Lynne Martin's Blog, page 2

Live and Cook Like a Local in France!

Rumors of my being captured by pirates, spirited away to the stratosphere by aliens, or worse, are greatly exaggerated. It’s true that I’ve been buried, not by six feet of soil, but by bushels of fabulous French food!

Lynne and Deborah hard at work doing research in a Paris Bistro.

My long-time friend and, respected chef, Deborah Scarborough, and I talked for years over many bottles of good French wine about doing a project together. We explored all kinds of notions and finally came up with the idea of exploring the French’s way with food.  As a result, we spent two years writing, testing recipes, and doing research for Cook Like a Local in France. Our “baby” was published in June by Countryman Press. Early readers love it and we hope you will, too.

 

 

 

Let’s face it, travel is all about eating, so we’ve combined our best travel and food stories, and great recipes in one delicious volume. There are also fifty photos so you can see what your mouth-watering Raspberry Claufouti or your easy Beef Bourguignon will look like when you present it to your lucky guests. You’ll feel as if you’ve owned an apartment on the Seine for years.

 

Deborah created fifty fabulous recipes designed for vacation rental travelers. They require only basic equipment to get impressive results and are just as much fun to produce at home as they are abroad. There are inspired suggestions for delicious breakfasts, picnics, dinners, and entertaining. We also compiled illuminating glossaries covering wines, fish, poultry, meat, produce, and fish for every region and season. There are even comprehensive lists of food-related festivals held in every corner of the country.

Check out these entries.

Whether you’re planning to stay in a French gite, a Paris pied-a-terre or just be creative in your own kitchen, Cook Like a Local in France  belongs in your cookbook collection. It’s available from all book sources and you can take it along in your ebook. It’s a lovely gift for your Francophile friends and anyone who loves to cook.

We’d love to know what you think of it, so please send a comment and I’ll answer you right away!

Bon apêtit!

Lynne

Order here from Amazon:  Cook Like a Local in France

Shore to Ship – A Seagoing South American Adventure

 

Notice the fake grin and the bad hair day. I was facing 12 hours mashed into a hard pleather seat in a throbbing flying bus packed with several hundred other souls.I was trying to put on a happy face and fortifying myself with a generous bloody Mary before marching down that crowded narrow gangway to the plane, my carry-on bumping behind me. The libation was my sweet Tim’s brilliant idea. He knows how to treat a girl!

The flight to Santiago, Chile wasn’t nearly as debilitating as I had feared. Once again, my smart partner saved the day by booking the bulkhead seat in coach. This made the difference between arriving crippled and exhausted and just exhausted! Believe me, it’s worth the extra charge. So was the car and driver who awaited us. Who needs to figure out transportation when her brains are on hold?

We staggered after the man with the “Martin” sign and gulped fresh air all the way to Valparaiso, the port of Santiago. The graffiti and colorful houses were gorgeous! It seemed to be an approachable city, full of life and color.

 

 

 

 

 

The hotel was tragically hip, with concrete walls, door-less bathrooms, and poetry displayed on every wall. From our tiny balcony, we were able to witness a little street life while we waited to go to dinner.  We saw aproned housewives chatting with their neighbors as they sent their dogs out to play in the park across the street. Animals of all sizes had arranged their social ranking, and they played, fought, made up and played again without intercession from humans. When their mommies called to them, they obediently trotted home. Here was our room:

I’m the lump on the bed five minutes after we got there – dead to the world. Clearly, I couldn’t  be bothered to put away my tennies. Notice the Neruda poem stenciled on the wall. His home was nearby.

 

Best of all, there was a swanky rooftop terrace, which allowed us to get a feel for the city, have a nice meal, and shake off the airplane fog

 

 

 

 

A wild ride down the hill the next morning brought us to our ship. Little prickles of fear were traveling up my spine about every five minutes as we waited. We have made four Atlantic crossings by ship, sometimes in unsettled weather, but this was different. This was CAPE HORN, the very tip of South America where the Atlantic and Pacific bang up against each other – literally. Let me share what Wikipedia has to say about it:

         For decades, Cape Horn was a major milestone on the clipper route, by which sailing ships carried trade around the world. The waters around Cape Horn are particularly hazardous, owing to        strong winds, large waves, strong currents, and ice bergs; these dangers have made it notorious as a sailors’ graveyard.

I do NOT particularly like the word graveyard in any context, but a wet, icy cemetery seems particularly repellant. Of course, I didn’t voice these worries because I like to foster my façade of relentless optimism, even with my adoring spouse. So I suffered in silence.

This is the Holland America ship Zaandam, the behemoth which would carry us all the way around the dreaded Horn, through Glacier Alley, the Straits of Magellan, to the Falklands Islands, and finally to Buenos Aires. At least I hoped so. It looked sturdy enough to me, but that little voice was whispering, “Get outta here while there’s still time.”

 

 

In five minutes, my trepidation was temporarily silenced by the elation of being on board a huge liner. I LOVE the sea, and harbors.  The noise, equipment, and commotion are  fascinating and there’s always a feeling of anticipation in a harbor. When these magnificent floating hotels begin to rev their powerful engines and slowly glide away from the berth, my heart sings.

