around it, and leave a half-eaten sandwich on our doorstep at night. All we could surmise was that another dog had found it and taken it across the street to our lighted doorway, where it was scared away by Ayse's warning snarls. Instead of barking at a human, which she would do in a pinch, Ayse must have known it was a fellow creature and merely menaced it to move along with growls. 
The best part of this story is its ending. As Lou climbed the stairs to get back into bed, he commanded in all seriousness: "Don't you ever tell anyone at the squadron that I pulled a gun on a sandwich!" I thought I would wet my knickers stifling my laughter.
Perhaps one day soon, when we feel more settled and my travel bucket list is filled, we will rescue another dog, but finding one to match the personality and intelligence of Jasper will be hard. Arf!

Evaluating Voyages

 

How does the song go: A life on the ocean wave… How I longed to have that life when I was a teenager looking for a career after high school. Assistant purser was what I had in mind, and most of my friends had no idea what that was or why on earth I was determined to be one. (Before I go any further, let’s have full disclosure: I never attained my dream due to discovering the most important skill needed to be an assistant purser was a high level of math. Talk about a downer for this dummy, who didn’t even pass her Maths O Level!) What I would have been good at was Social Director, but it wasn’t a thing back then.

What, you may wonder, attracted me to a life aboard an ocean liner? From the first voyage I made with my parents when I was nearly three and we were on our way to Hamburg overnight from Harwich just after WWII so my father’s Army posting as Port Commandant could begin, I was hooked. There was something about falling asleep to the gentle hum of the ship’s engines, the fun of trying to walk in a straight line and not bump into things, or watching seagulls circle us with their mournful mewing that drew me in.

My first real voyage was in 1950 when my mother escorted her three children from Southampton to Port Said, where my father was once again the Port Commandant for British Army shipping. This journey was on the impressive S.S. Empress of Australia, although now I look at her, she would be dwarfed by any Caribbean monstrosities of today. 

The best thing about being a kid on a liner is the sense of freedom. Sure, there was a “nursery” but as long as you stayed to your deck, you could roam around, play Monopoly in the lounge or Shuffleboard on the deck, and have your own sitting for High Tea (supper). On the Empress of Australia John and I shared a cabin, and John insisted on having the top bunk, although he was only five. A steward was assigned to kids’ cabins to check in on them while adults (including 11-year-old Jill) were all dressed up and dining on an upper deck. One night, John was leaning down to badger me (as usual) from his lofty perch and lost his balance. He fell hard hitting his head and, well, you know how much blood there is with a head wound. His loud wailing and my pressing the call button got the steward’s attention and poor lad, not knowing what to do with this bleeding, screaming child, he apparently decided the boy needed his mother. Jill regaled us later about how John was carried through the dining room, blood dripping from his nose and head while the steward loudly called my mother’s name, stopping diners’ forks halfway to their mouths. When she saw her darling boy, she shrieked bloody murder at the poor steward, and overcome with embarrassment shooed him out and down to the ship’s surgeon. You can bet John never lived that story down. And better still, I got the top bunk!

After a home leave in 1953, we again took ship back to Egypt and it was on the SS. Boschfontein (a Dutch cargo-passenger vessel) when I truly fell in  love with ships. My mother will never understand the affection I had for this unimpressive ship, but I was old enough to make friends and it was small enough that I got to know all the crew (I was known to be very social even then!), and I had to be dragged off at Port Said! This time, we were going to our new home in Suez—at the other end of the Canal—and my father was so anxious to see my mum, he drove the 100 miles to greet us instead of waiting another day for the canal convoy. A little way down the road that ran right alongside the canal, we spotted the Boschfontein on its slow way, got out of our car and stood on the bank to wave. At this point, so my mum tells me, I started weeping and begging them to let me back on! I cried all the way to Suez.

