Happy Saturday, y’all. Bill has to go to Greece on Monday, and he’ll be back Friday, I think. It will be a boring week for me, but maybe I can work on some music projects I’ve been wanting to do. Or maybe I’ll even make a travel video, or two…
For now, though, I want to write about last night’s wine stand. We had really nice weather, so there was an excellent turn out. I believe the stand was hosted by Breckenheim’s bike club. I don’t know for sure, but all of the folks in the kiosk were wearing black t-shirts with bikes on them.
We ran into our American neighbors last night, a same sex couple who live near us and have two kids. I had already run into one of them three times, as I walked the dogs yesterday. They ended up sitting near us, and we caught up on things. Prior to their arrival, we were just sitting quietly at a table, drinking wine. They didn’t have too many that were dry, last night.
Another American couple, their kids, and it looked like maybe the grandparents, also sat near us. We haven’t met that couple. In fact, I only know that the female half of it is from the US. She made it plain that she’s American, because she was wearing a t-shirt that featured a brewery chain that was founded in my home state of Virginia. They seemed to leave rather abruptly. I noticed it was just after I took a photo of Bill, laughed and said a touch too loudly that he looked constipated. 🤣
As they were leaving, I leaned over to Bill and said, “I guess they thought they were the only gays in the village.” (a reference to Little Britain, which is a hilarious British show we discovered the first time we lived in Germany) I don’t know if that’s actually why they left, but it wouldn’t be the first time I turned someone off by saying something “shitty”. 🤭
Or maybe it was just a coincidence that they left after I revealed where we are from… 🤷♀️
Anyway, we caught up with our neighbors, and just after we left, that American guy Alan, whom we met a few weeks ago, also showed up. But by the time he got there, we needed to pee, and didn’t want to use the toilet in the Dorfplatz. So we left… But I did get a few photos. Notice how packed it got! We also had some Spundekäs, which is a local delicacy up here in Hessen/Rheinland Pfalz. I’ve never seen it offered in the Stuttgart area.
Our neighbors said Alan had told them he’d met us, but he got our names wrong and called us “Brad and Janet”. We broke into the Rocky Horror Picture Show song, “Dammit, Janet”. 🤣 And we talked about how we managed to see that movie acted out. It’s not so easy, these days, to find showings of Rocky Horror, where people act out the scenes as the movie plays. I saw it presented that way just once, back in the early 90s, at the Naro Expanded Cinema in Norfolk, Virginia.
Constipated?
I do really enjoy living in Breckenheim. It’s a nice place to be, even if some of the people who build houses here are perverted. By the way, I’ve been working hard to avoid seeing that guy, and I’ve succeeded, as far as I can tell. Or maybe he got fired. I don’t know, but as long as he’s not exposing himself to me, it’s all good.
I grew up in Gloucester, Virginia. My parents moved there in June 1980, the day after I turned 8. I remember the day we moved to that rural county, and what a huge culture shock that was to me. Prior to living in Gloucester, I had memories of living in England, at Mildenhall Air Force Base, and Fairfax County, a Washington, DC suburb in northern Virginia. Gloucester was, by comparison to those internationally leaning places, very foreign to me. However, I am actually a native of the Tidewater region of Virginia, so the reality is, moving to Gloucester was kind of like moving home.
My parents opened their business, The Corner Cottage, just after we moved to Gloucester. They bought the house from a man named named Ellis Smith, who operated a custom picture framing business. Dad, likewise, continued operating a custom picture framing business and art gallery, and soon after, my mom opened her own business. She sold cross stitch supplies at first, but then expanded to knitting and needlework supplies. She also taught countless people– mostly middle aged women– how to do needle crafts.
I never had any interest in doing needle crafts myself, and have neither talent nor patience for any of it. But, because my parents opened their business, I grew up just across business Route 17. Every day, I gazed across the four lane highway at the beautiful imposing estate sitting atop a gentle hillside on the other side of the highway. The mysterious white house always inspired my imagination. Below are some screenshots of my house versus the estate…
My parents’ former home is on the right, while Colonel Bizzell’s house is on the left, divided by Route 17.From Google Earth…It used to be in much better shape.Another shot. That road next to the estate did not exist when I was growing up. It was all trees.
Nowadays, there are many Facebook pages and groups that celebrate places around the globe. Virginia, and Gloucester County itself, are no exceptions. Gloucester is home to many beautiful old homes that were once plantations. It’s also the birthplace of Pocahontas and Dr. Walter Reed, a famous Army physician who was instrumental in discovering how yellow fever is spread. Walter Reed’s name adorns the local hospital in Gloucester, as well as the premier Army hospital in Washington, DC.
I noticed that people who drove through Gloucester kept sharing photos on Facebook of the beautiful old house across Business Route 17, that was just across from where I grew up. I never knew the people who lived in that house, although they were technically our neighbors. The house was lived in back in 1980, but today, it’s just a decaying shell of its former glory. I’ve noticed from Google Earth photos that a housing development has sprung up by the old mansion. That makes me sad, because the housing looks out of place next to that grand home that is still gorgeous, in spite of its state of disrepair. See below…
The people who shared the photos of that house kept asking about it. They wanted to know the place’s history, and who owns it now. Many people wish that someone would buy it and renovate it to its former glory. I got curious about the house myself, so I did some research. I discovered that the home was owned by Colonel Lee Caraway Bizzell, who died on February 10, 1994.
Somehow, I also learned that the colonel had penned a book titled A Travelogue To Life, By Incidents and Accidents. I searched Amazon.com, and sure enough, found a used copy of Colonel Bizzell’s book for sale by a North Carolina book shop. I eagerly ordered the book, and it arrived a few weeks ago.
I mentioned the book on Facebook, and one of my former classmates and neighbors in Gloucester was shocked. She knew Colonel Bizzell, as he was a frequent patron of her grandmother’s restaurant, which was located within walking distance of my house. I expect that the colonel could have also walked there, although he would have had to cross busy Route 17. My old friend posted that Colonel Bizzell was a very nice man. She had waited on him many times at Sutton’s, her grandmother’s beloved, and now long defunct, restaurant.
If you are a reader of my main blog, you might know that for the past few weeks, I’ve been slogging through a fascinating book about the former East Germany. I finally finished that book the other day, so yesterday afternoon, I decided to read Colonel Bizzell’s book. It’s only 89 pages, so it was a quick and easy read.
I got a kick out of reading A Travelogue To Life, By Incidents and Accidents. I had heard that Colonel Bizzell had been an Army veteran and big game hunter. I’m not a fan of big game/trophy hunting, but I kept in mind that Bizzell published his book in 1991, when he was 98 years old! People had far fewer moral issues with hunting when Bizzell was a young man.
Colonel Bizzell was born November 11, 1892, in Tate County, Mississippi, the last of 13 children. His father was in his sixties when Bizzell was born, while his mother was 45 years old. A few years after Bizzell was born, his father’s health failed, and he died. Bizzell points out that his father had been a Confederate soldier who was captured at Lookout Mountain. He’d married Bizzell’s mother when he was 38 years old, and his mother was only 19. He also wrote that in the year 1991, his father had been born 164 years prior! That was a mind blower for me.
