I REMEMBER.......dining at the castle

 

Last week’s post……the first in this “I Remember” series……dealt with a  Parisian dining dilemma. Is it mere coincidence that this second episode dwells on a very different ordeal, in a vaguely similar setting?

I am guessing that each of you realize, and have experienced, how traveling with children is apt to include unscripted distractions……ranging from humbling amusement to outright panic.

In our later years, when the two of us hit the road on our own, there were other unscripted moments worthy of remembering. But at least in our household, it was traveling as a family that seems to have produced the most memorable memories.

In any case, it is perhaps understandable that my memory file, as lame as it sometimes is, was able to dial up the following recollection…..one that included both outright panic and a bit of “after-the-fact” amusement.

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Our Winchester Year was drawing to a close. There was, however, one last splurge on our schedule. We had decided months before that we would not complete our European adventure without seeing Ireland. Both of us had Irish roots in our family tree, and we wanted to know more about the “auld country.” It turned out to be well worth the investment of time and energy.

Still, by the end of our third week in the Emerald Isle, we were about ’traveled out.’ We were scheduled to catch the Holyhead ferry back to England the next afternoon, for a last good-bye visit with our Winchester friends. 

We had seen so many Irish sights…..the Ring of Kerry, the Cliffs of Mohr, and the Connemara west country, and several fabled cities. In a moment of questionable wisdom we had even kissed the Blarney Stone, all six of us. How many times over the years have we wondered about that decision?

Now, after weeks of home-style bed and breakfast accommodations, we would be marking our last night in Ireland in a very different way. We had booked rooms in a honest-to-goodness castle…..the most elegant digs of our entire trip. It would be a night to remember.

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Kilkea Castle, in the heart of County Kildare, had been around for a while……since 1180. Like many historic European estates it had become a top-drawer tourist attraction……elegant rooms, with furnishings we were afraid we might break. For those who were so incline there was an 18 hole golf course, riding stables, tennis courts, even a falconry range. It was definitely not your run of the mill B & B.

That afternoon we had checked in, been shown to our rooms, and strolled the  castle grounds. By then we had come to two conclusions……it seemed that ours were the only children in residence, and though the dining room was open until 10:00, the fellow at the front desk had suggested that we might want to dine early …..say 6:00.  

A quick look at the dining room, situated in what was originally the castle’s Great Room, and ringed with ancient, oversized portraits, seemed to confirm his wisdom. Rather than risk upsetting the dinner hour for the couples who would be arriving at a more continental dining tie, say seven or eight, we would eat early.

Our table, in a near corner of the room, was simply elegant....with red cloth napkins, dainty, long stemmed water goblets of thin, sparkling glass, and more silverware than any of us knew how to use. Once we were seated the waiter brought our menus and explained the child-sized options, while another attendant filled our goblets with water. It was then, as we studied our meal possibilities, that things suddenly turned interesting, or more precisely……loud and chaotic.

Like all our children, daughter Amy had grown up drinking from plastic water glasses. Along the way she had developed an unconscious and seemingly innocent habit of chewing on the rim of her glass. So why should we have been surprised that as she sipped at her water goblet……she bit into its edge.

What followed happened so quickly it was hard to know who screamed first. All of us heard the conspicuous sound of breaking glass, and Amy’s surprised shriek. In an instant we were on our feet, bending over her…..trying to calm her and learn if she was cut or had possibly swallowed any glass. A second later our waiter was on the scene, apologizing profusely, without knowing what he was apologizing for…..looking as though he feared an international incident. 

Finally, as Amy’s tears of shocked surprise subsided, something like a reasoned calm was restored. Fortunately she was fine.…..still frightened, but without a cut or injury of any kind.

Once things settled down we placed our orders and had our meal…..while drinking our water very carefully. I doubt that any of us remembered what we had for dinner. By then, having created such a fuss we were anxious to be back in our room. 

More than once in the course of that evening Gil paused to wonder if Amy’s mishap had been a sign. Perhaps the fates were telling us that we were meant to be the “cheese and crackers, lunch in the car” sort of family we normally were. Was that something we had learned in the course of our European adventure?

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Those days in Ireland had been filled with delicious sights, enough to bring us back to the Emerald Isle a few more times. Yet, when it comes to ’times  remembered,’ Amy’s ‘shattering’ adventure, deep in the heart of the most posh surroundings we could imagine, was certainly one of our most memorable moments.