The last time I left Egypt—although at the time we had no idea it would be our last voyage home—John and I were going back to boarding school. I was 10 and John 8. My father was now CEO of a French shipping agency in Suez and one of the company’s clients was Stavros Niarchos (Onassis’s far more successful brother in law). Daddy was given permission for the four of us (Jill was already living in England by then) to use Niarchos’s private suite on the World Unity. An oil tanker—but not just any oil tanker, I found out as I searched for a photo for this blog. In 1951, Niarchos’s 31,745-ton World Unity laid claim to the largest oil tanker in the water. 

 

Talk about luxurious quarters, and as the only two kids on board, we were given the run of the whole stern quarters with bridges that housed the galley, cabins and crew quarters, including a ping-pong table in the storage room. The oil tanks being full from the refineries in the Gulf, the ship sat very low in the water, which was a godsend through the Bay of Biscay when we saw 30 foot waves crash over the decks and splash the high bridge glass. The heavy vessel just plowed through like butter. (Luckily none of my family suffered from mal de mer, except for Jill, poor thing. She would get sick on a cross-channel ferry!)

Since those voyages of childhood, I have had some memorable times on the ocean, most notably my five-day crossing on the Queen Elizabeth in 1968 when I came to the US with a London flatmate “to check out the colonies.” Scott and I have chartered sailboats in the British Virgin Islands several times, on Lake Champlain, and once in the Grenadines. Never once have I experienced sea-sickness.  All except once!

In April 2001, we saw an ad in the Boston Globe that British Air and Cunard were joining to offer a “fly one way, sail the other” deal. Scott had always hankered after a Atlantic crossing, only ever experiencing a cross-channel ferry to France before then. Knowing from my first crossing how much more impressive sailing is under the Verazzano Bridge and into New York harbor compared with arriving in boring Southampton, we flew to Heathrow and spent 10 days with my family before boarding the QEII (interior not as classy as the old Queen, let me tell you!) 

 

Our second day out we encountered a Force 7 gale out of the Bay of Biscay off Ireland’s south coast. To add insult to injury, when the captain informed us that the ship’s stabilizer system wasn’t working, we knew we were in for a rocky ride. No problem, I thought, I will have my evening shower, get into my fancy dinner outfit (one dressed up every night back then), and saunter upstairs for cocktails and dinner. 

Halfway through my shower in our inside cabin (never book an inside cabin!), I felt a bit queasy but thought it was hunger pangs. We dressed and went up to the restaurant deck. Scott offered me a cocktail, but it just didn’t sound good and so we went straight into the dining room to our table of eight. Only one other person joined us, and the steward said how brave we were considering this was the worst storm he had been through on the ship in his decade service! I chose the mushroom soup—a bland, calming soup, I figured—followed by my favorite lamb dish. As I was finally owning up to Scott that I believed I was experiencing seasickness, the steward returned with the silver-lidded salver with the main course. He lifted the lid and saying: “Rack of lamb, madam?” I took one look, smiled wanly and said, “I don’t think so, thank you!” I apologized to Scott and made to leave.

Only then did Scott admit he too was unwell, and so the steward sent us right down to C deck where a very officious British nurse asked if we wanted the expensive dramamine shot or free pills. Scott immediately opted for the pills, but I wanted something NOW! “How much for the shot?” I murmured. “£21,” the nurse intoned solemnly. “Such a deal!” I enthused, “Where do I pay?” Warning us it would work quickly, she jabbed me and the effects were almost instantaneous. By the time we got to our cabin one deck down, Scott was dragging me on my knees. I don’t remember how I ended up tucked in bed, but I woke up and, miraculously, the awful sensation was gone! I felt as though I was floating outside my body for most of the day, but it was worth it.

In sunnier, smoother sails, here we are on a catamaran in 2018 in the Grenadines with our best sailing buddies, Phil and Maryann Long, a month before my ankle replacement probably put paid to more chartered sails for me. A Caribbean cruise on one of those behemoths does not excite! But a river cruise in Europe is still on my bucket list. I hope Scott is listening…

Happy Easter and Smooth Sailing!

