Food for Thought

Photo by Sophiecarnay

As the date of our departure draws nearer, many questions swirl through my mind. Practical questions, like how many electric plug adaptor do we need (and why do they only come in the 4-piece "Global Pack" when all we need is Europe), should we go with the monthly international cell phone calling plan, or just do it on a call-by-call basis, and most importantly, where should we eat while abroad?

Eating takes up a great deal of our day-to-day activities and plans. It's how we celebrate birthdays an holidays, where we turn to for comfort, and what defines our memories of events and trips, at least as much as, if not more so than, the trips themselves.

A good meal will be remembered for years to come. A disappointing one can mar an otherwise perfect outing.

To help us through the muddle of restaurants, each of which predictably claims to be superb, we've turned to Peter Mayle. He seems an obvious guide, having made a career writing about memorable meals and the people who eat them. More memoir than restaurant guide, his books possess the very quality we seek - transporting us to the eateries, capturing their essence, their aromas, making us envy his lunches.

And so, we've become students, studying for a test, skimming through texts, taking copious notes and pining for the Cliff Notes to A Year in Provence. Will our studies pay off? Only time will tell. But I ask you this - where do you find food inspiration?

Vive le Tourisme!

I have taken on a new job - that of travel agent. This isn't how I make my living, but a labor of love. You see, my husband and I are finally taking the trip of our dreams. One of the trips of our dreams, at any rate, as we like to dream far and wide. And big.

It's hard to believe, but in two weeks, we will be boarding a trans-Atlantic plane for Europe, where we will spend two weeks traveling from London, through France, until we finally end our trip in Barcelona.

While exciting, being the armchair travel agent is not without its challenges. Much like the washing machine and dishwasher in the 1950s, the advent of the Internet has created a plethora of new work, under the guise of making our lives easier. Whereas before we would have simply consulted a professional, we now believe (OK, I believe) that given some computer know-how, we are capable of planning the same trip - no, a far superior trip - as the travel agent. With enough time. And patience. And knowledge of the area we are visiting.

But what I lack in actual skill, I more than make up for in bravado. So what if I haven't been to London in twelve years, and lived in a flat my whole time there? Hand me a map of the Underground, and I'll find a good area for a hotel... Barcelona - a mysterious place overrun with homeless pickpockets, if one is to take Trip Advisor seriously, is no challenge for me - even if the English version of the tourist site isn't quite in English (or Spanish, for that matter). And how hard could driving through Provence possibly be? It's not like you're driving on the wrong of the road...

So Vive Le Tourisme! And Bon Chance to my husband and me. May our hotels live up to their online photos, our downloaded maps accurately depict the areas we are in, and our train connections not be too far apart.

Need more proof? Today, after three days of obsessive searching, I've finally found the path from one of Avignon's rail depots to the other. I think.

A travel agent probably could have done it in two minutes. But who cares? I have my MacBook!

The Wandering Soul

(photo by Ruth L.)

There's nothing that inspires wanderlust quite like staring at your four office walls. Or, in my case, no walls as I sit in what can be best described as a hallway. Well, one wall, if you're splitting hairs...

So, where to go? Or to dream of going? The world is so full of possibilities, so over whelmed with mysterious places that to choose one seems to do a disservice to 1,000 others. But a girl's gotta start somewhere. Should I be fanciful? Perhaps a trek through the Middle East...

Egypt... (photo by Peter Gutierrez) Israel... (photo by Phauly)

Morocco... (photo by jmax@flickr) Turkey... (photo by birdfarm)

Or sailing down the Li River in Guilin, China...

(photo by Supersuus)

Yes, these destinations are magical. But for the past several years, my husband and I have been discussing, inventing and imagining a European journey. It began quite modestly, with a plan to see some friends in London, and has blossomed into a journey through France and into Spain... We're still not sure when this trip will happen, but when it does, I will be magical...

Where do your wanderings, both real and imagined, take you?

Love's Labour

Love is in the air. This morning at work, all the ladies were handed a single rose (how very The Bachelor), and everyone is wearing that detail of obligatory red. I wore a pink poofy scarf made for me by my friend's mother - it's fashionable and timely. Plans of intimate dinners and romantic rendezvous are being discussed loudly.

Which brings me to my dilemma: I am not a natural born romantic. It seems that every woman around me is keyed in to some secret world which should come naturally to me, but forever remains just beyond my grasp.

I'm not trying to suggest that I don't care - I do love my husband very much and try to show him that I care. It's just that I'm the person who wakes up on February 14th asking, "Is it too late to order flowers for today?"

So I undertook getting a romantic education online this week. The first website I visited, informed me that ALL women are born with innate romance. This is a true lie. It also told me that to be romantic, I must enjoy those black and white photos of small children making out where only the flowers or balloons they carry are in color. Personally, I find the whole thing a bit disturbing, and try as I might, couldn't bring myself to buy my honey one of those cards, though the selection was quite vast.

