Author Archives: Ms. Boice

Sorry Canada, but I’m telling everyone about the Okanagan Valley

27 Saturday Oct 2012

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Calgary has it’s Stampede, Banff lays claim to Lake Louise and the rising Canadian Rockies, but head just west of there and you land smack into a wonderful valley called Okanagan in British Columbia. The Okanagan Valley is wedged between two mountain ranges (Columbia and Cascade) and painted with orchards and vineyards that line the long, meandering Okanagan Lake, which travels southward toward Washington State. Canadians seem to know all about this place (natch), but the rest of us? Not a clue. And I think the Canadians like it that way.

Vineyards in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia

This wasn’t my first time visiting Okanagan Lake. My first visit was when I was dating Steve five years ago. Color me so shocked to find all those vineyards lined up as grids all along the valley, and the orchards of apples that stretch from Kelowna–the main city in the valley–up into the hills.

The weather is very mild compared to the rest of Canada, which I realize is not saying much. The speed is slow like you would expect in an area that attracts retiring Canadians who consider themselves snowbirds, but not snowbirdy enough to dip their toes into the United States. In fact, living in Okanagan Valley is much more tolerable than, say Montana, which though certainly south of Canada isn’t a place where you’d want to winter.  It’s all relative, you know.

Vineyards in Okanagan Valley, British Columbia

I’ll state the obvious here: water sports are aplenty and a person has no trouble finding their preferred watercraft. There’s also the Jazz Festival every September, and winery after winery. I’m not talking a handful of wineries–but oodles of wineries. Sure, there are some smallish operations, but there are also the more well-known Inniskillin, Mission Hill and Jackson-Triggs. And with wineries you’ll naturally find award-winning restaurants. Oh, the restaurants! (Can we retire here, sweetie?  Just wonderin’. Oh wait, I forgot we were retiring in Panama. Maybe the Okanagan Valley can be the Summer home.)

Say “cheese!”


In between our decadent winery meals we returned to one of our favorite lesser-known points of interest: The Carmelis Goat Cheese Artisan, Inc.in Kelowna.To get there you take a road that serpentines up one of the highest hills overlooking the lake and where you can still see the remnants of charred trees from the firestorm of 2003 that burned over 60,000 acres.

At Carmelis you simply must sample the cheeses, buy some goat cheese and crackers to take back to your hotel room and especially don’t miss the goat’s milk ice cream. It’s totally worth the calories.  (In fact, everything in the Okanagan Valley seemed to be worth the calories, so bring pants with an elastic waistband.)

Speaking of that elastic waistband…

Tim Horton’s and I are just taking a break from each other

On our last day in Kelowna we decided to do something absolutely crazy and not have breakfast at Tim Horton’s. (Tim Horton’s was the Yin to our Yang of decadent and pricey lunches and dinners at wineries.) So instead of our usual breakfast sandwich and donut at Tim’s we found the Marmalade Cat Cafe where you smell the tea brewing as soon as you walk through the door and where their breakfast sandwiches are, well, look at this:

The best breakfast place in town (Sorry Tim!)

The Okanagan Valley isn’t a one-note region. You don’t have to drink wine, enjoy jazz, water ski or even collect a pension check to find your niche here. Hey, I’d keep coming back just for that goat cheese. It was my second trip to the area and I still feel like I haven’t fully realized everything there is to enjoy, so I’m going to keep the idea of a summer home alive with Steve. (And sorry all my Canadian friends–I just let the cat out of the bag about the Okanagan Valley.)

More photos here. Click on any of them and it will take you to a slide show for better viewing. Everything looks yummier with a black background anyway, doncha think?

Browsing Paris

21 Sunday Oct 2012

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Seven hours. That’s all we had.

Our plane had just landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris and we had two choices: A) Sit around the airport for seven hours or B) Get into Paris somehow to see something. Anything. And get back in time to catch our flight to Venice.

We went with B.

I’m generally a planner and I follow rules. Both planning and rules seem to keep me out of trouble and keep things “safe” for me. They also, I’ve learned, spoil adventures and don’t leave much opportunity for serendipity to call on me. So this time adventure trumped “safety” because I wanted my mom to see Paris–even if it was just for a few hours. We were on our way to Venice to begin a 14-day Mediterranean cruise and it was just too tempting to not let her see one of Paris’s storied landmarks during our seven-hour layover.

I had been to Paris before on business but my mom—this was her first time. So we had a mission and our adventure was bound by a clock, which made the whole thing a little bit more exciting.

