When the best pictures don't make it to your camera roll

I saw something yesterday.  It was one of those things that didn’t just make me smile.  It made my heart swell big enough that I could feel it in my throat.

Yesterday I went to watch my oldest son’s basketball game – a plan requiring that we be at the gym thirty minutes early.  Taking a seat in the stands, I buried myself in my Kindle as I waited for the game in progress to finish.  Normally this strategy of “ignoring the world around me while I wait” works.  It is harder though to abide in a noisy gym.  

Double checking there was not a French fire drill in progress, I looked up to register the unusual commotion.  No one was moving toward the exit but everyone’s eyes were glued on the court.   A peek at the scoreboard confirmed it was a close game.  The fan appreciation told me there was something more worth watching.  

At first glance, it looked like an ordinary game of big bodied sixteen year old boys.   One of the teams I recognized as being in my son’s club.  The other team was new to me.  Though a player on the other team had just gotten fouled on a very nice move to the hoop, I can say with 100% confidence we weren’t watching the next Lebron James. 

It was the following beat when I understood why the audience was captivated.   Rather than going to the foul line to take his free throws, the big guy positioned one of his teammates on the line.  A highly unusual move to have an understudy take your shots, it did not take any powers of observation to notice that his teammate had down syndrome.  It was also evident how happy he was to be there.  Unskilled but with full-to-bursting effort, he threw up two prayers - both of which missed.  

While the team hustled back on defense, I noticed a second player - not with down syndrome, but some form of intellectual disability.  He was easy to spot as he was taking the mandate to “stay with his man” with an unyielding if not always effective determination.  Rounding out the roster with the big guy and dynamic duo were two more able-bodied and skilled players who helped keep the tempo up and score close.   Against a competitive club team. 

This was not a charity game. 

The dynamo duo kept on with the defensive pressure, passed the ball in and continued to stand-in (90% unsuccessfully) for free throws.  Meanwhile the other three were finding the basket and crashing the boards.   As the game play entered the last period, the dynamic duo subbed out for a new pair of players.  Any assumption that the big guns were coming back was quickly dismissed when one of the guys hugged the scorekeeper to let him know he was coming in and both occasionally needed to be gently but bodily redirected when out of position.  In the flow of the game, the three starters involved their rotating cast in small but meaningful ways.   In return they received a steady stream of high fives and endless encouragement.

The game stayed close.  The club team did not dial down their game.  It was a beautiful thing to watch.  This team of seemingly misfit, certainly unevenly yoked players playing hard and playing together.   Able-bodied young men supported by whole-hearted young men playing a game they clearly all loved.  They won by two points.  Of course they did.   Against a conventional team that wasn’t pandering.  The coach of the club team laid into his team as soon as the buzzer sounded.  As he should.

This was not a charity game. 

This, I think, was a picture of what living with our differences can look like.  When a group of seemingly misfit, certainly unevenly minded/skilled/believing people come together - not in a special summit to celebrate our differences - but when they come together in the real flow of life to accomplish something.  There’s nothing conventional about that. Maybe even a winning formula?

It probably won’t surprise you to hear that the dynamic quad did not wait for the post-game handshake.  They bounded over to the opposing bench to congratulate the team on a game well played.

This morning I read this:  “Let everything be human and flawed, and be completely taken and thankful when it is good.” 

When our hearts are in our throat…  That, I think, is what it feels like to be completely taken when we see something good.   And many of those good things never make it on our camera roll.

Je Suis Charlie

Blowing in the Wind - Ecochic 75/25 by Rosanne on Etsy

I live 2 hours from Paris, but we all live in close proximity to unspeakable evil.

**********************************************************************************************

Howling winds shake the windows

Like bandwagons begging for company

The myth that we can keep ourselves safe

Independent

Without enemies

To not be afraid, yes

In a broken, precarious world

Booming with wonder

Goodness still

Like a fire that must be constantly stoked

Fed by the confidence that justice will prevail

              Some now

                             More later

Better together

The belief that God is in all things

              Not just what I see

                             Or you know

                                           Or what any of us says

Howling winds shake the windows

Rain and hail now too

Let us push our logs inward together

              To increase the heat

                             Towards justice

happy spotting, copenhagen

a post in pictures

Copenhagen is fabulous.  Between my friend Fiona and her Danish husband Rasmus, my expat friend Liesl in Amsterdam, and the local woman who's apartment we rented in Norrebro (stay there!), we had great guidance and lists for places to see and eat.  It's a city with a lot of happy, so rather than tell you about it -- here's some photos that try to capture it.