From the beginning of the book, Colonel Bizzell makes it plain that he wants to inspire readers to become Christians. He, himself, was not a devout Christian until 1954, when he was 61 years old. In his 37 years in the Army, Bizzell spent his military career serving all over the country and in several countries. He was the father of a son, who died at age 29 in 1953, as well as an infant daughter who died in 1927. He does not mention his daughter in the book; I discovered her when I found Bizzell’s obituary on Find A Grave. However, he does mention his son, and how devastated he was when he found out about his namesake’s passing in Washington State.
Colonel Bizzell also writes lovingly of his wives. He was married to the late Clara Mae McCarron for 41 years. Sadly, she succumbed to head injuries sustained in a car accident. Colonel Bizzell writes a bit about what happened in that accident, which occurred when they were going to Florida to visit her mother, who was dying. He later married Kathryn Jarvis, a fellow attendee of Ebenezer Baptist Church in Harcum, Virginia, where Bizzell and his first wife had been enthusiastic members. Unfortunately, in 1981, after 14.5 years of marriage, Kathryn, who was 26 years younger than Colonel Bizzell was, developed stomach cancer. She was 63 years old when she died at Riverside Regional Medical Center in Newport News, Virginia. At that time, the hospital was known simply as Riverside Hospital.
I had hoped to read more about the gorgeous house, across the highway from my house, that Bizzell and his first wife purchased after he retired from the Army. He wrote that they had almost passed on purchasing the house, because it was priced higher than he thought it was worth. The house dates from the 1700s and, even back when Bizzell was looking to buy it, was in need of many expensive repairs. Bizzell wrote that he and Clara Mae were on their way to South Carolina to look for a house when they changed their minds and drove back to Richmond to make an offer. They offered the previous owner less than he was asking, given that they would need to make extensive repairs, and the man accepted.
Unfortunately, Bizzell’s stories are frustratingly brief and lacking in detail. He only devoted a couple of pages to his acquisition of his beautiful house, from which he operated an antique business for many years. The business specialized in Persian rugs and porcelain, and Bizzell wrote that it never turned a profit. However, he was able to go to New York City for antique shows to buy high quality items from The Orient. Colonel Bizzell did mention that the construction of Bypass Route 17 did cause his business to suffer significantly. I can only imagine how disruptive it was.
Our own house had what was obviously a front door turned into a window, because the highway rendered the door obsolete. The window has since been covered up by the current owner, who worked for my dad for many years before buying the business. Our old house was built in 1949, many years before business Route 17 ever existed.
Aside from writing about his family and business, Bizzell includes some interesting stories about his many military assignments and travels he enjoyed because of that career choice. He lived in The Philippines, and when that tour was finished, took the “long way” back to the United States by a series of ships. He also served in both World Wars, and spent time in France and Germany. He even did duty in Wiesbaden and Stuttgart, two places dear to my heart.
In 1984, when he was 91 years old, Colonel Bizzell left his estate to the Southern Baptist Foreign Mission Board. He mentions in his book that he received an annuity for the property, which I assume must have become the church’s property when the colonel died in 1994. I wonder what Colonel Bizzell would think about the state of the world today, given that he served in both World Wars. Colonel Bizzell is buried next to his first wife, Clara Mae, at Arlington National Cemetery. Kathryn is buried at the cemetery at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Harcum, since Arlington National Cemetery does not allow more than one spouse to be buried next to a qualifying veteran.
Colonel Bizzell’s book is not the most professionally written book I’ve ever read. He writes in the acknowledgments that he was assisted by a couple of Gloucester ladies who typed and edited the book for him. They did a decent job for amateurs, but I was reminded more than once that this was not exactly award winning writing by someone who does it for a living. There are some misspellings and wrong word choices. However, if you are from Gloucester, Virginia, and you are old enough to remember times there from decades past, this book is well worth the effort. It’s a quick read, and it details a man’s fascinating, long, historic life. I know he was much beloved and respected in Gloucester, even if I never got to meet him myself.
I wish the book had been a little bit longer on details, yet more organized. Bizzell has some amazing stories, and seems to be trying to point out that the Lord saved him many times from situations that should have killed him. However, the book lacks that flow. He didn’t streamline the writing to tie in the stories with his testimony. On the other hand, the stories themselves are pretty entertaining and exotic, and most readers would probably prefer them to the message that they should be Southern Baptists. 😀
Anyway, I have to tip my hat to Colonel Bizzell. He lived a remarkable life, achieved great things, and affected many people in a positive way. And that beautiful home that he and Clara Mae purchased, after his Army career finished, continues to enchant and intrigue people, 31 years after Colonel Bizzell’s life ended. For that reason alone, I would recommend his book to the interested. My husband, Bill, is not from Gloucester, but I’ve even recommended the book to him, since he’s also an Army veteran.
I hope everyone who celebrates had a great Christmas yesterday. Bill and I had a lot of fun. I captured some of it in a video, but I also got lots of pictures. Bill is usually not very good at buying presents for me, because he doesn’t know what I want, or what I’ve already bought for myself. But this year, he gave me a great surprise that I genuinely love! The funny thing is, I doubt most people would love it… but because I’m “obnoxious as hell” (according to my mom), I was delighted to receive it!
I usually buy a lot of books for Bill, but this year, I truly went nuts. I bought him a couple of new cookbooks, even though he usually finds recipes online. I always buy him cookbooks, but this year, I got him an Armenian cookbook and a new Nigella Lawson one. He loves Nigella. I got him new tarot cards and a couple of reference books about tarot cards and symbolism. I got him books by Carl Jung’s protege, Marie-Louise von Franz, as well as one by Jung himself. There were some kitchen tools– a new water pitcher, orange peeler, artsy bottle opener, food chopper, a wooden Tile Rummy game set, and a Le Creuset grill platter. I got him two new sweaters from Ireland, a home brewing journal, books about coffee and fermenting foods, and a large lighted magnifying glass to help with close tasks.
Bill got me a new digital camera with a memory card, two geeky t-shirts in colors I like, a new jigsaw puzzle, a light panel to ward off SAD (which I don’t think I have), and he says two more are coming. But the best present was a wooden sculpture he bought from an art dealer in Wiesbaden. I noticed it last year, when we had some picture framing done. I took a photo of it and put it in this blog… then happened to mention it to Bill a couple of months ago. I wished I’d bought it when I saw it.
Bill had some dental work done a few weeks ago, and the office is within walking distance of the art dealer. So he walked there and looked for the sculpture. He didn’t see it, but thought to ask the dealer about it. It turned out they had an exhibition going on, so they had moved a lot of art to the back. Bill described the sculpture and they did, indeed, still have it (not a surprise to me). The dealer brought it out and Bill paid… a lot of euros for it!
It’s definitely strange, provocative, quirky, weird, and potentially offensive… But I LOVE it! I suspect it will make the few people who visit our house stop in their tracks! It’s the kind of thing our uptight former landlady would have hated, and the idea of her sneaking into our house when we weren’t home and seeing this warms the cockles of my heart. Of course, she’s in our past… but I’m sure there will be others like her in the future, right?
Below is a video I made of our gift exchange… It’s not particularly well edited, and I expect only my mother-in-law will watch it.
YouTube says this video isn’t viewable in Russia. So much the better.
