Until I was nine years old, I lived in an old stone farmhouse in rural Pennsylvania. My parents were not farmers – my mother was a homemaker and my father was a television repair man who went out on service calls during the day and brought broken TVs home to his workshop attached to the house. Our nearest neighbor was a pig farmer who lived a mile up the road. I rode a bus to school over country roads for 40 minutes to school (King’s Highway Elementary) and 40 minutes back and I went to school with the Amish children who lived on farms down the hill on what was the first paved road that bisected the dirt road (Telegraph Road) where we lived.
My mother was a homemaker who didn’t drive. She occupied herself by reading, housework, and gardening. She had surrounded two sides of the one-acre lot on which our house stood with forsythia bushes that provided a brilliant yellow canopy when they were in bloom. Her yard was also filled with flower gardens and flowering bushes and vines that had bright colors and intoxicating scents. I grew up familiar with hydrangeas (pink, blue, and white), purple and white lilacs, wisteria (where my grandfather taught me to catch bees with my bare hands), tulips of all varieties, daffodils, lily of the valley, irises of all colors, fuchsia (called bleeding hearts), jack-in-the-pulpit, and so much more. My mother and I would take walks through the woods while she searched for new wildflowers to add to her garden.
This early introduction to flowers and flowering bushes gave me a life-long attraction to visiting gardens and appreciating flowers wherever I lived or traveled. As I look back over my travel and other photos, I can frequently be seen sitting, kneeling, or standing by beautiful flowers.
My favorite flower garden is one discovered by accident the first time I visited the town of Lewes in Suffolk, England. In the center of the town is a stone-enclosed garden attached to the Southover Grange. The first time I saw the garden, the visit to the town of Lewes was intentional but the discovery of the garden was accidental. The next three times I visited Lewes, my primary motivation was to see the garden and have my picture taken in it again. Visiting this garden and having my picture taken in it again is on my permanent bucket list. As long as I am able, I will visit this town and this garden every time I visit England.
Me at the garden on one of my three visits between 1995 and 2005Me at the garden on one of my three visits between 1995 and 2005Me at the garden on one of my three visits between 1995 and 2005Me at the garden in the fall of 2018
Southover Grangeis a house of historical significance and is Grade II* listed on the English Heritage Register. It was built in 1572 by William Newton and owned by this family for the next three hundred years. After this, it was the residence of many notable people until it was bought by the local Council in about 1945. Today it is owned by the East Sussex County Council. It now houses the Lewes Register Office which provides Marriage Ceremony Packages, civil partnerships and citizenship ceremonies. The gardens host events from local theatre to beer and gin festivals.
The gardens are stunning no matter the time of year. They do not charge admission and maintaining the gardens must be quite expensive. Below are a few of the many pictures I have taken of the gardens over the years.
October 1995 October 1995September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018September 2018
So, if you’re ever in England and have some spare time, take the train or drive to Lewes to visit the Southover Grange Gardens (and Anne of Cleaves house and garden). The town itself is also quite charming with many lovely pubs, restaurants, and shops. Be prepared for some walking as the town has many steep streets but it is well worth the effort.
Postcard view of the Commercial section of Salvador, Bahia, BrazilPostcard view from the Cidade Baixa looking upward to the Cidade Alta and the elevator between the two sections
After graduating from college in May 1977, I lived in Ithaca, New York and worked in the Cornell University Libraries. From 1977 to 1979, I was working mostly with the Latin American collection, primarily with books written in Spanish and Portuguese. I had been a Spanish major in college and I was able to read a lot of the Portuguese because of my knowledge of Spanish and French. In the fall of 1978, I started taking Portuguese classes at Cornell, earning my very first A+ in any course ever. I loved the language. The professor, who came in once a week, spoke with a Portuguese (from Portugal) accent. The teaching assistant (TA), who taught us the other four days of the week, spoke Brazilian Portuguese. So I learned the magical, lilting, nasally Portuguese of Brazil. I met a woman my own age in class – another Cornell employee – and we often talked about taking a trip to Brazil. In our third semester of Portuguese we read Jorge Amado – the best known Brazilian author outside of Brazil – and the TA showed us slides of his trip down the Amazon. We fell in love with the country presented to us by Jorge Amado and by this young TA. We talked and talked and finally took the plunge. In December 1979, right around Christmas, we took a trip to Brazil, staying there for three weeks. We went to Salvador, Bahia – in the Northeast part of the country. This was also where Jorge Amado set his books.
The Historic Center of Salvador as a whole was listed as a national heritage site by the National Institute of Historic and Artistic Heritage in 1984 and it was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1985. Salvador was the first colonial capital of Brazil founded in 1549 by Portuguese settlers. It was also one of the first slave markets on the continent, with slaves arriving to work on the sugar plantations. Salvador’s food, music, and culture is heavily influenced by African influences.
We stayed initially in a convent converted to a hotel – the Pestana Convento do Carmo. I don’t think it was part of the Pestana chain at the time and the building and rooms were much closer to the original than they are today, judging by the stock photos I have found online. I don’t remember exactly how we found this hotel but I assume it was because it was located in the Pelourinho, the old neighborhood of the city of Salvador. Many of the buildings in this area date back to the 16th Century. The Pelourinho is a cultural hub for the Afro-Brazilian community and it featured heavily in the works of Jorge Amado. The hotel was luxurious. I have no idea how we were able to afford it. The hallways and the rooms had very high ceilings with dark wooden beams everywhere.
Typical room in the Convento do Carmo Hotel. Stock photo
My friend and I encountered our first bidet in our hotel room and we had no idea what it was. I remember how badly we embarrassed the poor bellman by asking him what it was for. The walls of the hallways and the rooms were very high, as the pictures below show.
Hallway showing the high ceilings and thick walls of the renovated convent. Stock photoMy own photo of the hallway leading to our room. Before the walls were refinished and the extra lighting was added.
The front desk area was opulent. We arrived at the start of holiday season at the end of December and the hotel staff would be sparse on the day after a major celebration. We didn’t stay all three weeks in the hotel but moved out to cheaper accommodations within the old Pelourinho neighborhood after we had gotten our bearings. But even though it was a luxury hotel, the rates were reasonable by American standards at the time. It remains one of the most magical places I have ever stayed.