My Driving Life

 I learned to drive in 1965 on my father’s 1952 pristine Bentley along the winding, one-and-a-half-wide lanes in the Surrey hills. As if the size of the car and the lack of rack-and-pinion steering wasn’t hard enough to handle, the ankle-high gear shift tucked between the front seats was often the stick that broke the camel’s back for me. 

Invisible gear shift between seatsMy father, an erstwhile British army colonel, was not the most patient of teachers, and I was glad of his additional gift of six driving lessons at the local school, with a mild-mannered, retired schoolteacher in Leatherhead. Amazingly, I passed the test on my first try, much to my siblings’ amazement, who were convinced that at 21 I was not much use at anything except a good cry. (A slight exaggeration, but you get the picture of a slightly overwhelmed middle child.)

It was not the norm in England in the 1960s for every member of a household to own a car. So, I had to beg my mother to loan me her much more versatile Triumph Herald if I ever needed to drive the two miles to the village for something. Mostly working and sharing a flat in London, I really never took advantage of that drivers license until I arrived in US in 1968. My girlfriend and I took a two-week break from our temp work in NYC to earn more money as baby-sitters in Teaneck NJ to three kids (one was only two) from a Swiss-Belgian family. The parents were on an extended trip to Europe. Neither of us had ever babysat before! Those parents were very trusting, even going so far as giving me the keys to their large American car to drive one or other of the older kids to music lessons after school. Thank goodness for my Bentley experience, as their Pontiac station wagon looked like this: 

And I got my first parking ticket ever in it, which showed me up for the furriner I was! Spotting a big enough space in downtown Teaneck for a quick visit to a post office, I swung across the road and into it, parallel parking beautifully (I am good at that, I must modestly claim). When I returned, a traffic cop was lurking and writing a ticket. "Excuse me, Constable," I said, having no idea what the American term for a policeman was (after all, I had only been in the US for a month or so), but used the correct British term. "What did I do wrong?" He rolled his eyes and continued writing. "Miss, you have parked illegally." I looked around for a sign that said No Parking (or had restricted hours) but there was none. "But, but, but, there are cars in front and behind me. I don't understand." He tore off the ticket from his book and stuck it on the windscreen. "You are facing the wrong way, miss. You had to illegally cross and drive on the wrong side of the road to park." Ah. So there was another lesson I learned about the differences between UK and US (we can talk about rubbers and fags another time). My maneuver was perfectly legal in space-strapped England, but here it cost me $18 of my precious $75 weekly pay check.

It wasn't until I went to Sacramento in 1970 that I actually owned a car. Before I did though, I became "chauffeur" in the suburb of Rancho Cordova to four of my family's old friend Ann Taylor's kids. Ann and Forest had taken me in until I found work and accommodation of my own, but my "rent" was driving another behemoth shuttling the kids to baseball, music and gymnastics. The luxurious Oldsmobile 98 was a dream to drive, and I couldn't wait to get back in it every day and feel like a film star! 

But then it was time to get my own wheels. Ann and I scoured the classifieds every day and finally found the perfect car: this 1964 Plymouth Valiant--with push-button gears (see below). If memory serves me, Forest loaned me the money, and when I finally found a job working at the State Capitol as executive assistant to a State Senator, I eventually paid him back. Here are "my" kids (the Taylors) decorating the hood. They were just as excited as I was. How I loved that car! 

One of my favorite Audrey Hepburn movies is Two for the Road, with Albert Finney, about a couple's marriage journey as seen from the different cars they had along the years. I think all of us can conjure up the car we were driving at various important moments in our lives. These I have mentioned are just a few from my early driving days, but then there was my first husband Lou's E-type Jag that helped me fall in love; or the third-hand 404 Peugeot we bought off our predecessor Air Attache in Paris; or the pathetic, heaterless Audi Fox I was persuaded was a better bet for a newly separated wife in Plattsburgh than her solid, trusted Volvo (what a mistake that was!).  We are now hanging on to our 2012 RAV4 until the prices of EVs come down. In the meantime...Happy Trails and Happy Easter (Smith)!
Anne

The Missing Princes Project: Update!

