black and (A)broad

Family vacations are supposed to be fun. We expect our kids to frolic in the swimming pool beneath endless blue skies and sweltering heat. For our part, we parents look forward to lounging next to the pool, one foot in the water, one hand holding open a sizzling romance or daring detective while the other balances a cocktail that’s sipped only under the above-mentioned circumstances. The hours traveling in the car on the way to said vacation should be merrily filled with round after round of “Row, row, row your boat” and challenging games of “I Spy”. We have limitless patience and our kids would never stoop to getting on our nerves.

Well, I’m here to testify that those vacations exist only in the imagination of the pre-vacation build-up. Our family vacation went wrong way before we step one foot on the hallowed French territory of our destination. Since the weather is atrocious in Holland, any Dutch person can attest to the fact that the single most important factor in determining where to vacation is weather. In fact, one of the first phrases I learned in Dutch was “we’re going to the sun”. Seeing as I’d just become a Dutch citizen, I decided take my family to the sun, too.

The Dordogne region of France promised sunny days and temperatures in the 80s. I was dragged in with thoughts of canoeing along the river and hiking in the mountains, that was, of course, when we’d grown tired of lounging by and frolicking in the pool. We saw one cloudless day in the 80s and, yes, you guessed it, it was when we were driving from Paris, a trip that should have taken us four hours but cost us around eight.

And speaking of driving, our darling little 3-year-old Paige ensured that any moment we spent in the car was anything but merry. She is a bundle of energy who’s old enough to equate car seat with “I’m not going to be able to move an inch for hours”. I would buckle her in and by the time I walked around to the passenger’s seat, she’d already asked me if she could have a piece of candy. “No, Paige,” I’d respond with a degree of patience any saint would envy. “Why not?” she’d ask. “Because it’s 8:00 am or because you haven’t eaten your lunch yet or simply because I said so.” Ten seconds later (and this isn’t an exaggeration)

“Mama?”

“Yes, Paige”.

“Can I have a piece of candy.”

“No, Paige”.

“Yes I can.”

“No, Paige.”

“But I haven’t had any candy.”

“Because it’s 8:00am (or because you haven’t eaten your lunch) (or simply because I said so)”.

“That’s not fair, Mama. I can have a piece of candy.”

No response.

“Mama.”

“Yes, Paige.”

“Can I have a piece of candy now?”

See above response. This would go on for hours with candy or with playing Angelina Ballerina on my iPhone. In the moments between hassling me, she’d turn her attention to Chloe, who, may I add, is the best traveling partner ever. Paige would take whatever Chloe had in her hand and then ask, “Can I play with that, too?”

By the time we reached the house we’d rented in the French sticks, I was worn out. Still, I was impressed with the size and condition of the house. It was very nice, but, my goodness, it wasn’t very conveniently located. If we wanted to buy a croissant, we had to drive for 10 kilometers. We had a pool right in front of the house, but the temperature did not rise above the upper 60s. So much for swimming.

Eating croissants was, for me, the highlight of French cuisine. I had no idea that the Dordogne was duck territory. On every in every restaurant we went to there was duck, prepared in various ways I admit, but duck is duck and I can’t stand duck. My husband was in hog heaven…duck heaven, that is…because he could eat foie gras (duck liver) till his heart’s content. I, on the other hand, ate more than my fair share of quiche Lorraine and and croque monsieurs, the French version of a grilled cheese sandwich. Chloe and Paige didn’t fare much better. I’m sure they never want to see any part of a hamburger (served rare) again.

We did manage to do a lot of sightseeing, which was fun. The highlight of our stay in the Dordogne was our visit to Josephine Baker’s Chateau des Milandes.  It was breathtaking. It was so well done. One room was filled with paraphernalia from her long career as an entertainer. Of course the infamous banana belt was on display. I never knew how encompassing her career was nor how well received she’d been in Paris, to tell the truth, until seeing old photos of the billboards and posters of her performances.

