Hidden in Plain Site: Downtown DC

Last Saturday, my best friend since fifth grade, Debi, and I went on a DC downtown adventure (a very late celebration of her birthday, which is in October).  We met at a very crowded Renwick Gallery to take in one of the last days of the Murder is Her Hobby exhibit.  Visitors huddled around the little murder rooms, created by Frances Glessner Lee, depicting sordid deaths of the working class.  We all speculated freely about what had happened to the hapless victims.  It was grisly fun.

We then pigged out on delicious cheese redundancy at the nearby GCDC Grilled Cheese Bar.  A shared ramekin of lobster mac and cheese and cheeseburger grilled cheese sandwich later, we rolled out and sought caffeine at Compass Coffee a few blocks away.

Time for a walk.  Consulting a map attached to the side of a bus stop, we set off to visit an obscure monument to The Nuns of the Battlefield.  But we got distracted by St. Matthew’s Cathedral and totally missed the monument.  Yes, there is a cathedral in the middle of downtown DC and it is gorgeous inside, with a majestic rotunda and interesting art in all the side chapels.  We spent some time reading about all the artwork and marveling at its intricacy.  (I’ve attempted my first ever Word Press Gallery here to showcase some highlights!)

After walking blocks out of our way, and finding another little known monument to German homeopath Samuel Hahnemann, we got some intelligence from a passerby that the Nuns were located, logically, right across the street from St. Matthew’s and we had walked right past their monument.  We circled back to pay homage.   There they were, the noble ladies, in bas relief flanked by female warriors in 3-D.  Elsewhere in the city, modern day female warriors were marching in their pink hats and chanting in support of other noble causes.  Here, hidden in plain site, was the quiet testimony to these Civil War era women who did what they could, when they were needed.  Visit them sometime if you can find them.

 

Keeping Christmas

The Dynamic Gingerbread Trio – Katie, Khamo and I – just finished our goopy, inedible creation, which we’ve been meaning to make for about a week now, or at least in time for Russian (Orthodox) Christmas (January 7).  Inedible because it is a kit that I purchased for $1.50 at after Christmas sales about five years ago.  The “ready to use” frosting was so hard that we had to revive it with hot water to make it usable, and it smelled nasty.

But who cares?  We laughed a lot, we got creative with frosting and garish candies, and we extended that holiday feeling into the darkest and gloomiest (and lately the coldest) part of the year.  That’s what “keeping Christmas” is all about.

We were also late, but not that late, with our tree, which has become a new holiday tradition at our house.   We spend Christmas (the December 25th version) with my mom, sister and brother in law in Hilton Head, SC.  It is usually about 75 and not feeling at all like Christmas, the only “white” part being the beach sand.  When we return to Arlington on the 26th, we start the ritual of finding a Christmas tree – on the street.

Yes, there are people who ditch their tree the day after Christmas, as sad as that might seem.  (They are probably the ones who put it up on Thanksgiving Day.)  Poor, forlorn trees thrown to the curb, sometimes with a bit of tinsel or some missed ornament clinging to them.  We pick one and give it a new life as our Christmas tree.  I like to think they are happy to have a second life in our living room.  Soon enough they will be turned into mulch, why not give them a little reprieve?

So, my advice, don’t let Christmas go too soon.  Keep the feeling of creativity, togetherness, and light as long as you can – all year if possible.  But maybe don’t wait five years to use your gingerbread house kit.

 

Water Features, Holiday Edition

Since my sister, brother-in-law and mostly-immobile 91-year old mother live in Hilton Head, South Carolina, we are the ones who have made the trek southward for the holidays in the past five, six, seven (who’s keeping track?) years.  This year, my husband and I took a circuitous route through Charlotte and Asheville, North Carolina and Charleston, SC on our way to our Low Country Christmas.  We arrived a week early to help my mother with her preparations – the tree, the gift shopping, the laying-in of a huge supply of foodstuffs, the baking and of course the annual Cookie Decorating Extravaganza.

To keep sanity around all this hyperactive holiday hubbub, I seek the water.  Not a problem down there – it’s water, water everywhere.  The first documented water feature of the trip was in Charleston. We strolled with our friends Bob and Carolyn along the waterfront and visited the Pineapple Fountain, an impressive mass of stone in the shape of the traditional Southern hospitality symbol.