The always crazy Charles de Gaulle Airport

I love Paris, but I have to tell you, the airport just wears me out. For some reason, Charles de Gualle airport is a serpentine of stairwells and hallways you have to navigate through. And it doesn’t help that the airplane I generally arrive on doesn’t even drop me off at the actual airport building, but somewhere in the middle of the tarmac.

Down the steps of the plane onto the tarmac. (Am I the only one who thinks she’s going to fall down the plane’s stairs?) Then on to a shuttle, then through a door, up a small staircase, then down another hall, down another staircase then up another staircase, then down more hallway. Every time this happens to me I’m convinced I’m going the wrong way and will end up in the employee locker room.

Can someone tell me why this line isn’t moving?

Once we saw Customs and Immigration we were relieved to find that we were indeed in the right place, but the line wasn’t budging. No one moved. We were in line for nearly an hour (tick tock, tick tock) and we were losing time on our adventure. There was only one immigration officer’s booth open and he wasn’t moving very fast either. After the hour passed the line started moving again. (It was around lunch with very few workers at this time. Just keep this in mind if you try this on your own, kids.)

One reason to love the French: The Air France Bus into Paris

Because I did my research ahead of time I learned that once we went through immigration and checked our bags in for the Venice flight all we had to do was make our way to the Air France counter between terminals 2E and 2F and we could catch a bus into Paris. It had been two hours since we landed.

Five hours left in our adventure.

Catching the bus into Paris couldn’t have been easier and it was only €24 RT for each of us (and by the way,1/2 price for kids under 11 years). We found the Air France counter, paid our fare and hopped on the bus (which leaves every 30 minutes) for the hour-long bus ride into central Paris.

This is what I look like after a long flight from the U.S.

Hey look! It’s mom at the Arc de Triomphe in Paris!

The driver dropped us off at the Arc de Triomphe where my mom and I shot photos of each other, visited a typical Paris café and she had French Onion soup while I had quiche—so cliché but oh so French! After our lunch we wandered around the corner, admiring all the Parisian street lamps, the architecture and the bakeries—yes the bakeries! We each bought a pastry and then decided we needed to catch our bus back to the airport.

Two hours left now.

The cute Parisian cafe where we had lunch

We weren’t rushed, we weren’t worried. We were simply caught up in our little slice of Paris. It was kind of like visiting a library where you flip through the book while you sit in the comfy chairs but you’re not committed enough to check it out of the library and walk out the door with it. We were just browsing Paris.

Right when we got to the corner where our bus dropped us off our bus to take us back to the airport just arrived. We got on and took the hour-long journey back to the airport. We went through security again and found our gate just as they were calling our names to check in.

We checked in at the desk and then plopped ourselves into two chairs next to each other. And then my mom said, “That was really fun!”

Mom, let’s go back to Paris sometime and really spend some time there. Paris isn’t a seven-hour kind of place.

It’s about the journey: An afternoon visit to Oak Park, Illinois

08 Monday Oct 2012

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We could have taken a taxi. In fact, that’s how I thought we were going to get to Oak Park from downtown Chicago where I was staying on business. But we were taking a city bus and then the green line train.

Thanks to the concierge at the hotel we were at (Hyatt McCormick Center), we were able to get a day pass for all our public transportation needs for the day at the bargain basement price of five dollars and some change.

When you travel for work, taking a taxi is a no brainer. I generally have little time and besides, I have a travel budget. But when I’m traveling for pleasure and on my own dime I often have to remember that it’s on my own dime. I’m not kidding. There’s been a multitude of times I’ve had to stop and remind myself that I’m not filling out an expense report at the end of a vacation.

The other thing I forget is that the saving time means I’m missing out on a whole bevy of experiences whether it’s people I might meet, things about a town I might learn or things I might miss seeing. And this time I coerced two colleagues to join me for our adventure to Oak Park before our meetings began, and taking the bus and train meant we had time to catch up, share insights and have an adventure that didn’t involve work.

If we had taken a taxi, sure we would have seen the Agora at Grant Park at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Roosevelt Street, but we would have only whirred by it. Since we were catching the train from the bus station at this corner we were able to walk among the statues as they were intended and felt as though we were walking among the giants.