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And once we were underway we took our initial tour of what would be our home for fourteen days.

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I was thrilled with the bathtub and all of the cozy places on the ship to read, write, have a drink, chat with a new friend and simply watch the water and scenery slide by, but what we both loved best was – you know this – the FOOD!  For once, I enjoyed the lunchtime buffet. Self-serve dining has never been a favorite of mine. It’s something about strangers dipping into the same kettle that puts me off. But on this ship, there were  pleasant people behind each station whose job it was to ladle up the vittles. It made the nice food taste even better when I knew whose gloved hands were touching the serving pieces!

The dining room was very elegant, but we became devotees of one of the specialty restaurants. Not only was the food terrific, (they had me after my first taste of their foie gras mousse) but our waiter and his boss were the most entertaining people on the ship.

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For the first day or two, my fears were allayed. The weather was still pleasant and the sea tame and exquisite. The worried little voice in my brain was lulled into a peaceful slumber as the waves rocked us gently to sleep. But THEN – on about the third morning, I said rather sharply to Tim, “Could you kindly knock it off?”

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled.

“You’re shaking the bed, dear, and I was having such a nice dream about Paris.”

“I haven’t moved in hours,” he chuckled. “We’ve hit the swells and the wind, sweetie.”

I slid across that cozy mattress to him in a hurry, and after a few minutes I finally got up the courage to peek out the porthole. All hell was breaking loose – there were whitecaps on top of white caps and the ship was pitching like a steer in a cowboy bar. And that’s the moment I realized that I was in for the ride of my life. I plunged back under the covers and said, “Wow! This is going to be one wild trip, honey, but I’ve decided to relax and enjoy it. If the captain is half as smart as the chef, I think we’ll survive.” He gave me a squeeze and said, “Welcome aboard!”

Stay tuned for more about wind, rain, waves, glaciers, penquins. We sailed around Cape Horn and the Magellan Straits and are still here to tell the tale!

Solo Travel – It’s Good for the Soul

Recently I spend five days alone in Redwood City, California while I was having treatments at Stanford University for a minor but annoying problem. Thankfully, the daily procedures were quick and painless, so I had ample time to write with a little time left over to enjoy that gorgeous part of the Bay Area. I usually travel with Tim, but he’s a busy man and couldn’t get away for this little journey.

Although I always miss him, I do enjoy the chance to be isolated for a few days from all that is familiar. Traveling alone allows me to explore corners of my overloaded brain that I rarely visit, to ruminate and take stock of the past, the present, and to speculate about my plans for the future. I also have to muzzle my natural garrulous impulses because there’s no one there to hear me.

I promised myself that I would take a break from my work to revisit Filoli House and Gardens, which were a mere seven minutes away from the cute little studio cottage I was renting.

Filoli House, a modified-Georgian mansion, restored and furnished with taste and restraint, always makes me feel as if I’ve been invited to visit someone’s warm but elegant home for a party. But it’s the gardens that beckon me to return again and again. I’m convinced that this is the way God would build a garden if he had the money!

Since Tim and I almost always travel together, it’s unusual for me to experience such lavish beauty without having someone handy to nudge and share comments. Eventually, I was so overcome with joy at some of the plants and designs in the garden that I couldn’t control myself and exclaimed my pleasure to strangers. This produced mixed results from my unwitting companions, but at least I found a lovely Asian lady who offered to take my photo with the luscious wisteria that draped elegantly from almost every building, wall, and pergola.

Since neither you nor Tim was with me, I’ll  share what I saw with photos and videos. It would have been much more satisfying to poke you with my elbow and point out my discoveries personally, but this will have to do.

 

 

 

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I loved my stolen afternoon at Filoli for many reasons, but this time, in addition to lifting my heart and spirits with the beauty that always awaits me there, visiting alone gave me a great opportunity to renew my acquaintance with myself. It’s the same private communion I feel when kneeling in my own garden, touching the earth and experiencing the sense of renewal and hope that all gardeners feel when planting a crop, flower bed, or tree. And although my little plot is light years away from the magnificence of Filoli, I still feel a deep connection with the real master gardener!

How God Would Build A Garden If He Had The Money

Recently I spend five days alone in Redwood City, California while I was having treatments at Stanford University for a minor but annoying problem. Thankfully, the daily procedures were quick and painless, so I had ample time to write with a little time left over to enjoy that gorgeous part of the Bay Area. I usually travel with Tim, but he’s a busy man and couldn’t get away for this little journey.

Although I always miss him, I do enjoy the chance to be isolated for a few days from all that is familiar. Traveling alone allows me to explore corners of my overloaded brain that I rarely visit, to ruminate and take stock of the past, the present, and to speculate about my plans for the future. I also have to muzzle my natural garrulous impulses because there’s no one there to hear me.

I promised myself that I would take a break from my work to revisit Filoli House and Gardens, which were a mere seven minutes away from the cute little studio cottage I was renting.

Filoli House, a modified-Georgian mansion, restored and furnished with taste and restraint, always makes me feel as if I’ve been invited to visit someone’s warm but elegant home for a party. But it’s the gardens that beckon me to return again and again. I’m convinced that this is the way God would build a garden if he had the money!