After arriving at Hilton Head, I sought out early morning or late afternoon water features to bookend the busy days.  Palmetto Dunes, the “plantation” in which my relatives reside abounds in water features (not a real plantation, but that’s what they call multi-use developments there – it sounds so much more Southern and gentile, no?).  Lagoons, canals, creeks, and other waterways criss-cross the resident clusters, golf courses and clubhouses.  One evening, my daughter snapped some photos of a couple of local birds, a cormorant and a blue heron, perching stealthily in the trees at sunset along one of these waterways not far from my mother’s condo.

Palmetto Dunes also boasts its own beachfront, a fine lengthy stretch of uninterrupted sand which is a perfect place to watch the sun rise.  If you can get yourself out of bed early enough, which I finally did the very last day we were there, the day after Christmas.  After the bustle and over-stimulation of Christmas, a tranquil moment on the beach was the best present of all.

Goodbye, ocean, you king of all water features.  I know that, despite everything, you will always be there for me as a touchstone, whether in the SC low country or elsewhere around the world.

Happy 2018.  Enjoy the water features in your own lives in the new year.

The Critters of Chestertown

Chestertown is a pleasant burg on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, where we traveled for a day trip on Thanksgiving weekend.  It was “small business Saturday” so poking around in some of the little shops in town seemed the thing to do.  Unless you are an extremely pokey shopper, that can be achieved in a couple of hours, max.

If you stop at the Visitor’s Center on the way in to town, they will give you a map of town so that you can see just how small it is, as well as a walking tour brochure that guides you around the stately 18th century houses paralleling the river.  (Federal, Georgian, with or without Flemish bond bricks, take your pick.)  A walk down to the pier to view the schooner Sultana is also a must – tall ships are always intriguing.  There are several nice looking restaurants where one might get some local seafood, but we held out until Kent Narrows on our way home and indulged in some crab cakes, oysters, and scallops at the iconic Harris’s Crab House.

As we toured the town, I started noticing some interesting critter depictions.  First, some very boldly colored and rather saucy lions in a fountain in the park downtown. Second, a giant crab claw emerging from the water near the pier (see landing image, above). Third, the eagle carving on the schooner.  Fourth, a metal sculpture of honeybees outside a modest but well groomed house.  If you get to Chestertown for a visit, you can use these as a sort of critter scavenger hunt on a leisurely walk around town.  Enjoy!

 

Food = Family: Adventures in International Home Cooking

Many people think my husband and I are a bit weird to welcome into our home a succession of interns, research fellows and/or other young people who come to Washington, DC and need a cheap place to live.  (Well, that is not the only reason they think we are weird, but that’s another story!)

However, I must say, the benefit is huge, especially if these young people know how to cook.  Lately, we have been benefitting from one of our current housemates, Khamo, who has introduced us to Tibetan cuisine.  Not only have we enjoyed eating these spicy and noodley wonders, but we’ve have fun trying to master the art of making them.

Momos, a type of dumpling, are juicy packets of savory meat served with a fiery dipping sauce.  I almost got the hang of pinching them shut in a sort of pleating motion, but watching Khamo’s deft fingers at the job I knew I would never be able to match her years of growing up doing this.  It was like watching a ballet of the fingers.

Tibetan noodle soup is the perfect winter treat.  The dough is stretchy, and the technique of adding the noodles directly to the steaming pot of fragrant soup is to break off short squarish bits from a long thin rope of it with your fingers.  Again, a skill perfected in one’s family kitchen over years, though a little easier to get the hang of than pleating momos.  It took me five times longer than Khamo to break the pieces into the pot (and not drop them on the floor in the process).  

Our third adventure in Tibetan cooking was hot pot.  This required a trip to the Chinese grocery store, Good Fortune, to get ingredients that we had no idea existed.  Frozen meat and fish balls of various hues, special sauces, and a variety of vegetables including lotus root.  We needed to learn how to eat this dish as well – you don’t eat the soup, you just scoop the contents out and leave the broth for cooking more ingredients.

We’ve lost track of all of the interns and fellows we’ve hosted in the past six or seven years, but we tend to recall the ones who introduced us to new food adventures or how to cook homestyle versions of foods we only enjoyed previously at restaurants.  Pho from Vietnam, authentic Indian cuisine from several parts of the subcontinent, Danish open faced sandwiches, German pastries…a world of good food and new “family members” to enjoy it with.

