Pretty Cars, Watershed Realizations and Horse Trading Moments

For as much time I have spent occupying this earth, how did I not see this coming? When my somewhat publicly-known daughter was about to sell her almost-new car in favor of one she would not be recognized in (she mentioned its brand in a book she wrote), I was beside myself with concern that her stunning piece of automotive jewelry would not remain in the family.

Shame on me. I coveted her car. So she gave it to me.

My daughter is an amazingly generous person, but aside from her nostalgia over it being her first luxury car, her main reason for simply handing it over to me was that she wanted me to be safe. I was deeply touched and soon I flew down to her half of California to drive her gorgeous car home like a person who had just won the Lotto.


For one year I drove a car that did not appear to belong in my Sacramento suburb. Did it make head turns? Absolutely. In fact on several occasions I found people waiting for me in parking lots where the car was parked just to tell me how gorgeous it was. And they were right. Every time I got behind the wheel it felt elegant. It was white, it was sleek, it had curves and it gleamed.

It also felt uncomfortable in ways that had nothing to do with looks or physical comfort. The car was huge – at least as long as many SUVs and a good foot longer than most sedans – and I was accustomed to a very used-but-nimble little 2-seater sports car. I misjudged the distance to curbs. I trembled each time I parked it. And this was despite (and because of) a small TV dash monitor that audibly warned me how close I was to objects, including the Starbucks drive-through window. All this was bearable, however, since I rationalized that I would master it over time. Then the deal changer happened.

After I parked the car the first night upon reaching a recent road trip destination, one of the tires went flat. Normally I would not be terrified about needing a new tire. But these high performance car tires each cost as much as a round trip business class ticket to JFK. I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the tire was not really damaged and could be easily repaired, but in my mind I began to do a “pile on.” Reasons to not keep this car added up: the high cost of regular maintenance, my inability to get used to maneuvering the car in small spaces, the cost of insurance, the price tag on brakes and all the other things that can happen to a car that is no longer covered by a warranty – something that would happen in another 10,000 miles – and I began to understand that despite my penchant to LOOK as if I were a moneyed person, I am simply not in my daughter’s league. I would always be a big phony in a car I had never earned except for having given birth to a successful kid.

After discussing this with her, she was gracious and acknowledged my reasoning, thank God. And soon I began looking around for another car. I missed running around in a convertible, but this time I decided to hunt for one that had a rear seat and was a bit larger than my last one to honor my daughter’s wish for more safety. So I called my old mechanic who specialized in the brand of car I liked. He told me about the models he considered the most reliable and I took it from there.

The hunt begins …

Before you judge me for being a woman unversed in judging good car flesh, let me give you some background. I grew up with brothers, had a hustler of an ex-husband that taught me everything I needed to know about cars and had long ago learned how to buy a pre-owned vehicle. I look for flawless cars 3 – 6 years old. This means NO dings, NO prior accidents, a pristine interior, new car smell, all service records, one owner, ridiculously low mileage for its age, and newer tires and brakes. I am willing to pay high Blue Book, Edmunds or Car Guru pricing for something that has had an anal-retentive owner who – believe it or not — cares where the car ends up. I know the feeling because that is the kind of car owner I am. The looks people give me as I sit on an upturned paint bucket detailing my car wheels on my own driveway is enough to know I am not like most chick car owners.

Finding that perfect used car, however, takes patience and fortitude. I scour only warm weather states for just the color, condition, make and model I want. It’s like looking for that perfect dress in that perfect color for the occasion. Having driven a car that was clearly a head-spinner, however, I was hooked. I knew I must wear my next car with pride because I kind of got used to the attention. My bad.

After a week or so of searching locally, I found one on Craigslist that appealed to me in — of all places — Las Vegas, a destination we were just about to visit in honor of our ten-year wedding anniversary. How fortuitous! According to the articulate way it was described (yes, this matters to me…) it ticked off every box I mentioned and then some. But his price was high, even according to the figure various car-judging web sites that indicate what cars in “excellent” condition should command. So the dance began.

At first, I wrote the owner one of those anonymous Craigslist notes. In it, after some banter back and forth, I told him the high watermark price I would be willing to pay if the car was everything he represented. It made allowances for the extras he said were of value, but it did not reach the price he was asking. He said he was out of town, would be returning in a few days from the east coast, but did not address my potential offer. Still, he remained in communication. We agreed that I would try to see the car the evening we arrived in Las Vegas.

As it turned out, we arrived later than anticipated. To be polite, I texted the car owner that we would not make it there until the next day; if he already had a solid buyer, do not wait for me. I followed that with a frown-y face so he would know I would be sad that the car might escape my capture. The seller told me how many people had seen it and how many people wanted to see it, but said he wanted to offer me first right of refusal since I had come so far to see it. To me, anyway, that meant NO one had brought up the dollar figure I had. Then he told me someone else was coming to see it after I did. That’s when I had to (tactfully) state my terms: I would not be strung out all week while he entertained other offers on the car. If my offer was not accepted on the spot, he could kiss it goodbye. After some time went by and dots on our texts continued to flash, he agreed and said he wanted his gorgeous little car to go to a good home. I was 90% there. Communication is, to me anyway, everything.

When I go to see a used car from a private party, I always judge the car by the neighborhood in which it resides. His house was stunning.The moment the car owner opened his garage door, I noticed that this vehicle occupied space on a perfectly epoxy’d garage floor capable of being graced with knife, fork, and a folded cloth napkin. I barely had to walk around the car once to see it was everything I wanted. We struck our deal and did the bureaucratic paperwork we had to in order to bring an out-of-state car into California. And the next day (after some hearty winnings at the craps table that paid for our entire anniversary trip) we caravanned home. As I drove my new friend home, I reveled in being able to see the front of my vehicle, how nimbly it handled and how its smaller size suited my tastes and driving capacities.

Why am I telling you all this? Perhaps it’s because I like to share stories of lessons I’ve learned as well as convince myself I am still pretty good at buying used cars. All I know is that each time I stare at my new beauty in my garage, all is suddenly well with the world.

The Waiting Game


It’s a first for me, this idea of drumming my fingers as I wait for word from big time publishers about my book idea.

Having found my calling in midlife, for the past 18 years I have delighted in seeing my byline in newspapers, being the co-author of someone else’s book, or being mentioned as “editor” when I basically wrote a book for someone else using their ideas but my words. I’ve paid my dues writing online and print columns for consumers and produced many a blog – a solitary but rewarding exercise in keeping my writing muscles toned. While I did produce my own coming-of-age memoir eBook about 5+ years ago, I have never been at the mercy of book editors in a position to expose my writing to the universe. So here’s an abridged version of the story, pretty much from the beginning:

Being the mother of an only child, I figured I’d have it easy. As we listened to frenzied and sometimes manic stories of parents who were juggling several kids at once, my then-husband and I were ultimately okay with the idea that even if we never planned on having a sibling-less child, one would be enough in the big scheme of things.

Then our daughter was born. And the child was ready to take over the world.

After my having collected countless parenting books, conducted trial and error experiments meant to help her make sense of the world around her, put up with repeatedly tense parent-teacher conferences and fidgeted in the overstuffed chairs of five or six therapists, my daughter was as fully formed as I could get her despite a number of misgivings about having taught her everything she truly needed to know by kindergarten. By age 18 she was ready to take on adulthood armed with the gifts, moxy and determination God gave her — all with the memory of having had a mother who scored off the anxiety charts and had developed analyzing skills on steroids. I let go and let her find out just how the rest of the world would cope with the limit-testing she subjected me to for much of my motherhood. It was painful, it was scary and it was necessary – for both of us.

Before her 30th birthday, however, my daughter took it upon herself to tell her own story – in a book that instantly hit the New York Times Best Seller list and stayed there for 18 weeks. While it received rave reviews from young women like her and a host of people in other demographics, some commenters blatantly referred to her as a “parenting failure” — despite her meteoric rise to success — because of the colorful, non-mainstream experiences she admitted to putting herself through to find her reality. To say that didn’t pierce through me would be dishonest. Through it all, I would smile and tell people asking me about her, “Oh, yeah. Someday I will tell my side of things.” I figured that would take place by the time my baby girl had brought up babies of her own so that we could write that book together.

But time waits for no mom. Because of my now-married daughter’s encouragement (she swears her experience will probably be NOTHING like mine, and I think she’s right) and everyone around me telling me a book about challenging children was sorely needed out there, I mustered the courage to write an inquiry letter to the same literary agency that represented my precocious child. They read it, sounded excited about it and asked for a formal book proposal. Then they said my idea was so good they wanted to run with it and began pitching it to the big book boys and girls in New York and elsewhere. Today, my proposal is in the hands of dozens of editors being read, mulled over, included in meetings and evaluated for its marketability and potential for success in the now very exclusive world of traditional book publishing. And the waiting game has begun.

One thing you must understand: just getting this far with a book idea has been on my proverbial bucket list for some time, even if it goes no further. At least I could someday say, with a wistful look in my eye, that I made it to “also-ran” status in the daunting world of non-vanity-press-published authors. But I have to ask myself — what if it actually happens? My OMG moment would mean being in Writer’s Digest heaven over the idea of telling the stories of people like me and many others who survived to tell the tales of their amazing-but-off-the-wall children – kids who possess seeds of greatness that can blossom into the world’s future business owners, entrepreneurs, ideamakers and rocket scientists. And even if they don’t become famous, that oddball/crazy-kid that used to drive you nuts can apply his or her well-used blinders and delightful strangeness to find a new watermark in the world – as long as you keep on keepin’ on as their loving, supportive parent.

As this story unfolds, unlike many writers who keep things under wraps, wondering if talking about a book just might jinx it, I want to take you along for the ride – through my disappointments, my learning experiences and if nothing else, to tell the ending to this waiting-for-Godot story. Please know that as I write this, just by the act of reading it you are holding my hand, saying “There, there, Dena. Everything will turn out fine”… And I thank you for that. Because the waiting is driving me to drink.

20/20 Hindsight Advice for Mothers-of-the-Bride

Moms often wait what seems like forever for their baby girls to get married. I was never sure mine would go the conventional route nor have a traditional wedding but in the end, she surprised me. Truth be told, this is a life event mothers with daughters think about a LOT from the time their girls are small.