Another room boasted her love of haute couture. The woman had style. I was wowed by the “military room”, where her medals were displayed. She aided the Resistance by transporting secret documents and fugitives, hidden in the props used for her shows. She’d marched on Washington in 1963 and was very outspoken against the injustices black people in America were suffering. In an effort to prove to the world that people of all races, ethnicities and nationalities could live together harmoniously, she went on to adopt thirteen children of all races, ethnicities and nationalities. And she was a philanthropist. She brought electricity to the village of Castelnaud-la-Chapelle and built an amusement park on the premises.

Chloe was impressed by Ms. Baker’s persona and informed me that Baker was as brown as me. Paige was impressed by the fact that Baker was dead. In the car:

“Mama?”

“Yes, Paige.”

“Is Josephine Baker dead?” (We were impressed that she could say the name perfectly.)

“Yes, baby.”

“Why is she dead?”

“Well, because she died.”

“How did she die?”

“Well, her brain started bleeding.”

“Why?’

“It just did.”

“Mama. Who else is dead?”

This time Chloe, in all her 6-year-old wisdom, answered, “Michael Jackson is dead, too.”

“How did Michael Jackson die?”

“His heart stopped beating.”

“Why?”

No response.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Are Michael Jackson’s eyes open?”

“I suppose they’re closed.”

“Mama? If you’re dead, can you stand up?”

“No, baby.”

“Why not?”

No response.

“Papa?”

“Yes, Paige.”

“I want to be dead, too.”

I swear, the only time during the entire vacation that Paige didn’t talk was when we went inside a cathedral. As soon as we stepped one foot inside, she became quiet and calm. Hmmmm. As soon as we exited, she asked, “When are we going to church, Mama?”

In the midst of all this fun, Chloe informed my husband that her head was itching and had been itching for a while. Come to find out, she had a head full of lice. Yes, lice. Now, if you’re a black woman reading this, you’ll understand why I was indignant. When I was growing up, black wisdom dictated that we didn’t get lice. I didn’t realize I’d held on to the racist idea that only white people got lice because of their greasy hair (Sorry white people reading this. This is what I learned and, shame on me, never questioned.) I wanted to tell my husband that she must’ve gotten from his side of the family, but I refrained. I would soon discover that lice actually prefer clean hair and that it’s not a racial issue at all.

As soon as one child in school gets them (the source of Chloe’s), there’s an outbreak. They’re spread easiest from direct contact, you know, the contact that comes from a little sister climbing in big sister’s bed in the middle of the night and cuddling up next to big sister’s head. When we got home, we found out that Paige had them, too. And, since Paige had woken up one night and cuddled up next to me in my bed, I got them. So, every night, three of us are delousing, which means, we have to comb through this hair,

with a tiny metal comb with tiny metal teeth. How is it possible that the only one in the family who doesn’t get lice is the one with a big bald spot on top and short, thinning hair, which is the easiest type to deal with?

The most memorable part of this year’s summer vacation is that the four of us were together. For two weeks our kids had our undivided attention 24/7. We got to know each other a bit better, and, despite the inconveniences, we had lots of laughs together. Ultimately, that’s why we decided to get away for a while.

That said, I think next summer we’ll brave rainy Holland. We can also get some quality time together at home, right?

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Just got back from my in-laws, who live in the Dutch province, Zeeland. My husband always refers to it as the Florida of Holland since, supposedly, the sun shines there more than any other place in the country. Mmmm Hmmm.

The week before hubby, Chloe and I spent a week in Austria. For the second year in a row, we shared a chalet with a family that also lives in Voorschoten. I met my friend years ago at the mothers and toddlers gym class our daughters were taking. We immediately hit it off, despite her British accent (lol). She’s Chinese by biology, Malaysian by culture and British by heart (my assumption, not hers). Also being married to a Dutchman, we had a blast comparing notes about our common lovepat experience.

We decided to go to the same place as last year and stay in the same chalet. We weren’t disappointed. In fact, the owner showed us around the new wing of luxury suites he’d had built in the course of the year. A tad bit outside our price range, but hey, we go to ski not sit in the lap of luxury. Yeah, right.