 

Art in, Art Out, Art All About

Nothing like visiting museums to make you see the world just a bit differently.  Last week we were visiting San Francisco, and we went to two art museums, one the first day, and one the second:  the Museum of Modern Art and the De Young.  We spent the better part of the day at these museums, since they are both huge and have a lot to see.  And hear, which I will get to a bit later.

Looking at a lot of art, then walking around the city streets, everything suddenly seems like art.  Building facades, business signs, vibrant sunsets, reflections on the water.  It makes you look at things differently.  (I know I am not telling you anything new, just stating the obvious.)

The MOMA right now has an installment of art and sound called Soundtracks, which is super cool.  I especially liked the big shallow pool of water with hundreds of ceramic bowls; when one hits another, it chimes gently, like random wind chimes.  I could have sat there and watched/listened for hours, zenning out.

 

But, there was more to see, and even more the next day at the De Young, which is located in the middle of Golden Gate Park.   First you have to climb the tower to see a spectacular view of the city from all angles.  Then, if you’ve paid the extra admission, the current special exhibition is a massive collection of artwork from the ancient (modern day Mexican) city of Teotihuacan.

What to see next?  Tough choice, as sensory overload begins to set in after a few hours.  We chose to spent some time exploring the exhibition, “Revelations:  Art from the African American South.”  Found materials was one theme, including a large installation composed of charred pieces of wood from a burned church.  Insightful quotes from the artists were blown up on the wall, and so I will leave you with the comment of artist Lonnie Holley:

“What is art?  Art is everything that we have used, waiting to be used again.  That’s all art is.”

Minneapolis, A Breath of Fresh Air

When folklorists go to our annual American Folklore Society meetings each autumn, most of us try to avoid that melancholy post-conference refrain, “I never got out of the hotel the whole time.”  Even in the midst of snow storms in Alaska or pouring rain in San Antonio, we find excuses to cut out of a conference session or two to experience some of whatever city we are meeting in.   It is our professional duty, after all, to get a taste (literally, since most of the excursions involve sampling the local cuisine) of the city we are visiting, to honor its history and ethnic make-up, and to then compare notes of our adventures.

This year, we met in Minneapolis.  Despite the fact that we had met there back in the mid-1980s, I had little memory or preconceived notion of the city.  Consequently, I built in a pre-meeting day to explore and embarked on other forays during stolen hours.

My old friend Jean and I made our way via public transportation to visit another friend and colleague, Macey, in her eclectic neighborhood of Powderhorn Park.   Why this neighborhood did not make it to the “local guide” that fellow folklorists had compiled for the meetings escapes me, because it was a fascinating mixture of ethnic businesses, a lovely park with a small lake or large pond which sparkled in the warm fall light, and rows of tidy houses and gardens.  We had a fine walk around, and ate lunch in a sort of Latino mall featuring taco, tamale, and torta stands and small stores with clothing, jewelry, teas and spices, and miscellaneous other items.

Just down the street was Ingebretsen’s Scandinavian store, actually three stores adjacent to one another, with housewares, foodstuffs (including as many different herring products as I had ever seen in one place before and a fine selection of cod roe), and other goods.  The same street had a Caribbean cafe, Halal meat markets, and other wonders. After some shopping, we bid Macey goodbye and returned to hotel life, which already seemed sterile and boring after our glimpse into Minneapolis Life Beyond.

Shorter jaunts outside the confines of the hotel included one afternoon exploring the waterfront along the river and canal with my friend Hanna. Features of this area include the bones of old mill machinery, grand views of St. Anthony Falls, which are featured in the photo at the header of this entry, as well as the  historic Pillsbury A Mill across the river in St. Paul, and some other splendid architecture, old and new.

As for the best food adventure, the prize goes to a homey Tibetan restaurant that my food-savvy friends Lucy and Sue and I discovered on a mission to “Eat Street” (a stretch of Nicollet Avenue not too far from the hotel).   The walk was a mile and half or more back, but we only briefly considered hailing a taxi.  Besides the dumplings, homemade noodles and steamed bread with spicy beef we had to work off, we were in no hurry to return to the confines of hotel life.  The fresh Minneapolis evening air, and the exhilarating feeling of discovery, buoyed us on.   Another city, another AFS conference, another set of adventures.  On to Buffalo next year!