uh la la

Meyers Bageri Jægersborggade

fairy tale welcome

runaway vegetables

urban playground

talking it out

hawaiiiii

cycling mailman

a view with a smile

birds eye view

safe view

Castle

penguining

driverless metro

snow marching

hang loose

knight in shining armor

legoing

slippery stairway to heaven

merrymaking and sledassisting

all together now

orangesicle and the opera house

take out, part 1

take out, part 2

white out

kid friendly capital of the world

my kid

round and round we go

fishing around

fog

mistletoe

legoing, part 2

thinking

brunching

being danish

public transporting

happy wall

happy meal

happy ending?

holding hands

holding my heart

PDG (public displays of goofing) in kbh

ducky

people watching

mo' modern

bouncing

sea otter puzzling

art

sun setting

celebrating

Munich Encounters

A First Date with Spaten

Ravenous from a 5 ½ hour drive from Luxembourg, food was the first order of business upon arriving in Munich early afternoon.  Though a Hofbrauhaus would do, some of us wanted better which sent us on a trek for Spatenhaus –  a well-known brewery with above average food overlooking the Opera House.  Mingling with locals in their Sunday finest, we scored a prime table in a private nook provided we could finish in 90 minutes.  AS IF that would be a problem with this American crew of boy.  We devoured plates of typical Bavarian food:  goulash, spaetzle, wiener schnitzel, and cucumber salad washed down with an-always-the-right-time pint of the restaurant’s own beer, Spaten-Franziskaner-Bier and a budding notion that we very much liked Munich.

The Arrival of Krampus

Some people are lucky enough to win the lottery and some people land at the right place at the right time even when they have no idea what to make of it.  On our first night, we walked into Munich’s main Christkindlmarkt  just as a herd of costumed beasts – with polices escorts and a mob of camera carrying followers - came charging in our direction.  Adorned in stinky animal hide and carrying a switch, one of the masked beasts gently patted my youngest on the head as he blazed past and the crowd swell continued down market.   Too fast and too weird to make a lasting impression, we drowned our bewilderment in 150g of warm candied almonds.  Later that night, thanks to a serendipitous NY Times article, the mystery of the old and recently revived Bavarian tradition of Krampus (the anti- St. Nicolas) was solved.  The devilish goblins with masked costumes made exclusively from materials and animal hides in the Alps (hence the stink) only show up at the Christkindlmarkts on the second and third Sundays before Christmas.  Lottery-like timing.  [No photos of Krampus were snapped in time.]

From Mine to Massage

We began our experience of the world of science and technology in a fantastic, not-as-claustrophobic-as-feared replica Mine in the basement of the Deutsches Museum, the world’s largest science museum.  From there we barely skimmed the surface of 50 (!) exhibits covering 50,000 square meters in four hours.  One of the children rightly surmised that we’d be wicked smart if could live there.  Landing on the top floor unable to process another scientific fact, we dropped a 2 euro coin in a Motel 6 style massage chair and divvied up the ten minutes between us.  As far as we can tell, no new brain cells resulted from the massage.

Typically Munich

Inspired by the Deutsches Museum, we rolled the dice for a second museum the next day –  the Munich City Museum (Munich Stadtmuseum.)   We toured the “Typically Munich” permanent exhibit, a cultural history of Munich from the beginnings of the city to the present – understood best by those already living in Munich, who unfortunately weren’t there to offer us any explanation of what we were seeing.  Disjointed and not very interesting, we redirected to the National Socialism Exhibit which was better.  Either the excellent City Museum in Amsterdam has ruined us with unrealistic expectations or the much too quiet museum told us that we weren’t all together wrong.

A Trio of Party Santas

Nothing says Christmas spirit like a chorus singing carols from the balcony the Neues Rathaus high above a gazillion wooden stalls selling Christmas wares and crepes with Nutella.    Zigzagging through crowds of people balancing two gluhweins and a kinder punch, I came upon my waiting children just as a trio of party Santas were passing.   More interested in Santa than kinder punch, my youngest shouted Santa’s name.  Clearly in a hurry to a Christmas kid-free bash but obliged by their chosen attire, they stopped, straightened their beards, and offered the young lad a photo.   [One Santa not photoed.]      

Meeting up with Americans

On the U-Bahn (the old but superefficient, not oversubscribed subway) five stops north of Marienplatz, Munich’s central square, given away by voices that carry a youngish retired couple in tennis shoes inquires, “So where in the US are you from?”  Without wanting to overcomplicate, we answer “Seattle, and you?”  “Illinois. Joliet.” “Oh,” we politely respond, “We went to school in Illinois.  Wheaton.”  “Sure.  Wheaton.  We know it.”  Not knowing where to go from there, they quicken their pace and we follow in silence, until they peel off for the Marriot and us for the Melia.