I have some photos, as well…
The sculpture has a place of honor!New tarot cardsBottom of the sculpture. The artist is Wolfgang Aulbach. He’s from Bavaria.This book on symbolism was sealed with cellophane. Bill opened it to the section on urine!A journal for home brewingArmenian cookbook
And below are some photos of the food… Bill started us off with baked eggs done in the Instant Pot, grits, fresh orange juice, coffee, and homemade bread. Later, for dinner, we had a savory cheesecake with Gouda cheese, Gruyeres, bacon, and spinach. Also, there was a side salad with balsamic vinaigrette, homemade bread, and local wine poured in new wine glasses gifted to us by Bill’s mom. For dessert, we had cherry cheese pie.
Pie crustEverybody was home yesterday!The pie was a little messy.My man at work!
The finished product. Bill used the recipe in The Trellis Cookbook, which was written by the late chef Marcel Desaulniers. He was an owner of The Trellis restaurant in Williamsburg, Virginia. I worked there from 1998-99 for about 18 months. My sister also worked there when it first opened in 1980.
Perhaps my favorite part of the day was during the afternoon. We were listening to Christmas music and a song by Kenny Rogers came on. All of a sudden, I remembered his 1969 hit, “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” That was NOT the song that was playing, of course… but before I knew it, I started coming up with lyrics about Elon Musk. Bill joined in, and before we knew it, we had collaborated on a song parody. I sang the new version, set it to AI generated images and memes, and uploaded it to YouTube.
I suspect there could be more collaborations in the future!
All in all, it was a very nice Christmas 2024… one hundred percent drama free! This is in contrast to Christmas 2004, which was definitely not drama free. But that’s a story better suited to my other blog.
There was a wine stand last night, but Bill and I almost didn’t go because it looked like it was going to rain. However, because I’ve been way too cooped up lately, we decided it would be a good thing to attend and support the hosts. So we went and enjoyed the somewhat agreeable temperatures, even if the sun was behind clouds. I didn’t even bother to wear a sweater. I didn’t get many photos, because it was a relaxed gathering. We could have brought the dogs with no problem.
Last night’s wine stand was a fairly low key affair, as I think a lot of people are either on vacation due to school holidays, or they had the same idea that it might rain. Nevertheless, we ended up meeting an interesting person last night. She heard us speaking English and came over to ask us if we knew any lawyers who could help her with a problem her “niece” was having. I got the sense that maybe she was actually the “niece”, given how urgent and personally invested she seemed about the issue… which I seem to recall had to do with money, the US military, and local taxation. Bill spoke to her longer than I did, since he knows more about military policies than I do.
In the end, we told her there’s an American lawyer who lives in our village and works in Frankfurt. Maybe she knows someone who can help her with her problem. In fact, she even got up and went to their house last night, but they weren’t home. My guess is that the lawyer and her spouse took their kids on a trip somewhere. We were trying to tell us who the American lawyer is, and another German lady sitting with us spoke up and told her about her in German.
What was especially interesting was that the woman, whose name I didn’t catch, though she gave Bill her former business card, spoke absolutely flawless English. She said she had lived and worked in Washington, DC for a long time. She even knew about Fredericksburg, Virginia, and we had a good laugh, because Bill and I used to live in Fredericksburg 22 years ago, just before and after our wedding. And then I told her that I grew up about 90 miles south of Fredericksburg. Then we had a chuckle about how redneck parts of Virginia still are.
I sensed that maybe she’d married an American and they were now having issues with taxes… or maybe she really does have a niece with that problem. I don’t know. The wine might have made things less clear. She said she no longer works, although she still has business cards. I noticed that it looked like she was wearing a wig, but who knows why… She did say that Breckenheim started the local wine stand tradition some twenty years ago or so.
When it started getting darker and we both needed to pee, we went home to the dogs, who were very excited to see us. Charlie even pulled his bed into the dining room so he could hang out with us in comfort.
We have a short break coming up at the end of the month in Bad Wörishofen, Bavaria. After that, Bill has to go to Mons, Belgium for work. Since it’s right before our 22nd wedding anniversary, and about a four hour drive, he invited me to go with him. So that’s what we will do this year. Go to Belgium so he can work and I can enjoy some museums and beer, then afterwards, book at stay at a nice hotel in Belgium or The Netherlands and celebrate our anniversary.
Facebook has already suggested a lovely looking hotel in Nistelrode, The Netherlands. The hotel is on a golf course. We don’t golf, but we can appreciate the beauty and quiet of golf courses. Maybe we’ll go there, or maybe I’ll something even better. I’ll keep looking.
It’s hard to believe we celebrated our 21st wedding anniversary in Armenia last year. The year has flown by, and a lot has happened. I’m glad we got to go there last year… I’d love to go back again sometime, if the opportunity presents itself. I had meant for us to visit Spain for our anniversary, but Bill’s work schedule won’t accommodate that this year. Maybe we’ll go sometime in the winter.
When we woke up in Ribeauville on Saturday, November 19th, I looked at Facebook to see if there were any announcements about James Taylor’s show. I didn’t see any emails from the ticketing venue, or on James’s social media. That meant we’d be going home a day early.
I was a little sad to be going, since I really had wanted to go to Riquewihr at least once, if only to get macaroons. Bill didn’t want to go to Riquewihr, because it was in the opposite direction of home, even if it was just two miles. He said he’d go look for the macaroons in Ribeauville. So he went out, picked up more croissants, and FAILED to find the cookies I wanted. Instead, he bought three bags of other cookies.
Maybe I should be ashamed for feeling this way, but I was a little disappointed. What he brought back were not what I wanted. Then it occurred to me that I could probably order the macaroons, which is precisely what I did (they arrived this morning). So I got over my disappointment, and we started packing up to go home. As I was walking the dogs to the car, my hands full of whatever else I could carry, a French woman approached me, speaking rapid fire. I said in English, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”
She nodded and smiled, then backed away. I soon realized what she wanted. It was mid morning and the parking lot was already pretty full. She wanted our parking spot. I saw her lurking in the lot, just waiting for us to move. I always hate it when people do this, even though I understand why they do it. I wasn’t the one driving, and we weren’t quite ready to leave. She finally gave up at some point, after Bill had done a sweep of the Riesling gite, and came back to the car. By then, there were a couple more lurkers, just waiting…
It was probably a half hour later when we were on our way home, after a quick stop at the Daniel Stoffel Chocolatier outlet on the way out of town. Bill went in and picked up some goodies for us, and his daughter’s family.
Our drive home was almost totally uneventful. Arran went to sleep, and Noyzi was a perfect gentleman in the back. Maybe we have finally broken him of his habit of barking in the car. The only strange thing that happened was that, as usual, I witnessed public urination at a rest stop. I vented about that here. Below are a few shots from the drive home. As you can see, Arran was relaxed.
When we got home, our landlord came over to tell us our off kilter dishwasher, which had come off its foundation, wasn’t fixed yet, because the repair guy needed a part. Yesterday, he said the repair guy was sick, but would be able to fix the machine when he was well again. He said we should just be careful using the machine. When I told him we hadn’t been using it, because the dishwasher had given me an error code last time I ran a load, he said if the repair guy couldn’t figure it out, he’d just get us a new one. I am still stunned by how different he is, compared to our former landlady. They are like night and day!
I did the requisite load of laundry and a few other chores, then we got ready for the show in Frankfurt. We had to pick up our tickets at the box office, I guess to thwart scalpers. I pictured a long line of people, but when we arrived at the Jahrhunderthalle, we were pleasantly surprised by the ease of parking, the short distance to the venue, and the short line to get our tickets. Then we enjoyed some libations while we waited for the doors to open.