 

Falling for Southern France, Part Four (final)

We returned from France over over a month ago, but still the memories linger and must have their due.  Here, the fourth and final installment finds us on our last full day of the trip in Sete, a small maritime city near Montpellier.

The first thing upon arriving is to find your way to the top – a challenging climb up steep streets and steps to the highest point, Mount St. Clair.  The elevation is a mere 574 feet, but the view is spectacular and lays Sete’s waterways out for you so that they make sense.  To the right, the Mediterranean.  To the left, Etang de Thau, a sort of large lake or lagoon.  And, in the middle, bisecting the town, a series of canals connecting the two.  Water, water, everywhere.

Because that climb up and back down will surely make you hungry, the next thing to do is to find a spot at one of the long string of canalside cafes.  If the weather is fine, as it was the day we were there, finding a seat around lunch time at one of the outdoor portions of the cafe may involve an awkward wait.  Seeing as most of these cafes seem chronically understaffed, also expect a leisurely experience once you are seated.

That said, the local seafood is worth it all no matter which cafe you end up at, and the menus are all very similar.  The most famous local dish is a sort of octopus pie which is called tielle setoise.  We got the last one in the cafe that day, and savored every bite of the salty crusty tomatoey minced octopusiness of it.   Mussels were also on offer, mine steamed and M.E.’s in a rich tomato sauce with sausage.   Water all around you, seafood inside your tummy…how much better does it get?

There is apparently a nice art museum in Sete, and a lighthouse which we saw from afar, but we didn’t make it to either.  We opted instead for wandering around the town, up and down the canals, poking into some shops and a modern art exhibition, snapping pictures of sites along the water.  Here, a pile of fishing nets.  There, a row of Crayola colored small boats for rent.  Trying to capture the essence of the last place, the last day, of our wondrous trip.

I boarded the train back to Montpellier that afternoon with mixed emotions.  Tomorrow we would be making the long trek back to our normal lives via train to Paris and flight home.  It would be good to be home, but I felt as though I was leaving a part of me behind somehow.  The intrepid traveler who “conquered” this portion of southern France.  The adoring Mom who got the rare gift of spending protracted time with her grown daughter and loving every minute of sharing this part of the world with her.


Adieu, France, and thanks for opening your welcoming southern arms to us.

 

 

 

Falling for Southern France, Part Three: Quillan

To get a feel for a place, it helps to experience some public transportation frequented by locals.   Toward this end, we started out to catch the train south from Limoux to Quillan (the end of that particular train line).  We aimed for the 10:18 listed online, only to find out that there was no 10:18, and the train was really a bus.   Long story, but lessons learned.

Once that was sorted, we boarded the 11:18 bus to Quillan.  This is a short but very scenic ride along the Aude River, through a series of historic towns including Alet-les-Bains (ruined abbey), Couiza (jumping off point for Rennes-le-Chateau of The Da Vinci Code fame), and Esperaza (both a dinosaur and a hat museum).  We did not get out to explore any of those places, but they all had promise for the adventurous tourist.

Wednesday is market day in Quillan, so we headed downtown to check out the action.  We didn’t find the produce market (it had probably already ended, seeing as we didn’t get there until after noon), but there was a lively flea market, where one could find everything from clothing to books, housewares to new age paraphernalia.   We spent some time pawing through a huge and very funky pile of t-shirts on offer from some Northern African merchants and chatted in my broken French with them.

Next, a short hike to the highest point in town, which was to become a theme in our wanderings around this part of France, but is always a good tourist strategy wherever you roam.  In Quillan, that would be the site of the ruined castle, just a big square stub of stone with a few decorative features left, the rest of which we learned later had been pilfered by the locals to build houses down in town.  (Even the gargoyles have made themselves to the end of the drain spouts of a couple of homes.)  Good for spectacular views across the Pyrenees, though.

Back down into town for lunch and a decision.  Bolt down lunch and make the next bus to go explore somewhere else, or enjoy a leisurely lunch and experience the rest of Quillan?   We opted for the latter.  After lingering over an excellent seafood salad and scads of baguette, we headed for the tourist office in order to find out how to take a deeper dive into the less obvious sites of the town.  (Note, tourist offices in smaller towns in these parts close from 12 – 2 so plan accordingly.)