Anyway, the first day out was a blistering 18 below zero. Not an avid skiier, I surprised (and impressed) myself by staying on the slopes until the kids and my friend finished their lessons. Alas, with each day temperatures rose, and by Christmas, our last day, all pretense of snow vanished. It rained and even hailed, sending the kiddies into fits of tears. Hubby relayed this last bit to me since I was the only one with the sense to go back to the chalet at the first sprinkle!

Besides the heatwave, this year’s trip varied in one other way: I saw other black people on the slopes. Not the requisite one (which I thought was me), not even two, but three other brown faces graced the slopes of Scheffau in Tirol. I do have to say that after living in Holland for ten years, I don’t tend to look for other brown faces when I attend an event or go to a restaurant or take Paige to the mother-and-toddler gym class. Indeed, the Dutch don’t go out of their way to make me aware of my race. That notwithstanding, the slopes seem to be that one last place (at least in Austria) where I’m the only proverbial one.

On the drive over to Austria, we stopped in Munich and stayed with a friend of mine over night. She’s a beautiful German woman I also met years ago at the gym class. She was my rock-solid support system during the months I was deciding whether to leave my job at the university to work from home as a freelance writer, translator and editor. A few years before, she’d given up her career as a very successful architect who was in demand all over Europe to explore her love of horses and alternative healing. She provides cranio-sacraal healing on horses, and apparently she’s very gifted.

Anyway, about a year ago we were discussing her upcoming ski vacation when I mentioned that I’d never seen another black person skiing (take that with a grain of salt because I ski maybe once a year for one week). “That can’t be true,” she answered me in disbelief.

“Well, when you go, take a look around.”

Sure enough she told me later that she hadn’t seen any black people. She asked me why I thought not too many black people skiied, and I explained that, at least in an American context, it had less to do with race than economics, i.e. money.

Skiing is a ridiculously expensive hobby/sport. If you can afford to travel to the few places in the US where you can ski (I won’t even mention flying to Canada or Europe or Asia for obvious reasons), you still have to have a place to stay. And food is important because you really work up an appetite. Proper attire is a must. High up in the mountains, it’s cold. Period. A ski suit offers protections from the elements, so you need to have one. Thermal underwear, ski socks and gloves add to the expense. Then you have to rent the ski boots and skis. Add to that money for a ski pass and you begin to see why this sport is out of reach for many black Americans.

I think it’s a pity because it is an enjoyable atmosphere. I mean, the skiing’s ok, but stopping at lunch for a bowl of hot goulash hits the spot when your toes start going numb. A pit stop for a glass of gluhwein or jagertee in front of the fireplace always manages to warm up the coldest of the cold-fearing people. Me. And, I’ll admit, though never to hubby, that being outside all day - even when it’s cold - is exhilarating.

I do notice the occasional stare, but the Austrian people I’ve come into contact with are hospitable and are kind enough to humor me when I mangle their gorgeous language. They don’t seem to judge me because my skin is brown. I’m trying to choose my words carefully so as not to make a racial issue out of something that probably isn’t, but it’s hard not to comment on such an obvious absence of color.

On a lighter note (couldn’t resist) I’m glad to be back home getting back into my routine. I think this year hubby and I are on our own for New Year’s eve. We’re planning to cook ourselves a very chic three-course meal and drink lots of prosecco, well, maybe just one bottle. Hubby has to work on the 1st.

I’ll be lifting my glass up in a toast to all of you at midnight - my time, of course - wishing you all a happy new year.

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No, this post isn’t about soccer! While I was on vacation in Tuscany, a reader informed me that she was thinking about relocating to Europe and asked me to compare Italy and Holland, two countries she’s considering. Since I haven’t had the time (until today - the first day of school LOL) to write about my adventures in Italy, I thought this would be a good way to kill two birds with one stone.

Dear reader (your name didn’t appear in my email address), please keep in mind that I’ve never lived in Italy. What I’m writing is based solely on my 11-day stay on a camp ground. That said … my first impression of Italy in the summer is that it’s hot as hell. Literally. Now, having grown up in Indianapolis, I’m used to the unbearably hot, humid summer days. However, even in Indiana, we had air conditioning. The only air I felt in Sarteano and surrounding towns was when a breeze graced us with its presence every now and then.