My daughter’s elegant and somewhat elaborate wedding was amazing; a stunning visual display of the love and excitement she and her husband-to-be shared for this life-changing rite of passage.

It would be impossible, however, to avoid every pitfall the intricacies any wedding can produce, especially for the MOB. So for those moms out there who want a heads-up on how to improve upon my recent experiences, I offer the following advice:

(1) Don’t question your daughter’s taste for wedding details. It has nothing to do with you. Moms tend to project how they want to see things when their daughters marry and often use the excuse (especially if they are paying for any of it) that their daughters should just go along. Just remember, no matter how off-the-charts her ideas about her own wedding are, the day is not about YOU. And it’s not about guests who will be there on YOUR behalf. It’s about the beginning of your daughter’s new life. Practice lots of nodding, smiling and repeating “if it’s what you want” –ing. Answer questions honestly when asked, but don’t be insulted if she does not implement your idea, take your advice, or observe the things you deem important. If you take that approach, you won’t look back with regrets about fighting over details that will not really matter years from now.

(2) If you are asked to say a few words at one or more of the wedding events, prepare it in advance but commit much of it to memory. The words you use and the comfort with which you say them can mean the difference between a memorable toast/speech and one where you are fumbling with a piece of paper using your iPhone light to see it while holding a microphone in the other hand. Tell sweet stories, speak lovingly to the family that is about to merge with your own and remember that everything you say and do here can and will be used for future reference. She will hang on every word.

(3) Don’t use a self-tanner you’ve never tested out before. I was mortified when a product that said it “dried quickly” left hug marks on people’s clothes and I had to hightail it back to my AirBnb apartment to wash it all off. I was livid.

(4) Realize that your daughter is in panic mode most of the time. If the photographer tells you to pretend to pull back her blusher to give her a kiss for a photo, ask her if she is ready for it and don’t be hurt if she flinches. She is thinking about her makeup, the expression on her face and whether you might get self-tanner on her crisp, white veil.

(5) Don’t stress over a wedding gift. It is often family heirlooms and keepsakes your daughter will value at a time like this. A food processor from her registry list simply does not measure up.

(6) Bring more than one pair of shoes and arm yourself with pain relievers. You will be on your feet a LOT.

(7) Make a list of people with whom you’ll want to have your photo taken throughout the day/event. I did not do this and the evening went by without even smart phone photos taken with my dearest friends and relatives. It’s a homework assignment you will want to complete before cutting loose on the dance floor.

(8) If you’re getting ready (hair, makeup, etc.) with your daughter and her bridesmaids in anticipation of her putting on her wedding gown, bring a pretty robe to wear. Chances are, they will all be in satin robes that match. Having mom in her yoga clothes as photographers snap “getting ready” photos just doesn’t cut it. And bring a REAL handkerchief. There will be lots of happy tears.

(9) Make it a point to dance with your daughter. I didn’t and I cry now when I think about it. Both of you may be so busy with guests that you forget to do a number of things that will someday feel like important small gestures on her wedding day.

(10) Realize that this day (hopefully) comes but once and that you must concentrate on savoring every moment as it happens. Don’t let the social whirlwind rob you of that. Be gracious. Be happy. Remember that the wedding will be perfectly imperfect no matter how meticulously it was planned.

A Mother’s Day Tale: Sewing Notions

Perhaps it really wasn’t necessary to clandestinely whisk away Mom’s sewing basket into my car during a visit to my parents’ house; I suppose I was afraid to ask my father if I could take it with me, for fear he’d turn me down. It seemed as though everything that had belonged to my mother was now sacred to him. images

And after all, I had my own sewing basket—an efficient plastic see-through box with a removable tray that Mom had bought for me years ago. But (I weakly reasoned) my sewing basket didn’t contain the right color thread to hem dad’s trousers. A pretty lame excuse. After all, how long does it take to run to the grocery store for a spool of khaki-colored thread? Even now that she’s gone, I am amazed at the reliance those she left behind have on Mom for the simplest of tasks. And so it was, in relative anonymity (with a sweater draped over it), Mom’s sewing basket was spirited away.

Upon my return home, I found myself struggling for a while with the reasoning behind this bizarre act. As I approached another anniversary without Mom, I was faced daily with the feeling that I was not someone’s “little girl” any more. A constant ray of unconditional love in all our lives, Mom brought a quality of grace, innocence, domesticity and maternal “religion” difficult to match by any woman, least of all me. Missing from our lives for several years now, we are still dumbfounded by her disappearance due to a weak heart. Perhaps the sewing basket was a reminder of the multitude of small tasks she performed for her family, helping to bring her back in some intangible way.

Of course, it was all so overwhelming –the idea that I would ever have to face any segment of my life without her. Although common sense dictates that we will eventually lose our parents to old age or illness, no one in my family could even imagine the thought of Mom’s just not being there any more. My natural instinct at the time was to capture as many memories and details or her life on paper as I could from my singular, daughterly perspective. So, within the first few months following her death, I spent hours burning up the keys of my computer. The laser printer churned out my work of memorial to the earthly angel we called Mom, while I proceeded to purge, express, celebrate, and create her legacy. I reasoned that somewhere in these pages, my daughter (her only grandchild) and my daughter’s daughter may someday understand the stock of women from whence they came.

As noble as it may sound, however, I have today discovered that it will never be printed words or flowery expressions of memory that will provide a meaningful link to Mom’s existence. It will be the simple items she left behind that will remind us of her love for us.

Safely sheltered in the darkness of the closet of the spare bedroom at my parents’ home, the sewing basket’s ostensible need, created by my father’s simple request to hem some trousers, left me both flattered and honored with the transference of maternal duty from mother to daughter. My mother had been the person upon which Pop had relied for such domestic chores for fifty years. Since her passing, I tried to clean and straighten their home when visiting, attempting to sound and act practical and mature, while the overwhelming presence of my mother wafted from each room full of knick-knacks and specially placed furniture.

Discussions of Mom lessened as my family tried to cope while healing time passed. Today, many of us wouldn’t think twice about paying a fee to a department store or dry cleaner’s alterations department to hem a pair of trousers. My life was so busy at the time—full of two parent paychecks, soccer practices, and those much-needed fast food meals when we rationalized that our schedules leave us no time to shop, cook, or clean. Even though many of us “Baby Boomers” were spawned from a generation of stay-at-home moms who learned early on to express their love for their families by domestic doting, I doubt that I will ever possess the simple dedication to wifely and motherly duties exemplified by my mother and women like her.

As I carefully opened the blue wicker basket, its crevices seasoned with dust from years of service, I am first impressed by its orderliness. Under the calico patterned and pin-cushioned lid, a plastic tray sits atop its cache of contents, the crackled edges lovingly mended with duct tape. The usual sewing scissors and seam rippers lay untouched since Mom’s departure, and it suddenly occurred to me that some of these items are the very ones I used as a teenager during my sewing classes, at a time when “Home Economics” was required of junior high school girls. I am amazed now that I actually made clothes for myself at one time. Admiring handmade clothing sewn by teenagers—or even adults, for that matter— seems nowadays an activity relegated to state fairs, where these creations are displayed for throngs of city dwellers. We are fascinated by this dying art and awed by the time, concentration, and planning it must take to accomplish a fully completed handmade article, let alone the skill required to make garments appear “store-bought.”

Touching these elementary sewing implements somehow transported me to that awkward age. Mom was always there to compliment and mildly critique my handiwork. I could never determine whether her flattery on the speed with which I threw together an A-line skirt was merely an attempt to make me feel good about myself, or a prediction on how long it would take for my hastily-sewn clothes to fall apart. My creations were never made with the attention to detail and time it took for Mom to turn out her own masterpieces. Her seams were always straighter, her garments fit the wearer better, and the unmatched concentration she displayed seemed to result in a thing of beauty every time. Mom’s pat answer to my queries of why this was so was always the same. “It’s because it was made with so much love,” she would say, her eyes glistening. Of course, the depth of this statement was lost on a 14 year old, to be left unappreciated until I was a mother in my own right. More and more, I find myself wanting to echo lessons such as this to my own daughter, as she rushes through tasks at home with reckless abandon.

I search further into the basket’s depths. A box originally made for straight pins efficiently holds a collection of buttons gleaned from years of discarded dress shirts worn by the men in my family. An unopened supply of safety pins, price tag still attached, sits next to an almost depleted card of Velcro fasteners, a vague comment on the progress of human ingenuity. Various sewing machine screwdrivers and zipper attachments are hidden among thimbles and small boxes of machine needles.

As I lift up the tray to reveal a recess of valuable sewing notions, my nostrils are filled with the faint fragrance of mothballs, an aroma that instantly causes me to remember my immigrant grandmother’s apartment. I’d swear I hadn’t smelled that since I was a child, and now it was here to validate another grandmother’s existence. As I peer into the brightly lined basket, an entire collection of colored threads dares me to choose from its assortment. Naturally, the perfect color spool of cotton for repairing Pop’s trousers is contained there. Beneath it lies a thrifty little plastic bag with its zippered and closed top, boasting another collection of salvaged buttons. This time, however, the buttons are still attached to scraps of fabric, as if Mom’s time had become more precious to her in later years.

At the very bottom of the basket are two items that have no real reason to be there except for sheer sentimentality. Mom hadn’t used these items in years, but both looked as if they might have been brand new. One was an army-issued sewing box; a palm-sized cloth-covered container of army uniform-colored threads and buttons my dad must have carried with him during his years in the service. Mom had married Dad at the tender age of eighteen, the first boy she had ever been allowed to date. The pictures we have of our parents at the altar reveal my father in full World War II regalia. I’ll never forget my mother’s stories of how she blushingly presented her dashing lieutenant to her array of bobby-soxed girl friends. Little did she know at that time that she was on the threshold of life full of children, hard work and the kind of fulfillment she later claimed was made possible only through her faith in God and those she loved.

The remaining item was mine, and mine alone. A red velvet pincushion I had stuffed and made when I was six or seven (with the help of someone else’s mother to surprise my own) lay there, reminding me that I was indeed someone’s little girl. Its heart-shaped softness and white-tulle edges stared up at me, and Mom’s smile appeared in my mind. I could almost hear her, “overdoing” it with unmitigated praise of my creation, making me feel almost “icky” inside for presenting her with such a mundane gift on Valentine’s Day.

