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Nostalgic reminiscences

12 Dec

12 December, 2023.

Where you were and who you were with last Christmas? How about Thanksgiving of 1986? What gifts did you give your teenage son in 1990?

For many years my mom, sister, and I would have an inevitable discussion. Were we at our cousin’s last year for Christmas or at our house? Did we give Derek Hot Wheels or Legos? What year did he get that Walkman?

In 1981, in an attempt to resolve arguments before they started, I started to chronicle the Thanksgiving holiday and Christmas season. Now, 42 years later, it seems brilliant. My recall is not what it used to be. I still remember the events; not always the details such as precise years.

I have written about memories at this time of year twice before (see Christmas Memories from 2017 and Christmas Cards & Cookies from 2021) so it may be a blog trend.

I read through my holiday journal this year and a few more things popped out at me as fun to share.

For 4 years, while I was single and living in Minnesota, I held a Christmas Open House for friends, co-workers (some were both friends and co-workers) with a few family members for good measure. It was always the Sunday before Christmas and several dozen people visited throughout the afternoon and evening. My Christmas Chronicles detailed my menus. Here’s an example.

  • Glogg, a deadly Swedish mulled wine
  • Cranberry Punch, non-alcoholic
  • Japanese Yakitori
  • Sombrero Dip (very 80s!)
  • Köttbullar  (aka, Swedish Meatballs, a family recipe from my grandma)
  • Terrine de Campagne
  • Empaniditas
  • Bond Ost and Herring (Swedish Christmas favorites)
  • Wontons
  • Curried Chicken Finger-Sandwiches
  • Swedish Julkaka (bread) and Various Cookies

I cooked for days. It was crazy and something I would do in my twenties and thirties that I would NOT do these days. I wish I had pictures of these buffets! This was BECP: Before Everyone had Cameras in Pockets.

Christmas in Omaha, 1984. Ric and I were newly engaged. Left to right, Audrey, Anna, and Ruby. Ric’s mom, my grandma of Swedish meatball fame, and my mom. Grandmas was 87 and it was the last Christmas she traveled.

Then there was the year 7-year-old Derek knocked over two bottles of wine just as we were leaving for dinner at my cousin’s, and it was the very wine I had bought for the occasion. Luckily there were alternate wines I was able to grab, but two bottles of wine lay broken on the basement floor. Yuck!

Another Thanksgiving (1984), just as Ric and I had decided to get married the following year, we got a Siamese kitten for Derek, who was then 9. My step-daughter contributed a name for this naughty kitty, Méchante. She was cherished and with us for many years.

There were some very cold Christmases. In 1983, my final Christmas in Minnesota as we were moving to Omaha (this is pre-Ric), as of December 26 at midnight we had experienced 108 hours below zero. One day the high was only -15 degrees F. The high! That year it was so cold that on the morning of our Christmas Open House I woke to frozen pipes and no functioning toilets. Luckily they thawed by party time.

Although not so cold, we have had weather problems in Oregon, too. In 2008, the snow came and came and came in a series of storms. We lived at about 800 feet and could not get our cars out. Mine was stuck in the driveway for 8 days over Christmas. Our friends could not get to us and our neighbors could not get to their planned festivities so we invited stranded neighbors for Christmas Eve. We remember that evening fondly. There were two magnums of great Australian wine at the start of the evening. There were no leftovers.

Another year – 1987 – both holidays were overshadowed by our move from Omaha to Portland. At Halloween we found our house. Over Thanksgiving weekend we selected furniture and window coverings. December 29 we moved in. Whew! Sadly, we missed the wedding of Rick and Jane.

My sister and I had not missed one Christmas since she was born (1960) until 1985. She went to California, no doubt tired of the Upper Midwest cold. I missed her terribly that year. It wasn’t the same without her. She was co-hostess of the Christmas Open House (mostly in name as she was most assuredly not a cook) for at least two years.

Derek loved The Nutcracker. We attended, at his request, four performances, until at the age of 11 he said it was enough. Many years we went to plays and concerts during Advent. At least until he grew into a disinterested teenager.