I REMEMBER......A DINNER IN PARIS

       I REMEMBER.......A DINNER IN PARIS

Hey, it’s okay, you know. I happen to be in a remembering mode, in a remembering time of life. With that comes the luxury of revisiting, and reliving, some of the special moments I have experienced……moments I remember. In particular, I have recently been remembering some of our family travels, and the recollections we brought home with us.

You know that feeling, don’t you? All of us, no matter what our age, like to remember. Of course, we realize that we ought not live in that space permanently, but it is a nice place to visit from time to time. For me, this is one of those times.

So, what do you remember about your life and travels…..the places you have been, the things you have seen, the things you have done, and the people you have met? For my own selfish satisfaction I have decided to gather some of the “memorable moments” I have encountered along the way into a series of posts I am calling “I REMEMBER…..”  

Everyone of us has our own “I Remember” candidates. So what qualifies for that title? In the course of your life and mine there have been times when things went exactly as planned, without a single hitch. Were those the times you remember? Or were the remembered occasions apt to be the surprising, sometimes uncomfortable moments when you bumped into something unexpected …..something you were not ready to face, but had to deal with

If you are like me the times you are most likely to remember will be the ones that took an unexpected turn…..while adding a surprising bit of spice to what might have otherwise been an ordinary event. Our family’s dinner in Paris was such a ‘spicy’ time. 

There were eight of us….our young family and Roma’s parents….who had joined us for a two-week excursion from our Winchester, England home to take in some of the sights of Holland, Germany, and France. There had been so much to see and do……though in truth the ice and cold of that European winter had made it less than an ideal time to play ‘tourist.’

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By mid-afternoon, the freezing Parisian weather had overcome our enthusiastic sight-seeing. After a warming lunch at a sidewalk vending booth, we had returned to our rooms to thaw out. Though we had certainly not experienced a storybook “Springtime in Paris” tour of the city and its sights, it seemed we had done as much as we could….to the point of trying to see The City of Lights through the fog from the second deck of the Eiffel Tower. At least we had beat the crowds.

We would be returning home the next morning, and had agreed there was just one last item on our Paris “to-do” list. We could not leave that fabled city without having a real French dinner. After all, what could be more memorable than an authentic Parisian dinner….bathed in the intimate ambiance of a quiet, candlelit dining room. Or maybe not.

The young man at the hotel front desk offered his personal recommendation without hesitation. The restaurant he had in mind was a short walk up the street, which sounded better than an expensive taxi ride. He assured me that the prices were reasonable and the meals would be very good. Best of all, everything about it would be authentically French. As it turned out, he was right on every count ....especially the “authentically French” part.

How authentic? Well, we stepped inside the restaurant, which had all the ambiance of a narrow quonset hut filled with tables and bench seats....the kind of place where diners were expected to follow the European custom of sharing their long table with others. The signage and menus were in French, with no hint of an English translation. Once the waiter who greeted us realized we could not understand him, he simply smiled broadly and motioned us across the room.

The eight of us were seated on both sides at the end of a long table. Though we were a bit put-off by the presence of the other folks seated beside us, we tried for a smile in their direction, then turned to the menus the waiter had set before us.

There we were, in the middle of a strange city, sitting among strangers, trying to read a menu full of strange words we could not comprehend. (Unfortunately, the menu was not illustrated.) Roma was straining to recall her long-ago French class, searching for familiar words and coming up short. There was only one thing to do. We must make our best guess, check the price to be sure in was not too exorbitant, and point it out to the waiting waiter.

Truth to tell, however, that was not the “only” thing we could do. Pointing to a line of foreign words on a menu, without knowing what she was ordering, was not something Roma’s mother, Grandma Janet, was prepared to settle for. 

Ordering a foreign meal in a foreign country was far beyond her comfort zone. She wanted to know exactly what those strange words meant, and she was not about to order until she knew what she was expected to eat.

Everyone else had ordered, and still Janet was repeating her questions. “What is this? What does it mean?” She must have known how bad it looked, but she would not settle for anything less than a full translation.

Our waiter was getting stressed. He shook his head and rolled his eyes....clearly out of his own comfort zone, with no idea of what to do next. In words he did not comprehend, the American lady kept saying the same thing over and over, each time a little louder than before. 