It has become important to me to try to carry on this legacy of love and service to others I inherited through the stories hidden for a while in Mom’s sewing basket. In an odd way, I think she must have known I would discover each and every item there, but I doubt she would have predicted that I would attach so much meaning to each one. Secretively slipping a simple sewing basket into my possession now seems to make more sense.

Sometimes it is the little, perhaps at first unnoticed, articles of daily family life which give us the most strength in times of confusion and despair. Through my newly-found connection to the treasure within Mom’s sewing basket, I can better understand my role as my mother’s daughter. And perhaps, if I try hard to carry on Mom’s legacy of giving and caring, my daughter may someday ask how I accomplish the things I do in our busy lives, and I can respond with, “…because it’s done with so much love.”

Finally ‘Getting” It About Diet and Exercise

At first it was just about me. I wanted to lose a few dress sizes by my daughter’s wedding next summer for purely vain reasons, having carried around extra pounds for years now – all cleverly hidden by long sweaters and thigh-length jackets. Once I began looking at how getting myself into shape benefits those I love, however, I began to see my how it affected much more than the one writing this.


Even though I have been lucky so far not experiencing any challenging illnesses or conditions, simple issues surrounding one’s health/weight can come as a sudden wake-up call, especially when blood work reveals unhealthy numbers for cholesterol, vitamin and thyroid health. My lab readouts were a bit disconcerting, forcing me to think long and hard about just how long and how badly I wanted to be around. Suddenly not taking care of me seemed to be a selfish act, prompting me to think about how my lack of self-care might affect the people around me.

I had to ask myself why I would consciously doom my loving partner in life to years and perhaps decades without me. Sure, he might find a suitable partner again, but I know in my heart he would be devastated for a good, long time if I took the dirt nap sooner rather than later. Even sadder to me, however, was the idea of denying future grandchildren the memory my reading them bedtime stories until they are old enough to roll their eyes over it, or being embarrassed by their “yiayia’s” screams at soccer games and sobs at their milestone events.

When I began to think of all the laughter and good times I would miss by checking out early just to avoid doing anything about my “weight” situation, it made me realize that taking care of myself is so much more than leaving butter off popcorn or passing up key lime pie at a dinner party. In the end, staying faithful to a regimen designed to reach your size/weight goals isn’t even about the goals themselves. It’s about the journey one takes to get there – one laden with life-altering realizations along the way. Here are a few I have been hit with through the first few weeks on my own path to better health:

• Drinking water is as important as breathing air. All those Facebook posters and slogans about what water does for you can’t be wrong. After all, I don’t think anyone gets rich over pushing water. There’s no money in it. My skin has improved; my hair is healthier, and everything that aids in my digestion is suddenly having a party.

• Exercise once a day gives you energy after it initially zaps it; I had no idea I could be so productive so late in the day. I actually have to tell myself to slow down so I can get drowsy enough to go to sleep.

• Sugar cravings can disappear in just a few days when protein becomes your friend. It’s weird.

• I am beginning to find that I have wasted precious mornings for decades. Finding ways to sleep until the last moment only robbed me of life-affirming walks in the fresh air that now jump-start my day. Besides, it feels great to brag to my trainer about having done it.

• Being aware of diet and exercise takes being in the moment to an entirely new level. You begin to live consciously, thinking about every morsel that enters your body and using muscles that have atrophied. Your body screams at you at first, asking you why it took you so frickin’ long to pay attention, but after awhile you look forward to seeing the changes that are taking place.

• The feeling of accomplishment of completing a successful day and sticking to your personal commitment to do this is like giving yourself a gift.

• I am kicking myself for not doing this sooner.

A Girlfriend Tale

From birth to age 7 while living on a foggy San Francisco street out by the beach, I had a best friend. A darling pink-cheeked girl named Cheryl lived next door. We were only six months apart in age and we were inseparable. We played, we hugged, we walked back and forth to school together and we watched the Mickey Mouse Club on TV every day after we got home. By the time emcee Jimmy Dodd ended the show spelling Mickey’s name with, “Y? Because we LIKE you!” — we were clearly convinced we could jump into the TV set and join the Mouseketeers, wear cool crewneck sweaters with our name emblazoned across them and sing and dance the way they did.

photo (29)

It was the 1950s and our cookie-cutter row houses were brand new, many of them purchased using the GI bill for around $7,000 each. Dads worked, moms stayed home living very frugally, and kids walked to the nearest public school. TV sets were filled with tubes and only one car graced the garage of each house. From time to time, our mothers would dress us up in crinkly, frilly dresses and put patent leather shoes and ruffled socks on our feet. We looked like Chatty Cathy dolls as they snapped pictures of us. All that was missing was a pull-string on the backs of our necks.

In my mind, one’s first friend in life occupies a very special part of a child’s psyche. The first person who stands eye-to-eye, shares her popcorn square while standing by the bear exhibit at the local zoo and walks hand-in-hand with you up and down the block teaches you things no other person in life can. Tolerance. Fair play. Compassion. Sharing. That book written long ago about how all the basics one ever learns were taught to us in kindergarten was WAY ahead of its time.

Cheryl was at my house a lot, but I had no idea life in her home was any different from mine. In fact, I would not find out until more than 50 years later, when we miraculously found one another once again on Facebook and started doing some “girl time” to catch up after having endured failed marriages, brought up children, and finally found fulfilling careers. During those formative years living on a block filled with every ethnic group conceivable, we attended birthday parties, watched our brothers have fights on the sand dunes with dog-do, smashed coins on the streetcar tracks that ran in front of our houses and realized the warmest, sunniest days were in the dead of a San Francisco winter.

Suddenly (as everything seems to a 7-year old) my dad got transferred with his job to a city 100 miles away. We were to move to a lush suburb of Sacramento full of golf-green-like yards, swimming pools and fruit trees, the likes of which I had never seen. I just didn’t know it yet.

As we stood clinging to one another in a long goodbye, Cheryl and I cried. I remember crying because she was crying. I had no idea how moving away would change my life, but crying seemed appropriate when saying goodbye to someone you couldn’t remember having ever lived without. Cheryl, however, knew how my leaving would change her existence, even at such a young age. Our house had evidently been her safe haven from a domineering, moody, often angry mom and a father who felt helpless to change things as he fought his own demons. I would learn that our lives went on to take entirely different paths – mine springing from an almost stiflingly close family that still managed to show encouragement and support, while hers would become one of sheer survival. I learned that Cheryl felt she had no “home base” and soon began to live by her wits, marrying for the first time at a very young age just to escape.

Upon the occasion of her father’s 90th birthday party at her sizable property in the heart of a North Bay town, Cheryl and I stood in her large yard while others milled about. We gazed at one another’s faces as if we were two little girls saying hello after having been torn apart at childhood (which we were). It was then that an inexplicable feeling surfaced neither one of us could explain. Embracing our beginnings in life brought us to an entirely new place. Now in our 60s, we realized how there must be a reason why we had connected not only as children, but also as adults some 50+ years later. We made a pact to go someplace special together and celebrate our reunion and even named a date as we stared into our smart phones.

Some two months later we embraced one another once again, this time in the lobby of a posh hotel in California’s Napa Valley. We talked. And we talked. We ate, we drank wine and we talked some more, falling asleep at 3 am as our voices gave out. And as we bounced our five decades of life off one another, we realized we had both come to some important realizations in tandem but with different consequences. Cheryl, now an accomplished nurse practitioner and fighter for the downtrodden, had become a cause for good in hundreds of people’s lives. I had become a writer and public speaker in mid-life, hoping to inspire people as well. We had brought up daughters using the wisdom God gave us, the lessons our mistakes had pounded into us, and whatever our parents had both taught and failed to teach us and they had all turned out okay.

Because Cheryl had not enjoyed the support I had throughout life, however, every struggle had been hard-fought. Despite having endured homelessness and choosing a succession of abusive partners, she put herself through nursing school and then graduate school entirely on her own. She received no recognition for all this from the people closest to her, yet it did not deter her from growing within her chosen career and fighting for the causes she held dear. While Cheryl was a shining example of how to overcome the cruelest of obstacles in life, however, she doubted herself at every turn as a mother. In an effort to make life easier on her three daughters, she doted on them, bailing them out and making excuses for their slow ascent into full adulthood. She took care of their pets, invited and encouraged them to live with her or close by and almost like a broken record, repeated excuses to me as to why they had not progressed as quickly as she had hoped. She vehemently fought the idea that her children would ever have to struggle; she wanted to provide them the safety net she had never had in life. But these young women had not lived as Cheryl had. They had enjoyed the unconditional love and support she had never experienced. What Cheryl had not realized, then, was that instead of helping them, she was unwittingly standing in the way of their finding their own answers and being able to look back on their own accomplishments.

In some ways, Cheryl and I were similar in our approach to parenting. I had only one child, but stayed too long in an unfulfilling and drama-filled marriage. I got caught up in giving my daughter all the privileges and freedom my very strict, ethnic and cloistered upbringing had not afforded me as well as to trying to make up for her often judgmental father. To top that off, as brilliant and skilled as my only child was, she was a toughie. From a very young age, she was easily bored and despite being able to pull off decent grades, she lost interest in school long before high school graduation. After resorting to home schooling her to procure her diploma, I watched as she flew the coop around the time I finally left her father. It was painful to watch her even at a distance, as she decided against college and wandered from job to job, taking big risks along the way. But I was always there for her no matter what the shock value, whispering prayers asking for her safekeeping. What I noticed is that when my own life finally found purpose and meaning once again, she seemed to come back to center. Eventually she moved close by and not long after that, she started up her own online business, which supports her to this day.

As Cheryl and I opened up like flower petals to one another during our time in the wine country’s idyllic surroundings, we took what the other said to heart, like long-separated sisters who desperately wanted to make up for lost time. Despite my life having not been as brutally challenging as hers, I was able to give her my own very forthright perspective and opinion about how one of the greatest gifts mothers can give their grown daughters is to grab hold of their own lives and become examples of balance and self-actualization. She told me that she had discussed these things with other friends over the years, but that no one perspective had affected her the way mine had. Or perhaps it was just timing. Because the abiding respect she had already developed regarding her connection to me caused her to do some serious soul searching. When last we spoke, she informed me that she had already begun to take steps to pull back from her maternal helicoptering, perhaps to the chagrin of her daughters, who never saw it coming.