This is about the age that Derek fell in love with The Nutcracker. Same year he killed the wine.

There were holiday trips. 1996 Thanksgiving in Texas was a favorite. Our brother-in-law built a plywood cover over their lap pool so they could set up tables for about 2-dozen people and we dined outside. That year he also built a dormitory/bunkhouse for half-a-dozen young men and boys to sleep in so everyone had a bed on the ranch. Ric and I got the room with a shotgun over the door and a gigantic Texas cockroach for a target.

When we moved to Italy, we took advantage of being there for holiday trips to London, the Dolomites, and Switzerland. When you cannot celebrate in a traditional manner, go for different. The lights in London, a concert at Royal Albert Hall, snow-hiking in the Alps, 5-course dinners you don’t have to make yourself. Somehow we always remember that at the lovely lodge where we stayed in the Dolomites they had a “butter buffet” with about 8 kinds of butter. Every morning. We were the only Americans with many Germans and Italians for our fellow guests.

One favorite Thanksgiving of all time: Ric and I cooked for 12 Italian friends on Thanksgiving Day 2013. Truly memorable! Those kids are at university by now, maybe graduated.

I was often on the road for business in the 90s and in 1995 was headed to Buffalo, NY, for a meeting on a December Monday. Derek was at Fort Drum in the Army, so on the Friday before we met in New York City to spend a festive weekend. We had a ball: Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Radio City Music Hall “Christmas Spectacular” complete with camels pooping on the stage, and the Rockettes. (They just danced.) We shopped, we ate, and we drank. Sunday at the airport our flights were in trouble: a huge lake effect snowstorm had moved in so my flight to Buffalo was cancelled and his to Syracuse delayed. I never made it to Buffalo for my meeting and Derek spent two days getting back to base as there were five feet of snow between Syracuse and the base near Watertown!

Some years Ric and I were alone in Portland. While Derek was in the Army, we spent two Christmases at a nice lodge on the Oregon Coast with our giant collie, Babe. Other years we had friends and family in large groups (I remember 13 at least once in our down-sized empty-nester condo) to dinner. Always uproariously fun with Trivial Pursuit competitions.

Jane Gray, aka Janie, at 12. She lived another 10 years.

Since we have returned from living in Italy we have spent many wonderful Christmases in Durango with Rick and Jane. Our fifth will be this year, again establishing great memories over shared meals and countless bottles of wine at high altitude. We’ve had snowy years and not-so-snowy years, big gatherings and small, cancelled flights and changes of itinerary, power outages and an intervening pandemic, of course. But we’ve always had a festive and memorable holiday.

Durango Christmas morning 2021. All fresh snow.

My brother has become the Master of making Swedish pancakes, aka plättar. Mom used to make them every year but I have not mastered the technique. A wonderful Christmas morning treat regardless of the weather.

In the end, these holidays embody time with loved ones and “home” wherever it may be. And that is what we remember. The events, the people, the problems, the victories. We forget most of the presents unless we wrote them down. (Though I’ll never forget getting my Barbie Dream House.)

As I wish you a festive and wonderful time during the year-end holidays I leave you with this lovely Italian saying:

Il Natale è un incontro con la memoria, ci porta a casa, inevitabilmente.

Christmas is an encounter with memory, it brings us home, inevitably

 – Lorenzo Marone

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Christmas cards & cookies

17 Dec

17 December 2022.

Childhood memories have a powerful influence that seems even stronger as we age. Christmas memories can be particularly profound after decades of revisiting traditions from our youth. Reflecting on those memories from a distance of 60+ years offers a far different view than when you are 25.