Stock photo of the front desk but this looks very much the same from when I stayed there.The front desk looks out on the hotel pool.
Breakfast in our room was fresh fruit (mangoes, papaya, pineapple), ham, cheese, croissants, butter, jam, juice and coffee. I first discovered fresh-squeezed juice of maracujá – passion fruit – in Brazil. There were fruit stands everywhere where you could get fresh fruit and freshly-squeezed juice. Maracujá (pronounced mar-a-cu-zha with the accent on the last syllable) requires a lot of work to get the juice, as it is made from the fruit surrounding the seeds. When you cut a fruit open you will see lots of little black seeds, that are a bit smaller than watermelon seeds. Each seed is surrounded by a small yellow pocket of fruit that has the amazing sweet and tart juice inside. The taste is like nothing else I have ever had. It’s well worth the wait to have it made fresh in front of you.
Stock photo of breakfast at the hotel. This continental breakfast was brought to our room every day.
The convent building was originally built in 1586 by the First Order of Carmelite Friars. It became, over the centuries, host to many events in Brazilian history. It is located near the Pelourinho, the most famous neighborhood in the historic center of Salvador da Bahia.
Stock photo showing interior courtyard of the hotel.
This adventure was before the Internet, before cell phones, before Google maps. My friend and I had only a guidebook, a Portuguese-English pocket dictionary, and our knowledge of Portuguese from three semesters of study, along with the fearlessness of youth, to guide us. Our first day out, we wandered through the Pelourinho and gradually wound our way down to the central market, the Mercado Modelo, in the Cidade Baixa. The Mercado is a huge tourist attraction, sells food, and has many artisan shops within it. Built in 1912, it sits right on the Bahia de Todos os Santos (All Saints Bay) and it’s visited by 80% of tourists who come to Salvador.
My photo of the Mercado Modelo taken from the Cidade Alta (upper city).Postcard view of the Mercado Modelo taken from the water looking up to the Cidade Alta
The pictures that follow are all mine, which means they are grainy and not very clear. But they represent my memories and my very personal experience.
Mestre Olimpio and Mestre Cacau – brothers Manoel and Claudio de SouzaMestre Olimpio and Mestre Cacau – brothers Manoel and Claudio de SouzaCapoeira is accompanied by music played on drums and the berimbau
The teacher, Mestre Olimpio, instructing one of his students in the art form
Brazil changed my life, for good and bad. It ended my marriage to the most decent, ethical person I have ever known. But it also awakened my sense of myself. Being in Brazil felt like coming home. The people I encountered were boisterous, full of life, enjoying food, music, and dance as a part of their daily lives. They were all larger than life, by American standards and, for the first time in my life, I felt normal. My emotions and expressions were mild compared to the Brazilians I met. Throughout high school and college I remember attracting judgmental stares and criticisms because I was too emotional. In Brazil, I was perceived as CALM.
The easy intermingling of races I observed in Salvador was also very appealing to me. Of course, I was unaware of most of the nuances and the systemic racism of Brazilian society, which was different from the U.S. version, but still insidious. But it certainly felt a lot healthier and more relaxed than what I grew up with in the suburbs of Philadelphia. The mixing of the races was much more pervasive than in the U.S. and produced some of the most astoundingly beautiful people I have ever seen.
I fell in love with the Brazilian joie de vivre while I was there. December/January were the lead-in to the full scale holy season, with lots of festivals, eating, drinking, music, and dancing in the streets. One day we were out in streets packed so full of people that the only way to move was to samba along with them. After a day and a night of citywide partying, there was only one person staffing the front desk at the hotel — all the other staff had been out partying all night and had not come in to work.
Celebrating one of the saints days in December/January with dancing and singing in the streets
At the end of the three weeks, my friend had to beg me to get on the plane and return “home” with her to Ithaca, New York. I did go back, reluctantly. My first day back to work, my boss in the Catalog Department at Cornell University Libraries saw me and jokingly called out, “Here’s Carol back from Brazil. She’s going to quit her job and go back.” I followed her into her office, told her that was exactly what I was doing, and I was back in Brazil within a week. Going back to Brazil alone this time, I quickly discovered that things were not all that they had seemed and I only lasted two weeks before I had to come back, with my proverbial tail between my legs. They had not filled my job and I was able to slip back into my job in the Catalog Department, all the while plotting to go back.
I scrimped and saved for several months until I had saved up enough for a ticket back to Brazil. I had a spare 20 dollars in my pocket and was supposed to be met at the airport in Salvador. When I arrived, there was no one there to greet me. I used my last 20 dollars to take a taxi from the airport to the Mercado Modelo where I found the brother of the man who was supposed to meet me. He took one look at me and told me, correctly, how stupid I was. But he also took pity on me and took me to stay with his godmother.
The next two and a half months, I stayed with my reluctant savior’s godmother, Dona Ana. She was probably in her sixties, very poor, and lived in a single room on the second floor of a boarding house in the Pelourinho neighborhood. In the front of the house on the second floor was a shoe manufacturing shop with floor-to-ceiling windows (no glass but with wooden shutters) looking out to the street; the shop operated every day but Sunday. Moving from the front to the back of the house, you passed through a large common room with a balcony overlooking the hillside below. Dona Ana’s room was off the common room and she had a small cooking area in one corner of the common room. An elderly couple also had a 12 x 12 room constructed out of flimsy drywall material off the common room. Dona Rosa, the 8o-year-old woman of the couple, became my main friend and protectress. Moving to the back of the house overlooking the hillside, was another balcony open to the elements where there was an outhouse-style toilet in a closet and a small, cold-water shower stall. There was a sink nearby. This was poverty of a sort I had never known. But, in spite of it, these were the most generous people I have ever known. Dona Ana would cook her meals and she and I would sit out in the big common room to eat and, as the men from the shoe shop walked by to use the toilet during their lunch break, she would invite every one of them to join her in her meal. And she meant it. Dona Ana seemed surly to me at the time. Yet, looking back I think she was a saint who took in this clueless little white girl — who could speak Portuguese well enough but could understand very little of what was said to her — and fed and housed her. I had my own little bed in her room (which I was glad of in spite of Dona Ana’s heavy snoring and the large cockroaches that would drop down from the ceiling when the light was turned off), I had clean water and access to a toilet, I had food, and I got to watch the telenovelas for a couple hours in the evening with Dona Ana (this is where I first came to know the great Brazilian actress, Sonia Braga). Watching the telenovelas is where my ear finally got accustomed to understanding what was being said to me (although one person did still nickname me “papagaio” – parrot – because I could speak but not understand.)