My new/old friend is now making plans to travel to Europe with my husband and I next summer and we are giddily scheming to get together as often as feasible from now on. She hopes it is not too late to change course with her precious daughters at this point, taking a few steps back and permitting them to navigate life on their own, but she is willing to face the consequences of her decisions and hope for the best because her very sanity and survival depends on it.

I have never discounted why people both enter and re-enter one another’s lives nor the impact they can have on one another no matter how old or young they are. While some prefer to leave the past in the past, I have always looked for meaning in any encounter.

From birth to age 7 while living on a foggy San Francisco street out by the beach, I had a best friend. And if I am lucky, we will still be laughing in our old age, talking about our days walking hand-in-hand to elementary school and sharing popcorn squares at the zoo on a chilly San Francisco summer day.

Someone’s Here: Our Own Personal Poltergeist


When we saw the home seven years ago, it was everything we needed and held the potential for everything we wanted in a home in which we planned to stay for the duration: great floor plan, lived mostly on one level, tall ceilings and enough common and separate spaces for my husband and I to enjoy life as a fairly newly-wed couple. The real estate agent who sold us the place was the daughter-in-law of the former owner who, coincidentally, had died on the premises. By California law, Realtors must disclose this information within three years of it happening — just in case it affects the decision of a potential buyer. Sure enough, the buyer before us for the home terminated his interest the moment he found out. We loved the home enough to proceed, however because for my husband and I, none of this scared us.

We had experienced the loss of all our parents by this point, having lost the last one just a few months before moving in. Death was just part of the equation in our minds, and the fact that someone’s life ended in this home was not a concern. Truth is, it fascinates me to hear about unsettled spirits – poor souls who just can’t seem to move on to another plane after leaving their bodies. None of the more credible “haunting” stories I’ve heard resulted in anything more than a bit of a scare, and in many cases, people living in homes where things go bump in the night (or daytime) just live with the phenomenon of someone else hanging around.

Such is the case with a lady I will call “Hilda”, since that is the name of the woman who met her demise from a fall in the master bedroom and was evidently not discovered until it was too late. The house had been adapted in many places for a wheelchair, with handles in the master shower, lots of wide corridors and enough room to maneuver the chair around the kitchen area and Hilda had evidently gotten around pretty well under the circumstances.

Hilda began making her presence known just a few months after we moved in. A door at the other end of the house from where I was sitting opened and slammed shut. No one else was home, no windows were open and there seemed to be no provocation for this happening. It happened a few more times, prompting me to tell my husband about it, after which we decided it was Hilda just saying hello.

The most unlikely events occurred with electronics, however. On more than three occasions, either our TV or audio has turned on for no reason after both had clearly been switched off by one of us.

It happened again this morning. I had gone into the kitchen/family room area to feed the dog and let him out, as usual, and all was quiet. Heading to my office to get a jump on the day I clicked into my favorite social media web sites and checked email. Then I heard what sounded like TV dialogue. Poking my head into the master, where my husband still slept, I found all was quiet. Then I revisited the family room and, sure enough, the TV audio had been switched on. Unlike the scenes in movies, where none of the remote controls stop the transmission, however, ours always works.

Was Hilda trying to get the morning news? Nah. I think she was just messin’ with us again. So I switched it off, looked around, said, “Oh hi, Hilda!” and went about my day. Who knows? Maybe the old girl sticks around because she knows she isn’t all that unwelcome. But I hope she finds her way someday, because we aren’t going anywhere any time soon.

Shaking Things Up at Home – In a Good Way

Forget business for a while. What do you come home to? Lately I have been questioning convention when it comes to how I live in my own home. Precipitated by a recent remodel of our 20-year old kitchen, the domino effect that ensued from having one part of the house updated while the rest hadn’t been altered had me scrutinizing every room of my house to see just what I could do differently.


1950s parents were taught that there were rules that applied to each room in a house with a certain domestic behavior attached to maintaining them. My mid-century modern mom made sure you could bounce nickels off tightly-made beds and messes were put away every day, making a home perpetually ready to receive guests. It was a systematic and nearly complete brainwashing of American women at the time, and it played into the Mad Men economic era beautifully, with every ad touting “modern efficiency” to make life easier on domestic engineers so they wouldn’t think about how bored they were and try to take jobs held by men. Do any of you have a mom who used to say it was important to be prepared just in case someone “dropped by” – ? I can’t imagine the stress that caused in her generation. It was akin to being told the reason you wore clean underwear was in case you got into a car accident and were taken to the hospital.

I suppose it was not surprising when my peers and I rebelled following an act like that – working hard for an extra paycheck so they could hire housekeepers, placing pool tables in formal living rooms, yanking closets out of bedrooms to arrange home offices and rubberizing garage spaces to create home gyms. Kitchens became multi-station prep areas so that all members of the family could get in on the meal-making, realizing that if they didn’t learn how to throw a salad together once in a while they may starve if they had to wait for a working Mom to do it. Say all you want about bygone eras; I like today just fine.

A few domestic about-faces with which I have come to terms include the realization that decorative bathroom towel bars with frou-frou display rags are totally useless despite how model home decorators make them look. Towels are not art. Art is art. So I have been systematically taking them down and replacing them with wall art, display shelves or nothing at all. Now towels are where they belong — in cabinets or hanging on hooks. They’re frickin’ TOWELS.

When we remodeled our kitchen, we eliminated the casual kitchen table and chairs in favor of a huge kitchen island people can now sit around on bar stools. Since we routinely failed miserably at extricating guests or family members from the kitchen anyway, we just gave up on it. Now when guests arrive they drink and snack along with us as we approach that magical time when we usher them into a room we call lovingly call the “dining room” that gets used for even the least formal of occasions.

We have one soaking vessel in a hall bath and no, it’s not Cleopatra’s answer to a day on the Nile in a fancy barge, but why do we need more than one tub? Neither of us are bathers. So our plan is to replace the huge master bedroom “garden tub” (which I dust regularly) with a bigger walk-in rain shower where we can pretend we are in a rainforest standing naked before tropical birds. Those of you shaking your heads over how taking this step may de-value our home should think again. Opinions (and appraisals) have changed dramatically on this issue.

I decided that a guest room should have no other purpose than for visitors to feel as if they were in a fancy hotel. It does not double as a hobby room, office or crafts haven. I made ours elegant, placed robes in the closet, offer hanging and drawer space to them and even stocked the guest bath with Q-tips and makeup remover. I realize not everyone has this luxury of space and it took me a while to defrag that room, but I felt I had to create the kind of refuge I would love to have when I am a guest in someone else’s home. Fortunately, I have a few friends who had provided good prototypes for this. Okay, so I still do have to go in there and “tidy up” right before visitors arrive. Hmmm. I guess there is still a 1950s mom in me somewhere. To keep myself honest, I make sure we invite overnight guests or otherwise on a regular basis because it forces me to finally clean the place up. NOT my mother’s daughter, I’m afraid.

In the end, however, your home must serve you, and not some image you were taught to put forth. Millennials, in particular, have dispensed with all things formal in a home, looking instead for usable, practical areas. So it seems we have something to learn from them, just as our parents did from us. It’s not a bad idea to reassess your domestic spaces and decide just how much you’re willing to put up with within the most intimate spaces you’ll ever know. You just might begin to love where you live all over again.

The Story of BFFs: Of Shopping and Chick-Bonding

You see it all over Facebook: those special trips where ladies get together, drink, chat, shop and feel so great when it’s over that they can’t help but post photos of their good times together?

Screen Shot 2014-09-16 at 2.14.38 PM

This past weekend was one of those times it just felt good to be alive and with my BFF. Having planned this trip months ago, my bestie and I took one of our signature shopping trips to San Jose’s Santana Row as well as Palo Alto’s Stanford Mall. It began with my picking her up outside her husband’s law firm and cruising and chatting all the way to San Francisco’s South Bay from the Sacramento Valley.

The story of the two of us began 20 years ago. Putting in “parent participation hours” at our daughters’ parochial school found us scrubbing student desks next to one another, starved for conversation while performing grunt work to keep our children’s tuition at its lowest level. Ana Maria’s accent fascinated me as I heard her musical voice begin to make small talk. Her background was both Spanish and Venezuelan, but her elegance made her international. From that first meeting, fate took its course and we began seeing one another at other events on behalf of the school as well as planning outings with our spouses-at-the-time, who seemed to get along as well.

When Ana told me in confidence that she did not picture herself married to her husband forever, I questioned it. My own unhappy marriage did not stop me from trying to bolster whatever little fondness she may have retained for her partner, but within a few years, she called to tell me she had moved into an apartment. My husband tried to discourage me from exposing myself to her unhappiness and listening to her reasons for fear it would only highlight our own marital dysfunction, but I refused to abandon my friendship with her when she needed it most.

In the end, my ex’s fears became realized. Seeing Ana begin to relax and spread her wings after maintaining an image of happiness for so long began to give me the strength I needed to confront serious marital issues that had chipped away at me for years. A few years later, Ana Maria became my refuge, offering me sisterhood as well as a place to stay when I left my husband of 20 years. She listened to me, offered her shoulder to cry on, reasoned with me and never judged. Before long I moved 100 miles away from her — back to my beloved Bay Area with my nearly-grown daughter and a freedom I thought I would never have again.

As we both gained a new sense of ourselves and the world around us, we watched the other blossom. Shopping trips in both the Sacramento and the Bay Areas were eclipsed only by even more fun ones in Las Vegas or San Diego or Phoenix – when one of us was traveling on business and the other flew in to share a company-paid hotel room for a few days. We followed our noses from happy hours and free hors d’oeuvres to marathon window-shopping trips while crying happy tears of liberation and laughing our heads off. And we never looked back, celebrating having found amazing new life partners and crying and dancing at one another’s weddings.