One of the reasons I agreed to stay in a trailer on a camp site (yes, you read it right. A trailer. Now you know that usually black woman and trailer are usually mutually exclusive, but, hey, I’m trying to broad-en my horizons) was because I saw that the units were air conditioned. I knew I could deal with cramped accommodations (I’ve been living in Holland for 10 years) as long as I stayed cool.

Check this out: as soon as we walked into our little trailer, I asked the lady how to work the air conditioning. She shot me a puzzled look an pointed to an outlet on the wall that had “FAN” written - in English no less - on a piece of masking tape. Then she pointed to a tiny fan mounted on the opposite wall. “I thought it was air conditioned,” I said to no one in particular, to which hubby felt like he had to reply, “This is Europe, Carolyn. Not everyplace is air conditioned.” I swear I saw him hiding a smirk.

So, dear reader, the first difference between the two countries involves summer temps. I survived in Italy thanks, in part, to the availability of a swimming pool and, in part, to the cool nights. Dutch summers are quite the opposite. It rarely gets out of the 80’s. In fact, it doesn’t usually warm up until mid to late July. Before that it’s cool (60’s), gray and rainy. On the other hand, since Holland is pretty far north, summer days are seemingly endless: it’s light until almost 11.00 pm.

The Italians loved our children. Every day, as we were walking to the pool or strolling through some village, someone would stop and say “Ciao bellissima” and actually congratulate us on how beautiful our kids are. One day Chloe actually had the nerve to complain that a lady said “Ciao bella” to Paige and not her!

As in Holland, the folks in Tuscany didn’t seemed at all bothered by my interracial and intercultural family. Although, in the smaller towns we visited, I didn’t see any black people, the Tuscans were very warm and welcoming. Unlike many Dutch people, the Italians actually made eye contact and returned my greetings of “buon giorno”. So, if friendliness is important, you might double-think Holland.

Speaking of small towns, the ones in Tuscany were fascinating. My personal favorite was Orvieto in Umbria. It’s a bit hard to describe from memory, but if I were to live in Italy, this town would be high on my list. It’s close to Rome yet far enough away to avoid the normal big city irritations. It seemed rather upscale (I walked into a shop prepare to buy the most gorgeous dress I’d laid my eyes on in a while. My mouth dropped so wide, I almost drooled on the 900 euro dress!) yet also unpretentious. Just walking through the maze of streets and alleys was a treat that most towns in Holland can’t offer. In terms of beauty in architecture and landscape, Italy has my vote.

The one big city we ventured to, Florence, was awful. Well, Florence itself wasn’t so bad - it was all the friggin tourists (I don’t include myself or my family, of course). Before trekking back to Holland, we decided to spend the day in this historical city. Bad decision. We were so busy navigating our way through the throngs of slow-moving tourists, and it was hot, that we didn’t really experience the city. We inadvertently walked through the fashion district on our way to the Ponte Vecchio, which was neat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual Gucci store! Then we went to a square … I can’t think of the name … because I wanted to see the sculpture of a naked Perseus wielding Medusa’s head as well as other sculptures depicting Greek and Roman mythological characters. Were they worth the throngs? Absolutely. Then we left.

One thing I found fascinating about Florence was the increased number of black people, as well as the amount of interracial couples - mostly black women and non-black men.

The food was delicious, of course, and I discovered pasta that I never knew existed (pici, thick, handrolled spaghetti). Pizza was out of this world. My favorite at the Carpe Diem, in Sarteano a few meters from the camp site, was the Bubu, which had arrugula, pesto and shaved parmesan. The food in Holland isn’t so special: it’s mostly meat, potatoes and fish.

English was hard to come by where we were. I would imagine that in the bigger cities one could get by on English. If you move to Italy, count on learning Italian, which you should do anyway if you plan to live in another country.

I think Holland must be one of the most international countries in the world. I’m thinking of the languages many Dutch people speak. A mono-lingual Dutchie (especially in the Randstadt) is the exception. Walk into a bookstore or by a newspaper stand and be impressed by the number of “foreign” newspapers you can buy. All television is subtitled so you can work on your English, Spanish, Arabic, French and even Flemish! Dutch people also put a high priority on travel. I don’t care where you go in the world; you’re bound to run into some Dutch people. And it’s nothing for them to take a leave of absence from work to travel - and I mean for months at a time. And they go back to their jobs.