 

Perkin Warbeck or Richard, due of York?

Earlier this year, I encouraged you to watch The Lost King, a movie about finding Richard III's bones under a car park in Leicester in 2012. It certainly generated renewed interest in England's maligned (by Shakespeare et al) king. 

At the end of November, another astonishing revelation about Richard emerged, spearheaded again by Philippa Langley, the discoverer of the location of Richard's bones. Not satisfied with that incredible success, Philippa then launched The Missing Princes Project, a research project attempting to solve the centuries-old mystery of what happened to the princes in the Tower, who disappeared in the summer of 1483, never to be seen again. You ask the majority of English people if they think they know what happened to them, and, up until November, I guarantee you 80 percent would have said, "Oh, Richard III murdered them." Even I, who is one of Richard's greatest champions, believe someone (but NOT Richard) disposed of them in 1483, and they did not live into Henry Tudor's reign.

Was I wrong? Excitingly for Richard's innocence, I probably was. Frustratingly for me, I got their fates wrong in all six of my books! It's a bain of writing historical fiction; new information is always surfacing.

After reading Philippa's book, watching the PBS Secrets of Dead Princes in the Tower episode, and attending a Richard III Society member-only Zoom with presenters Philippa and historian Annette Carson, I now believe those two boys ended up on the Continent and became Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck, the two pretenders who threatened Henry in the first decade of his reign.

Philippa's research project involved more than 300 volunteers, from UK, France, Belgium, Holland, and the US. Archives were searched, dusty documents discovered, previously untapped sources tapped, and a all this was carried out like a police-style investigation, which helped ferret out hitherto unknown proof that both boys lived into Henry Tudor's reign. After more than 300,000 files are accumulated on Philippa's computer so far, still she searches. Indomitable.

If you want to learn more and judge for yourself, then read both Philippa's aforementioned book (published this November) and Annette Carson's latest edition of The Maligned King, which architecturally refutes the Thomas More (and hence Shakespeare) story that the boys were murdered by their Uncle Richard and were buried under the White Tower stairs. It is all fascinating stuff!

Is the proof undeniable? Not everyone thinks so. I would like more solid evidence of their presence in Europe after 1485 (DNA would be nice!), but unfortunately Perkin Warbeck (or Richard, duke of York) was executed in 1499, and his body buried with other unknowns in a churchyard hit by a bomb in the Blitz. As for the older boy, Edward V (Lambert Simnel), we have no evidence of him after 1486.

Before I get chastised for not mentioning the bones found in 1673, thought to be the princes' and now residing in an urn in Westminster Abbey, the RIII Society is waiting for King Charles to give permission to open and study them. Queen Elizabeth refused. Annette Carson has found good reason why they probably are NOT the adorable boys from that long-ago mystery. Time alone will tell.

But as we are discovering in this compelling case, "Truth is the daughter of time."

Croissants, crepes, and cheese

 

I confess we were a little worried about finding food in France to please our grandson, Leo. But then he put us at ease: "Just feed me croissants, pastries and fries, and I will be happy," he told us. Luckily strawberries were in season, so he got some of those with his daily croissant and pain au chocolat for breakfast.

The other craving he had, and he wrote to his mum to get the name right, was for his favorite sauce: Béarnaise. We were puzzled all week as to why those places we found ourselves in didn't offer anything with Béarnaise. But he didn't complain.