James Taylor had a stripped down band for this show. There was no keyboard player, and no opening act. We had second row seats, which was a first for me. I saw my first James Taylor concert in 1990. In fact, that show, when I was almost 18, was my very first “rock” show– if you could call it that. I remember I went with my parents and one of my sisters, and I paid $18.50 for nosebleed seats.
For this show, I paid 82,50 euros which I thought was very reasonable to see a guy who has won 6 Grammys and spent more than 50 years enchanting people all over the world with his wonderful guitar playing and angelic voice. While we waited for the show to start, I noticed the music that was playing. I recognized songs from albums by James’s daughter, Sally, as well as backup singers Kate Markowitz and Andrea Zonn. I downloaded Kate’s album from the concert hall. I already had Andrea’s.
This was the fourth time I’d seen James Taylor play, but there was a difference between this show and the others. For one thing, there weren’t drunken, idiot women standing in front of us, dancing and shrieking the whole time. There were no huge screens showing close ups of James and his band. And while he forgot a few words, he still played and sang beautifully. I was charmed by his efforts to speak German to the crowd, as well as the encouraging message he had for anyone “in recovery” from drug and alcohol addiction, as he has been since the mid 80s.
James told us some of the stories behind some of the songs he performed, including “That’s Why I’m Here”, from his 1985 album by the same name. I remember that he had dedicated that album to Bill W., the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. Imagine going to an A.A. meeting and seeing James Taylor there! But anyway, “That’s Why I’m Here” was a song he wrote in memory of his friend John Belushi, who died of an overdose in 1982. James was a pretty serious addict back in the day. He’s still addicted, of course, but no longer indulges. Before he started singing, he said, “If you like getting fucked up, that’s okay. I just can’t handle it myself anymore!” Everybody laughed.
At the beginning of the evening, I thought James looked a little pale, perhaps because he’d had COVID. But as the show went on, he was more and more animated, at times jumping around the stage. I enjoyed watching him interact with his band, most of whom had been with him for many years. Dorian Holley was the only one on stage I had not seen with James before. I suspect he’s the replacement for Arnold McCuller, James’s longtime backup singer who just retired from life on the road. I enjoyed Dorian’s singing. He has quite an impressive resume. James listed the people Holley’s sung with, which includes the late Michael Jackson. That actually surprised me, because he didn’t look old enough to be one of Jackson’s backup singers… but then, Michael was well known for enjoying and employing young performers for his shows.
James’s long time guitarist, Michael Landau, was well within view of us on the right side of the stage. He stood up and flexed his legs, I smiled at him, and he smiled back. That was kind of a cool moment. One thing I love about European concerts is that I seem to have a much easier time scoring good seats here. Another thing I love about European shows is that most people don’t act stupid at them… at least not at the shows Bill and I attend. And you can get a beer or a glass of wine without mortgaging your house.
At one point, James was introducing a song from his 1971 album, Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon. A man in the audience held up a vinyl copy, which James immediately offered to sign and bite. The guy rushed up to the stage with his album and presented it to James, but then they needed to find a pen. Another guy came up and said he had something that had been signed by a bunch of famous singers, including Johnny Cash. He requested an autograph, which James was happy to oblige. In fact, at the break, I ran out to go to the restroom, and when I came back, James was still on stage, signing autographs and shaking hands. I was very impressed. I wondered if he needed to pee as badly as I did! It struck me as a very humble and generous gesture toward his loyal fans.
I decided not to try to get an autograph myself. I would be honored to have James’s signature, of course, but autographs don’t really mean that much to me. Earlier in the show, someone yelled out that his dad loved James. James made a comment reminiscent of what he said on his Live album from 1993. Basically, he reminded the guy that they don’t know each other. It made me think how strange it must be for performers to be “loved” by people who don’t know them. James himself reminded us that he is a deeply flawed person, as we all are… but what impresses me about James Taylor is that he’s clearly worked very hard to become much better. He’s clearly not the same person he was in the 70s or early 80s.
At the end of the show, of course there were encores… and James and his band encouraged people to get up and come close to the stage. It was one of the most intimate concert experiences I’ve ever had. I think the only one who topped that was James’s somewhat less famous brother, Livingston, who puts on a FABULOUS live show and is extremely approachable. I remember seeing Liv in 2003 at the Birchmere in Alexandria, Virginia, a couple of months after I saw James at Wolf Trap in Bristow, Virginia. James’s show was MUCH bigger than Liv’s was, and we had those drunk women in front of us, careening around sloppily as they slurred the lyrics of James’s best songs. I remember thinking Livingston’s show was so much better, if only because there weren’t any obnoxious drunks there. But Liv also engaged the audience and was thoroughly entertaining. This most recent show by James, while slightly pared down, was akin to Liv’s show, only it was in a much larger, yet still intimate, venue.
In any case, we obviously had a wonderful time! I’m so glad we went. It was the perfect ending to our 20th anniversary weekend. And yes, even though James will be 75 years old in March, he’s still a hell of a great performer. I think the money we spent on this show, even with its delays, was well worth euro cent.
Dorian and Kate dance!
Getting out of the Jahrhunderthalle was very easy. Bill was happy about that. But then we hit a Stau, so Bill went through Hofheim to get us home. And when we got home, we were confronted by a big mess caused by Arran. He got into the basement and raided our dry goods, and peed and pooped on my rug. Fortunately, he was no worse for wear. We have thoroughly dog proofed down there, as we’re going to someone’s house for Thanksgiving dinner today. Noyzi had nothing to do with the raid. He was tucked in bed when we got home. He’s very classy for a street dog.
Well, that about does it for this series. It wasn’t a super exciting trip, but we had a good time… and it was great to have Arran and Noyzi with us. I’m so grateful to be here on many levels, and for so many reasons. I’m glad James Taylor is still with us, too. And before I forget, below are a couple of clips from the show.
Warning: this is kind of a horrifying story about a trip I took to the Eastern Shore when I was about ten years old. It was originally posted on the Blogspot version of my Overeducated Housewife blog. I would put it on my newer WordPress version of that blog, but when it comes down to it, this is a travel story… and this blog needs some love. So here’s my mortifying camping story from the 80s. It’s not for the faint of heart!
The featured photo is of a 1977 Volkswagen Westfalia camper van. My dad had one exactly like it back in the early 80s. In fact, this guy’s video below shows a van that looks very much like the one my dad had, right down to the green plaid upholstery. Wonder if it also smells like pancake syrup, like my dad’s van did… When the top wasn’t popped, I could swing on the bar used to push up the camper top as we cruised down the interstates. In those days, kids didn’t have to be strapped down.
Here goes…
Back in the early 80s, when I was about nine years old, I went with a friend to Annapolis, Maryland. I stayed with her and her grandparents for about a week. Then my parents picked me up and we drove back to Virginia by way of the Eastern Shore. I seem to remember stopping in Chincoteague and Assateague, where there are wild ponies.
Being a horse crazy kid, I was pretty excited about visiting there. My dad was driving an ugly, bright orange, VW van with a popup top. I remember spending the night in it at a campground in Maryland. The next morning, my dad decided he wanted to go swimming in the pool. I went with him. Unbeknownst to us, the pool was closed, but for some reason, we were able to access it.