Poor little clueless white girl living in Brazil – me at 24
On the first floor of the boarding house lived an elderly woman and her middle aged son. She made a living crocheting lace tablecloths and blouses. She was kind enough to lend me some of her handiwork and I copied them. I would spend my days sitting in a public plaza, crocheting. I did manage to sell a few of my creations and earned a little bit of money that way. I must have gotten my mother to send me a little money because I was able to buy some basic supplies and pay Dona Ana a small amount of room and board.
My photo of the business section of the Cidade Alta near where I used to sit out on the plaza and crochetPostcard view of Rio Branco Palace in Salvador, Bahia – near where I used to sit and crochet
After getting my mother to send me another $200, I moved out to a small room on the second floor of a boarding house in another part of the city. My room was the only occupied room on the floor and there was a window with wooden shutters overlooking the street. There was a market across the street and I used to watch the comings and goings of the market during the day. The back side of the building on the second floor had no walls, as it was built directly into the hillside. The bathroom was at the other end of the building. It had a toilet, sink, and a cold water shower stall. The only light at night in the bathroom came from a lightbulb that had to be screwed in to turn on, as there was not a light switch. One night, I encountered a tarantula sitting on the light bulk when I went to screw it in to turn on the light. Not my favorite experience! My room had a cot that I purchased to sleep on and my food supplies. I spent my days going out to the supermarket to buy cheese and fruit and the bakery to buy bread, sitting in a public plaza, sitting in my room to write letters to friends and family back in the States, or standing at the open window at the front of the house looking down on the street below. The huge spiders (that I called tarantulas but which might have been something else) used to come into my room, probably because of the food I kept there. I also splurged on a can of bug spray to kill these monstrous spiders. One night I soaked one of these monsters with the bug spray as it sat in the corner of my room. When I woke up in the morning, it had managed to crawl all the way over to my bed before it died! I still have occasional nightmares about these spiders.
I entered Brazil on a tourist visa, good for three months, and got it renewed once while I was there. Since I entered on a tourist visa, it was not possible to get the visa status changed without leaving the country. I was working illegally as I sat and crocheted to sell my handiwork. After four and a half months of selling everything of value and not being willing to keep asking my mother to send me money, I finally had to concede defeat and leave Brazil. I always planned to go back but I have not been back since I left in the early autumn of 1980. I kept up a correspondence with Dona Rosa and one or two other people for a while but life took over eventually and I lost touch with everyone I knew there.
I spent a total of three weeks (original vacation), then two weeks (first failed attempt to live there), then four and a half months in Brazil in 1979-1980. I went to the beach only two times, once on New Year’s Eve 1979/1980 and another time with my former TA from Cornell and his Brazilian girlfriend who came to visit me. I remember him telling me that I was the LAST person he would have expected to do what I did, Yeah, me too. But I am so very glad I did it. The first time I jumped in the water, I kept my eyes open because the water was crystal clear and I forgot it was the ocean.
Postcard view of a beach in Salvador
I ate some wonderful food that I still love to cook. Much of the food from Salvador uses palm oil, which gives things a distinctly nutty flavor and an orange color. It is used extensively in African cooking and can be hard to find in North America. One of my favorites is the moqueca de camarão. I always made this for my staff during the annual holiday parties at USF St. Petersburg and at Florida Atlantic University.
Moqueca de camarão. Shrimp stew made with palm oil, onions, garlic, tomatoes and cilantro and served with hot sauce made from hot peppers and line juice and with farofa – toasted manioc meal – sprinkled on top to soak up the juices.
The Brazilian national dish, feijoada, made Bahian style with brown beans
Another favorite food item is the Brazilian national drink, caipirinha. It is made with fresh lime juice, sugar, and cachaça. Cachaça is like rum but it’s made from the fermented juice of sugar cane. Everyone I have introduced to this cocktail loves it.
Caipirinha
I fell in love with the people of Salvador, quickly came to love the music – especially samba music and the music of Antônio Carlos Jobim and his contemporaries, and I became fluent in Brazilian Portuguese. By the time I left Brazil, people I met out on the street would ask me what part of Brazil I was from – they assumed I was Brazilian but they couldn’t quite place the accent! For the rest of my life, I have been able to pick out Brazilians anywhere in the world and have often eavesdropped on their conversations. For years, I would strike up conversations with random Brazilians when I encountered them. When they would ask me how I learned Portuguese, I would always tell them, “Sou americana mas meu coração é brasileiro” – “I’m American but my heart is Brazilian.” Somewhere, deep in the body of this old woman, that young girl still lives.
In the fall of 2002, I attended the Accent Français language school for adults in Montpellier, France from September 16 through 27. I had studied French from grade five through grade twelve and also took French literature courses every year in college. I never earned anything less than an A- in all my French courses and I studied the grammar and the vocabulary assiduously. I would practice conjugating verbs in all tenses, writing them out over and over, and I tested myself on vocabulary with flash cards that I made. I did this for FUN. I read classical and modern French literature and loved it. Gerard Depardieu as Moliere’s infamous Tartuffe is one of my all-time favorite movies.
In spite of all these years of study, however, I had an appalling command of the spoken (and heard) language which became obvious when I first traveled to France in the late 1990s. I remember being really embarrassed during a trip to the Dordogne with my English friends in 1998 as we shopped in the supermarket or ate out at local restaurants. I had almost zero ability to carry on simple conversations and they easily stepped in to rescue me from my floundering on multiple occasions.
I have a knack with foreign languages and I can now converse in four languages (other than English) with some facility, so this terrible inability to communicate in a language I love pained me. In a trip to Nerja, Spain in 2001 I got the idea of attending a language school for adults when I walked past a Spanish language immersion school in that town.