Where black Americans are concerned, I think Holland is a great place to travel or live. In general the Dutch are genuinely interested in black culture. I heard from more than one person that it was the latter that made America so interesting. People of color are also represented rather positively in the media. That said most Americans (and only Americans, white and black) are deeply offended by Black Pete during Sinterklaas celebrations. My views on said topic are quite clear in a piece I posted last year. You also see an astounding (at least in my opinion) number of interracial couples, and I mean mixes of all different people, not just black/white.

Settling in is much easier in Holland whereas, for the long term, Italy might be more attractive. But hey, I’ve never lived there. On the other hand, based on my limited travels, I would certainly put it high on my list of prospective places to live - for a couple years anyway.

Dear reader (s), I hope this gives you at least an inkling of an idea of what you might expect traveling to these countries. If you’re interested in more details, feel welcome to ask!

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As far as I can see, the only downside of being away for three weeks is that it seems to take about as much time to get back into your rhythm.

We got back last Wednesday at 7.30 am after driving through the night from Florence, Italy. The last time I stayed up all night driving was when one of my closest girlfriends and I drove her brother’s pick-up truck cross country from LA to Indy. Hmmmm. That’s almost twenty years ago.

Anyway, because Paige doesn’t look too favorably upon sitting in her car seat for more than half an hour, hubby and I decided to try this. It worked. Both girls (and I) slept right through the night.

We started this year’s summer vacation in the Tirol province of Austria. When hubby was a wee lad of sixteen, he and one of his sisters spent their Christmas holidays and spring breaks as ski instructors in Kaltenbach. There they met the Ellers, who owned and ran a ski-rental store and sort of adopted them. I met the Eller kids (well, they’re adults now) for the first time years ago when hubby and I went skiing there. They own a pension, which is usually empty in the summer, so we were allowed to stay there for a week. (Unfortunately, in order to post pics of this lovely house, I’d have to loosen the security on my system, which I don’t want to do just yet. Check out all my vacation pics through FaceBook.)

What I loved most about being in Austria was being able to completely relax. We had no plans, and the only attractions were the Alps. They’re breathtaking, to the extent, I can imagine, that you might feel suffocated from time to time. They’re so massive, in the background of every picture you take of your surroundings, both literally and figuratively. 

Our first day greeted us with cold temperatures. I mean like 7 degrees Celcius (44 F) – at the end of July, right smack dab in the middle of summer. When our friends informed us that higher up in the mountains it had snowed, hubby thought it would be cute to drive up and see it for himself. I wasn’t the least bit amused.

“This is my summer vacation, dammit,” I retorted, “I don’t need to see no g(^&**($ snow.”  So, he and the kids went without me. Fine.

The next day it rained, but at least the temps started climbing. By the third day we were able to go swimming, which we did almost every day afterwards.

The afternoon before we left I agreed to drive up the mountain to about 1800 meters. Supposedly the view was stunning from there (and it was 27 degrees up top). As we started climbing, I did something that I would regret for the rest of the day: I looked down.  The road had narrowed to about the width of one car, and the few guardrails I’d been happy to see down below had mysteriously disappeared. 

Now imagine driving higher and higher on a narrow, one-lane road with no guardrails. Then imagine that every curve is blind. That’s right: we had no idea if around the next curve a head-on collision was waiting for us.

“Please slow down,” I pleaded.

“We’re going 25 mph,” came hubby’s response, amusement in his voice.

But then he must have seen my tense face and clinched hands because the car slowed down noticeably. And then I exhaled!

“Why is it getting hotter in here?” I asked. And it was, too. The AC didn’t seem to be working as hard for us as it had been.  “And what’s that smell?”

Hubby pulled over onto one of the few narrow clearings ( a space that allows for two cars to pass each other, one going up and one going down) and confirmed my worst fear. Our friggin’ car was overheating.

With tears already in my eyes, I imagined the engine going out, gravity pulling us down, the steering wheel locking and us nose-diving off the mountain. I was about to start boo-hooing when he told me the engine had already begun to cool off.