Outdoor Livin’

If ever you wondered how Germans are able to walk in any weather condition, happen upon a German Outdoor Store and be ready to have choice overload and a keyed up husband.   Choosing a down jacket in Germany is like choosing a college in the US.  Way too many options for anyone without a plan or decisive wife.  Except of course when you ask for a snow boot in men, size 14.  Then you have two choices.  Both in black.  (For non sports shopping,  check out Reichenbachstrasse near the Deutsches Museum for some great boutiques.)

Bah Humbug

On a crowded sidewalk in the center of Munich four days before Christmas, as can happen on forced Christmas shopping marches, a brotherly spat broke out.  A fist or two might have been involved.  Obvious immediate parental action was taken diffusing any further altercation while a well-dressed German Grandma - not even in the fray – took it upon herself to shout her angriest German at my already scolded children.  Too bad she wasn’t looking 50 meters later when brotherly love broke out.  [Photo not available.]

German Surfers & Burritos

Sausaged out by the month of December, we bee lined to the neighborhood of Maxvorstadt for lunch at a place called Burrito Company.  With a  total California vibe down to the ordering system,  hot sauce in brown bags on the table, recycling bins, avocados for sale and surfboard in the corner we learned the place was opened by a couple of Germans who spent a few years surfing in California.  They then came back to Munich with an idea to spread burrito goodness.   It worked.

Score!

We made it out to the Allianz Arena for the last tour on the last day before the holiday.  The last English tour was hours before so we settled for the German version, figuring that Football was universal and Dad and Colin’s limited bi/tri-lingualism might suffice.  Dad’s German skills were enough to react to the “I assume everyone here speaks German” that afforded us a bonus, condensed English version at the end of each section of the tour.  We saw the team shower rooms, the tunnel to the field, and learned lots of fun facts about Bayern Munich (team of Lawton's goalie hero.)  We even scored 45 minutes before the start of the tour in an excellent, modern, and interactive team museum.  The boys were in football heaven.

Old Traditions in New Places

Our holiday tradition in Seattle is to go to the Pike's Place Market every Christmas Eve morning with our extended family to hunt and gather for the evening's meal.   We brought that tradition to Munich by doing a similar thing in a fabulous outdoor and indoor market (Schrannenhalle) before driving back to Luxembourg loaded down with goodies for Christmas Eve.   If only we could have transported the extended family. 

A Concert, London, and Travel

I came to London to see a concert. If it sounds a touch extravagant or like a middle-aged reach for a missed groupie youth, you wouldn't be entirely wrong. My husband however was already going to be in London for work - lodging solved! – and among other things, age has a way of drawing out one’s desire to make more effort to rally around passionate people, especially those who have done the work of their craft. I know nothing about music really but I'm getting better at recognizing the scent of authenticity in whatever form it comes by.  Having seen the Brooklyn-born, now Seattle-based Augustines leave a part of themselves in Heidelberg this spring, something told me the trek to London for their last show of their current European tour would be worth the investment.  It was.

My favorite part of the concert was the encore when the band came out to the middle of the crowd to perform a couple songs unplugged.  Made possible by the iconic and intimate venue of London's Roundhouse, it wasn't just a "let's change up the set" decision but a reflection of the band's relationship with their fans - even though the choice further exposed what little voice singer Billy had left after weeks of pummeling.  A woman pastor I heard on a podcast recently talked about how their church is set up in the round as an intention of sharing in the accountability of presence. These guys were the doing the same thing - giving of their grief and longing and joy and then receiving it back as a sort of collective offering.  In that way, we were treated not just to a memorable show but also gifted a two hour hall pass from whatever ailed us when we walked in.

Grade A experiences have this way of giving you temporary water wings that carry you into the next day. My next day was still in London, on my own, until the meet up with my husband for dinner.  Though aching for the American pancakes staring back at me from the hotel breakfast menu, I made a last minute commitment to the veggie works filling me with enough omega3 to power past any temptation to cede my walking agenda to the Underground.  Credit:  water wings.  Normally in the morning company of global news where missives of despair come flying off the page, I am easy target.  However in my buoyed and now nourished state, nothing landed dangerously.

With ear buds in for a second encore, I set out for a long unhurried walk to a photography exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery.  I could have chosen a hundred different destinations in London, but somehow returning to place I’d once been and enjoyed seemed like as good as any way to spend the day.  Engrossed in my playlist and not trusting myself to look the wrong way, I fastidiously obeyed pedestrian signals or stuck close to the shoulder of trailblazers in the know.   