106 headless cast iron figures called Agora at Grant Park in Chicago

We also would have missed seeing the storied (oh dear, a pun) Chicago Library:

Oak Park is about a 25 minute journey on the green line (a.k.a Harlem train), making it the second-to-last stop. When we arrived at the stop Cicero, I thought “Cicero, Cicero, where do I know that from?” And then I figured it out: Why it’s in one of the songs in the Broadway musical, Chicago. Ahh, now I’m getting it. The city of Chicago is a puzzle and when I get some time I’m going to figure out what Cicero has to do with that musical story.

When we arrived at Oak Park, I found myself in a neighborhood of which I only had cursory information. I knew of Frank Lloyd Wright, but I could have studied more. I certainly knew of Ernest Hemingway, but it was only that morning that I learned that he was born in Oak Park. Yes, I felt a little dumb. Smart people have lived here. VERY smart people. I should have showed up more prepared.

We arrived too late to take the tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s home and studio because we had to get back for a meeting that began at 5:30. Apparently tours fill up fast so if you visit be sure to get your tickets in advance or show up early. Same story for the Hemmingway tour. But the weather was beautiful–mid 60s, blue skies and the leaves were just beginning to dress in their red and gold couture. Maybe not a formal tour this time, but just walking in the colorful neighborhood was all we needed that day.

People walked around the neighborhoods with headphones, listening to a narrative tour. It would be a little strange living in this neighborhood, watching people wander around with headphones as they stared at homes with a far off stare. A little alien-like, I must admit. We chose to wander sans headphones and while our little tour was a bit of a walkabout drive by, it was a bit like eating from a sampler platter knowing that you’d be planning to go back at another time. I’d suggest spending two days in the area to take advantage of a deep immersion in both Wright and Hemingway.

In the end, I walked away with this book I bought from a very chatty woman at the little shop in the Hemingway Museum. (The sales woman was so obsessed with Hemingway and had very strong opinions on what she would and wouldn’t allow in “her” shop.)

Chatty sales woman aside, perhaps this book would help me become a better writer about my travels. Yes, it’s about the journey, but for me, it’s also about the writing.

Click on any of the photos in the gallery below and it will take you to a slideshow for better viewing.

Four rather solid excuses for not blogging

02 Tuesday Oct 2012

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I know. I have some explaining to do. And I really don’t even have a good reason for my absence of over a month.

There I was back in August, cranking out some of my best writing—and I even managed to get Freshly Pressed—and what do I do?

I drop off the face of the planet.

It was a year to the date of blogging where I posted every week (in fact, I have two blogs–this one and Accidental Birder, so that means sometimes I was posting twice weekly), and I totally up and stopped. (screeching car sound)

The husb, Steve, calls it my blogcation.

Maybe.

The “Why”

Here are four possible theories on why I didn’t blog for over a month:

Sometimes writing is scary. My last two blog posts (It’s About Travel, Saying I Love You and Death and Channeling Sting’s Fields of Gold) were, I have to say, some of my better pieces of writing and for me, was a little (how shall I say?) revealing. Writing with that kind of honesty is new to me and I learned that it’s quite difficult to do. I felt a little weird like I did in Junior High School drama class when I had to get up on stage and act. It’s emotional and you have to do it in front of people. I dropped out of drama class on day 3, by the way.

My husband lives in Canada. I betcha didn’t know that. My husband’s business, which he just started, is in oil and the oil is in Calgary, Alberta. My career right now is taking place at a Fortune 100 Company in the U.S. For now, the right thing is to hang on to my job here in the U.S. until my husband’s company gets some legs. So, yes, we have a commuting marriage and it’s a little sad that I won’t see him as often. Alas, my muse is in Canada.

(Plus, he did the dishes a lot and cleaned the house and I’m doing all that stuff now. I won’t lie. I’m not good at all that. Did Hemmingway or Faulkner have to do the dishes? I doubt it. I learned this weekend from a friend that Proust sat around in his bed for years as he wrote. How come I can’t do that?)

Distraction #1: I’ve been redecorating. I’m queen of being distracted and there’s no better distraction for me than to shop. Since it’s just me and the cat puttering around the house I decided to get new furniture. It started with needing a new couch. The fabric just gave up after 12 years and all those worn out holes made me feel like I was living in a third world country. (I’m also queen of over stating things.) But the couch led to a chair and another chair and a coffee table, console table, lamp table and of course then a new lamp.

“What recession?” she says.

Behold! The new furniture

Check out those awesome candlesticks!

All this redecorating hardly helps me feel like Walt Whitman or Henry David Thoreau. (Though, maybe more like Proust now.)