Over the week, he surprised us with his willingness to try things even if only to turn up his nose. Our first evening, we were so tired from the chaotic time getting from the plane to the apartment, we fell out onto our street and sat in the first cafe we found. Their offering that evening was lasagne, and Leo and I decided to try that. Don't order Italian in France, was our conclusion. It came with salad, which Leo doesn't eat. Then we walked a few paces further and found him his first pastry--a so-so eclair. Things did get better from there!

Despite jet lag, Pastry Man a.k.a. Scott managed to stagger downstairs for our breakfast croissants, and Leo promised to accompany him the next day as the Croissant Kid. This was our first full day, and I had planned that we take the Toot Bus (hop-on hop-off) that would give Leo an overall look at the main attractions: Notre Dame, Musee d'Orsay, Place de la Concorde, Eiffel Tower...well you get the picture. Not only was the website out of date as to the exact spot for our closest stop (rue St. Jacques) but when we did find it along the Quai des Augustines, the traffic was at a standstill. A representative of the bus company told us this was not a good day to do the tour because President Macron was entertaining the Italian premier at the Louvre, and all the roads going anywhere near the museum were closed for who knows how long. (That was two days in a row we were thwarted trying to get somewhere!) 

"It's almost lunchtime," I said to a disappointed but still non-complaining Leo, "what would you like for lunch." "Crêpes," was the immediate response. And there were two crêperies a block away on rue St. Andre des Arts! Leo ordered two -- one with maple syrup and the other butter and sugar; the latter he gave up with after half. "It's just too sweet, Granny," he apologized.

That evening, we made sure he had some protein (but still no vegetables, unless you count potatoes), and we tried something different in the rue Mouffetard two blocks from our apartment. Saveurs de Savoie specialized in raclette and fondu. Leo plumped for shared fondus -- beef and cheese--served with parslied potatoes and lots of baguette. It was a big hit and with a couple of Oranginas to wash it down, he ate more than I did.

On Thursday, we had timed entry to the Chateau de Versailles, so we RER'd over and after having difficulty walking on the huge cobblestoned courtyard to the Timed Entry building, I was grateful that my cane and my ask for a wheelchair allowed us to skip the 50-something-person line. Later, we had an invitation to dinner with old friends of mine from my Egypt childhood, who have an apartment on ave de Paris, two kms from the chateau, and I was a little worried that Leo would be bored listening to half-French, half-English chat about mutual friends from summer holidays I spent with the family during my teen years. Not a bit of it. "I am finding it all very interesting, Granny," he protested!

 When Christine produced the delicate delicacy of early French summer, poached white asparagus with homemade mayonnaise, Leo was skeptical. But I gave him a morsel and he tried it. The review was not good! Next our host brought out a casserole of pork simmered in a cilantro-curry sauce, which I was afraid would not be acceptable to our spice-averse lad, but by just giving him the meat without the sauce, Leo tucked in--and had another piece. Then came the cheese platter--chevre, a blue brebis (sheep's milk), and a camembert. Without any shyness at all, he proceeded to rate them from one to 10, just like his restaurant-reviewer mother does. The brebis got "only a 4, as it is too strong," he pronounced. Our hosts were delighted by him.

I was determined he should have a Croque Monsieur during his time, but (like the Milles Feuilles pastry that were sadly lacking everywhere and for which I had a craving) many of the cafes just weren't serving it or its eggy partner Croque Madame anymore. You used to be able to get it anywhere. This is usually a fancy grilled ham sandwich with a browned cheese sauce on top, but the only facsimile we managed to find was open-faced on a long thin piece of brown bread at a cafe down a side street from the Opera. It was just okay for me, but Leo liked it.

For our final meal I was determined to find this adventurous young man his Béarnaise sauce, so I Googled around and found Chez Paul over the river near the Bastille. The first thing on the menu was: Grilled beef rumsteak, bearnaise sauce, fried potatoes. Hooray! Not only did he eat the entire slab of quite rare steak, but he asked if he could have Profiteroles for dessert. Together with an Ile Flottante in creme anglais shared between the three of us, we proclaimed this the best meal of the trip! 