Since Tim and I almost always travel together, it’s unusual for me to experience such lavish beauty without having someone handy to nudge and share comments. Eventually, I was so overcome with joy at some of the plants and designs in the garden that I couldn’t control myself and exclaimed my pleasure to strangers. This produced mixed results from my unwitting companions, but at least I found a lovely Asian lady who offered to take my photo with the luscious wisteria that draped elegantly from almost every building, wall, and pergola.

Since neither you nor Tim was with me, I’ll  share what I saw with photos and videos. It would have been much more satisfying to poke you with my elbow and point out my discoveries personally, but this will have to do.

 

 

 

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I loved my stolen afternoon at Filoli for many reasons, but this time, in addition to lifting my heart and spirits with the beauty that always awaits me there, visiting alone gave me a great opportunity to renew my acquaintance with myself. It’s the same private communion I feel when kneeling in my own garden, touching the earth and experiencing the sense of renewal and hope that all gardeners feel when planting a crop, flower bed, or tree. And although my little plot is light years away from the magnificence of Filoli, I still feel a deep connection with the real master gardener!

Going In Style

If you’ve followed our Home Free Adventures or read Home Sweet Anywhere, you know that Tim and I are vociferous proponents of our Postpone Nothing mantra. So even if Warner Brothers had not asked me to tout their new movie, Going In Style, we would have found our way to enjoy some much-needed giggles at the local multiplex.

The film stars three of my favorites, Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine, and Alan Arkin and it promises to deliver plenty of laughs. Even the story line tickles me: three retired guys whose funds are suddenly cut off by big bank maneuvers risk it all by knocking off the very bank that did them in.

Now, that’s a funny idea, but more importantly, it demonstrates my long-held belief that those of us who are no longer young can still gear up to take on the world! Since seventy is the new fifty, we have many more years ahead of us to be effective people.

For instance, In the new political climate, I notice that seniors on both sides of the aisle are newly active in making their views known. Like the men in the film, we have become bolder, using our experience and vigor to make an impact on our world. This grandmother, who’s never been involved in politics, found her way to Washington to participate in the Women’s March in January! It was an exhilarating experience, and something I never dreamed I’d do in my mid-seventies.

I’m by no means the only older person one who’s feeling frisky. In the past couple of years, our Home Free Adventures family has grown to include hundreds of retirees who have opted to spend their retirement enjoying active, sometimes outrageously bold lifestyles. We hear from people every day who have opted for lifestyles that are very different from what they foresaw when they were younger. These inspiring letters come from people living out of suitcases in vacation rentals around the world, plying the oceans and canals on a boat, cruising in RV’s, volunteering in far-flung places, or relocating to France, Mexico, Ireland, Costa Rica or other exotic locations. I can hardly wait to open my mailbox every morning to see what inspiring new messages are there!

So, when you go to your picture palace to enjoy Going In Style with three antique bank robbers, remember that there’s a bigger message on that screen – vigorous, savvy older people are capable of just about anything!

Vacation Rentals – The Inside Scoop

There’s a good reason that Tim and I have been called the poster children for vacation rental living! For almost five years short-term properties were our only homes. Most were just fine, some mediocre, and a few were disappointing. Sometimes we were so uncomfortable, like the villa in Florence, which was so hot that we bolted for France two weeks early. It upset us to leave money on the table, but we decided that sanity trumped frugality. There were also many places which exceeded our expectations. Our experiences, both ugly and terrific, informed our decisions when we built our own vacation rental/home last year.  Creekside Cottage serves as our permanent residence, and when rented, it supplies us with extra income to use for our travels. It’s a perfect follow-up to five glorious years of full-time travel.

So here’s a candid look at some of the places we lived – the good, the bad, and the ugly.  In truth, all of them had their good points, but we certainly learned that reading the fine print of listings and not being seduced by a good deal are essential to health and happiness on the road. Once I read a dozen glowing reviews of a property we were just about to rent, and in the very last sentence of the final comments, the traveler casually mentioned that “Everything was just perfect once we finally adjusted to the barking dog down the street!” We continued looking.

Let’s start with our all-time favorite rental. This place in Paris is so perfect for us that we will be renting it for the third time this summer.  Here’s an inside scoop: As of this writing, it is available for the second two weeks of June, a real rarity, so if you would like to know more about it, please make a comment on this website.

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This apartment gets a 100% rating from us. It is exactly as advertised. The location, in an authentic French neighborhood, is perfect. Shops, wine stores, and a fresh street market twice weekly make living there easy and delicious. Metro and bus stops are within easy strolling distance, the apartment is fully equipped with everything you need, including washer/dryer. The building is totally quiet and safe, and the place is immaculate. The owners are helpful and make sure that visitors enjoy Paris! It’s reasonably priced, too!

On the other hand, here’s a place in Florence where we didn’t get so lucky. We were so enamored of the low price that we let that cloud our thinking. We allowed ourselves to be convinced that we could enjoy July and August in Italy without air conditioning – wrong! We also believed the fable that we could breeze into town from our hillside aerie with no trouble at all – wrong again! It was a gorgeous view and the pool was a saving grace, but we were so miserably hot that we pulled up stakes two weeks early and beat it back to France for relief. 














