Hi! Here are some posts I still like all these years later. Enjoy.
Europe
The Figs on the Train from Vienna
I once attended a three-day wedding with my boyfriend during the summer solstice in Krems, Austria. It took place at the groom’s father’s castle. One of the events of the weekend was a masquerade ball; we dressed in costumes rented from the Vienna Opera and were treated to a waltz lesson in the ballroom by a relative who was in the Vienna Ballet, followed by a private, spectacular fireworks display.
The ceremony itself was moved from the courtyard to a hay loft because of the weather. The couple took their vows accompanied by the steady beat of the rain and a view of the mist rising from a neighboring vineyard. It was the fruit of that vineyard’s labor that filled our glasses all weekend.
But this is not a story about celebratory feasts, or our last-minute decision to empty our bank account and fly halfway around the world for a party. This is a story about figs.
Morning Light
So a few weeks ago I was in one of my rearranging moods and decided to see what our bookshelf would look like on its side, perhaps creating a long shelf for our ever-growing collection of electrical boxes and consoles. This idea led to a chain of events involving humiliation, a mad Belgian, and morning light in the South of France.
“I have lost the church.”
About once a week I find myself on Montpellier’s tram line 2. And when I do, I always look out for the Gothic spire of a church reaching above the trees between the Beaux Arts and Jeu de Mail des Abbés stops. I fight the urge to get off the tram and see it up close, but I always have to get to where I’m going.
Today, though, I had a bit of time and the afternoon light was pleading to be photographed. I hopped off the tram and, with the spire as my guide, made my way down a side street. I came to a keypad-locked gate that secured a small dirt path leading to the back of the massive church. OK, I thought, the shortcut was a bust – time to double back and head around to the road running parallel, which would bring me to the front of the church.
Why the Mornings Made Me Move to Europe
A new day is starting, and you’re not going to be there to see it through. Instead, you drag your suitcase behind you, bumping it over the cobblestones, avoiding the passing glances of the locals because as hard as you tried, it’s now painfully obvious that you’re not one of them. Yet.
And This is Home
What is home to those of us addicted to travel?
Chez Kate
With documents in hand, I left my apartment and walked with great purpose until I realized I had no idea where I was going. I’ve never sent a fax in all the years I’ve lived in Europe. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a fax machine. So, I did what any experienced expat would: I walked into a bar.
Want to Move to France? Read This First.
“I spend most of my year in the South of France,” I tell people when they ask where I live. They swoon. I smile and change the subject. Why? Because of days like today.
On Homesickness
There are these weeds in Rome – I’m sure they’re in other places too, but I’ve only ever seen them in Rome – that have long stems that look furry, but they’re prickly. If you grab them without thick gloves it feels like your hand was dipped in acid for about two minutes, which is a long time when your hand feels like it’s been dipped in acid.
During those two minutes you’re running to wash your hands and then you’re washing your hands and you can’t think of anything else except the blinding pain. And then the pain subsides and it’s hard to remember how badly it hurt.
This is what homesickness feels like, except the blinding pain is inside you so there’s no washing it out; you’ve got to ride it out until it subsides.
The Phone Call
It’s 10.30 AM here in France; 4.30 AM in New Jersey.
My cell rings. It’s my dad. My heart stops.
“Dad, what’s the matter?”
Dr. Death
Last spring Cal and I were having an apero on the terrace of the Vert Anglais when a woman at the adjoining cafe passed out at her table. Her friend screamed, and Dr. Death came weaving out of the cafe to attend to her. Without putting down his cigarette or his drink, he took the woman’s pulse, slapped her across the face, and called for an ambulance on his cell phone. While they waited he let the unconscious woman’s head rest on his hip as he chatted amiably with her friend, the waiter coming by to refill his toxic cocktail.