My mother was a force at Christmas. I did not always recognize that. Where she got the energy in the 1950s and 1960s after working hard all day, on her feet as a nurse (in white uniform, cap, and sensible shoes, of course) I do not know. She came home and night-after-night wrote cards to dozens of people. This was not simply a matter of pulling out the address book and working through it, and she certainly did not have at her disposal the time-saver of a printer to merge addresses with address labels. Out came the cardboard table to reside in a corner of the living room until Christmas Eve day. Out came the boxes of cards, address book, holiday stamps, and the Christmas Card Ledger. We’d call it a “tracker” these days, I suppose. This ledger was a list of everyone she had sent cards to the prior years. Alongside their names, there were several columns encompassing years with a check box each for “sent” and “received.” Mom could record each person she graced with a card by year and also record if we had received one from them. I recall her having a guideline that if you did not receive a card from someone for two-or-three years, you dropped them from the outbound list.

A Christmas card from the Nortons was not simply signed or imprinted “Ruby & Eric,” (later by her name alone) but every single one included a personal note of some sort. It might be “It was great to see you in July,” or “We enjoyed the pictures of your family.” Mom did not think it appropriate to send a card if you weren’t going to personalize it. Some notes were longer and although I do not recall any Christmas Letters, there may have been one. Each card was hand addressed, return addressed, and stamped. Dozens of these went out each year and dozens were received, each sender dutifully recorded in her ledger. There was one photo card that I was clever enough to hang onto.

Circa 1959, brother Rick, our dachshund Pete, and me. Photo by our dad, no doubt.

Once the cards were done, the card table was put to use making at least five kinds of traditional Swedish Christmas cookies. Our favorite was probably the sandbakkels, a delicate buttery sugar cookie made in a special tin. We liked to put ice cream in them. Others included krumkaka, pepparkakor, snowballs (aka Russian tea cakes), and spritz. Other than the snowballs these delicate confections were futzy to make, requiring care in handling, control of humidity (not a problem in a Minnesota winter), and storage where your children could not access them until Christmas Eve. I recall there being peanut blossoms some years and sugar cookies my sister and I could decorate. Grandma made rosettes, but that is another story.

Mom made DOZENS of each cookie. Some went to neighbors in the popular cookie-exchanges of the era, but most were saved for the festive dinners whether at our house or one of the grandparents’.

Intermittently Mom would use said card table for wrapping gifts. This was often done after our bedtime, of course, and Santa gifts were always wrapped in a paper we had not seen in the household supply so the myth was perpetuated visually in the wrapping. I think only once, well past my years of innocent belief, did I discover a hiding place.

Of course all of those gifts were purchased in person. Mail order was rare in our house and there were downtown trips with Grandma and Mom during which I am certain some gifts were procured as we waited to see Santa.

I was just shy of two-years-old in this picture. Brother Rick was four years older. He still is.

We always got at least one thing we desperately wanted (Barbie Dream House, anyone?) and I know now that was not easy for our parents financially. There were full stockings although I always thought an orange and an apple in the toe made unfortunate filler. Raised in the Depression, Mom thought it practical.

Eventually little Nancy came along, 7 years after me. This is about 1964.

The truly crazy thing my parents did for several years was to invite in the neighbors, close friends, and sometimes teachers (I was honored and mortified when my 5th grade teacher showed up) to come ON CHRISTMAS DAY for brunch! They arrived over a period of a couple of hours, probably 3 dozen people all told, to eat Swedish sausage and Swedish pancakes. My mother labored over the Plett pan all morning, making 7 tiny, delicate, delicious pancakes at a time to refill the serving platter on the table until everyone was satisfied. No wonder we always were at the grandparents for Christmas dinner. Making all those pancakes is no small feat. I can barely make the darn things at all (it requires patience I do not have), but my brother has mastered the craft and we look forward to his Christmas breakfasts every year.

A Swedish Plett pan in which one makes plättar which are served with lingonberries. Yum!

Also at the brunch on Christmas Day, our dad poured eggnogs with rum and God-knows-what other cocktails while Mom sweated over the electric range and manned the electric skillet frying the sausage. Her cookies were also consumed in mass quantities that day. I remember her being dressed up, hair and make-up done, wearing a pretty Christmas apron.

