Pretty Bubbles

One rarely thinks of bubbles when contemplating football. Either variety – American or “the real kind,” as the Europeans would have us believe. However, call out a West Ham United fan on this, and you risk dismemberment, or worse.

You see, the Hammers, with their uniform of burgundy and blue, emblazoned with a bold gold castle and crossed hammers, have chosen a somewhat curious fight song. It is a sight to behold a crowd, 30,000 strong, belting out “Pretty Bubbles” at the top of their lungs as their squad takes the field. Sure, there is some spirited clapping at the end, but being an outsider to the scene made me think that as songs go, their choice did not inspire the fear in the enemy it was meant to.

That said, a football match in England is an amazing experience. The entire stadium shimmers in burgundy and blue. Every seat is filled. The excitement is palpable as the players take the pitch, rising steadily as the match begins. Singing, chanting, screaming. Even a trio of streakers take the field, running a victorious lap before being hauled off by myriad of police and security. Every attempt on goal has the side closest to it rising to their feet, leaning forward, breath bated, waiting to scream out in case of success, or groan in the event of failure.

West Ham United is in a precarious position. Second from the bottom in the England Premiership, the team risks being relegated to a lower league. Therefore, every match is a must-win situation. Fortunately for the Hammers, Everton’s star player goes down in the first few minutes of the match, thanks in part to a not-so-subtle shove from one of the West Ham players. The referee punishes West Ham for this stunt the rest of the match, failing to notice when one of the Everton players blatantly kicks the goalie and finding six minutes of stoppage time at the end of the match. Nevertheless, with Everton’s star down for the count, West Ham gains the momentum, and finishes with a 1-0 victory.



During half-time, a rousing rendition of the team song breaks out in the concourse. I am pressed up against a wall, waiting for Bree, surrounded by about 1,000 rowdy fans swigging beer and singing. “Don’t you support us?” says a short, cap-wearing man near me. There is only one right answer. “Then why aren’t you singing our song?” he demands. It is a challenge, and the wrong response could get me in trouble. Think fast, think fast. “I’m shy,” I babble, hoping for the best. “No need to be shy around me girl,” he leers. Pretty bubbles, indeed.

Melons

Image by 2725

4/19 – 4/20/07
Let’s go back a little in time.

The scene: a small kitchen, where a young man and woman scramble through dishes and lunch on their way out the door.

She, soaping and rinsing, he spoon feeding (ok, fork feeding) pieces of melon to her at high speeds. Will the melon be eaten, freeing the container it was in to be washed in time? Or will she have to stop down and dry for a bit, while the feeding frenzy continues. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat melon again,” she says, gulping down the last piece.

Fast… Forward…

The scene: a large, inter-continental airplane. A young man and woman are seated in a row, five across, waiting for the arrival of their much-anticipated airline dinner. Their last meal, if you will, and bearing all the similarities to prison food that the name implies.

The flight attendant arrives, carrying not one, but two vegetarian meals. She takes hers gratefully. She did special order it after all, and hopes that whatever is on the tray is more edible than the homogenous, identically shaped pieces of chicken her neighboring travelers are munching on.

He, on the other hand, is waiting for his homogenous meal. Therefore, when the flight attendant brings him a dinner, utterly unidentifiable as any food group of this earth, he is less than pleased. “But I don’t want a vegetarian meal,” he pleads. The flight attendant won’t hear of it. There are only so many meals and so many people. And the fact that one of his own neighbors requests and is denied a vegetarian meal, just as the young man is offering to give up his, makes no difference. Leaving the young man only to munch sulkily on the melon slices that came with it.

Time Lapse…

Time has passed. Day has turned to night and to day again. Sun replaced darkness, and little over 30 miles separate the Boeing 777 and London. It is now April 20th, and bleary-eyed passengers are woken to the promise of croissants. Again, the quest fro turning Bree vegetarian perseveres, and we both find ourselves with special meals. By now he’s learned better than to argue.

On the plate? Juice, a bagel-like substance and, yes, a small container of melon.

Roger Daltry and the John Wayne of Italian Spaghetti Westerns

4/19 - We arrived at the airport 3 hours before our flight- plenty of time to check in, request a change of seats (which we were denied, in no uncertain terms), and kick back a few drinks at the airport bar, watching the ever-changing cast of transient drinkers, tying one on before their flight.

Standing in the check-in line, we were chatted up by Robert Woods (http://www.myspace.com/actorrobertwoods – of course), who was on his way to Rome to host the Torino Film Festival. It turns out, Mr. Woods, now 70 and looking not a day over 60, was at one point quite a star on the Italian Western circuit. Perhaps even the John Wayne of his time – we were clearly in the presence of greatness.

Spry, fit, funny and ever the showman, Robert entertained us with stories of travel in the days of yore, the freedoms an American once enjoyed both abroad and at home, and smoking doobies to relax before a flight.