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Let’s return to the good news. We have lived in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico on many occasions, each time a lovely experience! Theses properties all offered grand interiors, lovely outdoor spaces, and lovely locals who took excellent care of us. If you have a chance to go there, you won’t regret it, and if you rent for a month or more you can usually negotiate an affordable price.

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Continuing on a South of the Border theme, Buenos Aires was a whole different matter. Although the apartment was adequate, we found living there trying. Just then, due to a serious economic downturn, the Argentinian people were not a very happy, and we struggled with their lack of hospitality until we gave up and returned two weeks early to California. The apartment, although it had some issues, was light and bright and we had a chance to try out living in a densely populated city.

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We adored our condo on Portugal’s beach near Lisbon. It was enormous and featured a large courtyard which we enjoyed every day, the manager was responsive and helpful, and the place was a block from one of the world’s greatest beaches. The charming Portuguese people made our stay even more pleasant

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And then there was Staten Island, where we lived for six weeks when birthing Home Sweet Anywhere. It was the lower floor of a creaky, drafty old Victorian house. We were chilled to the bone and riding the Staten Island Ferry when it’s 40-ish degrees is not a lot of fun!  Our snoopy landlady gave us some good laughs, though, and the weird Jamaican cleaner/janitor was an entertaining side note. Tim’s fix, using duct tape around windows that leaked frigid air into our space, was just one example of why we never travel without a roll.

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We had a cute place in Berlin. It was in an immigrant neighborhood, which meant the dining options were interesting. But most of all, it had a nice terrace with a barbecue, a rare find in most of Europe.  We enjoyed our month there and loved getting to know the German people, whom we found warm and welcoming.

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Our place in East Molesey, just twenty minutes outside London, was so comfortable that we returned the next year for another month and I designed the kitchen in our vacation rental after their plan. I love it!

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And right across the Irish Sea, we were fortunate to find an apartment in a stately Georgian mansion just a twenty-minute train ride from Dublin. Our neighbors became forever friends, which made the whole experience even better.

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The vacation rental the love the best is in Templeton, California, which we built in 2015. We were restricted to 1200 square feet by the local constabulary, so we had to make every inch count.  Here is the result:

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We have shared it with several renters and all say they have loved living there. It became so popular that we bought an RV so we could run away on weekends and reap the financial benefits, too. There we go, reinventing ourselves again! It’s worked out beautifully and we’ve enjoyed the bonus of making new friends every few weeks! If you’d like more information about it, please go to Creekside Cottage.

If you’re making plans for vacation rental stay, remember to read the fine print, ask lots of questions, and be don’t be afraid to move on if you need to! Postpone nothing – especially having a good time!

Our Mexican Jungle Adventure

After an evening of furious computer pounding, sighs and whispered expletives, my husband gleefully announced that he had snared the perfect reservations and flights for a long-awaited voyage around South America’s southern-most tip. Penguins were in our future!

While we celebrated this coup, we began comparing notes about our favorite home free adventures. Exotic Marrakech, seductive Lisbon, too hip Berlin, and my beloved Paris were all in the running. But in the end, a brief trip to Mexico’s Sierra Gorda Mountains stood out for both of us as the most challenging and remarkable journey of all.

These hands greet visitors to Las Pozas.

The trip to Las Pozos isn’t for sissies.The six-hour drive from San Miguel de Allende took us deep into the Sierra Madre mountains, an adventure of great beauty and dramatic climate changes. We went from the searing 100F+ desert heat through frigid mountainous pine laden slopes, then back down to Xilitla a hot, damp jungle town on a high point surrounded by a tropical forest. The jungle was so pervasive that it threatened to reclaim equipment, roads, stucco walls, and the air was so thick that it could snatch the breath of the people in its midst. It throbs with its momentum, and its tentacles infiltrate everything in its path.

Tony Cohan’s account of Las Pozas in his book, Mexican Days: Journeys into the Heart of Mexico had propelled us to make the trek to the area.

His tales of Edward James’ surreal jungle sculpture park were enticing. Concrete stairways to nowhere, filagreed fragments of magical cathedrals, eight-foot tall hand sculptures rising from the loamy earth, heroic stone flower arrangements connected with bridges and breathtaking columns that spiked overhead into the thick jungle. At his suggestion, we booked a room at El Castillo, the hotel where Edward James lived while he and his project manager turned eighty acres of lush jungle into a garden containing 36 original surrealist heroic-sized sculptures.

We arrived in the late afternoon. The town was suffering one of its frequent power failures, so pressing the hotel’s doorbell produced no results.  We stood on the fractured pavement hot, thirsty, impatient and frustrated, stupidly pressing a button that wasn’t working. An old man, tipped back on the back legs of a delicate chair on a second-floor balcony across the street, noticed our distress, and nodded towards a small opening in the stucco wall that we had not noticed.

The gate that finally opened.

We slipped through the gate and found the hotel owner, Luisa, the granddaughter of Plutarco Gastelum, the foreman of the Las Pozas sculpture park.  She bore a striking resemblance to Isabella Rossellini, which under the circumstances seemed perfectly normal.

El Castillo Hotel is a surrealistic work in itself!