Indeed there are lots of suits and the best looking prams money can buy, but London is a place where everything goes and everyone is welcome, if not for reals at least at first blush.  English language schools round many neighborhood corners and coupling norms are as unexpected as a young Arab hipster offering to share his table with you.  (I said “yes, thanks!”) While the common urban denominator may be scarves, the rest is an opportunity to see the world in six city blocks. 

The day was cold in a way the weather report misrepresented, wind causing chill beneath layers of thoughtful preparation.  After a while, I joined the chorus of people taking cover in coffee shops and tea salons for a mid-morning shot of warmth.  Behind the glass case of my chosen pit stop, gingerbread men squatted on pillows of whipped frosting and cinnamon buns swirled freely in pronouncement of their hand crafted care.  Not obliged to order my joe to go, I marked the moment by cracking open (what’s the Kindle word for that?) a new book and eavesdropping on conversations I could finally understand.  It was lovely and totally unrevealing.

Back on the street, I slackened whatever pace I had to follow herds of people on side streets (most, I learned, on their way to an office building not a secret sample sale) or catch slices of sunlight breaking through (causing an erratic number of street crossings.)   Like a cyclist obliged “Do Not Overtake Buses,” I had not overtaken a single soul who set out for the National Portrait Gallery at roughly the same time I did.  This was meandering at its finest.   Although even with my head partway in the clouds and partway in people watching mode, marketing muscle made it impossible for me to ignore:  “Night of the Museum 3” will be in theatres soon.

Finally ducking in to the exhibit, I was treated to sixty portraits selected from over 4,000 submissions by a wide range of contemporary photographers.   As remarkable photos can, these portraits revealed not just an interesting face but a flash of a life story.   In the permanent collection, one particular amplified oil on canvas caught my attention as I noticed the subject and I shared birth years.  Like me, her face was at the beginning of new groves but her gaze was confident and her teeth excellent.  She also happened to be an Olympic sprinter, a stitch of reassurance that no amount of training can stem the tide of growing older.

Building on the healthy start to the day, I stopped in Soho for a Peruvian lunch of ceviche and causa (cold potato cakes.)  I made conversation with the affable waiter from my counter stool resulting in the purchase of signed copy of their best-selling Peruvian cookbook and shamelessly listened in on an interesting conversation among three young Americans who’d come to London for acting school. 

Revived by the late lunch, I turned my attention toward a little must do Christmas shopping along the circus that is Oxford Street.  Nothing pops you out of your good cheer like a futile search of a soccer kit (Liverpool) not endorsed (hated) in these boroughs.  Draining faster than a phone battery working overtime on maps and music, I did manage a minor success at the Nike Store and a few others.  With the morning marvelousness of humans dimming in a late afternoon queue for the loo and the consumption chatter that all of a sudden surrounds you like an unwanted red bow, I soon veered off in search of a pump for my deflating wings. 

Meeting up for a before dinner drink near my husband’s office, my spirit inflated with a taste of home in a bottled Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and in the company of my most cherished.   From a Peruvian lunch to a Pakistani dinner we hustled across town to Whitechapel to make our 9pm booking. 

Arriving at the largest, most chaotic queue I’ve ever seen at a restaurant – on a Tuesday night no less – I was glad for the reinforcement.  Not yet with the benefit of having tasted the ridiculously good food or seen the ridiculously low 24 pound tab, it was good humor – not necessarily a booking – you needed to secure a seat.  Whatever the case, it quickly became clear we were once again rallying around passionate people working incredibly hard and turning out naan faster than a prolific tweeter .  Once seated we couldn’t help but notice that even in the sea of hungry diners, several of the wait staff had this practice of gently tapping my husband on the shoulder to make sure everything was ok.  It most definitely was.

Travel is wonderful, and should you need any specific details on the above – ping me – but there is another kind of travel that comes in the wake of another soul’s exuberance for life.  Go there.

Croatia, Croatia, Croatia

I’ve been hearing about Croatia for years with a steep escalation once we moved to Europe.   The Greek Islands however have stolen my summer heart and without a sailboat we kept putting Croatia off.  Enticed by the promise of warmish weather, we finally decided to visit Croatia in the off season.  Instead of swimming suits we packed our hiking boots for nine days in October.