So passed the first few official moments of our trip – proof that talking to your neighboring travelers leads to far more interesting revelations than keeping to yourself. A reminder that travel is as much about the people you meet as the places you visit.

Moments later, going through security, we caught a glimpse of Robert chatting up another young traveler. The same engaging panache, the same storytelling prowess shone from him as he entertained the guy in line and, mostly himself. He was done with us, the whore – but we were happy for the moments he allotted to us. Such is the power exuded by good actors.

Still, fate was not completely done with us. As we prepared to board the plane, we caught a glimpse of what we are 99.9% sure was The Who’s Roger Daltry and his entourage, readying themselves for first class. Only going from LA to London… Our journey has truly begun.

Where Art Thou, Chester Row?

Riding the Piccadilly Line from Heathrow into central London, we met a lonely Italian suitcase. Whether it had decided to extend its vacation, or simply wanted to see London without its rightful owners (perhaps they were slowing it down), the blue valise was riding the tube alone. We were going to strike up an acquaintance, but our stop came, and the travel bag continued on its own path.



We arrived at the Lime Tree Hotel checked in, and set out to explore London right away. The weather, unusually sunny and warm, seemed to be on our side. Our first sightseeing stop was the self-proclaimed, award winning Cornish Pasty Shoppe. Two pasties later, we were off to Buckingham Palace.



It was pretty. It was grand. And very regal. The guards stood very still. We saw evidence of the passage of some royal horses.



I was a wimp for not wanting to run past the guard with the fully loaded AK-47 or even take a picture of him. What a sissy.

Walking down through Westminster, we stopped at the Westminster Cathedral. The mosaics inside were stunning, and no photo could capture the grand scale of the church. Still, we tried. We both lit candles and went on – so much to see!





Walking past Parliament and Big Ben, we headed up Whitehall, where Bree made up for my cowardice by taking a photo of the AK-47 wielding guard at Tony Blair’s “crib,” aka 10 Downing Street.





After our first English pint at the Red Lion,





we crossed Westminster Bridge to the London Eye, a ginormous Ferris-wheel-like contraption that was built for the Millennium celebration. The ride offers spectacular views of the Thames and surrounding sighs.















Jet lag and lack of sleep were catching up to us, and we dragged back to the Lime Tree to get ready for dinner. After checking with the front desk, we decided to check out the Duke of Wellington Pub, for some English food. It was literally around the corner. A 5-minute walk, if that. I checked the map. I noted the directions. I left the map at the hotel…

Forty-five minutes later, after we had walked the better part of our neighborhood, and seen what may have been a dead body (or a glove, we’re still not sure) we gave up. Chester Row DID NOT EXIST. We settled into the restaurant next door to our hotel.

The next morning we checked our map. We had been walking up and down the wrong street.

Looking Sideways

As we prepare for leaving on a jet plane, it's easy to lose sight of the beauties of the journey by getting caught up in the details of travel: how much currency should we exchange? do I need the bathing suit? are the adapter and the converter one item, or two distinct implements? are there ATMs in Bonnieux?

My husband and I travel quite often, and have become experts in packing for intra-continental trips. In fact, its rare that we are packing prior to 2am the night before we leave. Yet Europe has rendered me somewhat of a befuddled fool. So to avoid the temptation to descend into panic, or to pack every item of clothing and electronics I own, I will look back on a trip we took last month, and see if it can give me inspiration.

It was a trip of a manageable size - a weekend, specifically - when my husband, his father and the dog - it a word, our entire local family - took off for Santa Barbara. It was a birthday trip for my father-in-law, who had lived there years earlier, but had never explored the wine region of the Central Coast. So weekend bags and dog bed in hand (or in trunk, technically speaking), we hit the road up the coast.





The weather was gorgeous - perfect for enjoying the beauty that is the San Ysidro Valley, and all the vineous bounty it has to offer.

We started off, going winery to winery, Sideways style. Well, minus the debauchery and womanizing.

After sampling some local wares, we settled down for a pre-packed picnic, overlooking a valley. The sun shone, a hawk flew by, my dog got himself a girlfriend (ok, so maybe there was some womanizing). We were, as my FIL said, "In God's country."





As the day drew to a close, we stopped at an ostrich farm. Drunk from the beauty, the heat and, well, the drink, we descended on the fields of ostriches, grazing blissfully as the sun sank behind them. Robert (the FIL) somehow talked the attendant into letting all of us, including the dog - who was now a "labrador mix," not a pit bull - out back to feed the giant birds.






It only lasted a few minutes, but looking back on the trip, I think not to the planning, not to the packing, not even to the wine. But to the image of a 60+-year-old man, laughing blissfully, as he feeds ostriches for the first time in his life.

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...