I haven't asked him what rating he gave la bonne cuisine française overall yet. But I am betting I know what the Croissant Kid would say was his favorite food.

A Paris Jewel

 

My first time in Paris was in 1963, when my father organized for me to spend a year as a bi-lingual secretary at a shipping business on Avenue de l'Opera. It was a difficult year for an extremely self-conscious 19-year-old six-footer. I towered above everyone on the Metro and was stared at wherever I went. I even had a shoe salesman tell me to, "Allez chez les hommes, mademoiselle," because he had never seen such big feet on a woman. 

But, the city's beauty was hard to ignore, and it was during my weekend sightseeing jaunts that I fell in love with the Sainte Chapelle. This trip to Paris with Grandson Leo marked my 22nd time of visiting it. Up until the 21st time, which would have been ten years ago on a "passing through" visit to the city, I was able to just wander through the Palais de Justice building to the inner courtyard, where this jewel hides, and be with a handful of others to marvel at its stunning stained-glass. In 2014, I had to stand in line and pay, but it was still not on the usual tourist trail.

Naturally, it was to be a highlight of our week-long trip.

On Friday, June 9th, I was dismayed to see the queues of people not even outside the chapel but out on the street in front of the Palais de Justice. Oh no, I thought, it has been discovered. I was warned that advance on-line tickets to anything in Paris was the way to go now, and so I had our timed-entry tickets in hand. My cane allowed me early entrance to the stringent security checkpoint (almost worse than TSA), but Leo and Scott had to stand in line with all the other advance-ticket holders. I rested my backside on the fence ledge and waited for them to join me. (It's standing for long periods that my bad feet and legs can't handle; I need to keep moving and queues aren't designed for that.)

It was then, when my heart had started to flutter at the thought of entering my most favorite building in the world, that something miraculous happened. Right in front of me, a group of young people suddenly started to sing, and not just anything, they sang one of my most favorite pieces of music for writing my battle scenes: Patrick Doyle's haunting Non Nobis Domine prayer from Kenneth Branagh's Henry V movie. The voices soared in that enclosed courtyard, and soon people in the Justice offices opened their windows to marvel at the sound. By the time Leo and Scott joined me I was crying. I floated into the lower level of the chapel with the melody still in my head. (Listen if you like!)

https://photos.app.goo.gl/y9KmVDFm9NkrTKdE6

Now, Leo had no idea what he was about to see, and every time I take someone else into the church I am thrilled by the reaction to this extraordinary feat of 12th century engineering. Leo looked around at the brightly painted pillars of the crypt and its pretty but not outstanding darker-stained windows, and knowing this was of great importance to me, he oohed and smiled and took photos. (Wherever we went, he took time to really look at everything and read the descriptions when they were in English. We were impressed.) After I felt he had had his fill, I said, "Would you like to go upstairs?" "There's an upstairs? What's that like?" I pointed to the spiral stone staircase by the door and said, "You go first or you'll be crushed if I trip and fall backwards!"

His long--and I do mean long--legs took the ancient stone steps two at a time, and I told him to slow down. "Are you there yet?" I called. "Nearly...." and then, "OH MY GOD!" floated down to me. Yes, I thought happily, he was there! I arrived to see him gawking in awe at those amazing sky-high windows, and my heart, still filled with the music from the courtyard, soared with them.                                                                (More Leo in Paris to come!)

Ode to a grandson

 

Leo turned into a teenager last week. Ah, you say, so into a kid who will now only answer in monosyllables when he's not giving you sass; get miffed if you tell him to turn off his phone/tablet/gamer; and generally behave as though you, his parent or grandparent, knows nothing at all about anything.

But Leo is not that kind of kid; and for us as grandparents taking him on his first trip abroad to a non-English speaking country, we found this out on the very first day of his being in our care for the first time without his parents. (That's a lot of firsts.)