Luisa ushered us into the mansion, an intriguing blend of Mexican, English, and Moorish styles, and she shared colorful memories of her grandfather and Edward James. Staying in the eight room hotel and hearing her first-hand stories about the eccentric multi-millionaire poet and art collector intensified our excitement at the prospect of visiting the site.

That evening we tried to relax on the hotel’s rooftop balcony. It was the coolest spot in the still, humid climate. It was the kind of hot where your body begins to perspire before you’ve even turned off the cold shower!  But despite the humid heat, sketchy accommodations, and exhausting drive, we were enjoying the adventure, the brush with surrealism, and anticipating seeing those ruins the next day.

The next morning we bounced up a punishing cobblestone road, and we finally entered the gardens. We were stunned to see colossal structures marching up into the jungle. Each time we turned a corner, a new marvel awaited: a bridge connecting three- and four-story structures with floors fluted like flowers, 12-foot-high walls with windows shaped like eyes framing magnificent vistas of waterfalls, and overhead in the deep thatch of vegetation, a choir of jungle birds serenaded us in dissonant keys.

We chose to explore without a guide, which made the walk seem as if we were discovering a lost civilization on our own, a surreal Xanadu rising in an improbable place. For the most part, we were alone with Edwards’ artistic notions. Concrete confections vying with creeping moss and jungle vegetation threatening to cover the ghostly, melancholic creations.

Tim insisted that we stopped often to rest and guzzle water.  Remember the heat I mentioned? At first, we tried mopping our brows with tissue, but the humidity finally overcame us, and we succumbed to it. I remember sitting on a concrete bench fashioned to resemble a throne, bending over to catch my breath and just watching the perspiration drip from my forehead in a stream. Somehow we became one with the environment, and the heat ceased to be so important.

 

After we hiked for several hours, the birds’ calls were replaced by the voices of locals and tourists playing in a series of stream-fed pools that dropped down the mountainside. Families picnicked on platforms nearby, and civilization reclaimed us. We sat along the side of the stream dangling our tired feet in the refreshing water while we studied the guidebook about Edward James and his magnificent obsession. Born to extreme wealth in Britain, he longed to create art on the level of the surrealists he admired and to whom he became a significant patron. He collected their works and cultivated the friendship of major artists like Dali, Bosch, Picasso and Klee. Although his own attempts at art were not well received in Europe, his desire to create his personal statement resulted in his selling over $5 million worth of his collection to build  Las Pozas.

Although we had planned to stay two nights, I must confess that we were less than hearty in dealing with the heat and we fled to the nearest town to indulge in an air-conditioned room before returning to San Miguel. We may return one day, but it will certainly be in winter!

Photo Credit for all images:  Rod Waddington

Why We Travel

“Would you look at that?” Tim whispered as we stood under the electronic sign listing regional train departures from London’s Waterloo station.  He inclined his head slightly toward a stocky young woman wearing thigh-high black studded boots. She had chosen a white skirt printed with wide, black, horizontal stripes, which would have made even Audrey Hepburn look portly. It started an appalling four inches above the boots, exposing too much white skin to the rest of us. I always wonder what kind of friends people like that must have. I mean, why WOULDN’T they tell her?

I almost missed seeing her because I was already absorbed in watching an ancient British darling shuffling daintily along the vast hall wearing a forest green felt cloche hat complete with soaring pheasant feathers atop her silver hair, a fashion statement that hasn’t been seen in the United States in 50 or more years.

After living on the road in rented houses and apartments for almost five years, my husband and I have used almost every method of transportation possible, and we’ve often ruminated about the way people behave on public conveyances in different cultures. The Brits line up obediently; the Germans are quick to let older or infirm people have a seat, and our beloved French don’t know the word “queue.” The one constant is that when you’re on a bus, ferry, subway or streetcar, is that you are in proximity to the other passengers. That intimacy provides an opportunity to inspect human life as it is — clothes, mood, haircuts, attitude, family dynamics and personal hygiene become incredibly real when a person is six inches away!

Riding the Underground in London

We snagged some seats while we waited for our train to East Molesey, a Thames-side village near Hampton Court Palace, one of Britain’s most popular attractions and one of Henry VIII’s favorite homes. A 25-minute ride on a little red train connects us easily with the city, so we have the benefit of living quietly in a gentle town, but we are still close enough to London to take advantage of its many attractions. All of our forays into the city involve a stop at Waterloo and, from there, an underground to another destination, so we have ample time to observe our fellow travelers.

The little train depot at Hampton Court Palace.

Tim’s heading for the train at Hampton Court

Waterloo throbs day and night with interesting characters: cyclists in sober business suits and helmets making their daily commute to nearby bedroom communities; stalwart girls with rolled-up bedding and serious boots who look as if they’re prepared for months of outback living; and on Sunday nights, the still-single working kids who have been home to mummy for the weekend and are dragging their carry-ons back to their town flats. There are families with packs of children straggling along, lone young mothers trying to manage cranky toddlers and enormous prams — an impossible job even for a three-armed person; house painters smudged from their daily labors; upper-crust kids in their crested blazers cracking jokes with each other; dressed-up suburban women going into London for shopping and lunch. I’ve seen people wrestling with lumber they’re taking home for DYI projects, and people hauling everything from portable air conditioners to ladders. Somehow, passengers adjust themselves to make way for the bulky stuff, and sometimes actually assist the poor bloke who’s dragging it. And there are always dogs, too, which behave nicely as a rule. Better than the children, sometimes.