Distraction #2: I’m up to my eyeballs in digitization. I came home from work late August and there was a big box waiting on my porch. I thought it was a birthday present. (My birthday’s in August. What, you forgot?) I tore it open and it wasn’t a birthday present. Instead, what I found was a box full of hundreds of slides and an unopened slide transfer machine I bought my mom for Christmas from Brookstone almost two years ago. My mom never got around to transferring the slides to digital so I just gave her a heavy sigh one day over the phone and said, “Just send it all to me and I’ll do it.” That was over six months ago. I have to be honest, it’s been one of the funnest things I’ve done and as I was posting them on my family’s private Facebook page this past month, my brother and sisters and my mom were all having a blast commenting and sharing stories. It was better than birthday and Christmas combined for me!

One of my favorite photos I transferred. That’s me, my older sister and my mom at Grand Teton National Park circa late 1960s. Dad’s taking the photo.

So, instead of writing I’ve been spending my blogging time going down memory lane. (And I’m only halfway done.)

Being okay with it all

I’ve pretty much decided that it’s okay that I didn’t blog for a month. Sometimes I need a break and I imagine you, dear reader (I’ve always wanted to write that), need a break from me.

Now, I’ve got to order some new pillows and an ottoman to go with that furniture. You don’t mind, do you?

Channeling Sting’s Fields of Gold

28 Tuesday Aug 2012

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English Rendezvous – Final Chapter

Fields of barley. They were all around us as we made our way to the little civil parish of Hannington, Hampshire England. (If you have Sting’s song, Fields of Gold, I recommend turning it on right now as you read this post. You can find Sting’s version of Fields of Gold on iTunes. I also recommend this other lovely cover version by Eva Cassidy.)

You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

Two days earlier we were in Bath and the Cotswolds and the previous day we spent at Oxford where we picnicked on the lawn overlooking the River Thames and watched people punting. As we wandered around the campus we walked by a group of students playing cricket—my first real-live experience watching cricket, even if just for a few minutes. “They could be there for days,” Steve explained. Apparently cricket is a long, arduous sport. Where you wear sweaters.

But the barley in Hampshire—the Fields of Gold, Sting wrote about as a love song—caused me to take it all as a sign that there was something indeed magical happening right at that moment. (Some people call it falling madly in love, I suppose.) It was the perfect way to wrap up my two weeks in England: the solo week I had in London, the wonderful days in Bath, the “I Love Yous” the grief, the joy, the perfect photo together. That’s a lot to pack into travel. You don’t get all that backstory when you see the stamp in my passport unless, well, you’ve read this blog, I suppose.

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

We were in Hannington because Steve Hannington is the man I was with and his family settled this part of the English county of Hampshire back before the 11th Century. I had never met anyone who hailed from a namesake town, so if Steve’s gallant nature from the previous days wasn’t enough to impress me, being a Hannington in Hannington sealed the deal for me.

Steve Hannington in Hannington, Hampshire England

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

It didn’t take long to walk around Hannington. There is a little square in the middle of the town—more of a park—right next to the ancient All Saints’ Church. I found a post box right at the side of the lane and dropped in my postcards, though all except one, which I had intended for Jessica before I knew she had passed away. I still have that postcard and today it is pinned to my bulletin board in my home office, right above my desk.

Hannington, Hampshire England

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I’ve broken
But I swear in the days still left
We’ll walk in the fields of gold

This was our last day together before I flew back to the U.S. Last time I left Steve it was Scotland and I cried—no, I sobbed. But I was out of tears this trip. I spent the last two days grieving the loss of my friend, Jessica and now all I had left were dry eyes and this soundtrack of Sting’s Fields of Gold playing in my mind. We took time to have dinner at the one restaurant in Hannington—a little pub called The Vine and we had fish out on the patio as we watched a dog play on the lawn, performing for all who were dining.

Time to leave. We left Hannington and the sun was beginning to set as we made our way toward Gatwick airport where we would find accommodations one last time in England.

Fields of Gold

Barley is simple and rather plain looking when you look at it individually. But all laid out in a field it takes on a collective sense of golden-ness. As we departed, going down a narrow lane toward London, we had the fields on both sides of us. Like when I walked through those doors at immigration and customs in Scotland and felt my life about to change, driving through the Fields of Gold also felt a little baptismal. This entire journey to England was a collection of individual experiences (exploring London solo for a week, the death of a friend, saying, I Love You) that combined, had cast a golden hue on my future, which I saw in those fields.

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold

Fields of Gold, lyrics and music by Sting.

Find out where we meet up again.