Me in Nerja, Spain, May 2001
I always regretted not taking a semester abroad in college so this seemed like an opportunity finally to have that kind of experience. I researched possible programs and selected the Accent Français program in Montpellier and opted to stay with a local family for the two weeks of the course. I remember trying to get it approved as a study leave for work (UO Libraries didn’t buy that idea), but there was never any doubt that I was going to go, even though it required me to take two weeks of vacation. I flew into Paris on Saturday, the 14th of September, and immediately took a high-speed train (TGV – Train à grande vitesse) from Paris to Montpellier. The trip took over five hours (370 miles or 596 km) and I arrived in the evening. I could not move into my family accommodations until Sunday afternoon so I stayed in a cheap hotel in the center of town that Saturday night. On Sunday, things were closed down in the town so I wandered aimlessly, looking for an open Internet cafe, until it was time for me to meet my family.
My family consisted of a woman in her forties (Mme Gilardi) and her 20-something daughter. I had a room to myself (sharing the wall of my room with the daughter’s room, who played her music late into the night) and I was fed breakfast and dinner. Lunch was on my own. They had a small house with an outside courtyard and they did their best to make conversation with me and make me comfortable. I got to try out the local cuisine, which was a mixture of foods from different parts of the world.
Mme Gilardi and her daughter
The Gilardi residence, MontpellierBreakfast at the Gilardi home
Montpellier has a lot of migrants from different parts of the world. For most of its history, and even today, Montpellier is known for its significant Spanish population, heritage and influence. Montpellier also has significant Occitan, Moroccan, Algerian, and Italian communities.
On Monday morning, September 17, I made my way to the school in the center of the town. The teachers were all younger than I was and my classmates ranged in age from 18 through the mid 70s. In another life, I would have liked to work in such an establishment.
Two of my instructors from the school
My favorite classmates, retired couple from England
View of the city street from the 2nd floor balcony of the school
The classes were arranged by level of language proficiency which was tested by a written exam and an oral interview prior to a new student being sent to a classroom. Classes ran continuously, and new students would be sent to a class already in session. Students came and went every Monday, depending on how long they had contracted for. Some students were only there for a week and some had signed up for months. I tested at the intermediate level. I was embarrassed at my gross ignorance, again, during this placement process because they asked me who the President of France was and I did not know! I learned that lesson and have been far more aware of French history and politics since that two-week program. The classes were hard. We were given a lot of grammar, a lot of current vocabulary, and a lot of information about French society. And we had to talk and apply what we were given, on the spot. I remember feeling shy during some of the exercises but I did them and I definitely improved in the two weeks. I think we had one or two breaks between classes during the course of the day and we had a lunch break on our own. I always went out to a local boulangerie and got a fromage/jambon (ham and cheese) sandwich and usually spent a few minutes in a nearby Internet cafe on the lunch break. We also got some individual tutoring sessions as part of the course, The best thing I got out of my individual tutoring sessions was being given some sections from the book EVIDENCES INVISIBLES. AMÉRICAINS ET FRANÇAIS AU QUOTIDIEN (also available in English) which was a book written by a French woman married to an American man. The author addressed a wide variety of topics but the one that has stayed with me is the different perceptions of what is considered normal conversation in French versus American culture. To put it simplistically, a French person shows they are engaged and interested in a conversation by jumping in and adding to the conversation. The American practice of sitting back and waiting for the speaker to finish before adding something is perceived to be disinterested and even rude. The lack of awareness of the different cultural norms can lead to many misunderstandings and hard feelings. This is true of every interaction between different cultures. I wish that more people approached their interactions with people from a different culture with an understanding that what they consider NORMAL is actually just what they have been taught or have experienced and another person’s view of normal can be very different.
Sometimes on lunch breaks or before I went “home” after classes, I would explore the city. I was somewhat timid and this was before smartphones and Google maps. I am also notoriously bad at reading paper maps so I stayed in a pretty confined area so I wouldn’t get lost. I wandered through the city park, I walked down to the train station, I looked at some monuments, I did a little shopping. It’s not just that I was timid. I was also a woman alone in a city that was experiencing rapid changes to its demographics and it sometimes felt slightly unsafe to me. It was at the Montpellier train station that I learned the French word “voyou” for thug to describe the teenage boys who would not stop following and harassing me.
The school also arranged occasional excursions. On September 21st, there was a bus excursion to Arles, a city on the Rhône River in Provence. Arles is known for many remains from the Roman era, including Arles Amphitheatre (les Arènes d’Arles), now hosting plays, concerts and bullfights. It is 82 km or 51 miles away from Montpellier. On this bus trip, we also swung through the Camargue, a natural region located south of Arles, between the Mediterranean Sea and the two arms of the Rhône river delta. Wild horses and flamingos (and 400 other species of birds) roam the brine ponds of the Camargue. It is a stunningly beautiful and otherworldly landscape. Our tour guide was a charming man who played a flute as he walked and told us the history of the region. In Arles, I loved the market, the city square, the Roman ruins and I just wish we had had some time to wander.
Camargue flamingoes, photo by Sylvain Caillot photos
Camargue salt marshes
Arles city view
Arles harborArles Arles marketArles marketArles Roman ruinsArles Roman ruinsArles Roman ruinsArles Roman ruins
At the end of the two weeks in the French language immersion program, I was joined in Montpellier by my ex-husband. Unfortunately, we both got terrible colds and ended up disappointed with the rest of the trip. I wish I had been better prepared by having studied up on the region and the city. I wish that I had had a decent camera to take more and better pictures. And I wish I had had a happier traveling companion who would have wanted to explore and discover things serendipitously. It’s unlikely that I will ever go back to the region but I am very glad to have been there,
Paris is a magical city. I have been there at least seven times between 1998 and 2018. Sometimes I spent only a day or two there, basically just using it as a departure and a landing city for trips spent elsewhere. I have also spent longer periods of time there, getting to know the city by walking through the different arrondissements, taking the subway to get around, or just wandering aimlessly to see what I discovered.
Initially, I did not want to go to France. I had bought into the North American prejudice that said the French were rude and unpleasant; I had no interest in visiting the country. This was true even though I had studied the French language, since I was in fifth grade all the way through college, and I loved the language and the literature. My father had traveled in France at the end of World War II and he taught me my very first French words. I used to enjoy looking at his pictures from his time stationed in Paris following its liberation by the Allies. He loved his time in France, England, Scotland, and Germany as a radio operator at the end of World War II and he passed along to me his love of travel and getting to know different people.