After a few minutes, my dad got out of the pool, but left me in the water. Next thing I know, I hear this old man yell “Hey! What’s that kid doing in the pool?!”
I quickly got out. He confronted me, asking what I was doing swimming. I told him my dad had gone swimming and I was with him. The guy said, “Oh, so your father can’t read either? There’s no swimming when no one’s around!” In retrospect, I realize that guy was unnecessarily mean to me, but at the time, I was really humiliated and upset. I’m sure he yelled at me because he was worried about liability, but as a young girl, I didn’t know about such things. He made me cry.
Mortified by the man’s sharp words, I ran back to the camper, where I refused to sit on a seat, lest someone see me. My parents took me to breakfast at a Hardee’s. Because it was late morning, I wanted a cheeseburger, but they weren’t serving them and my dad said, “This is one of those places where you have to order what they want to serve you at the time they want to serve it.”
My parents hadn’t seen the guy yell at me, and when I told my dad about it, he kind of blew it off. I stayed upset, though, because it was his fault I was in the water in the first place. And hell, he hadn’t even gotten me out of the water when he decided to get out himself. As an adult, I realize how stupid that was. Nowadays, someone might have called CPS. Fortunately, the only harm was my extreme embarrassment and shame.
Later that day, we went to Assateague and Chincoteague. I remember going to the beach at Assateague, marveling at how much less crowded it was than Virginia Beach usually is. We drove through the national park and picked up a book about the wild ponies, though I don’t remember if I actually saw any. I did have a friend in school who owned a Chincoteague pony and used to win a lot of awards with her in barrel racing. Then later, we visited a water slide… the very first one I had ever been on in my lifetime, at that point.
It was a pretty cool slide and I couldn’t wait to get on it. As I was about to sit down, I slipped and went down backwards. I was terrified, but apparently going down backwards impressed a bunch of people, including a cute teenaged boy who congratulated me for my “bravery”, even though I had only gone down backwards because I’d totally slipped and fallen. The water slide fame made up for the scary encounter with the campground guy.
Over the years, I remembered that trip so fondly. Even the campground was kind of fun… at least before the guy yelled at me. I haven’t been able to visit Chincoteague or Assateague since then, but I always fantasized about going back, and maybe riding the slide again.
Don’t read any further if you’re squeamish…
Years later, I wondered about that water slide. Out of a sense of nostalgia, I went looking for evidence that it still existed. I finally found it when I read a story about the man who had owned the slide at a water park he and a friend had opened called “Wet & Wild”.
Turns out he was a sex offender named James Jenkins, and years after the water slide closed, he got caught molesting a 13 year old girl. That, in and of itself might be shocking, except for the fact that Jenkins was so upset about his uncontrollable urges to molest little girls that, in 2003, he decided to castrate himself with a razor while taking a shower in jail. He’d asked a guard for a razor so he could be clean shaven for court the next day. The guard had hesitated, but then gave him the razor. Jenkins put an apple in his mouth to muffle his screams and tied a shoelace around his scrotum as he removed his own testicles. Having cut them off, he then flushed them down a toilet in the jail.
Needless to say, I was shocked to read about that. At the time that I found the news story, it was the only thing I could find that mentioned the 80s era water slide in Chincoteague that I remembered so well. I don’t think the slide is still in existence. I’ve looked for pictures or mentions of it. I’m pretty positive that Jenkins’ slide was the one we visited because, at the time, it was the only slide in the area.
So, on that trip to Chincoteague on the way home, not only did I get yelled at by a scary, mean old man at a campground, but I also visited a water slide owned by a pervert. And not only was the guy a pervert, but he later actually took it upon himself to cut off his own balls with a razor and flush them down the toilet. The up side to this story is, Jenkins later said that castrating himself “saved him” from his obsessions.
And all those years, I thought it was the mean guy at the campground who was offensive.
In the spring of 1998, I was 25 years old and living with my parents in Gloucester, Virginia. Six months earlier, I had come home from a two year stint in the Republic of Armenia, where I had served as an English teacher with the Peace Corps. While I will never regret spending those years in Armenia, I came home with a pretty serious case of clinical depression. I was broke and having a hard time finding a job that would pay enough to get me launched out on my own. I also came home to some significant family issues, which made my living at home a burden to my parents.
I spent the first few months home working as a temp, mostly at the College of William & Mary in various capacities. In the spring of ’98, I found myself working in William & Mary’s admissions office. That was an eye-opening experience, but it didn’t pay enough and the work was incredibly tedious. My parents were eager to have me get out on my own and I was eager to leave. I didn’t get along with my dad, who had his own issues with depression, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and alcoholism. My mom was at her wits’ end trying to keep their business going, which they ran out of their house. Dad had gone to rehab the day after my return from Armenia. Dad’s rehab ultimately wasn’t successful. He and I fought a lot.
One day, after a terrible row with my dad, I marched myself over to The Trellis, at that time one of the best restaurants in Williamsburg, Virginia. It was then owned by renowned Chef Marcel Desaulniers, who has written many cookbooks and used to have cooking shows on PBS. His partner, John Curtis, owned several businesses in Williamsburg and had himself been a Peace Corps Volunteer in the 1960s. My mission was to get a job that would pay more so I could GTFO of my parents’ house and get on with my life.
My eldest sister had worked at The Trellis in 1980, when it first opened. She graduated from William & Mary in 1981 and had gone on to do bigger and better things, including joining the Peace Corps. She went to Morocco from 1984-86. I had followed in her footsteps, but unlike my big sister, I wasn’t finding success. Although I had never worked as a waitress before, all three of my sisters had waited tables. I figured if they could do it, so could I. I liked working with food and was giving some thought to going to culinary school. When I was in Armenia, I had done a number of food related projects and had even once been employed as a cook.
The Trellis had a reputation for being a great place to be if you wanted to make bank, but it was also an extremely demanding work environment. I had applied to work there once in 1994, but the manager passed. I worked in retail for a year, then went to Armenia. In 1998, I was determined to get a job at The Trellis. I was mostly motivated by my rage at my dad and the need to stop living in his house. That must have been the magic that was missing the first time I applied, because that time, I got hired. Or, it could have been that they simply needed warm bodies. In 1998 and throughout my time working at The Trellis, they were always hiring because they were chronically short staffed! A lot of people were hired, only to quit or be fired in short order.
I had a really hard time learning how to wait tables at The Trellis. Marcel Desaulniers had been a Marine and he ran his kitchen with military precision. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have experience waiting tables, though. In fact, the management preferred people who were brand new to waiting tables. That way, there weren’t any bad habits that had to be remedied. But it was difficult getting the hang of the job. I remember it took a few weeks before I was finally at ease with the job itself. And then I had to learn about the food!
The menu changed seasonally, and all of the wait staff had to demonstrate their knowledge. There were daily specials, which we had to recite from memory. We were tested on the menus and learned about wine and liquor. Everyone started working at lunch, which was fast paced and required a lot more work to make cash. As a waiter’s skills improved, he or she would be promoted to “Dinner Cafe”, which was even worse than working lunch. It was basically a hybrid menu that included certain lunch and dinner dishes and patrons were seated on the terrace or in the “cafe” area. The money was nominally better, but the work was just as hard. Finally, when menu tests were passed and table maintenance skills were high enough, the waiter would get dinner shifts and start making good money.