Shopping together brings out the best in us and this past weekend was no exception. We saw clothes we knew would look great on the other and offered reasoning to purchase things we knew we would never find again. While Ana Maria is excruciatingly thoughtful before she makes a purchase, I am the impulse buyer, justifying things I convince myself I cannot live without. And whether it’s getting make-up applied by eager department store cosmetics experts, delighting over delicious salads and great glasses of wine or bouncing on luxurious hotel beds after a long day of serious shopping, we come out of it refreshed and feeling like 30 year olds.

By the time we cram our packages into the back of my car for the trip home, we are new women, marveling over how a single overnight can work magic on our well-being. And as we fall into our waiting husbands’ eager arms, we thank them for understanding how desperately we needed this time together.

Life is about moments and these are among our best.

Vacation 2014: When Writing Becomes a True Labor of Love

This voyage includes a week spent with our choral group in Barcelona, followed by a week in Paris and another five days in London. I hope you will take the journey and re-live this with me. I loved writing every word….

Remains of the Day: Botched Departure Can’t Dampen Placer Pops Chorale Members’ Enthusiasm

Ola! More than two years in the planning, the day for boarding a plane for Placer Pops Chorale’s concert tour to Barcelona has finally arrived. Thirty eight people that include chorale members and their spouses, friends and fans came not only from the Sacramento area, but also flew in from the Northwest, Florida and the Midwest to gather for what promises to be a fun week of performing, sightseeing, musical fellowship, soaking in Spanish culture, enjoying Mediterranean sunshine and basking in the traditions of one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.

Arriving at SFO at various times of the morning of July 12th, we receive baggage identifiers from our tour company representative and dutifully proceed to check in and then shimmy through security, shedding shoes, laptops, jewelry and outerwear to feel a sigh of relief on the other side, where all that is left is to wait to board an enormous 747 bound to Paris, where we will connect to our final destination.

As the group gathers in the International Terminal’s downstair A9 boarding area, we greet one another with hugs, introductions, laughter and anticipation. We are told at check-in that our flight, which was to leave at 4 pm, is now delayed for an hour due to a technical issue, and that regular updates will be afforded us as we get closer to departure time. Those announcements come and with each briefing, our flight gets pushed later and later into the afternoon. Meal and drink vouchers are handed out to what is now a hoard of nearly 500 passengers and finally, at around 6:30 pm, the captain — surrounded by airport police — comes to the boarding podium to inform everyone in the gate area that our flight has been cancelled. We are to retrieve our checked luggage and go back to the terminal’s ticket counter for further instructions.

By then, our tour representative is long gone, so choral director Lorin Miller takes charge with Air France, insisting they provide us with accommodations for the night. Soon, we board shuttle buses to an airport-close hotel. Most of us go to our rooms, and either fall on our beds and hunker down for the night or hang out at hotel bar that remains open until midnight.

As Saturday morning greets us, we look for word of what time our flight will be. No phone calls or texts have been received and no instructions given as members of the group began gathering within the hotel lobby’s breakfast area. Indignant we are not getting answers nor help from those responsible for our tour, several of us wield cell phones to get things figured out with the tour company and Air France to re-book passage, painstakingly retrieving reservation locator numbers for each member of the group. Faced with the prospect of having the group split up onto two separate trans-Atlantic flights, emotions begin to swell as some of the less experienced travelers do not want to be separated from the group.

Springing into action, Lorin Miller and several other chorale members begin doing damage control and within several hours, manage to get the entire group on one plane for at least the longer portion of the trip. By the time we arrive in Barcelona by way of Amsterdam, apart from a few pieces of delayed luggage, things begin to improve. Martin, our multi-lingual Barcelona host, greets us outside the secure airport baggage area and escorts us to a beautiful bus to take us to our hotel in the downtown area, close to Placa Catalunya, the metro, restaurants and shopping. We already sense a lot of tapas, sangria and paella in our futures…




Sleep-deprived travelers finally arrive at their rooms in two groups from two different Amsterdam flights, no doubt ready to begin their adventure. On tap for tomorrow: our first choral rehearsal at the music conservatory and a Barcelona city tour, both rescheduled due to the day we lost in San Francisco.

Day Two: Placer Pops’ First Full Day in “Bar-theh-lona”

Following what seems like a week spent on moving sidewalks, shuttle buses to hotels, and interminable plane rides, the travelers in our group were warned not to sleep the moment we reach our hotel rooms. “Stay awake until what might a normal bed time in Spain,” we were told at our pre-departure briefing. “Then you’ll get over jet lag much more quickly.”

So by the time afternoon rolls around a plan is in effect, prompted by director Lorin Miller’s invitation to go en masse to a nearby tapas (small plates) restaurant for dinner. Once there, those of us who are experiencing serial yawns put on our social hats and begin getting to know others we have not yet met, all the while drinking sangria and sharing paella dishes. By 9:30 (just about the time most Barcelona locals are THINKING about dinner), we all head back to our rooms to descend like timber onto beds in a drug-like state.

The morning finds us in the hotel’s breakfast room, a place containing an impressive array of fruit, pastries, hot food on demand and breakfast conversation to usher in our first full day in a city of which we had only had fleeting glances on our trip from the airport. The morning promises our first full rehearsal for the following day’s open-air evening concert in the town of Gelida. Our host ushers us off a bus to a beautifully designed music conservatory, where we descend steps to a theater-seating style classroom to go through our repertoire, discuss staging and try prepare ourselves for our upcoming performance. As usual, we feel we will never be quite ready to pull off a decent show, but it is times like these that determine the amount of study we need to accomplish in order to look and sound confident on stage.

By 3:30 we are on the bus for our first city tour, marveling as Mar, our tour guide, elaborates on the city’s architecture and style. We pass shuttered, wrought iron-railed balconies gracing elegant Barcelona residences, elegant retail stores, huge avenues and stately town squares.







Arriving at a park whose elevation affords us views of most of the city, its ports and its ancient quarters, iPhone cameras click and travelers bunch up for their first group photos set against a blue Catalan sky, suspended gondolas, green grass and swaying palm trees. Following our lofty drive, we visit the aged but ornate and beautifully preserved cathedral of Santa Cruz in the old city corridor, following our guide in duck-like fashion as she carries an object she called a “lollipop” so we would always know where to go. Our tour company host flanks the rear of the group, helping those of us caught behind on city corners catch up with her. We stroll through passenger alley-ways and pass stores we swear we will revisit as we dodge drivers whose speeds my husband swears fit one of three categories: “stop, go, or kill the tourists.”

Placa Catalunya’s magnificent fountain is surrounded by an expansive slice city of real estate, today glinting in the midday sun as we spill off the bus onto the Ramblas, Barcelona’s spectacular world-renown avenue lined with trees and bustling with commerce and fast-moving shoppers. Many of us make mental notes of where we want to revisit when left on our own over the next few days. This half-walking, half-riding tour gives us a taste of what to expect the rest of our week here, only whetting appetites for more.

By far the most impressive stop on the four-hour tour, however, is the last one: Antonia Gaudi’s never-finished and oft-controversial church dedicated to the Sagrada Familia (holy family). This is a personally significant sight for both my friend Kay and me, who were last in Barcelona as college students in the 1970s, when the church was a crazily ornate study in modern religious art that appeared to have no real final design in mind. Not yet fully enclosed at that point, we never forgot our mixed reaction to its then “plein air” architecture. Today, however, changes all that. Still incomplete, the edifice has easily quadrupled in size since then, but now boasts an incredibly interesting yet ornate modern design that includes stained glass soaring to the heavens, elaborately designed dual spiral staircases and so many delights to the eye that I swear you could sit inside the church for an entire day and not notice all the details. You just can’t beat the Catholics for the lengths they go to honor Christianity.

Having walked the eight city blocks to and from our bus to gain access to this sight, we board our tour bus for the last time on our first full day’s round of activities. Arriving back at our hotel, some of us make beelines for their rooms for rest and others don’t have to wander far to find local eateries for more sampling of local cuisine as well as some alcohol to enhance the self-pinching we were all doing when we think of how we still have the rest of the week to enjoy this world-class city.

Tomorrow will include a tour of the Palau de Musica, some free time and by late afternoon, a trip just outside the city to participate in a music festival in the city of Gelida.

The Barcelona Experience Days 3 & 4: Choral Groups (Especially Ours) RULE!

The past two days have been amazing, and although as the “official” blogger of the group I may have my own opinions and prejudices, I feel certain no one here would disagree with me in my assessments.

Before I launch into a diatribe of the events, however, suffice it to say that this 38-member group has bonded in a way that brings broader and broader smiles to all our faces. Apart from the trials and tribulations of a rocky start to the concert tour due to airline musical chairs (and a few pieces of delayed luggage), I think we can honestly say that serendipity began to take over the moment we arrived. Our ACFEA host has been attentive and informative, our hotel has been established as an upscale home-away-from home that is so well-located that not a single taxi has been used to see the city’s most famous sights. And the weather, while noticeably more humid than we are used to in northern California, has been as perfect as we could hope for.

Yesterday began with a tour of the Palau de Musica Catalan. Located just 4 blocks from our hotel, this performance venue was originally built with choral singing in mind, meant to showcase Barcelona’s choral traditions beginning with the Orfeo Catala, an amateur group founded in 1891. Opened in 1908, this magnificent theater is known for its modernist architecture, its musical and social events and its pristine condition. In 1990, the Orfeo-Catala-Palau de la Musica Foundation was formed to encourage musical culture through the search for material resource for the institution’s choral groups and the organization of concerts in the Palau that provide it with prestige and international recognition for the musical life of Barcelona.

Each year the concert stage and its newly-built lower-level alternate stage see more than half a million people attend approximately 300 concerts, now encompassing much more than choral groups to include dance, orchestral performances, and all types of musical offerings. The theater itself is a delight to the eyes with mosaic-encrusted columns, meaningful and whimsical statuary, and the recognition of the world’s greatest musical composers, all featured in various artistic mediums within the structure itself. Ornate does not adequately describe what Placer Pops singers and their tag-alongs experience as we walk through the Palau. Archways in the Moorish tradition, colored glass everywhere, colorful columns, marble stairways and skylights permitting natural light to flood the theater itself are a delight to the eyes as we catch a view of the stage from the upper levels. Here, we are informed by our tour guide that a performance venue that looks as if it can accommodate no more than 1,000 people does, in reality, seat more than double that number.