We flew overnight on French Bee from Miami to Paris Orly and landed on June 6th--at the start of a one-day General Strike. Ack! Les Français et ses grèves. We had no idea what to expect, but that things were not as they usually are on a Tuesday in June became evident as we sat on the plane for an hour and a half waiting to disembark. Our jetway was not ready (not enough personnel willing to work) and so portable stairs had to be driven out onto the tarmac to take the 300 passengers off and onto buses... er, one bus that bucked the strike and had to make many trips to the terminal. 

With my mobility compromised lately, I was on the wheelchair list, and thus we were asked to wait until everyone else had left the plane. Leo stood by quietly as we discussed with the crew in French what Paris in a strike would be like for us getting to the 5th Arrondissement. Still jetlagged from his red-eye from California the day before, Leo was now thoroughly groggy from the extra 6-hour jetlag from Florida, and he could have whined with impunity. But he didn't. 

It took a while to get the hydraulic van-lift up to the other side door to take off the walking wounded, and it all took longer than any disembarkation I have done over the years. Leo never made a peep, and in fact allowed a gleeful Scott to take a photo of him as the lift put him only few feet in front the mammoth jet engine. (Scott is a train, plane and boat fanatic  BTW.)

Once through passport control and customs, we went onto the curb to call for an Uber--along with all the other arriving passengers not willing to test the public transportation system on the day of a strike. The wheelchair assistant was mistaken in where we should be stationed, and after she parked me, off she went with the wheelchair. We were in the wrong spot for pick-ups, and when Scott figured out we had to move 100 yards, Leo followed along patiently, helping me with one of my bags as I was using a cane. By now, Scott and I were getting a bit testy with each other until we were safely in our Uber and breathing sighs of relief. We thought we were home dry.

But no. Our driver complained bitterly about the strike and what it had done to his routes and the traffic, and sure enough within 10 blocks of our apartment on rue Larrey, he suddenly stopped the car, swore, and said, "Sorry, I can't go any further; the police have blocked off all the roads in case of protests. You will just have to take the Metro. See, I am letting you out near one and it's only three stops to yours." At this point, I think I swore!

"What's happening," Leo whispered, not understanding the French and seeing us frustrated and grumbling. "We have to get out. We can't go any further by car, I'm afraid." "Okay," Leo said and cheerfully slid out, dragging his backpack with him.

Now, I have lived in Paris twice in my life--once for a year, but in the 16th Arrondissement, and the second for three years in the 7th. Here, we were a stone's throw from the Place d'Italie in the 13th, which has been the scene of several unruly protests during these weeks of revolting against raising the retirement age to 64 (honestly!), and none of it looked familiar to me. We stood on the sidewalk, forlornly surrounded by luggage. Leo didn't complain, sigh, or throw a fit. He just stood by patiently waiting for us to solve this. 

"Call our VRBO host," Scott suggested. "Maybe he can help?" I knew Philippe was waiting for us at the apartment after receiving my text from the Uber as we left Orly. Having established an email rapport with him before we arrived, I was confident he would come up with a plan, so I called. He was so sympathetic to our plight that he told us to find a cafe, wait there, and he would ride the metro to our stop and help us back to the apartment. (He knew I had had a fall and probably needed help with bags.) We were astonished he would bother to do this, but he did, and three and a half hours after landing at Orly only 16 kilometers from our apartment, we struggled up the three flights of stairs and collapsed. It was only then that Leo finally admitted he really needed the bathroom, poor lad!

A quick freshen up and it was off to find his first patisserie! After such a disastrous beginning, we were worried he'd be discouraged. Not a bit of it. As we sat at a cafe later for a quick bite, he told us he had learned one phrase in French from a schoolmate back in Berkeley. Without asking for our help, he took himself inside the cafe and fearlessly asked the bartender "Ou sont les toilettes?" Now, that's what I call chutzpah.