It was a lot to take in, and I felt like I was back in college. In those days, I was strictly a beer drinker and I knew nothing about wine, fine food, or liquor. I remember fumbling with the wine tool, trying to get accustomed to opening bottles of wine with style. I got yelled at all the time by the powers that be, which was hard on me. The job was physically, mentally, and emotionally demanding. There were a few times when I felt like giving up and trying something else.
Even though I was crippled by depression and anxiety, I was determined to succeed. I just thought about how much I needed to have my own apartment and reminded myself that waiting tables is a very portable skill. After many weeks of hard work, I did eventually make it to a venerable dinner waiter position and even trained some people. But there were many meltdowns along the way… and at first, quite a few people thought I might be one of the many people who didn’t make it through the first week of training. I worked at The Trellis for about a year and a half before I left to go to graduate school.
One of the captains working at The Trellis in 1998 was a guy named CW. I was immediately impressed and inspired by him. He was hardworking, funny, and kind. However, he was also very detailed oriented and task directed. I liked and respected him immediately, especially when I learned that when he started at The Trellis, he took the bus all the way from Norfolk, Virginia to get to work. There were times he missed the last bus home. Still, he showed up to work every day on time and busted his ass to provide great service and make money. He was tough when he needed to be, yet compassionate. CW was a fine role model.
CW left The Trellis a few months after I started working there. I remember his farewell at line up one day. He announced that he was going to work at Kinkead’s, a legendary (and now defunct) restaurant in Washington, DC. I remember the kind send off he received from the restaurant’s more senior staffers. Years later, when I turned 30, Bill and I celebrated at Kinkead’s because I remember CW talking about it. He didn’t wait on us, but I remember that birthday dinner as one of the first of many great meals Bill and I have had together.
CW still works in DC, and has had the opportunity to work at a lot of great restaurants with some amazing chefs. He is now studying to become a wine expert, specifically in German wines. Last week, as part of his sommelier training, he came to the Rheingau to work at a winery. We had the opportunity to meet up in Mainz last night. Even though I hadn’t seen him since 1998, he was easy to spot and there wasn’t a moment of awkwardness all evening.
We had a lovely evening at a Weinstube called Weinhaus zum Spiegel. It’s a charming place in one of the many “alleys and alcoves” in Mainz, a city Bill and I are still getting to know. Over several glasses of wine and small plates, CW, Bill, and I talked for several hours. Here are a few photos from our evening. I do mean a “few” photos, because we were so focused on chatting that there wasn’t much time for picture taking.
I’ve taken a photo of this cool fountain before. It’s called the Fastnachtsbrunnen “Carnival Fountain” and it was built in 1967.A few weeks ago, I wrote about finding these bronze plaques in our town. We found three more in Mainz. I’ll have to look up these names to find out their story.I enjoyed the bric-a-brac on the walls. This wine house was very charming and traditional…The menu is mostly wine… with lots of “small plates” and snacks. I had Spundekäs with pretzels, a Mainz speciality. Bill had ham with Paarweg (rolls that are attached), pickles, hard boiled egg, and tomato.CW had the housemade cold cut platter, with wurst, Paarweg, pickles, and vegetables.You can’t miss the sign.
Weinhaus zum Spiegel is in a super charming timbered building. I wish I had gotten a picture of it when the sun was still shining. We’ll have to go back to Mainz so I can get a proper photo of the historic looking edifice. I can’t say I was terribly impressed by the food, especially since I had originally wanted smoked trout and they were out of it. I did see a lot of people enjoying Federweisser (new wine) and Zwiebelkuchen (onion “cake”, which looks more like a tart). Although Zwiebelkuchen is a famous dish in southern Germany and popular this time of year, I still have yet to try it. I wish I’d had it last night, although I did like the Spundekäs.
Anyway, we weren’t really there for food as much as we were the company, and CW is excellent company. It was exciting to hear about his plans to break into the German wine industry. Who knows? He may soon join us over here… if we don’t end up having to move again. He has many tales of working in Washington, DC and dealing with some major high maintenance folks– politicians and their ilk– as well as some surprisingly down to earth celebrities.
We finally called it a night at about 10:30, when it was becoming clear that the Weinstube was winding down its service. As Bill and I made our way home, I was musing about how special the memories of working at The Trellis are to some of us. It was a place where I went through many different levels of hell. I remember “shitting Twinkies”, as CW once put it, on the terrace on beautiful spring and fall afternoons and major holidays. I lost a lot of weight working there, and also found myself in therapy and on medication to finally deal with the depression and anxiety that had hindered me for so long. I made enough money to get health insurance, and gathered the resolve to seek the help I desperately needed. I socked away money for the day when I would finally move out on my own. Finally, when I was ready, I launched into graduate school, which led to this “overeducated housewife” lifestyle I currently enjoy.
I only worked at The Trellis for about 18 months, and much of the actual job was hell, but I left there with so many friends I can still count on today, even twenty years after my last shift. We’re all scattered around the world now, but we have the camaraderie of that common experience binding us and, through the magic of Facebook, can stay in touch. And, just like CW, when it was time to leave, I got a warm send off, complete with a signed cookbook from Marcel, and a song from the resident harp guitarist, Stephen Bennett, whose music got me through so many horrific Saturday night dinner shifts. I learned about good food, fine wines, table maintenance, hard work, and even great music. Not only did I discover Stephen Bennett at The Trellis, I also made enough money to invest in voice lessons for myself! And, as difficult as it all was, working at the Trellis absolutely changed my life for the better. In fact, working there might have even saved my life, given my mental state at the time. 😉
The Trellis still exists in Williamsburg, but it now has different owners and is no longer a fine dining establishment. I haven’t been there to try its new incarnation. I’m not sure I could bear it. I think I’d rather remember it the way it was back in the day.
Cheers to all of my former Trellis colleagues who once shat Twinkies in the weeds with me!And cheers to CW as he continues his path to bigger and better things!I have a feeling our paths could cross again on this side of the Atlantic.
As seen on my main blog… Sorry for the rerun, but this blog is read by different people than the main blog is.
A very interesting film made in 1957 about my family’s American home… Special thanks to my friend, Joann, for posting this fascinating video about Natural Bridge and Lexington, Virginia.
I have mentioned before that I come from Virginia. My family has been in Virginia since the early 1700s. The earliest relative I’ve found in Virginia was a man named Johann Tolley, who came to Virginia from Hamburg, Germany.
Johann Tolley evidently fathered the people in my family who eventually settled in Rockbridge County. Rockbridge County is kind of in the west central part of the state, in the Shenandoah Valley and Blue Ridge Mountains. Although I have been visiting Natural Bridge and its environs my whole life, I did not grow up there myself. I was born and mostly raised not far from Williamsburg and Jamestown, Virginia, clear across the state.
Because my dad was an Air Force officer, the family he made with my mother was nomadic. My parents spent the first 24 years of their marriage moving to different towns, mostly in the southern United States, but occasionally in other countries. I was born during their fourteenth year of marriage, so I missed a lot of the moves and didn’t have any sense until the bitter end of my dad’s military career.
The one place that has always been a constant in my life has been Natural Bridge. I’m pretty sure my family has lived in the same creekside house since at least the 1940s. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when my aunt and uncle pass on. I hope someone in the family will keep the house. It’s a special place that is mostly full of wonderful memories.
