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Their Summer Vacation

Their Summer Vacation

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Alfie and Toby were not invited to Portugal or Florida or Virginia Beach. They are also not invited to Deep Creek Lake in Maryland, where the family is now gathered for a week of intergenerational fun. 

But they did have a couple of hours al fresco over the weekend, when brownies baking in a nonstick pan required their temporary removal from the hook in the kitchen they call home. (Nonstick coatings can be lethal to birds.)

The daring duo seemed to like it outside. They surveyed the backyard, reveled in the oppressive humidity, and sought each other’s company when the bluejays squawked. 

It was a brief change of scene, but sometimes that’s all you need!

(Alfie in blue on the left and Toby on the right, his green plumage almost camouflaging him.)

Of Egrets and Storage

Of Egrets and Storage

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It’s a new month and I’m starting it off by cleaning up my i-Phone. This is seldom a task I enter into willingly. Usually a storage crisis sends me into a tailspin and forces me to delete large attachments (often photos I already have but had sent others) or uninstall apps. 

A painful process, indeed. But I remind myself that it’s no more than editing: what I’ve done throughout my career — removing the extraneous. 

But deciding what’s extraneous … ah, that’s the rub! 

(What does an egret have to do with i-Phone storage? Not much. It just reminds me of elegant simplicity, something I strive for in my data storage!)

Quiet

Quiet

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As a walker in the suburbs, I thrive on the noises I hear along my route. On the beach, which I leave today, these may be the squawks of a gull or the pounding of the surf.  

But this week I’ve also spent much time in a pool, and I’m reminded what a silent world that can be, what a different form of exercise, floating or treading water, or doing the crawl or breaststroke, head submerged, ears closed to the sounds of the day. 

It’s a meditative space, the world of water. And above all, it is quiet. 

Accidental Tourist

Accidental Tourist

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A novel that I still remember years after reading it is Anne Tyler’s The Accidental Tourist. The protagonist writes travel books for people who find themselves in a place they didn’t expect to be. Yesterday, I found myself in a similar position: stuck in Charlotte, North Carolina, for the night. 

I was not alone. Hundreds of stranded passengers lined up at the American Airlines kiosk, frantically searched for hotel rooms, a task made more difficult by the fact that Garth Brooks was performing and there were basically no rooms in town. 

Luckily, I snagged the last room available in a marginal motel in an outer burb,  found a taxi willing to take me there, and slept on a queen mattress rather than the airport floor. 

Which meant that today I was an accidental tourist in Matthews, North Carolina.  

Different Shores

Different Shores

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Yesterday, a trip to Virginia Beach for a wedding. On the way, a bridge and tunnel, with views across the Chesapeake Bay all the way to the Atlantic. 

It looked gray and cold, this ocean, although it was the same one I saw only a few weeks ago from the other side. 

There, I could look down on it from above, could see the shades of turquoise, navy and cerulean.  I could walk a trail up and down cliffs that hugged the coves.  I could see the flowering cactus up close. Here, I could sense the vast expanse, waves lapping all the way to the Old World.

The same sea, different shores. 

Heavy Metal

Heavy Metal

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As the world economy continues to slump, the dollar and euro have nearly reached parity. Although this may be good news for American travelers in Europe, it’s hardly a happy situation. It does make me think about the euro, though, and how I felt about it when I was over there. 

The smallest paper currency is, of course, the €5 note, which means that denominations smaller than that, including €1, are coins. 

I felt the weighty difference when I was traveling. Does it cause one to spend more or less? The former, I think, since one might be tempted to treat the €1 as a quarter.  But it is more honest. The dollar buys so little these days it may as well be a coin.

So it gave me pause, these differences in currency. Think how much heavier our pockets and purses would be if we were to adapt a similar model. But would it make more sense in the long run? I think so. 

Portugal’s Pastry

Portugal’s Pastry

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I’ve mentioned them before, the pasteis de nata, the national pastry of Portugal. After finishing the box of six purchased in the Lisbon airport, I began to dream of the dense, flaky pastry, the creamy custard filling. 

The dreams led to research, a recipe and a video tutorial. The process would take four hours with no guarantee of success. It involved multiple foldings of dough and applications of softened unsalted butter. I tried to imagine myself doing it and couldn’t quite conjure the picture.

But surely in a major metropolitan area, there should be a bakery that sells pasteis de nata. So I began searching for such a place. I found one in a faraway corner of the city, then another right in Reston. I met friends there Friday to sample the wares. Not bad for a stateside rip-off. 

Then yesterday, a neighbor who visited Portugal recently herself dropped off a packet of six pastries. She found them, of all places, in a Lidl store, a discount grocer that apparently has a bakery! Who knew? 

I haven’t yet tasted the delicacies, but they sure look like the real thing!

Thoughts on the Fourth

Thoughts on the Fourth

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On one of my first trips abroad, the passengers in the airplane burst into applause when we landed back in the U.S. It wasn’t a difficult landing or an especially long flight. But it was a less jaded age, and I, novice flyer, started clapping, too.

I had more mixed feelings re-entering the U.S. a week ago. While we were away there were more mass shootings, several disturbing Supreme Court rulings (one of which produced equally disturbing vandalism at my Catholic church last week), and explosive testimony about the actions of our former president. 

I love my country, but three weeks away from it was refreshing. I read no newspapers, watched no televised news. I took a break from our Weltschmerz, an Old World term that has become a surprisingly apt way to describe our not-so-new problems. 

Tyranny, inequality and intolerance have always been with us. Many came here in hopes of escaping them. But they are part of the human conditions, and they have followed us here. 

In my optimistic moments I still think the grand experiment that is the United States of America can weather these difficult, polarizing times. But it will take our efforts and our prayers and our sacrifice to do so. I hope we are up to the task. 

Walking the Line

Walking the Line

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The temptation, for me at any rate, is to say, this time last week, I was … exploring a palace, clambering up the ramparts in a castle, nibbling a delectable almond pastry in a tiny cafe.

Not the healthiest approach to re-entry. So I tell myself that vacations can’t go on forever, that I don’t live in a quaint European village, and that, in short, I should get on with it.

On the other hand, I see no harm in letting my mind drift to the narrow lanes of Barrio Santa Cruz in Seville and the lull that comes over them before the restaurants open for dinner at 7:00 or 7:30.  Or the view I would wake up to in Sintra, turrets and towers tucked in among the green. 

There’s a fine line between dissatisfaction and enlargement. And I’m trying to walk it right now.

The Concert

The Concert

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The crowd began to gather 30 minutes before the performance, a ragtag group of concert-goers, including students, friends of the musicians, and a few tourists thrown into the mix.  It was our last night in Portugal and we had been wondering how to spend it when I happened upon an announcement of a concert on the grounds of the Quinta da Regaleira, of spiral staircase fame. What fun it would be to return in the evening, just as the last light was slanting onto the twisted spires and tree trunks! 

That was before we arrived to find a black-clad musician (perhaps the cellist?) exclaiming to the guard on duty that, at least from what I could make out, something was missing at the venue. Forty-five minutes later, we were escorted through the grounds of the Quinta right up to the stage where the Damas de Sao Carlos, a 10-member all-female ensemble (plus a male harpsichordist) had taken the stage. The musicians came from Hungary, Poland, Bulgaria and Portugal. They had decked out their concert black with scarves of scarlet, blue and green. 

We had barely taken our seats when they launched into “Spring” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” How the music filled and animated that special space! How good it was to hear those familiar notes in that unfamiliar setting. And how strangely comforting: it reminded me that just as music transcends all languages, travel transcends all cultures. It draws us together. It makes us, however briefly, one.