Croatia has 1100 miles of coastline and as many islands (the legend is that God cried on bare rocks where his tears turned into islands) and so the project of figuring out “How to do Croatia” was a bit like a plodding jog after an undigested lunch.   The travel guides are helpful until the moment that you have compiled two dozen places you want to see and then realize that half of them require ferries – which logically won’t be running in October.  This meant crossing the Southern Dalmatian islands of Vis, Brac and Korcula off our list.  (Glamorous Hvar was already o$$ our list.)

Our best and cheapest flight option was into Zadar and so that became our jumping off point for a driving tour down the Dalmatian Coast.  (Northern Zagreb, on many Best of Europe lists, was also crossed off to make way for a southward journey.)  Always the optimist (and never the driver), I booked our first place on the island of Pag which was conveniently connected to the mainland by a bridge but a not-so-convenient 1 hour 40 minute drive from the airport.  [Take note:  Car renting in Croatia is not at all like car renting in the USA.   In and out efficiency is not their sweet spot.   If you lean towards beating someone to a spot in line, this is absolutely the time to engage those quick twitch muscles.]  

Like a lonely swing set on the edge of nowhere (especially in the dark) is perhaps the first impression you might have of the long, skinny island of Pag with its moonscape, rocky terrain.  The second impression is sheep.  Pag is home to around 8,000 people and three times as many sheep.  If you miss your first photo of sheep, be assured – you’ll be grazed with another.  Roaming the slopes in search of edible herbs like sage, Pag is home to famous Paskisir sheep cheese that is every bit as delicious and earthy as their diet would suggest.   

When you travel off season rates are obviously better which means you might be able to book a place one star higher than you would during peak season.   That advantage allowed us to stay at HOTEL BOŠKINAC, an 11 room family run hotel with gourmet restaurant & winery in a beautiful peaceful setting among vineyards and olive trees.  I’d like to take credit for finding such a gem, but Anthony Bourdain found it first and his word has a way of traveling the blogosphere.  He was also right.  It’s an awesome self-contained place (important when traveling to an area where much has already closed for the year) with wonderful but unfussy service, huge, nicely oriented rooms, a wedding-worthy terrace, and indeed tasty food (octopus carpaccio, roasted lamb, risotto with shrimps, squid and potatoes ) and wine. 

We were Hotel Boskinac’s very last guests of the season though not the loudest.  Credit that to the local dinner guests the night we arrived who were celebrating a 60something birthday party with two guitars and a whole table singing traditional Dalmation music long into the evening.  Not only was the music lovely, but there was something about watching an older group of Croatians who had likely been around for the conflict only thirty years prior and now living in a tourist boom sing every word to every song with an intensity that was mesmerizing.  My family’s sweet Happy Birthday serenade the following evening was meek by comparison but loud enough to wake the kitchen into a special dessert. 

People come to Pag to party.  Often called the Croatian Ibiza, most of the partying radiates around one of the three main beaches near the non-descript town of Novalja.  Even without the crowds (not a soul in fact), it was easy to imagine that the “scene” is more of a draw than the “scenery” as the beaches are relatively small and pebbled.  Call me a snob but I like my beaches with sand and minus the floating party dock.  But, then again, we were here to hike and hike we did.

Hike #1:  The Super Windy Hike

October is the month of bora winds which blow down from the mountains along the eastern Adriatic.   The gusty winds keep fisherman grounded (hence the dinners of squid and octopus which are the only fish that they freeze) and *may* have caused me to bark a few too many inaudible commands to stay away from the edge.  Our first hike was on Metajna, a rocky stone outcropping on the east of the island.  The roughly 3.5 mile rugged coastline hike takes you along four distinct sections:  a long rocky beach, a moonscape rock scramble on a point, a pine forest with small beaches, and a narrow walkway along a rock cliff that ends in a small village.  It’s not a groomed hike with trail signs.  Great for rock climbers. Even great in wind. 

Hike #2:  The “When Can We … Go Skinny Dipping?” Hike

Never suggest the remote possibility of skinny dipping before a hike begins.   It impedes leisurely progress.  Our second hike was on a botanical reserve of olive trees on the northern tip of the island called Lun.  Developed into a reserve by the UN in 2013, the Lun Olive Garden has more than 80,000 olive trees including the oldest olive tree at 1,600 years old.  A 7 km trail runs through the garden – part of which is along coast with great places to picnic and an interior part with some elevation and great views – with a surreal mix of rocky undergrowth, dense groves, and sheep crisscrossing through dry stone wall pens.  It’s absolutely stunning.  On both hikes, we never saw another person.  Had the water temperature been more agreeable (and the begging less relentless), it could have been ideal for skinny dipping.