I did not follow my mother into nursing nor did I ever master her cookies. My papparkakor always broke and since IKEA makes a very good ginger thin in a pretty Christmas tin, why go to the nightmare of making those from scratch? My sandbakkels either came out of the tins too thick and tough, or if as thin as they should be, crumbled upon release from the tins. I did not have my mother’s touch.

This is what sandbakkels should look like.

This year, after more than a decade, I managed to make krumkaka although taking 60-90 seconds per cookie to make them one-at-a-time taxed my patience. My first batch was lovely but humidity softened them up by the next day. I consulted my co-blogger Krumkaker for her Norwegian version. I am delighted to report that the batch I made yesterday is delightfully crisp today and they taste even better. They are incredibly delicate and with apologies to my brother, they are not going to make the trip to Durango. Next year I will send you a krumkaka iron and figure out how make them at a high elevation. I am bringing some not-fancy-but-tasty treats, calories be damned.

My first batch of krumkaka, tasty but failed in Oregon humidity. And my “new” krumkaka iron looking like one already any years old thanks to all the butter in the batter.

Similarly I do not send Christmas cards; at least not very many. I love receiving the cards and photos and letters from our friends but making a list and writing out cards is just not one of my habits at the holidays. For a few years I followed the trend of doing an e-card, cobbling together pictures from our travels. Now when we take our annual trips we talk about getting a really good picture of us together and maybe doing a card. We got exactly one picture together (below) on our 2022 trip which I classify as “not bad,” but certainly not worthy of designing a card around.

So apologies to my dear friends who take the time to write cards and letters and perhaps to send photos of children, grandchildren, and travels. We relish reading them and feeling like we have a little more connection as a result. Please do not take us off your lists!

This blog is my way of connecting to you and if you follow along, you have an idea of what we’ve been doing over the course of the year. Thank you for coming along on our adventures.

A Merry Christmas, (or Buon Natale or God Jul), Happy Hannukah, and Happy New Year to you all! May your holidays include some of the magic of youthful memories.

Hiking in the Alpe di Siusi, September 2022.

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Christmas memories

18 Dec
18 December 2017
It’s been fully seven years since we last spent Christmas in our own home in the U.S. As I decorated the house, purchased gifts, and wrapped the presents, I have been reflecting on prior Christmases from when I was a child, from young adulthood, and over the 33 Christmases that Ric and I have been together.

My first Christmas, 1953, pictured with my big brother, Rick, and our dachshund, Peter, at Grandma & Grandpa’s house.

My earliest memories of Christmas are from about 1957 or 1958. Before that, I have only photos to tell me a little about our holidays.  What I do remember vividly: tangerines in the toes of our stockings (whoever thought that was what a kid wanted to find?); a flocked tree with silver & gold decorations (very modern! 1960?); tinsel on Grandma’s tree; an eggnog and cookie sugar high on Christmas morning while we opened presents; my parents’ insane tradition of inviting a few dozen friends and neighbors for a Christmas Day breakfast buffet of Swedish pancakes and sausage. I am certain my mother hated that stress and workload, but Dad was a real entertainer. Perhaps one reason their marriage failed eventually.

Also from 1953, my first visit to Santa at about age 10 months with brother Rick.

Swedish traditions ran through our celebrations. Our grandparents were all born in Sweden so their foods were the building blocks of the Christmas Eve feast. Swedish sausage, rutmus (a questionable concoction of rutabagas and mashed potatoes), sometimes the vile lutefisk, always limpa rye bread. And those lovely, delicate Swedish pancakes along with julekaka on Christmas morning.
My mother used to make dozens of complicated and delicate cookies every year. Several nights during the season she would come home from work and spend hours over such delicacies as sandbakkelse, pepparkakor, krumkake, rosettes, fattigman, and spritz, as well as Mexican Wedding cookies. All were stored in boxes in the hall closet which we dared not touch without permission. They were for Christmas, not before! We were only allowed to eat the broken and less-than-perfect specimens.

Classic family picture, probably for the Christmas card, in 1964. Brother Rick, sister Nancy, and me. And another flocked tree!