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It’s about travel, saying “I love you,” and death

16 Thursday Aug 2012

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England Rendezvous, Chapter 3

My phone displayed that I had a voicemail. Normally I don’t bother with my phone while I’m traveling abroad, and I figure that I’ll listen to voicemail when I get back to the U.S. Besides, anyone important who needed to reach me while I was on holiday in Bath, England knew to just text me.

Castle Comb in the Cotswolds

It was day three of my epic romantic rendezvous in Bath, England with my long-distance suitor I met in Scotland just eight weeks prior. No distractions. No phones. Just the two us to discover Bath, the Cotswolds, and to see if I could muster the courage to say, “I love you.”

But the phone. There was a message on it and I had this feeling I needed to listen to this voicemail.

“Hi Lisa,” the voice said. “This is Jana, Jessica’s sister. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Jessica passed away and I know you two were close and I found your phone number in her address book. I wanted to let you know when the funeral will be, so call me at….”

I just stood there looking at the stupid phone in my hand. Tears welled up in my eyes so fast that it felt like they were coming like a big wave that crashes on the shore. I inhaled and then crash! I couldn’t stop them.

Jessica and I worked together in Menlo Park, California back in the 90s. When I moved away we phoned each other weekly and wrote long epistles back and forth to each other over email where we lamented about men, our jobs, men, our coworkers, men. You get the picture. We would even watch the Oscars together over the phone and make snarky comments throughout the show. (This is what we did before Twitter, my friends.) We went to Giants games when I would come to town and traded books through the mail.

She also had lupus and had contracted an infection from a pedicure she received from a salon in her neighborhood. The infection was so bad she was hospitalized the last several months of her life and I frequently called her at El Camino Hospital in Mountain View, knowing I could be easily directed to her room where I would update her on what happened in Scotland and this fantastic guy I had just met.

But she died.

Steve walked in the room and I looked up at him and he had that look on his face—the “Oh crap, she’s crying. What do I do?” look. I blurted out the words, “My friend.” Tears not just rolling but pouring down my face. “She’s dead,” I continued. “Her sister. She left me a message.” I couldn’t breath and pressed my face into his chest and sobbed. I sobbed big heavy, almost-hyperventalating tears.

The “I love yous” and the never-ending tears

I’m in Bath. Just the night before I said, “I love you” and he said it back (thank goodness). Big moment. Colossal moment. This is the desired outcome Jane Austen writes about, but I was grieving. I pulled myself together and we went downstairs to breakfast where our Bed and Breakfast host served us breakfast while I gave up trying to control the tears that seemed to never ever stop. I was sure that the other guests and the host thought we had been fighting.

A church in Castle Comb in the Cotswolds

Move on with our day’s plans. That was the only thing that we could really do. This was the day we were going to discover the Cotswold region. Every guidebook seemed to write lovingly of the romantic quaint region with its stone homes, thatched roofs and cream teas. I studied the region ahead of time. I was prepared to get wrapped up in it, but I was sad. So very sad.

The verdant landscape of the Cotswolds was like looking at a poem. There is a cadence to the hills and each little village was like hitting upon the rhyme at the end of a line. They all looked similar, but they had their own character, like words that sound the same but aren’t. It wasn’t a sad poem and it wasn’t a happy poem, but it was a comforting one.

Bourton on the Water

We held hands as we walked along the pathway at Bourton on the Water, and we would have moments of silence and then I would start talking about Jessica. Then I would tear up again and return back to silence. I didn’t quite know how to feel. My heart hung heavy with grief, but was also bursting out of my chest with spectacular joy and the feeling of being in love. I couldn’t have been in a more bifurcated moment in my entire life. Or is it possible to have two hearts in this kind of experience?

This picture with smiles and a sad heart

I wanted a photo of us in this lovely place. I asked a man if he could take our photo and Steve and I sat on a bench. “No, no,” the man said as he pointed to another bench. “Sit over here. It’s much better.” We moved to the other bench and the man, who turned out to be a photographer, took this photo with my little Kodak point-and-shoot camera. This beautifully, perfectly angled photo.

I feel like I’m spoiling the ending here but you know already that I married that man. Fast forward almost two years later and as a wedding gift, the women at my church had an artist paint a portrait based on this photo. When they revealed it to me I wept again. This photo took me back to that time when I was swept up in love in England, where “I Love Yous” were exchanged, and if you look really closely you’ll notice that in my heart I’m grieving the loss of my friend, Jessica.

Continue to next chapter.