I also perused a site which detailed other people's romantic encounters, from an anniversary celebration where a husband set up his wife's wedding dress on a mannequin in their hotel room (is it me, or is that kind of creepy too?) to couples who gain "romantic points" for doing house chores...

What I learned is that there is no cookie-cutter definition of romance, no matter what the Internet would lead you to believe. One woman's idea of romance is another's secret nightmare - do you want want a pizza delivered to you with a heart made out of pineapple pieces and ham? I don't know, perhaps you do. - but the key is to pay attention to what moves you and your loved one, honeybear, pookiemuffins. Because that is the true meaning behind romance - remembering those little things about them that everyone else forgets.

So as I settle in for an evening of fine dining, LOST, and possibly a game of Jaws Unleashed, you may balk. But I'm in romance city...

Our Anniversary

Some people don't believe in love at first sight, but I'm here to tell you, it does exist. From the first time I set eyes on my true love, I knew I had to convince him to come home with me, somehow...

My husband and I had decided to add a "third" to our relationship as soon as we bought a house. More room, our own space, that kind of thing. We didn't care if it was a guy or girl, just couldn't be too small, as we sometimes like to play rough, and we didn't want to chance any broken bones.

We certainly weren't going to go out and buy love - we agreed that high breeding, pedigree and finishing schools weren't that important to us. What we were looking for was some real street-smarts and a can-do attitude.

We'd been looking around for a while, rejecting potentials - some just didn't show enough interest, others were over-eager, and some just yapped and yapped. Our love would need to know when to be quiet, and to control his or her exuberance.

And then, one winter day, I saw him. He was brawny, with dark brown eyes and a crooked smile. He clearly worked out - it was obvious from his barrel chest. He had a quiet, smouldering intensity usually associated with leading men. While his friends preened and fawned to get the ladies' attention, he sat back, majestically, as if to say "My looks speak for themselves."

And speak they did. I had made my choice.

My husband initially balked. Were we really ready for the responsibility of bringing another member into our tight little family? What if it didn't work out? I suspected jealousy, and did what any other woman in love would do: I threw a tantrum.

Three days later, he was chauffeured over into my loving arms.

Sure my love is a bit hairy. And occasionally he smells well, pungent. And over time, he's gotten quite demanding - gourmet food, chauffeured trips, massages. He may spend his days lounging on the couch, demanding dinner the moment my husband and I get home from work. But we've made our piece with it. He is, after all, king of the house and we are deeply, tragically in love.

So, a few days too late (sorry Foster, though I know you don't care much for dates), I say thank you for choosing us as your pack two years ago. And thanks to New Leash on Life for making you ours.

An Ode to Short Attention Spans

It has been years since I've blogged. And by "blogged," I mean made one - count it - one entry, nearly two years ago. Why such sporadic visits to a site of my own creation? I blame it on a short attention span.

You see, I am, after all, a Gemini. Which gives me astrological reason (excuse?) to wander hither and tither, follow whatever muse guides me, but only for the moment. This is not to imply that I am flighty or shallow - merely that there is too much in this vast world of ours that competes for my gaze and adoration (or only a passing glance, as the case may be). How am I to choose just one?

But if we are to believe the saying about loving things and setting them free, then we are to belive in the ultimate return of and to the things we love. So I am back, for which I thank, blame, thank Maryam, of My Marrakesh who I unceremoniously contacted, because she inspired me, and who kindly replied and asked for my blog link.

So like a second-grader, caught red-handed without her homework, I am returning to a project I began so long ago, and hope that I can do it justice. Please, be kind as I begin my journey, the second time through...

In the beginning, there was the word...

It's always a somewhat daunting process to begin a blog. Especially when everyone is "doing it" and the competition, and pressure to live up to what the cool kids are doing, is fierce.

I can most readily blame work for this - you can too, if you are being subjected to reading this and wondering how you'll ever get these moments of your life back. The need to look productive and busy while having no tangible project to occupy your full attention for the whole 10 hours a day, led me to the inescapable conclusion that as long as I kept typing quickly and diligently, no one would be the wiser.

I suppose I could also explore the narcism of spreading my thoughts and ideas for the world's betterment through the blog medium, but that would be way to self-analytical, and I'm not quite that bored. Yet.

The naming of the blog took up a good thrity seconds (ok, two hours, thirty one minutes, fifteen seconds left to the day, fourteen, thirteen...). Again, the pressure's on to be original. Using my name - way to obvious - must think of some arcane reference, some in joke that pretty much no one but me will get. Thinking... Thinking... I got nothing. Seriously.

Except for that little voice in my head going "Dy-NO-mite" - what TV show was that on anyway? Stop it! K, so Nat's Dynomite Blog it is. Original? Hell, no. But at least I've got "the word" - and the rest of my dirty laundry will finally have a home to air.