His “I think it’s because we’re driving too slow and the air can’t circulate” was met by a look so evil, the demons from hell would have been scared. He didn’t say anything else until we got to the top!

And what a spectacular view it was! But before I could enjoy it, I had to take a little something for my nerves. I had me a shot of Schnapps.

Besides this little adventure, our days and nights were uneventful. We walked a lot, let the girls play in the various playgrounds we kept stumbling upon, swam, ate lots of schnitzl, knudl and kaes spatzl (spelling?) and drank good wine. I would recommend Tirol to anyone, especially anyone with small children. It’s beautiful, kid friendly, not too touristy and something different.

My only criticism is the language barrier. Good English isn’t so easy to find, and since I don’t speak Austrian-German, I had to rely on hubby to do my talking for me. Still, the people are nice and patient.

Next stop: Tuscany. 

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We’re off for the summer holidays. First stop: Tirol Austria. Highlight? Picking blueberries and searching for edelweiss. The blueberries we can take with us, the eidelweiss has to stay where it is. Apparently, it’s against Austrian law to pick this nearly extinct plant. Can plants be on the endangered list? 

We’ll be staying for about a week with a childhood friend of Vinz’s. This Austrian family befriended Vinz and his sister when they spent school holidays teaching groups of Dutch people to ski. Thank goodness they’ve kept in touch!

Afterwards, we’ll be heading for Tuscany, Italy where we’ve rented a mobile home on camp grounds (euphemism for a trailer park). Vinz’s sisters and their families will be at the same camp grounds for the third or fourth year in a row. They swear by it, so we thought we’d check it out. The Dutch are crazy about “camping”, and we’ll probably run into tons of Dutchies while there. Oh well, Europe is a small place, you know.

I’ll be back online in about three weeks, so until then, arrivaderci!

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We’re back from our family vacation in Portugal, and it was wonderful if I do say so myself. In this hotel, Vila Petra, we rented a one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, which, I’m happy to say, we rarely used!

Portugal treated us well. In fact, it provided the venue as well as the opportunity for the four of us to reconnect as a family. We ate every meal together, relaxed, laughed, and just had fun.

Our daily itinerary went something like this:

8.00: roll over in bed and slowly think about getting up
9.00: mosey on down to the restaurant for a leisurely breakfast
9.45: last one in the pool’s a rotten egg
11.30: lunch
12.30: field trip
18.30: cocktails and coloring books in the bar lounge
19:00: dinner buffet style (Paige thoroughly enjoyed the strawberries and Chloe got reacquainted with spaghetti and meat sauce)
21.00: kids in bed
21.05: night cap

Chloe impressed the hell out of us with her swimming prowess. Because of the quantity and proximity of canals throughout Holland, Dutch children, sometimes as young as 4, are enrolled in swimming courses. At the end of the course, they get a certificate, which informally gains them entry into any event involving a swimming pool. Well, those lessons are sure paying off. We also had a blast introducing Paige to the delights of water. She loved it.

Unfortunately, the weather didn’t really permit us to swim in the outdoor pool, although we did manage to make it to the beach a few times. Obviously, temps in the upper sixties didn’t stop my family from getting their feet wet.



I, on the other hand, chose to stay as far away from getting wet (and cold) as possible:

Personally, I detest the beach, and days like this one only reaffirm how I feel. As you can see this day at the beach was accompanied by lots of wind.


The friggin’ wind blew sand everywhere – including in my clothes, hair, and all my stuff. While I hate the sand, I must admit to appreciating the uncontained beauty of the ocean and eavesdropping on the intimate conversations between the waves and shore.

Chloe and Paige don’t seem to share my lack of enthusiasm for all things sandy:

And Chloe even got her hair braided on the beach, much to my delight:

We also spent a day at a nearby aquarium/theme park. Once I showed Chloe the right way to ride a roller coaster,

I couldn’t get her away,

except to take her sister on the kiddie train,

The dolphin show was out of this world. Imagine walking into the stands with Ricky Martins’s “1, 2,3, allez, allez, allez” blasting. J-Lo got louder, and we all danced to “I like to move it move it” (the song from Madagascar). By the way, did you know that the dolphins in Portugal play soccer?