My hat is off to Leo's parents, my daughter Joanna and her husband Mike, who have raised a sensible, sensitive and easy-going young man. "I trust you, Granny," he told me before the trip when I asked if the itinerary was to his liking. "I will just go with the flow."

And he did! Every step of the seven days. It was a joy to experience Paris through his eyes and share in the adventure...I hope you will, too. (More to come...)

The Duchess and The Printer

 

William Caxton offering the first book ever printed in English to his patron Margaret of York

This year marks the 550th anniversary of the first-ever printed book in English. A worthy topic for a writer's blog, I think!

Last night, I spoke at my Book Club who, having just read The Personal Librarian, chose to read my Daughter of York, when I explained that William Caxton (the "printer" of my blog title) was a major character in it. Thus the members could enjoy the connection between J.P. Morgan's obsession to obtain a certain Caxton-printed book for his NY library and how that book came to be.

The"duchess" of my title is, if you hadn't guessed, Margaret of York, the protagonist in my second book. It was a longer book than the usual choice of our club, but not as long as the Stephen King one of a few months ago, which I confess I did not get through. (In my old age, I have only minimum patience for books I have no interest in reading--even for a book club. I know, I know, "That's what a book club is all about," you protest, but sorry, supernatural, fantasy and dystopian fiction just ain't my cuppa Darjeeling: I like my stories plausible and based in reality. Some people might think that's boring, but I find dragons, magic, aliens, and zombies boring. I sometimes wonder if I have an underdeveloped imagination!)

Back to Caxton and Margaret! How were they connected? Caxton was cloth merchant from Kent who had settled in Bruges, becoming a member of the Merchant Adventurers, another name for what was termed "The English Nation" or ex-pat merchant Brits living in Bruges. He rose to be their Governor, and as such, he was presented to the new Duchess of Burgundy, Margaret of York, who was married to Charles the Bold with extraordinary pageantry in Bruges in 1468. (That wedding was so much fun to write, because we have minute details of what transpired in those few days of celebration.)

Margaret was a bibliophile (ok, she loved books!) as was Caxton, and pretty soon they struck up a friendship, which ended up by Caxton accepting Margaret's invitation to give up merchant adventuring and join her household. Caxton had been working on translating into English from the French Les Recuyelles de la Histoire de Troy. It was also a favorite of Margaret's and she asked him to show her what pages he had completed He admitted he'd had little leisure time to work on it and that his French wasn't perfect. Margaret corrected a few phrases and was impressed enough to decide he should finish it under her auspices.

Finish it he did, with an introduction that included a dedication to the duchess: "meekly beseeching the bounteous Highness of my said Lady Margaret that of her benevolence she might accept this simple and rude work here following..."

Not satisfied with a merely translation of the book into English, Margaret was determined to see it printed  in English. To that end, she funded Caxton's journey to Cologne study the new art of letterpress invented by Gutenburg some 20 years before. There, in 1473 Caxton was able to produce The Recuyell of the Histories of Troye, which became the first-ever book printed in English.

Caxton went on from strength to strength, first setting up in Bruges and ending up in Westminster with a recommendation from Margaret to her brother Edward IV, who, with other members of the English court, gave the successful printer several commissions at his print shop 'The Sign of the Red Pale.' 

We book lovers have much for which to be grateful to Margaret of York! She was, of course, the sister of King Richard III, and here I can plug a Goodreads (US-only, I am afraid) Giveaway of 50 of the e-book version of my most recent, This Son of York, my take on Richard III's story.Sign up, if you're on Goodreads--you may be lucky!

Goodreads Giveaway!

 

Trying to walk the fine line between making the writing of a book into at least a break-even proposition in this day and age of publishing nightmares, my Marketing Manager (Scott!) felt giving away 50 e-books of This Son of York on Goodreads might generate interest (and a few sales!) and coincide nicely with The Lost King movie's release. (Have you seen it yet??) The Giveaway lasts all month, so I invite you to take advantage and sign up!