Stuff Italian People Like
Italians love to invite the whole gang along to any outing – whether it’s dinner at a restaurant or running errands around town. The hierarchy goes like this: Bring as many people as can fit in your car. If not, at least one other person. If not, a pet. If not, the Italian da solo calls or texts every person in their phone list until they find someone else who is doing something alone, and they will talk to each other for the duration.
A Moofable Feast
Not everyone has my circumstances, and not everyone has the same desires as I do. But whatever your ideas mean to you, I beg you to follow them until you drop. I am coming to you from the other side of my dreams, and I am telling you it is worth it.
America
A Sunday Morning in America
In these photos I see the origins of my dimpled smile and my thick ankles. I see people who have died after long, epic lives, and I smile; others were taken from us suddenly, shockingly, and I flinch with guilt for not being in America to bear witness to their passing. I miss them all.
A New Year’s Eve
There were many, many long lunches at the original Aquavit, in Teddy Roosevelt’s old residence behind MoMA, always upstairs, never down in the atrium. And Lutèce, and La Grenouille, Chanterelle, the Four Seasons… and then there was The Quilted Giraffe.
Celebrating Father’s Day from Far Away
While it’s true that I have many of my mother’s mannerisms, I am my father’s daughter when it comes to food. I’ve inherited my father’s love of pasta and, within the last 10 years or so, his affinity for these hot peppers. However, I’ve never had them in my own home.
Summer Memories from the Jersey Shore
Then there are the night times, when everybody comes over for dessert or coffee. All us kids are spread out on the living room floor watching the Phillies with the old uncles who are dozing in the chairs, and Richie Ashburn’s voice is summer, and all the aunts are sitting around the table drinking coffee and eating Entenmann’s. We are all sunburned and smell like the beach and soap. Sometimes an aunt invites you onto the couch and scratches your back, and sometimes an uncle calls you over and opens his wallet and gives you money for ice cream.
New York, My First Love
I’m happy for New York, I really am. I feel like my ex-city has finally gotten its act together, and I’m glad it can be less grueling to live there. But there is a part of me that wishes it still was a city that had expectations of you. You had to be of a certain caliber to win its attention. It could put you through hell sometimes, but it could also give you the kind of life-changing experiences that legends are made of.
Travel
How Not To Drive From Paris To Avignon
Somewhere in France, 1PM: “Welcome to the South of France!” Mel says as she takes in mustard fields and the occasional village church. We are maybe 60 miles outside of Paris.
On Embracing Your Preconceived Notions
I gave the taxi driver a scrap of paper bearing the address of my friend, and we rode in silence through the quiet, frozen city. When we arrived he unloaded my bag, pointed to the front door, shook my hand, and drove away. I stood there for a moment, utterly stupefied that I was alone on a street in East Berlin in the middle of the night. It was something that for half of my life was unthinkable. Holy shit, Berlin!
In Which Two Chefs, An Insane Frenchman, And The Gay Mafia Arrive
After Carolyn gave us our tour of Demeure’s exquisite Le Petit Hôpital, we met the two chefs who would be cooking our dinner that night. They were young, adorable, very cool, and had great taste in music (which was playing softly in the living room). We knew immediately that we would be in capable culinary hands.
Even better, before heading into town for supplies they introduced us to their own personal stash of top-shelf liquors. And so it was that we found ourselves drinking gin & tonics on the terrace outside the “small” kitchen.
My Trip Home, Part Three: In Which Lenny Briscoe Finds My Mangled Remains
Port Bou and Cerbere are probably a mile apart as the crow flies – but as the taxi swerves, it’s a good 20-minute hell ride of hair-pin turns up one side of a mountain and down the other, without guard rails, along sheer cliffs that drop into a churning Mediterranean shore. It might be thrilling to watch in a car commercial; not so thrilling when you’re in a taxi with two men who are actively ignoring you.
Succor
But there is another kind of friend that visits, and they hold a special place in my heart – it’s the friend that calls me and in one tumbling go, tells me a story of heartbreak, disillusion, or unimaginable burden. And then: “Can I come over?”
Miss Expatria 