My father on a bridge in Paris, 1944 or 1945
Fortunately for me, I had a very good French friend in Indiana who was a gracious and charming person and who was the opposite of rude and unpleasant. One time, when he was traveling to Paris to give a paper at the Sorbonne, he invited my ex-husband to join him there for a few days. That experience was so wonderful that my ex and I traveled together there for the first time in August of 1998 and several other times after that. In all the trips I have made to Paris, with hundreds of interactions with Parisians all over, I only experienced rudeness one time.
Starting with that first trip in 1998 until my last trip in the fall of 2018, I have been to the top of the Eiffel Tower several times (and even had dinner there once), spent time walking on the Champs-Élysées and visiting cafes there and elsewhere, been to the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, wandered along the bouquinistes and artists’ stalls on the Seine, took an excursion on a Bateau Mouche on the Seine with a tour guide who spoke an impressive number of languages fluently, visited Notre Dame cathedral multiple times (before it caught fire in 2019), marveled at Paris Plages (where the city turns the Seine riverbanks and the Villette canal basin into a summer beach resort), relaxed in the Luxembourg Garden, taken the train to Monet’s home in Giverny, browsed through Shakespeare and Company Bookshop, and had countless wonderful glasses of wine or fresh croissants at one of the thousands of sidewalk cafes that are everywhere.
Me at dinner in one of the restaurants on top of the Eiffel Tower in 2004
Paris has many small neighborhoods that are home to local people and are not designed for tourists. But even the touristy neighborhoods are charming and provide great food and wine for reasonable prices. It’s easy to eat well in Paris without breaking the bank. You can eat at cafes or pick up food at local shops and make impromptu picnics along the banks of the Seine, in one of the big public parks, or in one of the small green spaces that are found in almost every neighborhood.
One of the neighborhoods featuring great restaurants found throughout Paris
There are dozens of famous sites throughout Paris that are worth visiting, as the following pictures illustrate. They live up to the hype.
The steps by MontmartreWolfgang browsing the bouquinistes and artist stalls on the Seine, 2018Me in front of the famous Shakespeare and Company Bookstore, September 2018
Me in front of Notre Dame around 2004
Notre Dame, September 2018Coming up to the Eiffel Tower, September 2018At the foot of the Eiffel Tower, 2018View of Paris from the Eiffel Tower, September 2018Wolfgang gazing out on Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower, 2018Luxembourg Garden, September 2018Luxembourg Garden, September 2018Monet’s garden in Giverny in the early 2000sSteps of MontmartreOutside the Louvre, 2018
My favorite part of visiting a city is just wandering, not always knowing where I am, and just enjoying whatever I find. Wolfgang and I spent a scant three days/two nights in Paris in September 2018; we had absolutely no itinerary. We wandered, took the metro, did a hop on-hop off bus tour, got lost many times, and just soaked up the atmosphere wherever we happened to find ourselves. We took over 700 pictures. The following pictures are some prime examples of our adventure of serendipitous discovery in Paris for three days in September 2018.
Typical cafe scene, September 2018Crepe vendor on the street, 2018Bateaux Mouches on the Seine, 2018Public art, 2018Anonymous park somewhere in Paris, 2018Parisian neighborhood store, 2018Unknown building on our lost wanderings the first night Wolfgang and I were in Paris, September 2018Typical shop window of anépicerieTypical street scene, 2018. Europeans get around quite a lot with motorcycles and scooters.Certainly a famous building but anonymous to us in our wanderings, September 2018Ubiquitous cafe scene, September 2018Beauty on every streetAnother ordinary doorway, somewhere in ParisTypical Parisian neighborhoodStreet scene showing the corner buildings found throughout ParisArchitectural gems everywhere – just look upCity of bridgesCity of bridgesLe Pont Neuf seen from below street level, walking along the banks of the SeineParisians love their river and spend their leisure time on its banksMoules – the French love mussels so much that there is even a fast-food chain specializing in serving different typesArchitectural surprises abound for anyone who opens their eyesLove locks on a bridge in Paris, September 2018The metro – easy way to get around Paris if you can handle stairs and aren’t worried about getting lost occasionallyFromage – just a small sampling of the wonderful cheeses available everywhereStreet marketGare du Nord train station where you catch the Eurostar train to LondonThe Eurostar train to London
Wolfgang, like me initially, was not enthusiastic about going to Paris. But after a few hours he wished we had booked a longer stay before heading back to our friends outside London. Paris is definitely a city we would like to visit again.
In October 1995, my ex-husband and I traveled to Portugal for about a week. Leaving from Indianapolis, we first landed in London where we stayed with friends outside London for a few days before flying on to Portugal.
I had been looking forward to this trip for a long time. I spoke fluent Brazilian Portuguese (from when I traveled to and lived in Brazil for part of 1979 and 1980) and I watched the Portuguese news every night for about two months before our trip to get my ear accustomed to the different accent. I did not expect it to be like Brazil, but I was surprised — and dismayed — at just how different the people were. The people I met in Brazil were boisterous, outgoing, and full of life. The people in Portugal seemed surly, unhappy, and resentful. I had been hoping for connection and instead faced rejection and hostility almost everywhere. I was very naive and ill-informed. We were so ignorant that we didn’t even know that a major election was taking place the day of our arrival in Lisbon. Perhaps if we had been better informed and prepared, the trip would have been more enjoyable.
We flew from London to Faro, the southernmost city and capital of the district of the same name, in the Algarve region of southern Portugal. We took a high-speed train from Faro to Lisbon. I remember being surprised that we were crossing a bridge over the Tagus River to get into the city. I was clearly not a very well prepared traveler.
Faro was a lovely port city and we should have enjoyed it. But I can’t say that we did.
FaroFaroFaro
I don’t remember the exact date we arrived in Portugal. All I have to guide me is my memory of what was happening at the time and one postcard dated October 3, 1995 that I had sent to my father.
Postcard sent to my father, dated October 3, 1995. I got this postcard back after my father died. He had cataloged all the postcards I had ever sent him and the misspelled label at the top is his.Postcard sent to my father, dated October 3, 1995
These were the days when we had only an old camera and carried 110 film with us, so I have very few pictures from this trip. And I wasn’t smart enough to keep a journal of all the places we visited. I mostly just have impressions. I wish I had been more aware and had kept a journal and had taken more pictures. Portugal was beautiful and I feel like this week was a huge missed opportunity.