While he looked around the room, wondering what to do, the seven of us were wishing we could crawl under the table. The whole affair had turned into a disaster, and none of us knew what to do about it.

In the end what we did was absolutely nothing. Clearly, Janet’s efforts to get an answer by talking slower and louder were not working. By then her emphatic questions could be heard throughout the restaurant. 

Then, at the far end of the room, a man stood and started toward us. A moment later he and Janet were talking softly in English as they studied the menu together. 

Finally, with no ceremony at all, the fellow told the waiter what she had settled on, nodded to her, and returned to his table. Meanwhile, Janet was grinning sheepishly....sorry for the fuss she had created, but glad to know what she was having for dinner.

By the time we traipsed back to our room that evening what we had for dinner was probably forgotten....some of us never knew in the first place. But for every one of us, the lasting memory of our Parisian night on the town would be the awkward standoff that had been defused by a kind and understanding Frenchman..

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How ironic was that? Our introduction to the wonders of Paris, the city of lights, would be best remembered as the scene of an embarrassing, but thoroughly memorable offering of French cuisine, though only one of us knew exactly what she had for dinner.

For better or worse, those are the kind of travel adventures I tend to remember. I’ll bet you have some of your own to revisit. And why shouldn’t you? No matter what our age, we never outgrow the wonder of remembering.

BACK TO OUR OWN FUTURE

  BACK TO OUR OWN FUTURE

    Perhaps like you, Roma and I saw the Mona Lisa hanging there in its place of honor in the Louvre Museum in Paris. Our modest world travels had included a pilgrimage to what some accept as the world’s most perfect painting. We had been there and done that. So what did we have to show for it?

Truth to tell, our personal rendezvous with Leonardo’s masterpiece was a rather hurried moment, played out in a shoulder to shoulder crowd….all of whom were straining to capture a glimpse of the prize.

As I recall, in my artistically-illiterate eyes Mona was a bit smaller than  I expected. True, she did seem to be smiling at me….though Roma was just as certain she was the target of the lady’s attention.

I suppose there were a few visitors in that tourist-laden crowd who had come to seriously study the subtle, yet apparently powerful elements of that masterpiece. Would they be able to do that in those circumstances? I don’t know.

I am, however, quite certain that most of us Mona Lisa gawkers were on hand because we had been told we ought to be there. After all, it was so famous….something we would probably never see again. Then, having seen it, we could check that box and move on to the next “big thing.”

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Bear with me for a moment as I revisit that time, a highlight of our continental travels…..or more accurately, my memories of that brief moment in a long life.

It was a sunny September morning. I remember standing in line waiting for the doors to open. (They were late opening that morning.) All around us everyone was upbeat and eager to begin their great art adventure….the world-renown Louvre. We had studied our Rick Steve’s map of the sprawling building….planning our route through the dozens of galleries to see what we had been told were the best sights.

And then, in a matter hours, it was over. Having seen what we wanted to see, our investment of time, anticipation, and attention had produced our own very personal return…..a collage of recollections we hoped would last a lifetime.

That, it seems to me, is the reality of the wanderlust and travel urges I have never outgrown. Truth is, the places, people, and things we had seen along the way were invariably fleeting experiences. Rather than the sights and sounds themselves….as memorable as they were….the lasting fruits of our travels depended on the memories, photos, souvenirs, and friendships we gathered along the way….the reminders we brought home with us, to be revisited at anytime in the future. Bottom line…..the most successful travel experiences are a mental exercise….as good and lasting as our memory allows.

Be it the Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower, a dreamy Rue Cler dinner, or the Yorkshire dales, with vistas that take your breath away….in every case the moment itself was transitory. Yet though we may never return there again in person, the impact of those experiences will last a lifetime.

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So why do we travel? What do we hope to gain or achieve? What is it we bring home from those travels? And what do they mean…..the memories and mementos of our time abroad?

More to the point, why at my age, would I even consider another round of extended travel…..the eight or ten week adventures that worked so well for Roma and I as younger travelers? What would I hope to gain this time? Is there something new to be learned, a reason to go again?

I still have those moments, you know….when I can visualize doing that again, driving the backroads, doing my age-appropriate “wild and crazy” things, and visiting again with well-remembered friends. Yet, that hazy vision is quickly coupled with so many reasons why those once-appealing possibilities would not be such a good idea at this stage of the game.