 

Bath, England: An aphrodisiac for my long-distance love affair

12 Sunday Aug 2012

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England Rendezvous, Chapter 2

London is where we met for our second rendezvous and then drove to Bath, England for the next chapter in our epic romance. (I know, “epic” is overused. Just indulge me for a little while on this.) Only a few knew of my long-distance romance with Steve, which began in Scotland eight weeks earlier. Most people probably wouldn’t have believed it. I barely believed it myself.

We arrived at the Marlborough House—a lovely bed and breakfast in a stone Victorian house just a few blocks away from the famous Royal Crescent—and after our host drew us a map of the highlights of Bath, we made our way to the Roman Baths and Pump Room for a candlelight tour in the evening. “Oh it would be very romantic!” our host urged us. Romantic, of course! That’s why we were here—it was all for the romance.

A visit to the Roman Baths

Roman Baths

When this all came upon me–this falling in love–I wasn’t prepared to take copious notes on Bath. I didn’t go to Bath to learn of the Victoria Art Gallery or the Holburne Museum of Art. No, I was there to fall further in love–to somehow channel Jane Austen and all her heroines so that I could use Bath as some sort of aphrodisiac for my long-distance love affair.

It’s not like we needed any help. We were completely smitten in Scotland and nothing indicated that it wouldn’t continue that way, though because this was so out of the ordinary I thought that I would actually wake up and none of this had happened. So, if you’re going to dream, I thought, why not dream with Bath as the backdrop.

Evensong at Bath Abbey

Bath Abbey

Our second day in Bath, a Sunday, we visited the Bath Abbey for an Evensong presentation. If the backdrop of Bath wasn’t enough, now I had a soundtrack. Being musically trained myself, I was swept up by the acoustics of the building and prayed to God that this whole thing wouldn’t slip through my fingers.

Jane Austen, of course

We visited the Jane Austen Centre where we moved from room to room to see how Jane Austen lived, learned more about her family, looked at some of the film costumes as well as various framed letters on the walls from celebrities (notably Emma Thompson, that goddess of wit who wrote the film adaptation of Sense and Sensibility). I was surprised as to how simple and quaint the Centre was, given the massive following of Jane Austen. I suppose that’s how she would have wanted it, as she really seemed a modest person. It was almost a little odd to be in the Jane Austen Centre where I was learning about this woman who wrote fiction that were turned into movies–all about being independent and falling in love with the right person at the right time. At the same time I was living this and thought, it doesn’t have to be fiction. It feels like fiction but it doesn’t have to be.

The healing waters of Bath

There’s a lot said about the healing waters of Bath.  Historically, many went to Bath to cure themselves of their ills. Perhaps something in Bath washed over me too as well as Steve.

That rendezvous that started in Scotland? It still was alive and well in Bath too. Little did I know, I was going to soon need the healing of Bath to soothe my soul more than I could imagine.

Continue to next chapter.

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This is how I ended up in London

27 Friday Jul 2012

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England Rendezvous, Chapter 1

I wanted to do something spectacular for my 40th birthday and things got interesting when a friend suggested I join her and some other gals to hike the Swiss Alps that year. I was so onboard! How many people can say they’ve hiked the Swiss Alps?

Well, not me, it turns out.

It had been two months since I rendezvoused with the man in Scotland. After that trip that sent my heart soaring and my tears flowing as goodbyes were exchanged at the end of our six days together, we phoned, we emailed and I hoped we would see each other again. The closer it got to the Swiss Alps trip the more I realized that given limited vacation time at work and limited funds for a long-distance courtship, I had to make a choice: Hike the Alps with some fun women or take another chance to see if what happened in Scotland had any sticking power.

So I didn’t hike the Alps. I bailed and decided to go to London instead–by myself, actually. Turns out, it’s also rather convenient for Steve (the man I met in Scotland) to rendezvous again with me. Once I let Steve know about my plans to go to London he immediately jumped at the chance to meet me there, but only met me for week two of my trip since I wanted to have some time to myself in London.

My travel journal for the England rendezvous

I just adore London and I’m so glad I made the decision to do the first half of the trip by myself. Here’s what I learned:

  • You actually don’t have to take the Tube everywhere because most of the time a lovely walk through Hyde Park will get you to where you need to be. (This was a big “duh!” moment for me.)

London’s Hyde Park

Hyde Park, London

  • I arrived the week London was having a heat wave. Londoners took this opportunity to sunbathe at Hyde Park and I thought I was pasty white!