I’m sure you’d never have guessed that they dance the lambada?

Speaking of fish, thank goodness the Dutch have taught me to eat it because that’s the Portuguese specialty. Vinz and I ate it at least one meal each day. We also drank plenty of Portuguese wine and tended to cap off each night with a local brandy. All and all we had a delightful time.

The only negative comment is that we were in the touristy part, so I don’t feel like I really know the country or the people. Neither did I feel the African or even Brazilian influence, but that’s probably because of where we were. Still, I find it curious given Portugal’s history as colonizers of the New World along with the central role the country played in the slave trade. Some scholars argue that Portugal started the trade.

I asked myself if the Afro-Portuguese influence is purposely left out or “hidden” from international eyes, or do the Afro-Portuguese voluntarily settle in other areas of the country where social and economic opportunities are more plentiful? These are questions I hope to find answers to on our next visit.

We did drive to the western-most point of the coast where Vinz swears Christopher Columbus shoved off to “discover” the “New World. I don’t remember Columbus leaving from Portugal, but it is strange to imagine that my daughters, a delightful mixture of African, European, and American, were playing in the same spot as one of the men who would change the course of Western history!

*photos taken by my husband

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I’d like to welcome myself back from our ski trip in Austria! We’d picked Chloe up from school at 11.45 on the 19th and headed to Zeeland where Paige would spend the week with Vinz’s parents. The 8-hour drive to Sheffau was a microcosmos of the best Europe has to offer: the proximity of countries, cultures, and communication (languages). Chloe started singing the Dutch version of O Tannenbaum! Vinz chimed in with the German version, and I rounded things up with O Christmas Tree. At the end, all three of us giggled, happy to be together.

This was the first Christmas we’d spent away from the family, and it was…relaxing (especially since I treated myself to a full body massage). Yes, the best that Europe has to offer. After being in Holland for ten years, I’d just gotten used to Christmas playing second fiddle to Sinterklaas. I’d even come to terms with celebrating Boxing Day (the day after Christmas). But nothing prepared me for welcoming the Kerstman (literally Christmas man, i.e. Santa Claus) on the 24th. Yes, in Germany and Austria Christmas Eve takes center stage. X-mas is sort of like my birthday: a day too early doesn’t count because, well, it’s not quite my birthday. Celebrate a day or two later and it’s…well…too late. Not only that, but apparently the Austrians like to celebrate their Weinacht in style. As we sat drinking gluhwein in the lobby right before dinner, as we’d done almost every evening, we noticed the other guests were arriving in formal attire. My husband and I were wearing our “best” jeans and “decent” sweaters. At least I had a good excuse: I’m American, and we Americans consider physical comfort, especially where clothing is concerned, our birthrite. But my husband and our friends (Dutch and Malaysian/English) should have known better!

We stayed at the Chalet Hotel am Leitenhof in Scheffau am Wilden Kaiser, and it was a week of unexpected luxury. We’d booked pretty late in the season (November, I think), and these chalets were all that were available. For a reasonable price we slept here

and were spoiled by these nice ladies

France and Austria are popular ski destinations for many Dutch people, due mainly to their proximity. I’ve experienced French hospitality and “customer service” first hand (which leave much to be desired), so I would recommend Austria any day, if you’re in Europe and like skiing, and if go with people who speak (Austrian) German. They’re so sincere and customer oriented and their Alps are just as high as the French ones!

Besides drinking gluhwein in the mountains,

one of the highlights of our vacation was Chloe learning to ski

For my husband, who skis just as well as any Austrian,

those mountains bring back memories of scratching up a meager allowance as a ski instructor during his school vacations.