One of the highlights from our time on Pag was touring and tasting at the Sirana Gligora dairy to see how the Paskisir sheep cheese was made.   Naturally this called for a hazmat suit.  Like so many things during shoulder season with the hives of tourists gone, it ended up being a private tour which meant that we didn’t have to conserve our questions.  At the start of the tour the guide asked Lawton, “Where does milk come from?” to which Lawton replied, “Mom.”  Clearly, we needed the tour and the full airspace for questions.

From the island of Pag we drove down the Dalmation Coast to Croatia’s second largest city, Split.  Instead of the motorway, we took a slower route that hugged the coast which was well worth the time investment.  Packing a picnic lunch is always advised when taking the scenic route.   We’d been advised to stopover in Sibenik on the way down for a few hours but got seriously lost on a tangle of steep streets that seemed to be going everywhere but the medieval centre and sucking all collective will from the car. 

We carried on to Split where we booked an apartment at Divota Apartment Hotel – a scattering of restored stone houses in the center of old town Split near the harbor.  The location could absolutely not be better.  They have apartment configurations for all sizes and budgets and they are wonderfully managed properties.  (We stayed in House 800.)  Highly, highly recommend.

As the second largest city, Split is obviously a year round place that doesn’t shut down for the season.  There is a pride among people from Split as well as a disproportionate number of Olympic athletes.  With its cobblestoned old town and great seafront promenade, like Budapest did, Split was lively and fun and exceeded our expectations.  We did some of the recommended site seeing, challenged ourselves to find above average food (Konoba Marjan, Villa Spiza, Uje Oil Bar, Wine& Cheese Bar Paradox, and Restaurant Dvor were all solid triples) and of course hiked. 

Hike #3:  The Urban Hike in Cute Shoes

A favorite hike you must do in Split is climb Marjan Hill which is located on the city’s peninsula with the city to one side and the sea on the other.  A longer and steeper climb with footpaths most but not all the way, it is advised to ditch the cute shoes in favor of running shoes.  Ballbach shoes that weren’t mine were also found running up Marjan Hill several mornings.

Hike #4:  The Unfortunate Hike to Dinner

Some walks turn into hikes when maps don’t help you anticipate walking the long way around bodies of water in the dark.  Those are never fun on an empty stomach and 15 minutes past your reservation.  Then again, who needs reservations in the off season except the one time you don’t.  So if you want to have dinner at Restaurant Dvor, call a cab and if you want to get a table at Tavern Matejuska, make a reservation.  Thankfully before dinner that night, we finally got our swim in (though with suits on.)

Leaving Split in route to Zadar for one night before our flight home, the plan was to drive into Bosnia-Hercegovina to add another country to the kids expanding list and then either make a second attempt in Sibenik or head for a final hike in Krka National Park.  The Bosnia plan was thwarted when we drove out of our way deep into the hills to a lonely border crossing only to be inexplicably sent away in gruff Croatian (USA citizens don’t need visas and so our passports should have been enough.)  Watching the next car pass through the border in our rear view mirror, our only conclusion was that maybe we needed to pay a bribe.  Honestly, I was a bit relieved as there was something eerie being in a place so desolate and disquieting to read constant reminders about care when walking off trail due to mines left from the Balkan War. 

Hike #5:  The There Could be Snakes Hike

After that, we opted for Krka National Park which was totally the right choice.  Visited by almost 750,000 people a year, the cascading waterfalls of Krka National Park are not to be missed.  You enter the park by car, park and then hike along elevated foot paths.  At the beginning of the hike, you will see signage of the types of flora and fauna found in the habitat and there WILL be pictures of snakes.  This was deeply troubling to some members of our family who shall remain nameless.  Like the eternity of a spiritless basketball game that only turns on in the last two minutes of the game is a hike with someone you love with a phobia who finally releases the death grip in the last hundred meters.

Hike #6:  The Itty Bitty Hike

Zadar is tiny and sleepy and aside from the The Sea Organ and Greeting to the Sun light tiles is an overnight kind of place.  Then again, maybe we were just tired. 

Black Friday

On this Black Friday
Nothing purchased
Nothing accomplished
Instead may your gratitude hang over
Into longing for
Transcendent moments of joy
The divine tickle in the ordinary
Unconstrained by reason
The whispered reassurance you have enough, are enough
Inexplicably fueling
Persistence in knotty places
Peace in things still unknown
Potentially, hope in sorrow
On a different Friday
Something was purchased
Everything accomplished.