Some of the possible deterrents are practical matters…..sitting quietly through a ten-hour transcontinental flight is probably beyond me. The notion of a new and different bed every few nights has lost its appeal. Extended walking tours are out of the question. 

Beyond those physical limitations are the more subtle reasons. Anymore, there are not that many things I want to DO. Instead, I have grown more interested in observing what goes on around me, soaking up the feel and mood of a place and its people. Those mental souvenirs, along with reminding photos, are what I would hope to bring home with me.

Is that enough to fan even the most modest dreams of traveling again…..especially alone, without my trusty partner-in-crime? A review of the pros and cons seems to weigh against that.

Instead, why not return to our earlier travels, both with family, or just the two of us….as documented by the albums, notebooks, photos, and mementos we have from those times. Why not use my energy to milk the feelings and memories of remembered times, as seen through my now-older eyes, and filtered through my now-older mind.

Seems to me that approach would allow me to side-step the limitations of the “me” I have become, while allowing that "me" to view our old travels on a new screen, complete with new, more mature insights.

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Here’s the deal…..life, whether good or bad, is lived in our minds. That was true at twenty-five or thirty. It is even more true at eighty-seven. The travel I have always loved and looked forward to, no matter what the destination, was a mind game….to be lived and relived in our consciousness…..as thoughts, memories, and daydreams.

If that is so…..why should I subject my aging body, so ill-equipped for the rigors of modern-day travel…..demanding flights, strenuous excursions, constantly changing accommodations, etc, to such an ordeal?

Why not simply send my mind and my consciousness, on the “trip of my dreams”? With generous assists from our photo library, notebooks, self-published stories, YouTube, Google, and other internet resources I can capture the good things I hope to experience from the comfort of my easy chair, while saving the wear and tear on my aging body, not to mention my bank account.

Why shouldn’t we, any of us, return to our own fruitful past….  fleshing it out if necessary….to create the mind-dwelling future we dream of?

    With that in mind I am presently wrestling with thoughts of posting a few of our personal travel escapades on these pages…..ones that illustrate my propensity for unplanned, unexpected adventures in the ‘old world.’ If I can follow through with that idea  you should see the first episode in a week or two. 

The Results......in living color

 

               THE RESULTS…in living color

If you are like me, there are moments when you find yourself looking back on earlier times. Of course, we tell ourselves we cannot live in that past, yet at the same time it can be hard to ignore the stash of recollections we have stored in the dark corners of our mind……at least some of which we do not want to leave behind.

Since this site has always been titled a “writer’s blog’……and since I get to be that “writer”……..today’s post will shine a blatantly self-indulgent light on what I choose to remember as the last great adventure of my personal trek through old age.

When I retired in 1998, (Lordy, that was twenty-five years ago!) I welcomed the notion of “free time,” though I had no idea what I would do with the unclaimed hours, weeks, and months I had been gifted. Early on, Roma and I spent a few months revisiting England and the continent ……long enough to realize that we had neither the taste nor the resources to make that a lifestyle. So what other choices did we have?

One of my earliest posts on these pages……a piece I labeled “Nearly Flunking Retirement,” described my ordeal. For half a dozen years I flailed around, keeping semi-busy with interim works assignments, and one hobby or distraction after another……all the while growing more depressed with what was supposed to be our Golden Years.

I have told that story before, how I stumbled onto a manuscript I had written more that thirty years before, and filed away in a closet. As I reread that story it was like turning on a light. Why not use my time to tell a story? Perhaps I could still do that. For some reason, sixty-nine seemed like a good age to give it a try. So with that, the adventure began.

Today, however, is not the time nor place to relive that adventure…..with its good and the bad moments. Instead, I have chosen to stretch my self-indulgence claim to the limit, with a totally self-centered display of how late-life has blessed me.

I am not here to explain what that means. I simply want to show the world…….at least my little corner of the world…….what can happen when it gives a clueless old fellow a pen and blank sheet of paper. 

I invite you to take a moment to click on THIS LINK to see the visual, living-color results of turning an aging storyteller loose on the world. The site is called an Amazon Author’s Page. It lists all twenty-four of my books in both paperback and ebook formats, including a pair of family adventures that Roma and I wrote together. Truth to tell, I am ready to brag a bit.

Finally, if you are inclined to pass this post on to a friend, I would certainly appreciate that. This is, after all, the extent of my advertising efforts.