Some of the world’s most notable performers are showcased in a 15-minute video as our group is escorted into the theater’s chamber group venue/rehearsal hall, located just below the stage itself and in exact dimensions and shape to it as well. Musical giants such as Zubin Mehta, Andrés Segovia, Pablo Casals, Arthur Rubinstein, Yehudi Menuhin, and Montserrat Caballé, among others, have performed here and some describe their thoughts of performing at the Palau during the video. We all walk away with a new appreciation of how Barcelona and the Catalan people are HUGE fans of choral traditions, setting the stage for an interesting evening to come — the evening of the first of our two Spanish performances.





By late afternoon we are to bring our concert attire with us as we board our motor coach to take the half-hour drive to Gelida, a small town nestled in the hills overlooking Barcelona. Here, we see town bulletin boards graced with a poster-photo of our group portrayed in its full 70+ member size. In reality, however, only 16 representatives will be singing, prompting us to explain why the group is so small, hoping they will understand the entire group could not make the trip.

As we arrive in the quaint town, due to the narrow streets and a dirt road that access the castle-ruins-laden performance site, singers and musicians are asked to disembark our larger motor coach to take smaller shuttle buses while non-singers are left to discover the town and return with us later — but not before being told that since there are no restrooms at our venue, we should make a pit stop before going up the hill. It makes us more than a bit curious about the venue…

We arrive in the heat of the day, walking up ramps to a small, rocky, but picturesque performance venue with a small stage against a backdrop of an ancient semi-circular castle wall. A grand piano arrives the same time we do, painstakingly put into place by a crew of men. Sound and light technicians are setting the stage and director Lorin Miller surveys the area to get a sense of how he will stage our musical offerings.

Steady Spanish winds blow sheet music off music stands as Angel Contreras prepares to accompany us on French horn, and pianist Pattiey Leftridge asks for just the right piano angle to see Lorin and the singers in a single glance. Columns of perspiration roll down our backs and glint off foreheads as we are asked to arrange ourselves on stage to rehearse several numbers and before long, microphone levels, speaker monitors and physical positions are set. Time to go back down the hill to get a quick dinner (much later than originally anticipated) before returning to change into our performance clothing. Speaking of changing, we are led to a small, cave-like room under the hill where we are to perform. The stone walls are dusty and there is no light inside as we drop our performance outfits there to claim after dinner. At this point we are wondering how such a primitive performance venue can attract an audience as Lorin speaks of what is to come as a “great adventure.” We smile and nod, hoping for the best.

To speed up dinner time, we are taken to a local place and quickly served a prix fixe repast, The waitresses are hospitable and very efficient in trying to get the meals to us, and we gobble our meals down quickly, paying on the way out. Once back up the hill we revisit the now-lit cave-changing room and dress quickly. Several of us greet people who have walked up the hill or taken shuttles to see us as they arrive, saying “ola” and “grah-thee-as” (using Catalan pronunciation) as we are impressed to see a crowd beginning to gather.

Soon we are lined up and ready to climb the stage as our male singers grab female hands up a rickety set of temporary stairs. As we line up, the audience — perhaps 120 people or so — applauds us continuously. This show of appreciation is not something we are accustomed to, but we are thrilled nonetheless. Now that it is dark (10 pm) the castle wall backdrop is awash with artistically alternating colored lights as Barcelona twinkles below. Suddenly just being there is a treat and all thoughts of the Spartan performance venue and ancient changing room have been replaced with excitement at the idea of singing for people who went to so much trouble to set this all up to hear us that evening.

Lorin Miller and Terrie Jaramillo form a tag-team duo introducing our songs in both English and Spanish, entertaining the audience with their well-meaning descriptions while audience members help them pronounce words. The rest of us chuckle behind them. Then Lorin turns around and begins conducting us as we sing The Boy From New York City, a song made famous by The Manhattan Transfer. Our “ooo-wah-oo-wah-ooh-wa-didees” were received with a rousing applause and whoops, making us surmise few American groups traveling here on tour offer anything but a classical program for these jazz-and-pop-loving Spaniards. As the concert continues with a diverse selection of songs, the crowd shows marked appreciation, encouraging our encore of New York New York and clapping in time to it. We mingle with several audience members for a while and by nearly midnight, we are ready to grab our belongings and roll back to Barcelona, exhausted but grateful for the experience.



The next morning (Thursday) is a much-anticipated tour of Montserrat, the famous Catholic shrine and monastery nestled into the dramatic rock formations that loom large along Barcelona’s southern reaches. Joseph, our tour guide, is a wonderful story teller, explaining the history of the area and explaining how 90 or so modern day scholar-monks now live on the mountain. The monastery also houses a school for boys that specializes in musical and choral instruction to help traditions of the Catalan people endure. The site was breathtaking and included a museum, the basilica with its huge pipe organ and world famous black Madonna, several funiculars to take visitors to the top of the rocks, and a collection of stores and restaurants to satisfy the tourist in us all.

A snapshot of the interior of our return bus ride would reveal many of us napping, depleted by the heat and exercise after nearly a full day on the mountain. Arriving back at our hotel, we disperse to find food or rest awhile before about half the group emerges from the hotel around 8 pm to walk to the Palau for an evening Flamenco performance. Strewn along the sidewalk as we stroll back to our hotel afterward, we talk of the operatic as well as ethnic singing we had just witnessed, accompanied by skilled guitar-playing and athletic feats-of-the feet performed by the dancers. But most of all, we speak in almost hushed tones at the idea of having attended a show at the incredible Palau de Musica Catalan, surely a newly realized bucket list event for many of us…

Apart from our second concert on Friday, our time is now our own, ending with a group dinner at the hotel on Saturday night.

Placer Pops Chorale and Barcelona: The Recipe for a Great Choral Tour

The fact that the writer of these blogs is wide awake at 5:40 am in no way means she stayed up all night to see members of our group depart the hotel at the ungodly hour for the Barcelona airport this morning. It simply means she committed the atrocity of having drunk a cup of delicious Spanish coffee at the evening’s farewell dinner before thinking nothing would deter her from sleep. But if my travel buddies wanted to color this as sympathetic insomnia, I wouldn’t mind at all …

The last few days here in this beautiful city included a well-received, well attended concert given in the seaside-close village of Pals on the magnificent Costa Brava. The setting of the venue was (again) stunning, with our backdrop being a very old stone structure. After arriving there on our bus,we did our usual mini-rehearsal and then disbanded to find dinner on our own, meeting back at the venue to do a last-minute sound check. By 10 pm, the start of the concert saw most of the audience chairs occupied, but our audience also consisted of diners at a restaurant near the audience area, people sitting on surrounding walls and passers-by who joined us after hearing us begin the singing. We all agreed it was a lovely presentation and picturesque place for our second and final concert.

That day as well as our last day in Barcelona were full of free time. We traveled alone, in pairs and in small herds as we used our time to soak in the Catalan ambience and beauty after a fulfilling week together. Activities among us included cable-car-in-the-sky rides, boat rides, visits to the Picasso Museum, strolls through the world famous Gaudi-designed Guell Park, shopping and souvenir collecting, walking all over the old city corridor, and taking funicular rides to nearby mountain tops. One group member went to Girona with a friend who lived in Barcelona to tour what was once one of Spain’s largest Jewish quarters to learn about the historical influence and accomplishments of her ethnic group in this part of Europe.

Reflecting back on our time here, we seemed to be in agreement that the success of this experience in the more technical sense can be credited to a number of things: a well-arranged week of touring, concerts and activities by our tour company, a great host that stayed at the hotel with us the entire time (yes, he even accompanied the 3 am group to the airport), the hotel, which was luxurious by both European and American standards with its blue marble bathrooms and sumptuous breakfast buffets each day, and most notably, staying in one place the entire time so that we did not have to pack and unpack bags or climb on and off buses too often.







None of that, however, reflects the success of the trip as well as the company we kept. Among us were couples ranging in age from their 20s to their 70s (the 20-something couple was actually on their honeymoon!), single and unaccompanied travelers who bonded after hearing life stories and cementing new friendships forged through travel and common experiences, and, of course, the music: that universal language that binds us and keeps our minds sharp and engaged.

As we sit at long dining tables in the hotel’s restaurant for our farewell dinner, we talk excitedly of our time here, exchange email addresses and telephone numbers and even speak of where the group might go in a few years. A European riverboat cruise? A stay in Florence? Who knows? In the end, any trip can be fun when you love being together and singing together. Toward the end of the evening, hugs are the order of the day. Places some of us are heading include Paris, Madrid, Bucharest, Amsterdam, Vienna, and Rome, while the rest of the group are looking forward to getting home.

We hope you have enjoyed our Barcelona blogs and encourage you to get friends and family to “like” our Placer Pops Facebook page, since it has become a vehicle to not only entertain and inform you on our activities, but also serves to help augment our audience sizes — especially our newest audiences in the Folsom/El Dorado Hills area serving the Harris Center performances we began holding a few years ago.

Our thanks go to the organizers of this trip as well as the friends and family who tagged along to make our group large enough to make this happen. We love you all.

The remainder of this post covers the continuing adventures of Dena and George Kouremetis, having parted with our group to take the train to Paris, and after a week there, on to London.

First Full Day In Paris

After getting settled in our charming studio apartment just steps away from the Bastille monument/roundabout, we walk to my daughter’s temporary digs in the Marais along the Avenue des Filles du Calvaire, where we get caught up with news of our trips-to-date, order pizza and begin ruminating on where we could go with a 4 lb. poodle in tow. Much of Paris is extremely pet-friendly (restaurants, stores, etc.), but museums and some other tourist attractions make it verboten to stash a pet under an arm.

My daughter spoils us with “Uber” rides (cars and drivers that can be called in lieu of taxis in many major cities these days) as we set out for Montmartre to see the beautiful Sacre Coeur basilica by early afternoon. We are deposited onto a heavily-infested tourist street nearby. The area instantly reminds me of the Plaka area of Athens, but in this case, vendors boast cheap trinkets mostly made in China with “I’m in Paris” logos plastered in polyester. My memories of Paris of the ‘70s contain only cheap portrait painters and questionable book sellers in this location, so I guess not much has changed except for what they sell. However, we are able to drown our reactions in some gelato, so our spirits improve.