Unscheduled appointments

Like a plumber who arrives unannounced

To finally tend to some clogged drains

Excavating debris from places unknown

Every hair out of place and now on display

Replacing valves narrowed by calcification

Hard leaking out and encrusting itself as scale

We would have swiped the traps had we known

Snaked the drains to show we tried

Instead the towels are all hanging out

Not expecting company

It is hard to tell with this visitant

Too embarrassed are we to lock eyes

He sees the mess we're in

With judgment we can only suppose.

Afterwards, we scamper around tidying

With brush and bleach in hand

A deeper clean than normal

Reinforcing our capacity for Good Housekeeping

The mirror now sparkles, “Ready.”

Forgetting the blocked water flow solved

Oh the hubris, the silliness to think

We can keep it all pristine

That a hair shall never fall out our heads

That hard water is ours alone to bear

Something is forgotten

We were not the ones who called for help?

Eating through Paris's Canal St Martin

I had my first passing encounter with the Canal St. Martin back in March of this year when I was in Paris for the day with my French-speaking expat friend Angela.   We started our day having coffee at the Hotel du Nord (102 quai de Jemmapes), the epicenter of this popular bohemian neighborhood.   Engrossed in conversation, I don’t remember much about the coffee but I do remember taking pictures of the beautiful tile floor and mentally recording that this was Angela’s favorite neighborhood in Paris.  I determined then to come back. 

This past Thursday was that day.  My impression of the 10th arrondisement up until Angela’s swoon was that it was home to two of Paris’s main train stations – the Gare du Nord and  the Gare de ‘Est – and therefore best to be avoided.  Tis true that there’s a lot of unsavoriness around those quarters, but a quick walk east from the Gare de ‘Est through the Jardin Villemin lands you right in the heart of the happening section of the 4.5 km long Canal.  I first headed north on the Canal towards Place de Stalingrad, but unless its exercise you’re after – that would be the wrong direction.  Everything worth seeing in the neighborhood is tightly compacted south between Rue Des Recollets and Rue Du Faubourg du Temple and straddles a few streets deep on both sides of the Canal meaning you have a nice manageable area to master.   (The goal posts are Boulevard de Magneta to the east Rue Saint Maur to the west.)  It was my lightest walking Paris day and truly the only day where I never got lost.

In the spirit of truthiness, the waterway itself for me was honestly a little underwhelming.  The still operational hydraulic life bridges were a fun throwback to a different time, but there’s something very sad and angst producing about non-moving water.   With traffic whizzing by on both sides of the Canal, even with the bordering of trees in fall colors, it’s loud and a bit scruffy by day.  Unlike along the Seine, I saw no lovers on a midday stroll.   On the plus side, it’s less crowded than many other parts of the city and though home to a hipster crowd (especially at night with bars and clubs) it’s not overrun by them.  It’s a neighborhood in that sweet spot of gentrification where everyone still seems welcome and beauty remains in the eye of the beholder.

However, what might be lost in visual appeal is more than made up for in food options.  Nowhere else in Paris have I seen more cool coffee shops, bakeries, ethnic eats, traditional bistros, and chic bistros clustered so close together.  It felt a bit like the fashionable Shoreditch area of East London, albeit a smaller footprint with less curbside appeal.  I researched where to eat and drink from several local Paris blogs and sampled a lot.   There really aren’t any sites or museums to see in the area – so you won’t feel any guilt about missing something when you’re hanging out in your third café.   There is also boutique shopping in the neighborhood notably around Rue Beaurepaire and Rue de Marseille that I casually checked out, but any peek at my closet would prove I gravitate towards chasing another coffee shop over shoes any day.

Here’s what I sampled :

Ten Belles (10, Rue de la Grange aux Belles).  It’s a minor let down when your first destination is even smaller than described and across the street from a laundry mat, but any place that announces where your coffee beans are from (mine were from Kenya) deserve a second look.  On that second look, I spotted some homemade scones on the pint size service counter and killer granola (high praise from this granola snob) on the table I almost took down while standing in line.  Not necessarily a place for journal writing, it is definitely, definitely a place to throw around your bean knowledge and nibble on whatever they are serving.  Chez Adele (10, Rue de la Grande aux Belles), a well-lived in spot for live music is next door as is the Pink Flamingo (67 Rue Bichat), a late night pizza joint where the most popular pizza is called “L’Obama.”  Quiet for most of the day, you could tell that come evening this corner would be hopping.