I remember visiting the Cidade Alta and the Cidade Baixa – the upper and lower city in Lisbon. I remember walking up hills and being exhausted. We saw azulejos, a form of Spanish and Portuguese painted tin-glazed ceramic tilework whose tradition dates from the days that the Arabs controlled the Iberian peninsula. I remember going to a port bar, whose menu had hundreds of different kinds of port wine – although we had to work hard to find a selection that they were actually serving. I had my first white port at this bar. I remember eating out at a several restaurants where the food was excellent but where we were treated with what seemed like indifference (if we were lucky) and usually rudeness. It was very different from our experiences in England, France and Spain. My impression was that the Portuguese people were struggling economically, that they were the poor cousins of the European Union at the time, and that they resented their dependence on foreign tourists. I owe it to myself — and them — to read up on Portuguese history and try to understand this period of time in Portugal.
Lisbon
Lisbon
Lisbon
LisbonLisbonLisbonLisbon
One day, we decided to visit the beach town of Tavira. We took a local train from Faro and then, from the train station in Tavira, a bus to the beach. On the bus we encountered tourists from Germany, England, Australia, Spain and elsewhere in Europe. We were the only Americans. The bus driver was rude and surly to all of us. We chatted on the bus among ourselves and bonded over how unpleasant the people we had encountered were. I gathered from this experience that it wasn’t just us and it wasn’t just that we were Americans that resulted in the consistent unpleasantness we experienced. As I mentioned, I spoke fluent Portuguese – fluent enough that my husband had to drag me away from the ticket booth in the Tavira train station when I had finally had enough of the gratuitous nastiness and got into a heated argument with the woman selling tickets at the train station! (That was the only time in our years of travel throughout Europe that my ex had to control ME, as I normally had to drag him away from embarrassing situations of his creation on our various travels.) We got to the beach, looked around, and returned to Faro pretty quickly.
Tavira
I have never been back to Portugal. I know many people who have been to Portugal and had a lovely time. If I were younger, perhaps I would go back and give it another try. It seems unlikely that I will venture there again at this time of my life, though. If I am able to travel to Europe again, I will go to France, Spain, or Germany. Se Deus quiser! (God willing)
In September of 1999, my ex-husband and I traveled to Beaune, France and stayed for a day or two. “Beaune is the wine capital of Burgundy in the Côte d’Ordepartment in eastern France. It is located between Lyon and Dijon. Beaune is one of the key wine centers in France, and the center of Burgundy wine production and business. The annual wine auction of the Hospices de Beaune or the Hôtel-Dieu de Beaune is the primary wine auction in France. (Wikipedia: Beaune)
Hôtel-Dieu de Beaune
One of the most memorable aspects of Beaune for me were the wine caves under the city streets. There was one wine producer that allowed people to pay admission to go underground and walk through the extensive caves and pour your own wine from bottles scattered throughout the caves. There were perhaps 20 barrels set up throughout the caves, with candles for lighting and an open bottle for you to sample. The caves were dark and there were real bottles of wine stored in some of the dusty, dark, cobweb-filled storage chambers. The self-guided tour took about an hour and at the end you walked up a flight of stone steps and entered the store where you could buy wine or have it shipped to your home. They shipped wine all over the world.
Me at the entrance to the wine caves, Beaune, September 1999
The rest of the town was charming and made me wish that we could have spent days sitting at cafes and watching daily life play out. I remember going into the town Information Center for tourists and falling in love with a poster showing all the different kinds of French cheeses. We hadn’t allocated enough time to do a winery tour. We also only took trains and buses or rode with friends – we never drove ourselves in our visits to the UK and Europe – so that limited our ability to get outside of any town we visited.
Carousel, Beaune, September 1999
Because we didn’t allow ourselves very much time on this visit, we came back in December of 2001. As was our wont, we first landed in London and spent some time with our friends in Redhill, Surrey outside of London. We also visited Cambridge for a day or two before heading off to France.
Me in Cambridge, December 2001
We made our way from England to Beaune and stayed in a small, boutique hotel for several nights before we headed off to spend Christmas with our friends’ family in Angers. It was a bitterly cold December, with arctic air coming down into the UK and Europe. Nevertheless, the visit to Beaune was magical. The town was decorated for the holidays, the pace was slow, everything was quiet.
Salon de thé, Beaune, December 2001
Me in the center of Beaune, December 2001
Center of town, Beaune, December 2001
We signed up for a tour of local vineyards which was wonderful, in spite of it being winter and bitterly cold. We were driven in a small van around the countryside and visited some small local producers. This was where I first learned that the same parcel of land could produce very different quality of wine in different rows, even when planted with the same varietal. Families or wineries would own a row or two of vines and the care they took of the vines and the way they harvested could produce markedly different wines. Add in the skills of the winemaker and you had to be careful what you bought. Locals knew all the subtle signs but most outsiders would not know. It makes sense when you learn about it but most people would look at a hillside of vines and just expect that the product would be either consistently good or consistently mediocre.
Vineyard outside of Beaune, December 2001
Vineyard outside of Beaune, December 2001
I have not been back to Beaune since that trip in December 2001. Today, on a bitterly cold day here in Saskatchewan, I remember the way that town felt and I can almost imagine walking through the quiet streets, all bundled up, and stopping for a dinner and a bottle of local wine at one of the small restaurants still open for the locals.
I loved studying foreign languages and studied French from fifth grade through college. In 10th grade, I started studying German. My teacher, Miss Burke, recognized that I was not the ordinary student and she quickly let me study independently and work ahead. I crammed three years of high-school German into one year. I’m sure my teacher had a lot to do with me getting a scholarship from the National Carl Schurz Foundation to go to Germany for a month in the summer of 1971.
I don’t remember much of how this trip came about. I just remember that my mother and I traveled by train from Philadelphia to New York City where all that summer’s exchange students were leaving from. We stayed overnight in the designated hotel and were too afraid to go out to get anything to eat so we ordered food in through room service. What stands out from this stay was the waiter, who could not speak English, refused to leave the room until my mother gave him more money as a tip. That experience certainly colored my impression of New York City for years to come.