Londoners enjoying the high temps at Hyde Park

  • They have Subway sandwich shops in London–same menu and about the same prices in the U.S., which totally saved me loads of money on food.
  • Other great food options for lunch include Pret a Manger and Marks and Spencer. I discovered this when I watched where the locals were eating.
  • Best view of London is not the pricey “Eye,” but take the stairs clear to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral–completely breathtaking and an awesome workout.

View of London from atop St. Paul’s Cathedral

  • You don’t get ice in your water at dinner. They like to serve it room temperature, so you gotta ask for ice, ice baby.
  • They have potato chips of every flavor imaginable.
  • A co-worker from England convinced me before my trip that I should take the double decker bus tour to get the lay of the land during my first couple of days and you know what? Best. Advice. Ever. (Yes, snobs, she was right.)
  • Edinburgh is only a 5 and 1/2 hour train ride from London and that’s how close I was to Steve.
  • Sometimes it’s okay to walk away from previous travel plans. Sure, I didn’t hike the Alps, but if I did, I would have missed London as well as a big part in the next chapter of my life.

London

London

Tower Bridge in London

Find out what happens in the next chapter.

Thank you, Scotland

22 Sunday Jul 2012

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A Scotland Rendezvous, Chapter 5 (Final Chapter)

There’s an advantage to going to a place you never dreamed of going to before. You have absolutely no expectations, really. You never imagined yourself there so it lets you experience and feel everything and lets you be open to it.

What I needed to be open to was this idea of love.

After our quick journey through the Highlands of Scotland, we returned to Dundee. There was one more day before I had to return to the U.S. Steve planned a day trip to St. Andrews. We walked around the campus of the University of St. Andrews (the third oldest university in the English-speaking world, by the way) and when the bell rang, students poured out into the courtyard where we sat and I told Steve, “They all sound like they’re from Harry Potter.”

“That’s because they come from predominantly upper class families,” he explained.

That made sense.  To be honest, I didn’t know a thing about St. Andrews University except that Prince William was enrolled there, and wouldn’t that be cool if I saw him? I scanned the group of students and alas, no Prince William.

We also visited the Old Course at St. Andrews. I know just as much about golf as I know about Scotland. Steve informed me that it was one of the oldest golf courses in the world. “Do you play golf,” I asked him, wondering if this relationship progressed if I was going to be getting involved with a golfer.

“Not really,” he said. “I’ve played, but it doesn’t interest me.”

For some reason, I felt relief.  I have nothing against golf, but already we’ve established that he likes to look at birds and I don’t have experience with that. If we add golf to the mix, I wasn’t quite sure how I would fit in.

We returned to Dundee where Steve had a phone meeting and suggested that I spend some time walking around the town. Super idea! I thought. I wanted to go get my hair blowed out straight so it would make the long flight back easier on me.  (Really, it makes a big difference when you’ve got hair like mine.) I was to leave the next morning and so today was the day to take care of this.  Plus, it would give Steve a chance to see me with straight hair, which to be honest with you, I look pretty damn good with straight hair.  (All women with curly hair say that, you know.)

After a little bit of shopping in the department store in town, picking up only a few things, I found a hair salon and asked if they would blow out my hair straight. A very cute quintessentially Scottish girl with bright red curly hair (she understands!) sat me down in the chair, put the black plastic cape over me and then off to the sinks I went to get a nice shampoo and condition.

While back in the chair she asks, “Are you here on business or holiday?”

All of a sudden I started to feel. I could tell that water was wanting to push out from my eyes and I wasn’t going to have it.  Be strong, for crying out loud my inner voice told me.

“Holiday,” I said with barely enough sound for her to hear.

“Oh!” she chirped. “Are you visiting family or friends?”

Holy cow. Here it comes. I STARTED TO CRY.

“Um, I met this guy online and we’ve spent the week together touring the highlands,” I said, choking out the words.

“Awww, sweetie, are you going to see him again?”

More tears.

“I don’t know,” I said with enough courage to look up at the mirror and noticed that my eyes were red.

“Just a minute,” she said.  “I need to go grab something.”

She walked away and I was there in the chair.  In a hair salon. In Dundee, Scotland. BAWLING MY EYES OUT. Oh, for Pete’s sake.

I didn’t know the answer to her question. I didn’t know if I’d ever seem him again.  I wasn’t even sure if this was a fling or the beginning of something fantastic. I looked in the mirror again and could see the hair stylist whispering to another stylist and they both looked over at me. Oh geez, I’m the big story in the salon today, I suppose.