I cannot make many of these cookies. I never mastered the delicate touch required for Sandbakkelse or pepparkakor and my spritz took on demented forms although I can turn out a decent krumkake. Mom would be appalled to find that IKEA sells a pepparkakor to rival hers, albeit without the tiny almond slivers.
For many years I made limpa and julekaka but that has faded away except for the odd year I make these breads as house gifts. (Invite me over and I just might bless you with one!)
Some years our decorations were extensive and some not. Once I wrapped several large framed pieces of art with Christmas red foil wrap and white ribbon. One year I used fabric as gift wrap. My Martha Stewart moments. By contrast, when we were waiting for our house to be built, living in a temporary apartment with three cats and a gigantic collie, all of our Christmas stuff was in storage as our house was supposed to be ready by early December. Apartment bound, we had an evergreen in a pot on our patio that we strung with lights and a single red candle on the mantle.

That’s me, front-and-center, with the 1970 Santa Lucia candidates at out Swedish Lutheran church, Gustavus Adolphus.

For many years there was a nativity, but eventually, so few pieces remained unbroken it was discarded. When Derek was little he liked to hang “Herk” on the roof of the manger shed. You know, “Herk, the herald angel” from the carol.
The church was a big part of the holidays until we became rather “unchurched” (Lapsed Lutheran here). 11:00 pm services on Christmas Eve, Sunday School pageants, choir concerts, and Advent wreaths. In 1970 I was a candidate for the Lucia Queen at our Swedish Lutheran Church in St. Paul. Didn’t get crowned, though. Mom said, “They gave it to the rich girl.”
Many holiday seasons were spent working in retail, which can ruin Christmas for you if you aren’t careful. My high school and college jobs were in retail but luckily back then stores were not open extended hours like today. We still closed at 21:00 and Sundays were Noon-17:00. When Ric and I had a retail store, it was so overwhelming at Christmas that I barely remember having a tree one year.

Derek, 1977. So sweet!

Then there was the year we almost killed Mom. Our mother worked hard as a nurse for 44 years. Often she was stuck working Christmas Eve or Day. One year she was quite unhappy because my brother and his wife were not going to be able to travel to St. Paul for the holiday. After work on Christmas Eve, she was invited to my house after so she could be a guest and not the hostess. She came in from the cold Minnesota evening, her glasses fogging up, and much to her surprise my brother bellowed out “Merry Christmas.” She dropped everything she had in her hands and burst into tears. I thought she was going to keel over from the surprise. That was a good Christmas.
Our entire family lived in Minnesota when I was a child and young adult but eventually dispersed as careers and marriages took my siblings, cousins, and me to other states. Inevitably we would forget who-was-where for what holiday. My mom and I would argue about where we were the prior Christmas or Thanksgiving, and we would forget who-gave-what-to-whom as a gift. In order to stop the arguments short in 1980 I started keeping a holiday journal with all the relevant details. Many years I have whipped out that journal to solve a dispute or remind myself what had happened.
As youngsters and up until I was 30, we always gathered with our maternal cousins for the big holidays. Some years there were 15-20 people and no one had a very big house. Everyone brought part of the dinner so no one had to do everything. I remember a lot of fun, warm, wonderful gatherings as our cousins were practically siblings to us.

Ric’s sister and her family invaded Omaha for the holiday in 1985. We still talk about how much fun we had!

In the 33 years Ric and I have been together the cast of characters at the table have changed. Parents and my sister have passed away, cousins live far away. Our Oregon years have seen gatherings of friends and neighbors as well as a few holidays we spent alone by choice at the coast.
Our time in Rome was a huge change. We often traveled over Christmas enjoying winter wandern in the mountains or holiday lights in Paris and London. Last year we were freeloading at Derek’s while house hunting but enjoyed a traditional holiday in Durango, CO, with my brother and sister-in-law. A very white and merry holiday indeed!

Christmas Eve 2008, >8 inches of snow kept everyone from leaving the ‘hood.