That night, as I dragged my eyes away from the striped skirt trundling up an escalator, I glanced down at the feet of the woman who had sat down beside me. She wore gorgeous silk pumps embellished with discreet gold-embroidered crests on her long, slender feet. As I covertly looked her over, I noticed her expensive black wool skirt, her stylish tweed blazer and her authentic silk Hermes scarf casually tying her look together. Dressed in my over-worn traveling blazer and black jeans, I felt like a bag lady sitting next to such a distinguished-looking person. For a moment, I wondered why she would be wearing gloves on such a mild evening. A second later I noticed her Adam’s apple. We nodded and smiled when she saw me admiring her ensemble. Such are the daily surprises travel brings us. We continued to enjoy the colorful show — family dramas, lovers whispering as they parted for separate trains, drinking up close and personal people on the move.

As we watched the parade of people, it occurred to me that in every country we visit, we discover more about the locals on the buses, trains, and subways than we could learn in any other way. People using public transportation have no artifice, no agenda. They are simply themselves, getting from one place to another. Their courtesy to fellow passengers, or lack thereof, their adherence to or flaunting of the rules, the way they organize themselves into a loosely structured queues or push ahead of others, those who mutter “pardon me” when they bump into someone else, or don’t even acknowledge their gaffe, when added together speak volumes about a culture.

That night, as we walked toward the train to begin our journey “home,” I realized that we are travel junkies mostly because we love to see how other people live, and as Californians, we have been deprived of the opportunity to be in physical proximity with people who are different from us! California is such a dedicated car culture that It’s impossible to have a conversation or even a meaningful moment of eye contact with the guy traveling next to you when you’re each roaring down a freeway at seventy miles an hour.  And there certainly isn’t an opportunity to mingle with Sikhs in beautiful turbans, Africans with flowing robes or English school boys in knee socks.

I mentioned my revelation to Tim, who expanded on my riff by saying, “You’re right! That explains why, when we start out on a trip arriving at the airport is always such a surprise. We step from the privacy of an automobile right into the middle of thousands of people who are practically in our spaces! Suddenly we’re part of a big organism, and we’re absorbing their stimulation, trying to catch the rhythm of what’s going on around us. That’s what makes traveling so exciting!”

“But you must admit that all that excitement can wear us out. I’m beat and wouldn’t mind going home to my own bed tonight – if I just had one!

By then we were aboard the little train, comfortable in the spot we always choose at the back of the car from which we can easily see everything that’s happening. On that particular night, there were a group of darling young girls, dressed to the nines, looking so fresh-faced and sparkling that I had an irresistible pang of longing to see our granddaughters that very instant! We surmised that they had attended a party in the city. A group of young men had obviously been watching an athletic contest accompanied with ample servings of British beer. They were noisily reliving the event as an older gentleman looked on and seemed to be enjoying their high jinks. The lady sitting next to him was obviously not amused.

By the time we reached the Hampton Court Station the footballers and the girls-night-out groups had connected and I’m fairly certain that they were going to continue their evening at one of the pubs that invite travelers to stop for a bit in the village before going home for the evening.

Once again, we had dipped into hundreds of other peoples’ lives within the space of an hour, and when we got into the car for our short drive home from the station, it almost felt as if we’d left a large party! Although I’ll never meet the girl in the unflattering black and white skirt, the dignified woman with the pheasant accent, or the person in the Hermes scarf, they all occupy a small part of my mental real estate forever. This epiphany is just one reason that I know we will continue to wander the world until the wheels fall off!

Waterloo – Up Close and Personal

Up Close and Personal at Waterloo Station, London

“Would you look at that?” my husband whispered as we stood under the electronic sign listing regional train departures from London’s Waterloo station.  He inclined his head slightly toward a stocky young woman wearing thigh-high black studded boots. She had chosen a white skirt printed with wide, black, horizontal stripes, which would have made even Audrey Hepburn look portly. It started an appalling four inches above the boots, exposing too much white skin to the rest of us. I always wonder what kind of friends people like that must have. I mean, why WOULDN’T they tell her?

I almost missed seeing her because I was already absorbed in watching an ancient British darling shuffling daintily along the vast hall wearing a forest green felt cloche hat complete with soaring pheasant feathers atop her silver hair, a fashion statement that hasn’t been seen in the United States in 50 or more years.

After living on the road in rented houses and apartments for almost five years, my husband and I have used almost every method of transportation possible, and we’ve often ruminated about the way people behave on public conveyances in different cultures. The Brits line up obediently; the Germans are quick to let older or infirm people have a seat, and our beloved French don’t know the word “queue.” The one constant is that when you’re on a bus, ferry, subway or streetcar, is that you are in proximity to the other passengers. That intimacy provides an opportunity to inspect human life as it is — clothes, mood, haircuts, attitude, family dynamics and personal hygiene become incredibly real when a person is six inches away!

Sitting quietly in the London Tube.