The rest of the day was spent strolling the streets, visiting the church, taking in the view of fishermen fly-casting on the Aude, learning how the past prosperity of the town had come from hat factories and poking down alleyways, guided somewhat by a walking tour the tourist office attendant had printed out for us.  This was topped off by a reward of afternoon ice cream before boarding the 4:00 bus back to Limoux.

In short, Quillan did not offer the Medieval splendor of Carcassone, nor the tourist magnetism of some of the other remarkable places we visited during our trip, but spending a day there was a wonderful experience of feeling the rhythm of a midweek in this part of the country, and feeling pleasantly surprised by the little things.  A sun dial on the side of a house.  Front and back yard flower and vegetable gardens.  School children headed home.  Old friends greeting one another.   All in the setting of the age-old mountains and the winding Aude.  A most excellent day all around.

 

 

 

Falling for Southern France, Part Two: Carcassonne

Carcassonne – the word rolls off one’s tongue in a whisper.  To many, the Medieval walled portion of this bustling city is an item on their “bucket list.”  Others know it only as a board game.  It is a wonderful place to spend a vacation day.  (Next time I would stay longer, because it is hard to take it all in during just one day.)

We started our adventure by parking near the train station, which is close to the Canal du Midi – which figures later in the story – and setting out for the walled city.  In all the photos you see of the walled city (which is situated as every fortification worth its salt on a high and formidable hill) one would assume that it must loom up from the more modern part, and that you should be able to see it from everywhere you look.  Not so.

You walk and walk through the lower portion, past attractive shops, cafes and parks, and finally catch a glimpse of the ramparts high above, across the Aude River.  Your first thought is, how the heck do we get way up there?  Following the crowd that is inevidibly climbing the same way is one method.  A young person adept at smart phone way-finding is another.

However you get up there, you must climb steep pathways or series of stairs, but as usual in this part of the world, it is well worth it.  Once you reach the inner walls, you find yourself accosted by gift shops, tourist attractions such as The Torture Museum, and cafes touting the ever-present cassoulet (reportedly invented in this region of France and featuring enough types of meat to make you want to become a vegetarian after a close encounter with it).

You can merely stroll around the walls, which offer lovely views of the hills in the distance, or you can go the historical interpretation route of a visit to the Chateau Comtal, the inner residence of the aristocracy of the city, which is now a museum.  (Even on a non-tourist heavy weekday, the line to enter this inner sanctum is long and slow, especially around lunch time, so maybe take the advice of some Trip Advisors and get tickets ahead.  Also, some of the ramparts are closed between 11:30 and 2 for some strange reason.)

The chateau is a maze of enchanting stairs  and towers that you wish would go on and on forever.  Here, a view of over the tiled roof to the courtyard.  There, a peak through some arrow slits.  Windows open to the bracing wind of the Midi, and views of the mountains beyond.  Even though the useful interpretive slide show at the beginning of the tour reminds us that much of the walled city was reconstructed, it still feels as though you are transported back to the heyday of the 12th century, before a hoard of Northerners laid siege to the castle and brought its inhabitants (including those notorious heretical Cathars) to their knees.

I must admit, my whole experience was colored by the reading of Kate Mosse’s romantic historical novel The Labyrinth, which is required reading before a visit to Carcassonne in my mind (thanks, Hanna!).  Though reading these Goodreads reviews, you might be tempted to skip it, I recommend wading through if you like your historical background sprinkled with plenty of blood, lust, intrigue and time travel.

We finally, and reluctantly, left the walled city and headed back to the canal for another history lesson wrapped in a relaxed boat ride.  The Canal du Midi is part of a system that runs from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.  You can take a commercial boat ride along it, or actually pilot your own canal boat for a leisurely holiday, which may be tempting some day with the right cast of characters.

As you glide down the plane tree lined canal a guide gives you excellent background information, you go through a lock to find out how those work, and you have a lovely rest stop at an old inn.  A whole different view from the rugged walled city, which you could not see from the part of the canal we toured.  It seemed something we had dreamed instead of actually having visited just hours before.