On the other hand, Christmas 2008 sticks in memory due to the horrific weather we endured for a week. Day-after-day it snowed, cars got stuck, the airport shut down, offices closed. Living at 750 feet above sea level, my car was frozen to the driveway for eight days. I spent six hours getting home from work via public transportation on the 23rd. Our friends could not get to us for Christmas festivities and our neighbors could not leave the ‘hood. We pooled our resources, with Scott bringing 2 magnums of fine Australian Syrah while Ric, Derek, and I cooked a beef short-rib dinner. The weather was awful and inconvenient but we relish the memories of that holiday.
Bone-chilling cold is also a memory of Minnesota Christmases. For several years I held an open house on the Sunday before Christmas and I remember one year that it was so cold that when we got home from church that morning the toilets did not function. I am not certain how I got them working. Luck, I guess, because the party went on. One year I got drunk on Swedish glogg at my own open house. Heating it up does not really kill the alcohol. My sister poured me into bed and did all the cleanup.

Santa takes his dinner break at the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, Milano in 2015.

Bless all of you who plan ahead and send out hand-addressed Christmas cards every year. It is a tradition that I have let slip completely. I have embraced e-cards, which I know do not offer the same personal connection. I remember my mom, when not laboring over her cookie hoard, spending evenings sitting at a card table in the living room writing notes in cards, addressing them by hand, and carefully recording in her book who she had sent a card to and who she received them from. If she did not get a card from someone for two-or-three years, she dropped them from her list. Does anyone do that anymore? Track the giving and receiving of cards?

Ric and I at a mountain rifugio above Italy’s Val Gardena for Christmas Eve lunch.

Oh, so many more things come to mind as I write this! My Barbie Dream House from Santa in 1962; Going to our favorite Grandma’s on Orange Street in St. Paul with all of the cousins (how did we all fit in that tiny one-bathroom house?); Rushing home from church on Christmas Eve 1968 for the Apollo 8 moon orbit; Derek’s delight at receiving a rocking horse when he was a toddler; Traipsing around eastern Nebraska and western Iowa seeking a u-cut Christmas tree, finding none and ultimately buying one at the YMCA in Omaha; Pickled herring, sylta (headcheese), and Bond Öst for our Christmas Eve Swedish antipasto; Walking on an Oregon beach with frost on the sand; An Italian all-fish dinner on La Vigilia di Natale (Christmas Eve) at Antica Taverna in Roma; Hiking across the Alpe di Siusi on Christmas Day.

 

Preparing lunch for Epiphany in our embassy-provided apartment in Rome. Epiphany is a BIG DEAL in Italy.

Most of all, I like to remember being surrounded by family and friends, whether as a little tyke in Minnesota, or all those years gathered ‘round the (various) tables we set in Portland. The traditions may change, the location too, but the Christmas feeling is there with the ones we love.
Merry Christmas everybody!

Our 2017 tree in our new home in Lincoln City. Our first big tree since 2010.

 

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A day in the Cotswolds

17 Jan
The sun rises late in London just after the Solstice, in fact, a few minutes after 08:00. That didn’t stop us from seizing the day and taking a day in the country, thanks to the generosity of friends Carol and Nigel of the East Midlands.

St. John the Baptist in Burford, a so-called "wool church" as it was funded by wealth from wool.

St. John the Baptist in Burford, a so-called “wool church” as it was funded by wealth from wool.