We snagged some seats while we waited for our train to East Molesey, a Thames-side village near Hampton Court Palace, one of Britain’s most popular attractions and one of Henry VIII’s favorite homes. A 25-minute ride on a little red train connects us easily with the city, so we have the benefit of living quietly in a gentle town, but we are still close enough to London to take advantage of its many attractions. All of our forays into the city involve a stop at Waterloo and, from there, an underground to another destination, so we have ample time to observe our fellow travelers.

The little train depot at Hampton Court Palace.

Tim’s heading for the train at Hampton Court

 

Waterloo throbs day and night with interesting characters: cyclists in sober business suits and helmets making their daily commute to nearby bedroom communities; stalwart girls with rolled-up bedding and serious boots who look as if they’re prepared for months of outback living; and on Sunday nights, the still-single working kids who have been home to mummy for the weekend and are dragging their carry-ons back to their town flats. There are families with packs of children straggling along, lone young mothers trying to manage cranky toddlers and enormous prams — an impossible job even for a three-armed person; house painters smudged from their daily labors; upper-crust kids in their crested blazers cracking jokes with each other; dressed-up suburban women going into London for shopping and lunch. I’ve seen people wrestling with lumber they’re taking home for DYI projects, and people hauling everything from portable air conditioners to ladders. Somehow, passengers adjust themselves to make way for the bulky stuff, and sometimes actually assist the poor bloke who’s dragging it. And there are always dogs, too, which behave nicely as a rule. Better than the children, sometimes.

That night, as I dragged my eyes away from the striped skirt trundling up an escalator, I glanced down at the feet of the woman who had sat down beside me. She wore gorgeous silk pumps embellished with discreet gold-embroidered crests on her long, slender feet. As I covertly looked her over, I noticed her expensive black wool skirt, her stylish tweed blazer and her authentic silk Hermes scarf casually tying her look together. Dressed in my over-worn traveling blazer and black jeans, I felt like a bag lady sitting next to such a distinguished-looking person. For a moment, I wondered why she would be wearing gloves on such a mild evening. A second later I noticed her Adam’s apple. We nodded and smiled when she saw me admiring her ensemble. Such are the daily surprises travel brings us. We continued to enjoy the colorful show — family dramas, lovers whispering as they parted for separate trains, drinking up close and personal people on the move.

As we watched the parade of people, it occurred to me that in every country we visit, we discover more about the locals on the buses, trains, and subways than we could learn in any other way. People using public transportation have no artifice, no agenda. They are simply themselves, getting from one place to another. Their courtesy to fellow passengers, or lack thereof, their adherence to or flaunting of the rules, the way they organize themselves into a loosely structured queues or push ahead of others, those who mutter “pardon me” when they bump into someone else, or don’t even acknowledge their gaffe, when added together speak volumes about a culture.

That night, as we walked toward the train to begin our journey “home,” I realized that we are travel junkies mostly because we love to see how other people live, and as Californians, we have been deprived of the opportunity to be in physical proximity with people who are different from us! California is such a dedicated car culture that It’s impossible to have a conversation or even a meaningful moment of eye contact with the guy traveling next to you when you’re each roaring down a freeway at seventy miles an hour.  And there certainly isn’t an opportunity to mingle with Sikhs in beautiful turbans, Africans with flowing robes or English school boys in knee socks.

I mentioned my revelation to Tim, who expanded on my riff by saying, “You’re right! That explains why, when we start out on a trip arriving at the airport is always such a surprise. We step from the privacy of an automobile right into the middle of thousands of people who are practically in our spaces! Suddenly we’re part of a big organism, and we’re absorbing their stimulation, trying to catch the rhythm of what’s going on around us. That’s what makes traveling so exciting!”

“But you must admit that all that excitement can wear us out. I’m beat and wouldn’t mind going home to my own bed tonight – if I just had one!

By then we were aboard the little train, comfortable in the spot we always choose at the back of the car from which we can easily see everything that’s happening. On that particular night, there were a group of darling young girls, dressed to the nines, looking so fresh-faced and sparkling that I had an irresistible pang of longing to see our granddaughters that very instant! We surmised that they had attended a party in the city. A group of young men had obviously been watching an athletic contest accompanied with ample servings of British beer. They were noisily reliving the event as an older gentleman looked on and seemed to be enjoying their high jinks. The lady sitting next to him was obviously not amused.

By the time we reached the Hampton Court Station the footballers and the girls-night-out groups had connected and I’m fairly certain that they were going to continue their evening at one of the pubs that invite travelers to stop for a bit in the village before going home for the evening.

Once again, we had dipped into hundreds of other peoples’ lives within the space of an hour, and when we got into the car for our short drive home from the station, it almost felt as if we’d left a large party! Although I’ll never meet the girl in the unflattering black and white skirt, the dignified woman with the pheasant accent, or the person in the Hermes scarf, they all occupy a small part of my mental real estate forever. This epiphany is just one reason that I know we will continue to wander the world until the wheels fall off!

The Globe-Trotting Gardener

 

Wild poppies grow among the magnificent ruins at Ephesus, Turkey.

I am passionate about gardens.  I have sought out and admired massive public displays, royal palace extravaganzas, tiny cottage gardens,  and even lush container gardens in nearly every city I have visited. Gardens speak volumes about the people who made them, so they tell us much about the culture in which they bloom.  As an avid gardener, even local nurseries are a turn-on for me! Here are some of the gardens I’ve created along the way.