On our way down the hill trying to avoid tourist hoards, we walk in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. Before we arrive, however, we learn that Sophia’s thumb-typing prowess has procured a reservation on a “Bateau Mouche” — a riverboat that feeds you an elegant dinner as you glide down the Seine and witness activity along the quay and its berges — that place where lovers wave, the Eiffel Tower glistens in a sea of twinkly lights and people dance Tango on raised platforms. Another bucket list item soon gets checked off my list and we arrive back at our little place ready to check emails, write blogs and pass out once again.

Today will be spent trying out our museum passes while braving the Paris Metro.

It has been awhile. Still pinching myself.

Day 3 in Paris: Getting Around on Our Own

We began the day looking for a pharmacy after sitting down for a morning baguette near Place de la Bastille. Not prone to allergies, I seem to have developed one quite handily, complete with itchy, watery eyes, an alto voice deteriorating into a “vilkommen-bienvenue” whisky baritone, and tiring much too easily. Facing a French pharmacist, I use all the vocabulary I can muster to describe my situation. Soon I walk out of the tiny place armed with fizzy versions of aspirins and antihistamines, ready to take on a day of touring that includes the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides.

No longer having the luxury of my daughter’s “Uber”-ing” privileges, we hoof it to the closest Metro station, forcing me to see firsthand how things have changed since the 1970s. It’s only logical that everything has been computerized by now, but I must admit it changes the flavor or running around with a fistful of yellow tickets. Everything is well marked and train transfers are easy, just as they were long ago. Another thing that has not changed are the Metro musicians; from guitarists to Russian folk ensembles to gypsy clarinetists with their own computer rhythm sections, it is a circus of underground delight.

Les Invalides is a serious study in dead French military heroes displayed in larger-than-life monuments, but we also take the time to tour their military museum, outlining the role the French played throughout history. By the time we have reached World War II, I am beginning to hurry through rooms of displays much more quickly than George, who basks in history and loved analyzing weapons and military devices. This is fine, since my feel are already speaking plain English to me as I sit on benches and permit them to complain before moving on.

In some Metro stations, new glass barriers with their own automatic doors are set up like fences against the Metro tracks and in other older stations, nothing can prevent those who prefer a dramatic ending the privilege of hurling themselves onto an electric track.

The day has been filled with revelations and lessons, so in lieu of tedious paragraphs about the events of the day as well as my impressions to date, I have decided to give you a bullet-point rundown of enlightenments:

–French cafes and restaurants don’t truly compete on price. What you pay for the same cup of coffee can be all over the map depending on how close you are to a tourist attraction. Note to self: if the Eiffel Tower’s loftiest spires are anywhere within view, simply double the bill.

–Never hesitate when someone vacates a seat on the Metro. Flop yourself into it in a New York second or you will be standing with someone’s bosom in your face for ten stops.

–If you didn’t take the time to buy yourself an advance ticket to the Eiffel Tower, fuggetaboutit. The line is so long, you would be committing a kind of Twilight Zone-esque harakiri by thinking you will make it up the structure’s silver arches any time soon. Be satisfied with a few smart phone selfies aimed towards the structure’s belly with your faces stuck in the middle. Works great.

–Weather forecasts for Paris summers are useless. The weather can be sunny at one moment, overcast in another and raining like a cascade of Monet colors on a canvas with the blink of an eye.

–The French equivalent of a firm bed is a granite slab with a duvet cover.
Air conditioning is not common, so get used to open windows wafting the noise of busy cafes as you try to get the theme from “Charade” out of your head as you attempt sleep.

–Anything higher than a slightly chunky heel will have you rolling your ankles on Paris’ Les Mis-style cobblestone streets. If the French invented stiletto heels (from what I hear they were invented by under-tall French despots), they must have been reserved for brooding, lanky beauties on runways or for the Moulin Rouge. Ooo-lala.

–Europeans do not use washcloths. On two separate trips, we have taken our hotel or apartment’s small towels and violated them beyond recognition to create little rags that appreciate soap. Mea culpa.

–You can cook a meal with one hand and throw in a load of clothes with the other in a European kitchen. Clothes and food evidently get the same amount of attention here.

–Elevators are not designed for more than 4-6 people anywhere — in large stores, apartment buildings or airports. Small wonder there are far fewer obese French people. Everyone prefers to take the stairs than wait for the slowest lifts known to mankind.

–Saying “bonjour”, and “merci bien”, mimicking the very best French accent you can muster (while wearing your purse cross-body and making sure there is a little scarf around your neck) gets you everywhere — including fooling everyone into thinking you speak fluent French. It becomes a case of “be-careful-what-you-wish-for.”

More revelations to follow. My feet hurt so my brain needs a rest. Yes — there is a connection.


An Unbelievable Day….

Between George’s desire to get out of Dodge and my dangerous knowledge of French, we figure we were due for an adventure after nearly two weeks of meticulously planned activities, museum visits and city dwelling.

We hop the Metro to St. Lazare Station and buy train tickets to Bayeux on the Normandy coast. Not having planned this side trip before we left home, we had no idea what to expect. Tours seemed sold out when we Googled them in our Paris apartment, but these two Greeks are now determined to find Omaha Beach and the American D-Day cemetery even if we have to line dance our way there..

As the train pulls into the lazy little countryside station (no, George does not fail to make everything he possibly can into a song as he serenades me with a rendition of “Blue Bayeux”…), we notice a few taxis lined up. I ask one of the drivers how much he would charge to take us to the visitor’s center and George and I agree it sounds like a rip-off. So we say a friendly thank you and wander just beyond the train station to a tiny hotel with a huge sign advertising D-Day tours. As we approach the door, a short, stocky, balding, animated man with a tiny moustache emerges. His accent, looks and mannerisms are so authentically Old World French that I have to wonder if he is putting on an act. His name is Jean-Marc and he runs a tiny auberge as well as a touring operation. He names his price for a half-day tour and we are sold. Told we are to come back in about 90 minutes for our tour, we take the time to explore the picturesque town of Bayeux, which looks as charming as it must have been before World War II. Strangely enough, its buildings and homes were not harmed during the war (evidently not strategically important enough) and its magnificent Cathedral de Notre Dame stands still stately and stunning surrounded by tiny shops, homes and eateries.

Back in plenty of time for our tour, we wait to see who else might join us. “You will probably have a private tour,” says Jean-Marc a bit worriedly in his charming nasal accent. “Others say they want to go, but did not pay in advance and they are not back. So if they don’t show up in the next ten minutes it will just be you and your guide, Romain.” I look up to see a 30-something ruggedly handsome young man greeting us and instantly think private is good.


Soon a noisy, outdated van meant to seat nine tourists sees only three of us filling its front bench seat and we’re off, bouncing down a country road that reminds me of every war movie I have ever seen. Romain, who grew up in the area, begins telling fascinating stories as if the entire countryside were his personal backyard and the legends of D-Day were in his DNA. We arrive at the town of Arromanches, where the Brits had built a fleet of temporary docks unlike anything ever done before for a war effort. We see the town’s small museum and watch the 1946 film that documented the operation. The breeze is cool, the sun is warm and the salt sea air fills our nostrils — so welcome after a week in Paris fumes and stuffy Metro cars.

We are again on our way, this time to the American cemetery, memorial and visitors’ center — 70+ acres given to the U.S. in appreciation for its sacrifice of the more than 9,000 men buried there. Images from “Saving Private Ryan” fill my head and despite the crowds gathered around the memorial, a hush comes over the area as the Star Spangled Banner is played in chimes over a loudspeaker. People stop talking. They even stop moving. Tears stream down more faces than just my own as we gaze out over the sea of white crosses and Stars of David. It is difficult to describe the peacefulness of this lofty place, knowing what occurred there some 70 years before.

The visitors’ center is replete not only with films depicting what went on during the landing, but also the display of many individual stories of the men and women who gave their lives to keep Europe free — boys still in their teens who had never been outside their farm communities in Nebraska, and others who simply did what their country asked.

The rest of our day is spent reveling in the detail and dozens of stories Romain relates as he tours us around German long range gun bunkers, shows us bomb craters, drives us by the beach itself and speaks in awe of what went on there. Five hours come and go as Romain deposits us at the train station just minutes before the train back to Paris arrives.

As we slump in our compartment, George and I look at one another in disbelief over our good fortune. The day was entirely unplanned, yet turned out to be one of the most fulfilling days of our trip so far. We agreed the next time we return to France we would be renting a car and driving the countryside instead of hanging around Paris. The most exciting part, however, was that we are already planning to return.

Art, Patience and Coldcuts in Paris

The French know how to present art. Whether it’s the delight we take as we enter their gigantic galleries filled with abundant natural light, the sense of excitement we feel while climbing elegant marble steps leading to expansive “salles” containing impressive collections — or just our involuntary gasps at the way these masterpieces come into view, it’s easy to see why Parisians see their city as well as their art as the center of the universe.

Despite the fact that George and I have individually developed ideas of aesthetics, we agree on our love of the Impressionist era, when crusty upstarts railed against the formality and stuffiness of the upper classes and chose to paint and sculpt the world that lay at their feet. From scenes in restaurants to ballet classes to fields of gold to days at the beach, French life is depicted in all its common-folk glory by the likes of Monet, Renoir, Manet, Sisley, Seurat, Gaugin, Pisarro, LaTour, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cezanne, Rousseau and others. While European art galleries are filled to the brim with intimidating religious depictions and gargantuan works showing majestic royalty, it is the Impressionists that truly captured the spirit of life here.

Like two kids in a candy shop at the stunningly-arrayed Musee D’Orsay, my life partner and I spend a few extra euro to schlep a device that, with a tap of a number on a small screen, explains the significance of many of the pieces displayed there. Narrators make the pieces come alive as we find ourselves hunting for the next objet d’art with a symbols matching those of our handheld friends.

It’s funny how museums-in-famous-cities visits go. When you get there, you are in disbelief, thinking, “I am here — in Paris — at the Musee D’Orsay and I am standing in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s self portrait. Pinch me.” By three hours into the experience you begin to feel guilty that you are beginning to leave one room to start looking at the next before stopping at every piece of art. Six hours into it and you are so exhausted that you sit on any observation bench you can find, rationalizing that you are seeing the art from afar — the way it was meant to be viewed. Suddenly all you can think about is sitting at a cafe and hoisting a cold beer. All thoughts of seeing another room full of priceless paintings or timeless sculpture become subjugated. We are cheap dates.