Carol and Nigel got up before the birds and motored to London on Boxing Day to fetch us for a day in Nigel’s old stomping ground, the darling villages of the Cotswolds. You know you are in the Cotswolds when you start seeing names like Bourton-on-the-Water, Chipping Norton, and Barton-on-the-Heath. Thatch roofs appear and great spires above country churches with picturesque cemeteries and nameless gravestones. It’s like a movie set. No wonder Downton Abbey, Harry Potter, Poldark, The Remains of the Day, Bridget Jones Diary and many British shows have filmed scenes here. Even on a gray winter day (no rain!), it was charming, each village cuter than the last.
On the very edge of The Cotswolds we visited Bladon, where beside the village church, Winston Churchill is buried. Not in a great cathedral, like St. Paul’s or Westminster Abbey, rather this great man is buried in the countryside near his ancestral home, Blenheim Palace.
We toured Burford, Bladon, Bourton-on-the-Water, The Slaughters and more than I can remember. Nigel took us along twisty-turny roads I might not successfully navigate even with left-hand drive. A day is not enough. One only gets a sense of the peace and beauty of the English countryside. Best to come back when one can walk the paths through the green hills.
We wrapped up in Oxford, and while it was quiet on a holiday, it was nice to see the fabulous architecture without tourist hordes. We took so many pictures it has taken considerable time to sort through them. Here I offer you a taste of this gorgeous landscape, although remarkably we did not think to get a group picture of the 4 of us. Click on any picture for a larger view and full caption.

Church in Bladon, resting place of the Churchill’s. We had seen the plaques commemorating Churchill. in St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey. and had wondered where he was laid to rest.
Winston and Clementine Churchill gravesite in Bladon.
St. John the Baptist in Burford, a so-called “wool church” as it was built by wealthy wool merchants.
The ornate, canopied tomb of Sir Lawrence and Lady Tanfield, in St. John the Baptist Church, Burford.
Nativity tableau in St. John the Baptist, Burford. Very simple and sweet compared to the Italian creches.
Burford’s main street, so quaint!
Love this sign in Burford!
Charming pub in Burford.
Sign in Burford.
Burford cemetery. Doesn’t this just look like a scene from a Dickens book?
Burford, The Cotswolds.
Bourton-on-the-Water.
I love the Christmas tree in the middle of the stream, Bourton-on-the-Water.
Bourton-on-the-Water was fairly lively this day, despite gray skies.
Bourton-on-the-Water.
We saw dozens of beautiful pheasants in the countryside. Ric managed to snap one in nice profile.
Great library at Oxford.
Oxford bridge, resembling the Bridge of Sighs in Venice. Note the quiet streets, middle of the afternoon on Boxing Day.
Oxford building detail.
Oxford door.
Oxford, quiet on Boxing Day.

 

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This and that

12 Jan
Our trips supply us with anecdotes far beyond the pictures we take, and often provide memories we talk about for years: Our two collie puppies running on moonlit Cannon Beach in Oregon on New Years Day at 6:00-God-help-us-AM; A priest roller-blading, cassock flying, on Via Arenula; A beautifully dressed, kind Italian businessman personally guiding us when we were lost in Spoleto;  Running into a pack of Portlanders on a mountain ridge in Italy on Christmas Eve. Here are a few more tidbits from our trip to London, Paris and Switzerland.

Italian moments

I was amazed at how often we encountered the Italian language and Italians outside of Italy. I heard Italian every single day, whether in the street, on a train, or in a restaurant or a shop. It made me miss Italy.

Parisians can find panettone, pandoro and other Italian treats, too.

Parisians can find panettone, pandoro and other Italian treats, too.

On Christmas Eve at Dean Street Townhouse our waitress was from Italy. It felt like home to order and chat in Italian.
Even in the north of Switzerland, we heard Italian daily. Our waiter at Punctum, where we found an amazingly good pizza, was Italian. You can read about it on my other blog, Our Weekly Pizza.

That small town feel

Many years ago, we traveled to my adopted hometown of Lindstrom, MN for my mother’s 80th birthday. The day we arrived there was a huge snowstorm and we were going to be very late getting from MSP to little Lindstrom. We called the motel and we were told they’d leave the key under the mat for us.  How cute is that?

No picture of Hotel Chur, so here is a serene little alley in the Alt Stadt, on our way to Punctum for pizza.

No picture of Hotel Chur, so here is a serene little alley in the Alt Stadt, on our way to Punctum for pizza.