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On the other hand, my darling Tim, who is sensitive, sweet and poetic about most things, does not appreciate nature’s scenic wonders very much. He’s the guy who slept right through the dramatic sunrise in Monument Valley. He snored peacefully as the majestic sandstone outcroppings caught the sun’s fire at 5:00 AM.  Meanwhile, I was jumping around like a five-year-old, snapping photos and rejoicing in one of the world’s most glorious sight!

So, it was with trepidation that soon after we were married, I suggested that we visit the magnificent Filoli Gardens in Woodside, California, on the way home from a weekend in San Francisco.  He LOVED it!

His reaction to that lovely place proved that even people who don’t know a petunia from a peony can find tranquility and inspiration in a beautiful garden. He was as surprised as I was when he relished the shaded walks, the fragrant rose gardens and the placid ponds on that lavish estate.

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Ever since that fateful afternoon, he’s carted us to dozens of gardens in many countries and become quite the botanical photographer in the bargain. These places have enhanced our travel experiences and allowed us to stay in touch with nature when we’re living in mega-cities for months.

I’d like to share some of our favorites with you, and perhaps if you travel to these places you’ll visit them. Any one of them is sure to inspire even the most reluctant visitor to become a garden enthusiast. I’ve included videos so you can see what I’m talking about.

Giverny, France:  Just an hour north of Paris, this is one of the most romantic gardens in the world. The great painter, Claude Monet, built the garden as his living model and inspiration. He was a man who ardently loved family, good food, gardens, and art. He painted that garden hundreds of times. I was jubilant to see such a wonder.

View from Monet’s Bedroom

I had a few minutes alone in what had been his bedroom, and I stood at his window just was sure he did every morning, to see what went on in the garden downstairs during the night. The next day we went to the Marmottan Museum in Paris, which houses the world’s largest collection of his works. That was the first time I understood what Impressionism is all about. Seeing his actual garden and then his impressions of it was an extraordinary art history lesson.

The Japanese Bridge at Giverny.

 

Monet’s Japanese Bridge Painting.  See what I mean about Impressionism?

Luxembourg Gardens, Paris

This magnificent 200-acre private garden, which is open to the public, is one of our favorite haunts in Paris. Its famous pond where children send rented vessels across the water while their parents cheer them on, is near the Palais du Luxembourg, built by Marie de Medici in 1612, and now the meeting place for the French Senate. The garden is alive with sculpture, fountains and flower beds. One Sunday morning we were treated to a band concert in the gazebo while we enjoyed our breakfast at the outdoor cafe near the Palais.

Now see why we got there every chance we get.  In fact, we like to meet visitors there so we can have a stroll through all that beauty.

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Also in Paris, The Tuileries Gardens were built by Catherine de Medici as part of the Tuileries Palace in 1564. The palace was destroyed, but the gardens have remained, linking the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. We love to walk in its gracious pathways and take a rest after visiting the Jeu de Paume museum, with its contemporary exhibitions curated from all over the world and Musée L’Orangerie, next to the Place de la Concorde. It contains works by some of the most beloved Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters, as well Claude Monet’s sublime water lily murals.

The Tuileries – Magnifique!

While we’re speaking of French gardens, I should mention the exotic Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech. It is a haven of tranquility in a city that fairly writhes with frenetic activity. Built in the 1920’s by French artist Jacques Majorelle, the garden’s spareness and simplicity is punctuated with a special shade of bold cobalt blue. Designer Yves Saint-Laurent co-owned the property with Pierre Bergé until Laurent’s death in 2008. We loved the little café surrounded by walls draped with lush vines and savored a few hours of quiet in that raucous, fascinating city.

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Another of our favorite gardens was created by Henry VIII. Hampton Court Palace is his beautifully preserved residence in Richmond upon Thames near London. We lived in an apartment nearby on two occasions, so we had a local’s appreciation and familiarity with the Palace.  Although there is an admission fee to tour the buildings, the extensive gardens are open to everyone, and we spent many happy afternoons enjoying the lovely English borders and beautifully sculpted trees. The famous maze is a popular attraction, and the grounds are used for several annual public gatherings. It certainly beats the Veteran’s Hall or the VFW for a civic celebration!

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Since we’re in the neighborhood, I’d like to introduce you to my all-time favorite garden. I was so excited the first time I visited Sissinghurst that I wept a little. The proper British lady at the ticket booth was completely non-plussed by my behavior! Vita Sackville-West, the gardening writer and poet, and her husband, author Harold Nicolson, created fabulous gardens in the 1930’s and restored the ruined manor house which were both built in the sixteenth century.

Before you visit, be sure to do some homework about these bright people, their fabulous friends, and unusual, artistic lives!

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I’m sure you’ve heard just about enough of the gardens I love, so I’ll leave you with three suggestions of places I think you’d love to see!

Bodnant Gardens in Conwy, Wales.

Butchart Gardens, British Columbia.

 

The Biltmore Estate, Asheville, North Carolina

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If you’ve enjoyed this tour, please let me know, and if you have your favorites to share, we’d love to hear about your favorite gardens.  Happy spring.