Eventually I got a grip on things and there were no more tears. My hair was straightened beautifully, I paid and tipped (quite well, for the awkwardness she had to endure) and then made my way back to Steve’s flat.

“You look fantastic!” he said when he saw me. Big grin and all.

We made dinner together, went to a movie and I spent the rest of our time together in tears. The poor guy didn’t quite know what to do.

We drove to the airport in silence and then said our goodbye.

Scotland, you were the place I never dreamed of going to before.  I had no expectations. I never imagined myself there, but there I had been.

I experienced everything, felt everything, and as a result, opened myself to finding love. Thank you Scotland.

Find out when and where we meet again.

 

Falling in love with a geologist and the geological wonders of Scotland

15 Sunday Jul 2012

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A Scotland Rendezvous, Chapter 4

The geology of Scotland is very complex, I learned, and this complexity manifests itself in the Highlands.

The highlands of Scotland

It’s all because of Continental Drift, which through the aeons of time created this composite of various land masses that have been grafted on to it.

There was also an extensive period of volcanism (lava flows and plutonic uplift), which produced such geologic wonders like the promontory upon which sits Edinburgh Castle. Want more proof? Take the famous 10,000+ year old Loch Ness, for example. It’s a long, deep lake, which is part of a rift valley system. It’s all this complex geology that gives Scotland its rugged appearance with many hills, valleys and lochs. So geology is the bedrock (so to speak) of Scotland’s rugged landscape.

All this gets geologists giddy, and guess who I was spending the week with–a geologist. (So don’t think I managed those first few paragraphs here without any help. )

Among the many things I learned about this man I was with for the week (what I call the world’s longest first date), was that he knew gobs about geology, and as I learned more about him I also became more schooled about Scotland. I had never met this man before and I had never met Scotland before, so both were blind dates. It’s no wonder that as we journeyed through the Highlands, my fascination of Scotland grew while my heart grew fonder of my geologist tour guide.

Loch Ness. So why can’t there be a monster?

Steve at Loch Ness

Standing next to Loch Ness

When I met the Loch Ness for the first time I couldn’t resist tapping into the childish part of me, where I thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool if I saw the Loch Ness Monster here too!” There is no such thing, I know, but I couldn’t help thinking of it, because why not? The whole idea of rendezvousing with a man in a foreign country is also the stuff fairy tales are made of and I was walking around in that dream too, so of course there’s the possibility of seeing the Loch Ness Monster.

And I’m sure the little hamlet of Brigadoon was around somewhere too.

Ullapool, Scotland

We eventually made our next stop in the little town of Ullapool, which has a strong gaelic influence. We checked in to a bed and breakfast that overlooked a lake and walked around the town, and we soon learned had a reputation for being a center for music and the arts. Even on TV (I’m always fascinated by what’s on the television when I visit a new country) had a Gaelic channel. I couldn’t understand a thing anyone was saying, but then again, if someone from Scotland starts to speak English to me in their native accent too fast I might as well be listening to Latin. I’m completely lost.

Where we stayed in Ullapool

We found a pub where we ordered fish, of course, since it was a fishing village and afterward, we walked along a pathway near the water as we tossed out more questions to each other. There was a sense of urgency for the week–in getting to know as much about each other as we could. “Where’s your favorite place you’ve traveled to?” “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” “What’s your favorite food?” “What was your most embarrassing moment?”

Stoer Head Lighthouse

Visiting the Stoer Head Lighthouse on the Stoer Peninsula in Scotland was a true highlight. This lighthouse was built by David and Thomas Stevenson—of the Stevenson dynasty—who were responsible for building most of Scotland’s lighthouses.

Stoer Head Lighthouse on the Stoer Peninsula in Scotland

Safe and sound in the Highlands

We spent our time in the highlands driving around the more rugged terrain, taking roads that were only wide enough to fit a small compact car. I must admit that I was impressed as Steve navigated the winding road, especially as an oncoming car approached. Why do things like that make a woman swoon? No accidents. No collisions. This man kept me safe.

This beginning of falling in love with a geologist opened a whole new perspective for me. It wasn’t just about castles and lighthouses or a famous loch, but learning about the geology, expanding my vision of the land. As we journeyed through the highlands, the part of Scotland that was the cliche–the rolling green hills lined with sheep–turned into something that resembled a moon scape, and I wondered if I would ever come back to earth again.

To get perspective, look at the tiny trailer/camper (the white speck) in the photo.

Go on to the next chapter.