For me,

when I look up to those mountains,

I see one thing only: the Von Trapp family fleeing the Nazis, crossing the Alps, on foot no less, towards the safety of Switzerland (by now you should be humming “Climb Every Mountain). You know what they say, you can take the girl out of America…

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Just got back from a week’s visit to Hotlanta! My husband and I ventured out without our balls and chains (just kidding kiddos), and it was fabulous. Right before taking this trip, our second to the States this summer (aren’t we decadent?), I found out I family from both sides living in this great city. I saw my mother’s brother for the first time in ten years. I was struck by their resemblance. Here’s Uncle Bobby Don:

And here’s Mom, Beverly Ann

I saw two of his kids, Adrianne and Paula, who I haven’t seen in about thirty -yes, 30 - years. Adrianne and I hit it off immediately. As I did, she recently quit her job to focus on writing a novel, and let me tell you, it’s going to be good. I wish I’d asked her for the title so I could post it here and get you licking your chops in expectation. But, hey, I was on vacation without my kids so my brain didn’t have to be switched on. Vinz and I had less than an hour to catch up with Paula, but she promised to put Holland on her European vacation itinerary when she plans it. On my father’s side, I hooked up with his cousin, Rody, who is one hell of an artist. He has a website, http://www.vinesart.com/catalog/index.php, which you should check out right now. We got to talking, and he started telling me about my childhood self. I wish Vinz had been sitting there when he said that the thing he remembered most about me was that I was sososososo moody. He liked to think of me as cloudy, and in fact, would sing some jazz song about clouds (I can’t remember the song. Rody, help me out?) My sister seemed to be the only one able to clear up my cloudiness, and she usually did that by making me laugh. Alas, after a while, the clouds would move back in. What a relief: I don’t have to try to change my core anymore. He gave us one of his prints to bring back with us, and as soon as I’ve had it framed (and if I remember) I’ll post it so you can see how gifted he is. Actually, you may already be familiar with his work. Do you know the “Running out of Time” print? You know, the one with Frederick Douglas, MLK, Malcolm X, and….. depicted as Mt. Rushmore? That’s one of his. Anyway, living in Holland for the past nine years has opened up the place for close family relations that past circumstances sealed off many a year ago. In more ways than one, I’m indebted to you, Atlanta.

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These shoes should be galavanting around Washington, DC now “as we speak”. Instead, they’re lined up (neatly, I might add) along the wall in the hallway. So why am I sitting at home in Voorschoten Holland at the table posting this message? I’m tempted to say it’s because I have a nice glass of cabernet sauvignon keeping me company, but I won’t. So, we woke up on time this morning despite baby Paige’s best intentions to prevent just that. She woke up at 3.00am ready to rock and roll, literally. She didn’t get back to sleep (and neither did we) until almost 5.00am. Anyway, our cab got here on time, and despite the drawbridges that had to open just as we were trying to get to the airport, we got to Schiphol in Amsterdam on time. Surprisingly there were no long lines at the check-in counter; I suppose the automated check in helps a bit. But seeing as this is “black weekend” in Holland (which is comparable to travel around Thanksgiving in the US), we’d expected much longer lines. We even had enough time to stop at Paul to have a “French-style” sandwich. Then my husband and I saw something that blew our minds. Somehow baby Paige, sitting in her stroller, had gotten hold of a brown ball. Wait…that’s not a brown ball…that growing mass is…no…it couldn’t be…but it is…poop. And it was coming out of her diaper. About 15 minutes and many many paper towels later we were on our way to gate D43 to finally board the plane. I noticed a lot of Africans standing in line, and it was a long line. I thought…when did the US get so generous as to give visas to so many Africans at the same time? I asked my husband to double check the gate. Indeed, that was the right gate. I crept up to the head of the line, hoping, in typical Dutch style, to sneak in and ask the flight attendant a quick question. Instead a passenger informed me that that plane was going to Africa. And my plane to DC? To make a long story short (sorry, I’ve already made it long, but hey, I have all the time in the world…at least until 10.30 am tomorrow) our flight was cancelled, and we have to wait until tomorrow to leave. Wish us luck!

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This is what was on the menu at a dockside seafood restaurant in Port du Crouesty, France:

Green salad, RAPED carrots, CÉLÉRI, and SEASONAL CRUDENESSES

Well, if that’s how they treat their veggies, I’d rather have a burger!

Original version as it was presented on the menu:
*Salade de crudités………………..8,10 euros
Salade verte, carottes râpées, céleri et crudités de saison

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