Granny’s house… where my dad grew up. There is a creek that runs in front of the house and another one that runs perpendicular to it on the left.
Down by the creek…
After a rare November snow in 2014… when I last visited.
Another shot up the hill. I pray this house never leaves our family. The street it’s on was named after my grandfather.
My family as of 2014. Sadly, a couple of the people in the photo are no longer with us. I think we’re missing about twenty people, too. The Mormons have nothing on us.
The family church, High Bridge Presbyterian. This is where we held my dad’s memorial service.
Many of my relatives are buried here, including my dad, who was moved about two years after he was initially buried at Granny’s house.
Goshen Pass, which is very close to Lexington and where Bill and I honeymooned… It’s also kind of where we fell in love, the weekend before 9/11. That’s another story, though.
My friend, Joann, who originally posted the above video, lives in Lexington, Virginia. Lexington is about ten miles from Natural Bridge. It has sort of a special place in my heart because not only is a super cute town, it’s also where many of my family members went to college or worked. It’s also where Bill and I got married in 2002. Before the area was taken over by transplants from up north and out west, it was mostly settled by Scots-Irish Presbyterians. According to 23 and Me, that is surely enough the lion’s share of my genetic makeup. I was raised Presbyterian, too.
The video is interesting viewing for me, since my parents who are/were both from that area got married the year it was made. Mom was 19 and Dad was 24. They had lived in Rockbridge County their whole lives. My dad finished his degree at Virginia Military Institute in 1956 and immediately became an Air Force officer. The following year, he married my mom and they left the area for good, only to come back for visits. My dad is now buried in the graveyard at the family church. Originally, he was buried on a hillside at the house where he grew up with his eight brothers and sisters, but my mom had him moved. I guess she realized that house might not always be in family hands.
Another reason why that video is interesting is because it basically reflects the ethos of the 1950s. The story is told from the Natural Bridge’s viewpoint. It explains how the area used to be populated by “red men”, also known as Native Americans. The Bridge explains that it tried to explain to the natives that it was created by God. Alas, they worshiped the Bridge as a Pagan God, even though the Bridge tried to explain that it was the Christian God who created it. The Bridge sounds almost grateful as it explains that white Christian settlers eventually moved into the area in 1737. The white Christians “got it right’. (I’m being facetious, here.)
Based on the video, a lot of great people came from Rockbridge County. Even Sam Houston, who eventually went on to be the namesake of Houston, Texas, was born in Rockbridge County. I never knew that. It’s actually pretty interesting, given the impact Sam Houston had in Texas. In fact, reading about Sam Houston is uniquely fascinating, given his family history in Scotland and Ireland. I was just in Northern Ireland a few months ago and we stopped in Larne. There is a plaque there commemorating the history of the Houston family before they moved to Virginia.
Sam Houston also moved on the Maryville, Tennesee when he was fourteen years old. I have not been to Maryville, but I do have a couple of friends who attended Maryville College and one who moved back to the town after she retired from teaching at my alma mater, Longwood University. I also lived in Texas for a year… and Bill spent several years there and graduated high school in Houston. I’m amazed at how all of these places are interconnected with Rockbridge County, which even today is still pretty rural. Although a lot of new people have moved there, there is still a core of people descended from the original settlers.
I’m not sure why, but somehow when I was growing up, I never realized or appreciated the deep connection my family has to Virginia, especially Rockbridge County. I think it’s because I was a military brat, even though I spent most of my growing up years in Gloucester County. Gloucester is another one of those places where people settled and stayed, much like Rockbridge County is.
There were several last names there that would always come up at roll call in school. A lot of them were the children of people from England who had stayed after the Revolutionary War, which was won in nearby Yorktown. In the early 80s, Gloucester was still so rural that people who moved there were “come heres” and never really got the sense of community that the locals had. My parents owned at house in Gloucester for about 30 years, but it still doesn’t seem like home, even though it’s probably the one place in the world where I feel sure I could get help immediately if I ever needed it. I still have a lot of friends who live there.
I didn’t appreciate Virginia when I was younger. I used to fantasize about moving somewhere else, where the people and the scenery were different. Now, as much as I like Germany, I’m starting to think about going “home” to Virginia. Maybe I would only go there to visit, though… I’m not sure if I want to die in my home state or even if circumstances will allow it.
We got up Sunday morning, enjoyed one last breakfast at the Hummingbird Inn, and hit the road for northern Virginia. I thought maybe we’d get Bill some new pants for work, but we never managed to get to an appropriate store. I think we were too focused on the long trip ahead of us to worry about shopping. We feared heavy traffic as everyone made their way home after the holiday break, but it didn’t turn out to be too bad going north on Interstate 81.
The one big decision we had to make going back to Dulles Airport was where to stop for lunch. I wanted something we can’t get in Germany. We were going to get Mexican food which, while available in Germany, loses a lot in the translation. We ended up at a Five Guys instead and had a couple of greasy cheeseburgers with fries. Then we went to the airport and dropped off our rental car.
I was kind of impressed by the TSA screening at Dulles, both coming and going. They seem to have streamlined it quite a bit so that it’s faster and easier to get through. No need to take off shoes or remove electronics from our bags. I did have my hands swabbed, though. Good thing none of my cousins brought any firearms this year.
We had plenty of time to kill, so we stopped by a bar/restaurant that served Dominion beers. We had enough time that I was able to try them all… And it’s a good thing I did, too, because Bill and I ended up being seated in the two middle seats of a row. Just as I was about to sit down, the lady who was to sit next to me hollered, “That’s my seat! I’m sitting next to you.”
Mmm… beer.
The lady sitting next to me turned out to be a very annoying Jewish woman with a penchant for Sudoku. I wouldn’t mention that she was Jewish except that she made it obvious by loudly mentioning it several times. She’d also ordered Kosher meals and was served ahead of everyone else. She’d get her food, then Bill and the lady sitting next to him would get theirs, because the flight attendants on their side were somehow faster. I’d then get mine twenty minutes later, after everyone else was finished eating. Not that it really mattered. I didn’t have much of an appetite on the flight back to Europe. It was just awkward having to be dead last.
The woman sitting next to me hogged the armrest and needed constant help from the flight attendants. She wasn’t particularly unpleasant about asking, just loud and persistent. She was part of a large tour group on their way to Florence and she had lots and lots of questions. It didn’t help that the woman sitting in front of me was a notorious recliner who kept herself leaned back for the entire flight. I will give her credit for at least putting her seat up when we were eating. I have been on several international flights where the people in front of me weren’t even that considerate.
It was all too fitting that I’d choose to watch the film Anger Management on our way across the pond. I had not seen it before and I must admit it was a rather funny film starring Adam Sandler and the ever adorable Marisa Tomei. I noticed Tomei’s character was named Linda… Wonder if Adam Sandler has an ex named Linda, since he seems to use that name a lot for the females in his films. The film was in English with no subtitles. I’m not sure if I’d requested it in French if it would have been dubbed or subtitled. I guess that’s something to test out next time I fly across the pond on a European carrier.
Transatlantic flights are uniformly boring and uncomfortable, but at least the longer flight to the States was more comfortable than the flight going back to Europe. Happily, the flight to Europe was also about an hour shorter than the flight to the USA.