We had a similar experience in Chur, Switzerland. Coming all the way from London, we knew we would not arrive until at least 10:00 PM, so I contacted the hotel. As the front desk staff goes home at 8:00 PM – odd in a hotel with 58 rooms – we received instructions via email including a code to a box that would release a door entry key. Our room key would be laying on the front desk (along with many others, we saw upon arrival). We had a moment of panic when the entry key did not release easily and I had to use a nail file to finagle it, but it all worked out quite well.

Fabled names

Drury Lane, Carnaby Street, Oxford Street, Piccadilly Square, Baker Street, Covent Garden, Whitehall. How often we have come across these names in literature and history and there we were in the midst of them! London Bridge, Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace: fabled landmarks in a literary town. I have to say as much as I like speaking Italian, it was fun to understand every damn word whether spoken or written. No menu translation challenges. 

'Do you know the muffin man who lives in Dury Lane?' There really is a Drury Lane. Now try to get that tune out of your head for the rest of the day.

‘Do you know the muffin man who lives in Drury Lane?’ There really is a Drury Lane. Now try to get that tune out of your head for the rest of the day.

Melting pot

After dinner on Christmas Day, we ventured to the Odeon at Marble Arch to See “Star Wars: The Force Awakens.” With reserved seats, there was no need to arrive super early to stand in line, although we milled around in the lobby for a while before the theatre was clear. We heard very little English being spoken among the various family groups waiting. Predominant language? Arabic.

Carnaby was well decorated for the holiday.

Carnaby was well decorated for the holiday.

Thanks to the former British Empire, London is truly home to many cultures. As a result, ethnic food is widely available. We love Italian food, but it was a real treat to eat good Indian food in a London restaurant.

Hailo

Hailo is the Uber for legal cabs. I am not a fan of Uber. I think the drivers who are licensed and who have spent years studying their cities should get my transportation Euro, Pound, or Dollar. London’s answer is Hailo.  In about 5 minutes, I installed the app, signed up, and had a cab scheduled for 06:30 the next morning. The driver was a gem, arrived early, helped with bags, and spoke with the most amazing Cockney accent. Luckily he could understand me better than I understood him. Hailo is also available outside the U.K. It worked great and I wish it would come to Rome. Thanks to Nigel for the recommendation!

Pedestrians & parking

As a pedestrian in Roma, one watches traffic ever-so-carefully. People wear headsets listening to music when they drive, they talk on cell phones even though it is illegal, and generally pedestrian crossings are used for parking so they get little respect as pedestrian zones.  

Orderly, I tell you! Look how the women areallowed to cross the street without a motorino shooting past. And no one is parked in teh crosswalk. Heaven!

Orderly, I tell you! Look how the women are allowed to cross the street without a motorino shooting past. And no one is parked in the crosswalk. Heaven!

In Switzerland, cars screech to a halt before you even know you want to cross the street. I almost felt obligated to cross the drivers were so polite and accommodating. Reminded me of Portland.
I love that in London and Paris drivers park where they are supposed to, inside the parking zones, not on sidewalks or within the zebra stripes. It makes for such an orderly city! Most of you take this for granted, but if you’ve ever been to Roma, you know that creative acts of parking make rough going for those on foot.

Crypt café

Cafe in the Crypt. Notice the tombstones on the lower left.

Cafe in the Crypt. Notice the tombstones on the lower left.

Eating in a mausoleum? Why not? At the famous St. Martin-in-the-Field there is a cafeteria in the crypt. It’s far from the Lutheran Church basements of our youth in the Upper Midwest. This is a true crypt with ancient tombs underfoot. The food was simple, of good quality and, for London, inexpensive. (One sandwich, 2 bottles of water, coffee and tea for GBP 9.85.) It was warm, with low-lighting, a polite crowd, decorated for Christmas.

We ate our light lunch with the Baythorns.

We ate our light lunch with the Baythorns.

St. Paul’s Cathedral also has a café in their crypt. Not as big, but great for coffee and cake.
I don’t see this trend coming to St. Peter’s anytime soon. Can you imagine the crowds if you could have lunch at the tomb of a deceased pope?

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