We must have had some sort of orientation for all of us who were making the trip, although I don’t remember anything about that or about the flight from New York to Germany. There were about twenty of us who were set up to stay with German families in West Berlin. Other students were sent to other parts of Germany. I have a vague memory of flying into Frankfurt but I again have no memory of being picked up at the airport in Berlin. My first memory of being in West Berlin was being in a small apartment where my “family” consisted of a kindly older couple (Opa and Oma – Grandpop and Grandmom) and their granddaughter, Giselle. Giselle’s mother did not live with them. The apartment consisted of a single bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. My bed was a divan in the grandparents’ bedroom. And there was a balcony overlooking the street. Talk about culture shock. While I was not from a wealthy family, the idea of sleeping on a couch in a strangers’ bedroom was so foreign and somewhat frightening, too. The Foundation had done a very poor job of providing orientation for us. Looking back, I certainly understand that lifestyles were different but such different living circumstances would have been easier to accept had we had any advance preparation.
The families we stayed with must have received money for housing us, as they provided excellent food. It seemed to be a treat for them. My family really tried to make me feel comfortable. They asked me what I normally had for breakfast and I told them “Eier” or eggs, so we had soft boiled eggs every morning (cold most days as they were left over from cooking on a previous day), as well as the typical German breakfast of cold cuts, butter, and bread. I remember them trying to find corn for me and coming up only with a can of creamed corn. Corn was something that was fed to cattle, not eaten by people as corn-on-the-cob.
There were five meals a day: Frühstück (breakfast), zweite Frühstück (2nd breakfast), Mittagessen (lunch), and afternoon snack which was usually pastry from a local bakery, and Abendessen (supper). I had many new foods while there, including steak tartare, which I loved (after eating it on bread for lunch one day without knowing it was raw steak.) I gained 20 pounds in one month!
Weekdays, I took the bus from the district I lived in (Wedding) to the other side of the city where I joined the other students in language school. Our program coordinator was an American man in his 30s or 40s who spoke fluent German but with an APPALLING accent. It even hurt my ears to listen to him! We spent a few hours in school, had the snack and lunch that our families packed for us, and took the bus back to our temporary homes in the afternoon. The Association organized some field trips. One field trip was organized to visit a brewery. Drinking hard liquor was legal at age 16 and Bier was legal to drink at 12, I think. Kids did not get drunk there the way they do in the States because alcohol was something they drank with meals and it was not some huge no-no.
Another field trip was to take us to the opera. I don’t know whose bright idea that was but they took us to a five-hour production of Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg. It is the longest opera commonly performed, taking nearly four and a half hours, not counting two breaks. The ONLY phrase I understood in the entire production was when one of the characters said, “Ich kann es nicht verstehen” – I can’t understand it. We also took a bus tour of the city one day and I remember passing by the Brandenburg Gate where we waved at the Russian soldiers who were on guard. One of them risked waving back with the tips of his fingers as he stood rigidly on guard with his hands at his sides. They also took us to see the Kaiser Wilhelm Kirche, which has been left with one tower bombed out by the Allied Forces in World War II, serving as a reminder of the devastation of war.
Kaiser Wilhlem Memorial Church
Germany was still divided at this time between East Germany (controlled by the Russians) and West Germany, divided up between France, England, and the United States. Berlin, the former capital of Germany, was a divided city, with a wall built by the Russians to keep people from fleeing to the West. On August 13, 1961, East German soldiers begin laying down barbed wire and bricks as a barrier between Soviet-controlled East Berlin and the western section of the city. The Berlin Wall was erected in 1961 and did not come down until 1989. German reunification did not happen until 1990.
Berlin Wall being built in 1961
World War II and its aftermath were evident everywhere in Berlin, with reminders that the spoils of war go to the victors.. The defeat of the Nazis and the subsequent division of Germany between the Allied powers was on everyone’s mind, since they lived in a divided country every day. Germany was still in the process of being redeemed in the eyes of the world and the Germans felt a collective responsibility. Germany did a good job of owning up to its past and condemning the Nazis. Other countries, like the United States right now, could learn a lot about not trying to hide the mistakes and bad decisions of past generations so that they are less inclined to repeat them.
I remember one conversation with my host family about the war and its aftermath and what they resented the most was that the Russians had been allowed to control half their country. They couldn’t understand why President Roosevelt had conceded as much as he did to the Russians. With my limited German, and even more limited understanding of world history, I replied that “Er war krank” (he was sick). referring to Roosevelt’s declining health at Yalta.
One time, I was riding on the subway with Giselle and her cousin Pieter (who fancied himself in love with me) and we passed by one of the stops in East Berlin. There were three subway lines that ran for the most part through West Berlin but passed for a short distance through East Berlin territory. These lines continued to be open to West Berliners; however, trains did not stop at most of the stations located within East Berlin. The train slowed down, as it did at all stops, and there on the platform were East German soldiers with submachine guns. I asked Pieter what he thought when he saw that and he said simply “scheiße” or “shit.” Daily reminders that their country was not their own. There are many articles on these “ghost stations.”
When not in class, I hung out with two boys who were in my class: Jake who was from East Stroudsberg, Pennsylvania and Steve who was from Providence, Rhode Island. Sometimes we would be on our own and sometimes we would be accompanied by the kids our age who were part of the families we were staying with. One time, we went to the Kurfürstendamm (known affectionately as the Ku-damm). The broad, long boulevard is very popular and is lined with shops, houses, hotels and restaurants. It was my first time experiencing open-air cafes and the European way of life. I was enchanted. Sitting at outdoor cafes and watching people go by is still one of my favorite things to do anywhere I happen to be.
Cafe Einstein, Unter den Linden, near the Ku-damm
I remember we went to a restaurant one time and ordered pizza because we were a little homesick and wanted something familiar. When the pizza arrived, we started to eat it with our hands, just like we did at home, A young couple who were nearby said to each other, loud enough for us to hear, “amerikanische Schweinhunde” or American bastards. It was offensive to them that we were eating with our hands but, more likely, they were offended by the fact that they lived under the control of foreign governments. There were American, French, and British solders everywhere, and Russian soldiers on guard at the Brandenburg Gate, as well as at the Wall and on a couple stops on one subway line that still ran through East Berlin.