We were delayed about an hour leaving DC, too, which aggravated a lot of people. For Bill and me, it was a non issue. Our one hour flight to Stuttgart didn’t leave Charles de Gaulle Airport until about 8:00pm. We had originally planned to take a train to Paris and fart around the city, but by the time we landed in Paris, we were both totally exhausted. Fortunately, Sheraton came to the rescue.
Back in 1997, I spent the night at CDG in a hotel called “Cocoon”. It was a no frills establishment designed to allowed travelers the chance to rest during long layovers or before early flights. The place wasn’t even an official hotel and wasn’t allowed to rent rooms for more than 18 hours at a time. Cocoon closed years ago and was evidently replaced by a full service Sheraton.
Being a corporate owned American establishment, the Sheraton at CDG takes full advantage of the exhaustion of weary travelers desperate for a nap. After spending about a half an hour or so searching for the Sheraton, Bill and I rented one of their “day rooms” and we paid dearly for the privilege. For about 200 euros, you get a room from 9am until 6pm. Want Internet? That’s another 19 euros. Breakfast? Another 37 euros please. Yes, it was expensive… on the other hand, had we gone into Paris, we probably would have spent just as much or more and likely would have been even more exhausted. Besides, the weather wasn’t all that great for sightseeing.
Touch the minibar at the Sheraton and you’ll surely be charged…
Ahh…
Marble bathroom!
One thing I will say about the breakfast offered at the CDG Sheraton– it’s HUGE. We ordered one and it was more than enough food for both of us. We had enough leftover that a third person could have joined us.
Sideways breakfast…
I took a very nice shower– the shower at the CDG Sheraton is of the rainfall variety and felt heavenly after our long flight. Then, after eating eggs, fruit, and breads, and washing it down with coffee and juice, we passed out for about four or five hours.
Looks very space aged in the hotel…
Since check out time was 6:00pm, we left the hotel at about 5:30 or so and made our way to the gate where our flight to Stuttgart was. We found a little gourmet market and had quiche and wine for dinner. Then, we got on our flight. Fortunately, it wasn’t full and I was able to change seats and sit by Bill. We finally got back to Stuttgart at about 9:20pm or so. Despite the delay coming out of DC and annoying seat mates (which you will find on any airline), I was pretty happy with Air France. I’d fly them transatlantic again.
Quiche and vino!
I was impressed the Air France highlighted Armenia in their most recent flight magazine.
In my family, we traditionally have a “barn party” on Friday after Thanksgiving. Over the years, the party has been held in a variety of different places. When I was a kid, the barn on my Uncle Brownlee’s property was owned by someone else, so we had to rent somewhere for our party. Some years, we had it at the Natural Bridge Hotel, either in a room in the basement or in a reception hall.
In 1987, we had an all out par-tay in one of the big ballrooms. It was complete with an open bar and a full band featuring my Uncle Brownlee and his brother, my Uncle Stephen. There was much drunkenness, especially from yours truly. I was then 15 years old, and one of my cousins, who shall remain nameless, was passing me bourbon and Cokes. I drank four and got good and hammered. That was the first time in my life I ever got drunk, and boy was I a mess. Fortunately, my Aunt Nance filmed the whole thing for posterity… LOL. I made myself scarce during the drunk part, thank GOD. I still like to watch that video, though, because that was a wild party and there are people in it who are no longer with us.
In later years, we had the party at the Fire Station in Natural Bridge, which wasn’t too long on character. There were lots of stories told, though no dancing or music. One year, we had karaoke in the barn. And finally in recent years, we started having the whole celebration in the barn, which my handy and talented Uncle Brownlee has fixed up for dancing and music. The last few years, we’ve even had live bluegrass music from The Plank Road Express. In 2010, during our last visit for Thanksgiving, I got to sing a number with the band, which was a lot of fun for me. In a former life, I think I was a rock star.
I had a feeling we were going to be a bit emotional after my dad’s memorial, so I arranged a date night for Bill and me. We had dinner at The Southern Inn in Lexington, Virginia. We ate there once or twice before and there are other restaurants in Lexington. I will admit that part of the reason I chose that place is because they participate in OpenTable, which is a restaurant reservation service. I get points every time I make a reservation and have been collecting for over ten years. But if I don’t reserve a table at least once a year, the points expire. Since I don’t know when we’ll be back in the States, I figured it was a good opportunity to keep current. And I wanted to enjoy a nice dinner with my spouse, too.
So we stayed dressed up for dinner, though we really didn’t have to. The Southern Inn is a fairly casual place and it’s obvious that it’s popular with locals. Our waitress was very experienced and clearly knew a lot of the people at the surrounding tables. We enjoyed a very nice meal, too. I started with baked Brie and a glass of prosecco. Bill had a bowl of Andouille sausage soup. I had sea scallops and parmesan grits for my entree. Bill had a huge steak. For dessert, I had a Brandy Alexander, while Bill had pecan pie.
Bill reacting to something smartassed I said.
Vino!
Baked Brie… it was a little like a grilled cheese sandwich on steroids.
Bill’s yummy soup!
Scallops, grits, and greens!
Beef!
Brandy Alexander…
Pecan pie… this was good, but my brother-in-law, Mark, makes an even better one.
We got back to the home place just in time for a spectacular fireworks show put on by one of my cousins. I wish we’d gotten there a little earlier so I could have gotten more than a few shots. I was pretty impressed by how professional the show was!
Fireworks!
Then we went to the barn for dancing and more singing… and yes, I did get to sing with The Plank Road Express again. It was funny, too, because the lead singer spotted me and said, “I’ve been looking for you for four years! Where have you been?” I sang “Walking After Midnight” and fumbled with the words a bit… but probably the most special moment of the night came when I saw the words for “On Heaven’s Bright Shore” on her music stand.
You see, I really would have liked to have sung “On Heaven’s Bright Shore” at my dad’s memorial. That would have been my choice for a solo. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anyone to accompany me. I did record an acapella version, but it’s not as good as it would be if I had someone on guitar or something.
The Plank Road Express in the barn…
Anyway, I asked the band if they would mind if I gave “On Heaven’s Bright Shore” a whirl. They asked if I could sing it in “C”. I said, “Just play it. I’m drunk and so is most everyone else in here!” It turned out pretty well!
I thanked the band for obliging me and explained that I had come all the way from Germany for my dad’s memorial. The lead singer said, “Oh, so that was your dad who died? I sang ‘On Heaven’s Bright Shore’ for my dad, too.” I got the sense that we bonded a little over that song!
Another highlight of Friday night was my Uncle Ed, who is just hilarious. He said, “Hey Jenny, we have some ‘moon’ here…” “Moon”, for your edification, refers to moonshine. Yes, many people in my family enjoy it as well as the odd Miller Lite beer. My tastebuds have evolved beyond Lite, but I don’t mind if I do enjoy a little “moon” when the opportunity presents itself. It was good stuff, too– pretty smooth and I haven’t gone blind…
We didn’t get back to the Hummingbird Inn until after 1:00am. We would have been there sooner, except I left my bag at the house and had to go back and retrieve it. On the way into the house, I skinned the hell out of my knee. That may have been yet another sign from my dad. Many years ago, when I was a kid and we were celebrating Thanksgiving with the family, my dad decided to go jogging. Possibly in a pre-menstrual moment, I said “I hope you fall and skin your knee.” My cousin, Suzanne, thought that was the funniest thing and reminded me of it this year. So maybe it was a little karmic payback. Despite my smarting knee, I had a great time!
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