Holybelly (19, rue Lucien Sampaix).  Porland has come to Paris.  “Is it local?” you ask yourself. According to the menu, not just fresh and local, also nothing frozen or microwaved.   BAM to France’s industrial food reputation!  Serious coffee + serious breakfast.  And when I mean serious breakfast I don’t mean soft boiled eggs and toast.  I mean pancakes and eggs with sides.  I didn’t eat because I was still digesting my scones but was so profoundly moved seeing the hearty pancakes lathered in butter and real maple syrup and smelling authentic bacon that I accidentally oversugared my cappuccino.  Conveniently opened on weekends for hangovers.  Closed Tues and Wed.  Be prepared to hear an abundance of English.  Bob’s Juice Bar (15, rue Lucien Sampaix.)  Just a few doors down the street from Holybelly is this organic juice bar that also serves food.  Go for the juice (so I hear), not the ambiance. 

Du Pain et des Idées (34, rue Yves Toudic ).  You know you’re at the right bakery when there’s a queue at an off peak time and a couple of Japanese tourists in front of you.   I skipped the delicious looking and varied loaves of bread in favor of the spread of pastries including pinwheels filled with pistachio and thin crusted seasonal apple tarts (to take home I might add, lest you think you I went all oompa loompa.)   This place is clearly an institution and their uncommon selection of pastries explains why.   Worth crossing town for if you’re looking to expand beyond pain au chocolat.

Craft (24, rue des Vinaigriers).  On the other side of the Canal from Ten Belles is this coffee shop/co-working space.  Coffee was above average but the place is really all about plugging in your laptop and paying 3 euros per hour to so.  Great for road warriors who need to get work done, but less appealing for those who want to cozy up with a book or friend.  If you’ve come to Paris to eat healthy or run a marathon, Sol Semilla (23, rue des Vinaigries) – a vegan superfood restaurant across the street looked v. good.

Liberte (39, rue de Vinaigriers).  Different than most French bakeries, Liberte is a swanky year old bakery situated on a corner with small platoon of bakers working in an open mostly white industrial kitchen.  There’s something to love about bread baking on site.  It was hard to choose what to bring home between the breads, loads of pastries, and stuffed savory breads but settled on their grainiest loaf and a per kilo chunk of their house crusty bread.  You know you’ve lived in Europe for a while when you request a specific piece (not the end, please) that suits your fancy.   Also tried their chocolate loaf which looked amazing but only tasted so-so.  More savory options than Du Pain et des Idees.   If fast food is what you’re after, right next door is The Sunken Chip (39, rue des Vinaigriers), Paris’s first British run fish and chips shop.

La Chambre aux Oiseaux (48, Rue Bichat.)  Cozy like your grandmother’s living room complete with heavy wallpaper and mismatched mugs for an afternoon cup of loose tea.  Crisscrossing this spot several times during the day and landing in the late afternoon when I need a comfy chair to rest in, it was always full of women chatting and MacBook screens glowing.  They also have a nice looking simple breakfast menu along with their own house jams and open early.

Philou (12, rue Richerand).  Given all the cafe options it was hard to settle on a lunch spot, but Philou was one the places that consistently showed up on all the blogs.  A traditional French bistro using seasonal ingredients, Philou is a neighborhood favorite and now I know why.  I ordered the three course Menu du Midi for 19 euros which came with: a petite mushroom quiche and small perfectly dressed salad with herbs, the best beef burgundy I have ever known, and a crème caramel with a compote of apples and touch of mint.  Not only delicious but also perfectly sized.  Nice service too which in Paris is not a given.  Cross town for this one.  Last minute booking worked for me.

Le Petit Cambodge (20, rue Alibert).  Continuously open through lunch and dinner, this is a great spot for take away Cambodian noodles which I did for dinner on the train.  Packed at lunch everyone orders the bobun (similar to a Vietnamese Bun Bo Xao noodle salad with a few less herbs) for a well spent 10 euros.  I had read about the passion fruit/hazelnut tart at the gluten-free bakery next door, Helmut Newcake but then decided against it.  If you’re not gluten free already I reasoned, no sense starting in Paris. 

Two other places I didn’t try but you won’t miss given their prime real estate and blog chatter are Chez Prune (36, rue Beaurepaire) the café  that put this neighborhood on the map and L’Atmosphere.  Another popular spot I’d read a lot about and went to have a late afternoon glass of wine is Le Verre Vole (67, rue Lancry).  Unfortunately for me, I was sent away (though kindly I might add) as they are a restaurant/wine shop but not a bar.  Watching a woman peel potatoes at one of the tables, I wished I could stay and help.   Had I known Le Verre Vole wasn’t a bar, I may have stayed on the other side of the Canal near Le Petit Cambodge  to sample a cocktail at Le Zelda (6, rue Bichat) which opens at 6pm.

And there you have it.  A day of very good eats.