I’m a sucker for the half-timbered look, and we have it in spades here. The Angel Hotel was thriving in the 15th century and its vaulted stone undercroft dates from the 1300s. This is a beam and ceiling in our room. Sturdy, is it not?
Guildford’s sister city — Freiburg, Germany — also has its share of half-timbered buildings, or Fadhwerkhäuser. But the cities are linked by more than medieval construction methods. They came together in 1979 to promote friendship, cultural exchange and world peace.
They’re still working on that final point. But at least they’re trying.
From Dulles to Heathrow, from jet plane to motor coach, from a sleek modern airport to a 16th-century hostelry. That was today’s long journey, or I should say yesterday-into-today’s journey. The lines are starting to blur between days and continents.
I write this post from the Angel Hotel with its four-poster bed, half-timbered ceilings, and perfect view of Guildford’s High Street.
Our traveling companions just landed. We’ll wait for them in the pub.
The last time I was in England we just dipped our toes into the country. We’d been touring Scotland and took a day trip through the borderlands to explore Hadrian’s Wall.
Today, we leave for three weeks in Britain, almost 10 days of that time visiting Celia’s in-laws in Surrey, then some adventures on our own. We’ve been planning this trip for months.
Now that departure day has arrived I feel again that mixture of awe and anxiety that precedes a trip: Did I check all the boxes? Have I packed everything I need? Properly printed off the train ticket QR codes?
I’m hoping those answers are yes because I’m about out of time. Tomorrow morning we land on “this sceptered isle.”
A return, a sigh, a backward glance. I’m home now, absorbing the trip to NYC. It lasted a work week, but my only job was to walk, tour and savor the city.
On one of many excursions, I briefly relived one of my all-time favorite running routes. I would roll out of bed a little before 7 a.m., lace up my shoes, and make my way, half-asleep, to the Central Park Reservoir trail.
Back then you could run around whichever way you liked. Now, it’s counterclockwise only. No problem: counterclockwise gave us this splendid view of the San Remo Towers, lording it over their wedge of Central Park West.
Did I really live and walk here? Yes, I did. And for five perfect days, I did again.
Ah, there is so much to say about visiting Manhattan. So much that when I first sat down to write today I didn’t know where to begin!
But I did/ do know this. Such richness, such crazy, jarring richness, is made possible by something we don’t have in the suburbs: urban density.
Here into less than 22.6 square miles flow three to four million people every day. Here are museums, concert halls, restaurants, libraries, universities, even cherry trees (take that, D.C.!). Here are all sorts of people rubbing shoulders (and sometimes bumping into) all sorts of other people.
I sample the city as if it were an exotic yet comforting stew, spoonful by delicious spoonful.
(It’s easier to photograph cherry trees than urban density. All that jostling, you know)
From the time I was a little girl I’ve heard on the radio, “Live from the Metropolitan Opera in New York City” — and last night we were there, in the very place.
Truth to tell, for most of my life that announcement prompted an immediate change of station. But lately that has not been the case. Living with an opera lover is starting to rub off on me.
Last year for Christmas, I gave that opera lover two tickets to Verdi’s “La Traviata.” I hoped he would take me along. And he did!
So we took the train to New York City and last evening walked six blocks downtown, entered Lincoln Center and were swept up into the crowd. It was a chilly Tuesday and the place was packed. Some women wore long gowns and some men wore tuxedos, though most were dressed more casually. In other words, it was an audience writ as large as New York City. And it was as enthusiastic as the city, too. Arias and choruses were greeted with applause and shouts of “bravo” and “brava.”
The beauty and pathos of the music would touch even the stoniest of hearts. Here was the human condition in voice and song — performed in a city that appreciates it.
For some people, attending a Met opera is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I hope it isn’t for us.
It’s almost as if the suburbs knew where I was going. Yesterday, a few hours before leaving on a train for New York City, I took a walk in the neighborhood. The redbud, dogwood and tulips clamored for attention. See how beautiful we are, they seemed to say. Why visit the concrete jungle?
Because it’s energizing and life-enhancing. Because it’s where I lived for five and a half years — at a time in my life when half-years counted.
I haven’t lived in the city in decades, but I’ve missed it and longed for it and visited it as often as possible. All it takes is a return — a getaway like the one I’m on now — to rekindle that excitement.
The suburbs threw everything they had at me yesterday. But I left them anyway — for a few days.
I titled last year’s post Hike and Sip and illustrated it with a view of the Atlantic Ocean framed by an orange tree (the view you see above, as a matter of fact).
I wrote the post on the Portuguese island of Madeira, where I was this time last year. Hard not to think of that sunny spot as I look out my office window at a foggy, wintry world. Hard not to think of the little teahouse on a hill, of the hiking trail that took us there.
Not that I’m complaining. I was lucky to be where I was last year and am lucky this year. too. Lucky to have warmth on the way (it’s supposed to be 70 on the weekend), lucky to have breath in my lungs and a skip in my step. Lucky most of all to have so many dear ones in my life.
Still, I’m going to indulge myself for just a moment. As I sip my tea this morning I’ll pretend that I’m staring not at a snippet of Virginia piedmont but at the vast shining ocean, at bougainvillea and rhododendron and calla lilies, at red tile roofs that stretch to the sea.
We’ve entered the double digit dates of February. The snow is melting, but not fast enough. It’s time for a virtual vacation.
I”m thinking of friends vacationing in Madeira. No trip there for us this winter, but many memories. Last year we hiked across the island, beginning on the Mimosa Trail, then traversing Madeira’s vertiginous spine along Boca do Risco. I’m a scaredy cat, and there were spots along this trail where I refused to look down, across or anywhere but the path directly in front of me. When I did raise my eyes, I saw the view you see above.
A few hours later, we were climbing down to the village of Machico. It had clouded up by then, but the rain held off and we sat outside at a cafe planning how we would get home. Bus schedules were consulted, poncha was consumed. A few hours later, we arrived back at the hotel, muddy, tired and filled to the brim with the beauty and charm of this special island.
Last night I went to Mali. I stepped into a darkened room, found a seat close to the stage, and listened as one of the world’s premier kora players brought forth … a nation.
I know little about African music, had never heard of the kora until a few weeks ago. But a friend did know about this 21-stringed harp-and-lute-like instrument and about virtuoso player Ballaké Sissoko, and he took us to a show that was transporting in every way. One kora sounds like at least two instruments, so full and rich is the sound.
If I closed my eyes I could see the red dirt of the Sahel from a trip through northern Benin with Suzanne 11 years ago. I could feel the Harmattan wind that blows through the region this time of year, the warm sun of the afternoon and the chilliness of the mornings.
At the northernmost terminal of our bus trip, we were near Niger, which borders Mali. That’s as close as I’ve ever been to the country. Until last night.