We find libations and a hearty meal at a nearby eaterie and as we clink our glasses, we easily get back into the “OMG-I’m-in-Paris” mode because the alcohol has temporarily numbed our throbbing feet. Following a dessert of crepes, bananas, chocolate and Chantilly creme, we lock arms and walk toward the water, where the Seine’s new “berges” have been built along its banks. Here lovers sneak kisses, families take their children to play, and tourists wave from crowded boats to glide by the Eiffel Tower. Along the riverbanks, Parisians built structures and play places for both adults and kids, with lounge chairs, hammocks, short rock-climbing walls, and even dance floors. Soon it is time to hop the Metro back to our apartment, where we fall asleep faster than David Copperfield can make the Eiffel Tower disappear.

The next morning we steel ourselves for an all-day visit to the Louvre, having read online about the horrible crowds and seas of tour buses that empty out like sprinkles on a cake. Fortunately, we are able to find an alternate entrance few others seem to know about (Google helped with this one) and breeze into the place. The Louvre is massive by anyone’s standards, so apart from the wing called “Denon”, which displays the museum’s most famous works of art, even huge crowds can thin out inside its many salons and corridors. By 5 hours into our visit, we give in. We HAVE to see Winged Victory and The Mona Lisa just to say we did. Now the throngs are stifling and no amount of air conditioning can cool us off as we snap photos and try to wheedle past mile-long Asian tour groups whose leaders carry ten foot poles with origami figures flying from the tips. And there she is — behind glass, smiling her stifled smile. Snap. Snap snap. Then you feel the elbow of someone who wants your spot to hold up their smart phone or flash their iPad.

Next thing we know, we are following every ”sortie” sign we can find. The museum is closing in an hour and still people are pouring in. It’s bizarre. At last we find ourselves outside, in front of the Da Vinci Code pyramid. We pay a vendor for a couple of Oranginas and hoof it to the Metro stop, grateful we now know how to get back to our apartment without studying a map and knowing which tunnel leads to the roundabout within steps of our pedestrian alleyway.

After a rest, we wander out to find a small eatery recommended by our landlords, just around the corner. I order a smoked salmon dish and George orders a selection of “charcuterie” — tiny slices of meats and cheeses.


He smiles as he cuts delicate bites to savor and swizzles his Languedoc wine. “You know, I could put together something like this at home that would look pretty much the same. I could buy the cold cuts at Costco and Corti Brothers and the cheeses too. But when I wake up in the morning, I’m not in Paris.”

So true. It’s all about location.

Reflections on Paris: “Bribes de la Conversation”…

I have always loved French expressions. “Faire des bises” refers to the greeting act of French “cheek-brushing” — a kind of air-kissing first done to the left, then to the right and sometimes to the left once again. But the phrase I love most is “bribes de la conversation” — an expression that refers to snippets of unfinished and sometimes unrelated things you hear people say in the course of a day.

That is how I think of this short week in Paris. Phrases and words I’ve heard here became flashbacks — to a time I when was 20 years old and spent three months here as part of a French language summer abroad study program with my university. In our group of a dozen or so students, I was, perhaps, an enigma. I had already spent a college year in Europe in Athens, Greece just 12 months before, so being back in Europe for another summer almost seemed like an extension of my earlier experiences. For that reason, I took things for granted and came to regret it — things like forgetting to snap photos of famous places, failing to solidify my relationships with other students with whom I might have stayed lifelong friends, and being the tag-along instead of the self-starter when it came to getting to know the City of Lights.

Being here 40 years later cements old feelings regarding this magnificent city, but also stirs emotion in me I was not prepared to feel. You see, Paris isn’t just a city. It’s a microcosm of experiences, sights, and people that represent an entire world of ethnic identities, art, music, and intellectual thought. Paris is a constant experiment; a place where people are just as concerned with observing others as being observed, illustrated by the number of cafes whose tables are accompanied by chairs that face perennially forward on city sidewalks. The French are talking all around you, having long, drawn-out discussions about all manner of topics, whether on a metro train or at a small cafe. They spend time psycho-analyzing experiences, relationships and even talk history. Life, to the French, is one long conversation comprised of a series of snippets. Punctuate this with young lovers stealing kisses along the “berges”, groups of small school children holding hands like a string of goslings following their teacher along a Paris sidewalk, an old woman with a sack of baguettes slung over her shoulder or the face of a crusty laborer sitting at a cafe for hours talking with his cronies, his face etched with tobacco creases belying happier times.

This morning as George and I sat at a small cafe breathing in the last of our Paris experience, I thought about how it turned out to be a perfect day for saying goodbye to this city that stole my heart so long ago. Being Sunday, our little neighborhood in the Marais/Bastille area looked different from an entire week of days before. Shops were closed, small cafes were open and at first, all we saw were older people walking by. This was in stark contrast to having felt as if no one under age 35 even lived in this city as we crowded into metro cars and walked down Parisian avenues.

I remarked that the younger generation was no doubt sleeping off Saturday night revelry, but I think it was more than that. I think Paris finally takes a breath on Sunday mornings. Noise dies down. Cars stay parked. People walk more slowly. The morning sun glints off old buildings while each floor-to-ceiling window with its wrought iron balcony-like barriers boasts curtains flung open to bring in the day. Old men with hats and baggy pants walk by as we sip our cafe cremes, contrasted only by an occasional family of well-dressed people heading toward a nearby church for morning mass.

While we made sure to see the basics — museums and places one is thought to be remiss if not seen on a trip here — we realize now that we will not be the same people when we return to Paris. We will have a different agenda stemming from the watershed feelings we experienced on this trip, just as I did from having visited some three decades ago. Our most memorable moments were those that were unplanned — walking along the Seine and reclining on a quay like lovers in our 20s, getting on a train bound for Normandy coast with no idea of how we would see a place George wanted to see his entire life, and finally, my looking down from our tiny apartment through its huge window at the sight below me in the pedestrian alleyway. There, my husband sits in a chair having a cigar, animatedly talking with a shop owner as if they were old friends. Laughter wafts up to me, along with cigar fumes and the idea that people, no matter where you go in the world, are all looking for connections. We delight in fleeting but meaningful glances, we get a thrill out of a conversation with a stranger. In the end, Paris is a state of mind, much like New York. And I will forever value its snippets of conversation, its craziness, its color, and its people.

It’s a Wrap: Londontown and Steps Toward a Lovely Reality

Today is our last day is Europe, the past five days having been spent in the lovely Notting Hill neighborhood in London. Tomorrow we begin subjecting ourselves to a grueling trip home with an ungodly layover, placing us back at SFO so late we are already exhausted just thinking about it.

The sequence of European cities we have visited over the past three weeks have sent us down a memorable path. From balmy, tropical Barcelona, with its Gaudi-esque charm and streets you simply want to get lost in, to Paris with its personal memories, beautiful language, huge roundabouts and statues, and then on to London, where George and I felt we needed at least a day to shift gears to an English-speaking country.

London is, of course, the most American-feeling of the three cities, since we need not refer to a phrase book to communicate. The hustle-bustle offers shades of New York infused in its downtown corridors, and the shopping looks just as world class. But the thing that strikes us most here is how intensely diverse this city appears to us. Of every 20 people we encounter on the Tube or walking down a street, looks-wise 15 seem to come from elsewhere. Accents and languages we hear range from exotic countries in Africa to Asia, to hijab-dressed Muslim women, with a definite dearth of the expected fair-skinned, freckled Brits to be found. It’s even more surprising when you ask a question of someone who clearly looks foreign and a perfect British accent spews forth. It makes us realize that many of the people we encounter may have been here for generations. Then again, I suppose that’s how Brooklyn-accented children of Greek or Italian descent may have appeared to New Yorkers a few generations back, so turnabout is certainly fair play.

References to royalty are everywhere. It’s plain to see that maintenance of the country’s monarchical tradition is one of its biggest points of pride, even if they do poke fun at it on the “telly.” What occurred to George and I, who love to imitate British accents back home (George is a die-hard Monty Python fan and several times I clearly heard him softly crying “bring out your dead!”) is that it’s just NOT fun to try to sound like a Brit when you’re a visitor here. Unlike my intense effort to speak French when I was in Paris and Greek when I go to Greece, speaking “British” should not be attempted unless one plans to become a resident. Even then, you’d feel like a big phony and you’d be sure to give yourself away by the expressions you use even if your accent were flawless. By the way, no one knows what cilantro is here. We had to ask each waiter if there was any dastardly coriander present in the food.







We are clueless as to how much the average Londoner gets paid in wages for various jobs. But when our landlord assures us that a restaurant she recommends as “reasonable” at 46 pounds (about $78) for a single meal, we know we’re not in Kansas any more. Our contemporary little AirBnb flat, therefore, has served us well with its well-equipped IKEA-like kitchen. Instead of eating breakfast or lunch out, George took to shopping at the local “Tesco” for eggs, bread, juice, milk and treats so the sting was taken out of our expense outlay for the five days we have been here. This has freed up our pounds (monetary ones, unfortunately not physical) to spend on the average tourist attraction that costs around to $40-50 USD each (no E-ticket rides anywhere to be seen, but the lines — oh, excuse me — queues — are just as long).

As spoiled-American as it sounds, we are eager to get back to our air conditioned home, our premium cable TV channels, our relative humidity-less heat, our kitchen island, and most of all to our bed, which conforms to our aging bodies in fine fashion (unlike the cardboard slabs Europeans pass off as “somewhat firm” and pillows that are suited more for sofa armrests than those delivering us into the arms of Morpheus….)

We have thoroughly enjoyed our time on the “continent” and I hope you have found some virtual fun by stowing away in our luggage as I posted blogs about our experiences here. In my dreams I picture some travel magazine finding my diatribes on my obscure web site (yes, I will be reposting these there), suddenly contacting me saying how badly they need me to professionally blog for them and sending me all-expenses-paid to exotic places for the rest of my blogging days.

In the meantime, I’ll take home anytime.