Another time we went to a fair. We got so excited when we saw a popcorn vendor and we all bought bags of hot popcorn. Imagine our surprise– and disgust –when we found that the popcorn had sugar on it and not salt! One day the three of us and our German “siblings” went to a local swimming pool. I had a memorable lesson in German grammar when I said to the teenage boy who was Steve’s counterpart (named Wolfgang), that I was cold. It was humiliating when he explained to me that “Ich bin kalt” actually meant I was sexually frigid and that to say I was cold required me to say “Es ist mir kalt” (literally “it is cold to me”). This is the way you learn a foreign language, study followed by practice with native speakers, followed by more study. And a healthy dose of embarrassing faux-pas can speed up the learning process!
One of the most memorable days of my trip to Berlin was when my friends Steve, Jake and I went into East Berlin. We crossed over on foot at Checkpoint Charlie. We were able to go in because we were Americans. We were warned, however, that it was illegal to take pictures of certain things, including soldiers and public transportation. The public transportation edict seemed odd until we got there and saw that they were still using the buses that had been in use during World War II and they didn’t want that widely known. Right after we entered East Berlin, we had to cross a street. The street was intersected by a portion of the Wall so there was no way any traffic could come down it. There was a street light still operating and we crossed against the light. Well, an old German man who was on the other side started giving us the devil because we had crossed against the light. Another example of different cultural perspectives. It seemed funny to us but that old man was really offended by our behavior. No respect for authority!
I never took any pictures during this trip. Possibly I didn’t have a camera. I don’t remember why. The next year, though, Jake and Steve came to visit me in Wayne.
Steve and Jake visiting me in Wayne
When I got back from this trip, I was with some of my cousins whose father had been in the military. They were younger than I was and had never even been outside of the state of Pennsylvania. Yet they were arguing with me, telling me what Germany was like! Well, I didn’t know much but I knew that they were full of something and it wasn’t accurate information. This trip was my first foray outside the United States. I had studied the language of the country that I was visiting but I was very far from fluent. It was a turning point for me in how I thought about myself and the world around me. I always wanted to go back to see how the city had changed after the Wall came down, but I never have. I am so glad, though, that I had this life-changing opportunity at age 16.
In June 5-11, 2005, I attended a weeklong workshop, the DELOS Summer School on Digital Preservation, in Sophia Antipolis, France. Sophia Antipolis is a 2,400 hectare technology park in southeast France, and as of 2021 home to 2,500 companies, valued today at more than 5.6 billion euros and employing more than 38,000 people counting more than 80 nationalities. The park is known to be Europe’s first science and technology hub. I was able to attend this workshop because I had been awarded a $5000 research prize, the Corrigan Solari Library Faculty Fellowship Award in 2004 and I chose to use my funds to attend professional development opportunities outside the United States. I also combined this professional trip with my love of travel and visited Nice, Antibes, and Sanremo, Italy.
The workshop was amazing and introduced me to digital collections experts from around the world. I really had to stretch myself professionally to keep up.
DELOS workshop dinner, June 2005
2005 was a great year for me, personally and professionally. I turned 50, I had lost 40 pounds and I was as active professionally as I have ever been, traveling around the United States, the UK, and Europe attending top-level workshops on digital libraries or giving presentations on the work I was involved with (enter 2005 in search box).
Me in Antibes, June 2005
Antibes June 2005
Antibes June 2005 by the Picasso Museum
Antibes June 2005
Antibes June 2005
I no longer remember the exact itinerary I followed but I know that I stayed in Nice for a couple of days before heading to Antibes where I stayed for the conference (June 5-11). Nice was beautiful, in its own way, but I remember being under impressed with the other tourists (lots of loud Russians) and the beaches (rocky). One of the highlights of my visit to Antibes was the Musée Picasso at Juan-les-Pins. I alsp enjoyed getting a fresh croissant from the pâtisserie near the hotel every morning and just sitting at a table watching the people come and go.
Nice, June 2005
Posing with Betty Boop, Nice, June 2005
Nice, June 2005, me drinking a glass of wine as I look out over the Mediterranean
View of the beach in Nice, June 2005
Sanremo, Italy, June 2005
Following the workshop, I took the train into Italy for the day. The train ran along the Mediterranean coast and passed through Menton, a town on the French Riviera. The views from the train were spectacular. I got off the train at the first stop in Italy, which was Sanremo (or San Remo). I stopped and had a late lunch at a sidewalk restaurant and then went into a wine tasting shop that was getting ready to close for the day. The town itself was taking an afternoon break from a busy lunchtime and we had some difficulty finding a place to have lunch.
Sanremo, Italy, June 2005
Wine shop in Sanremo, Italy, June 2005
My knowledge of Italian consisted of one year of study back in the early 1980s when I worked at Bryn Mawr College, The wine shop owner enjoyed the visit from me and my ex and he gave us tons of wine to sample for free, since he was going to throw it out at the end of the day anyway. I remember telling him he was a “diavolo” for getting us so drunk. That is my entire experience in Italy, one drunken afternoon in a town that was very quiet and sleepy.
In September 2005, I traveled to Barcelona as a State Department Fellow and gave a half-day seminar on institutional repositories: La implementación de un repositorio institucional : procesos, retos y estrategias . I can’t believe I did that whole thing in Spanish! But the best part was that I fell in love with Barcelona. I stayed in a cheap hotel right on La Rambla that had a tiny balcony overlooking the street. It was noisy but so wonderful.
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I checked into the hotel and had my first cultural wake up call when I said to the clerk, in Spanish, that I was glad to be in Spain. The clerk replied that they preferred to consider themselves Europeans! Right after checking in, I went out and got on the subway to go see the Sagrada Familia Cathedral – still under construction but begun by the great Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi. As I was coming up out of the subway, I thought to myself, “How will I know how to find it?” And then I looked up and there it was:
Sagrada Familia Cathedral is a massive, breathtaking monument. Two very different styles of architecture are merged in one edifice. It has been under construction for over 100 years – and it’s still going. Started in 1882, Gaudí took it over in 1883 and continued working on it until his death in 1926. It is supposed to be finished in 2026 – a century after Gaudí’s death.
I fell in love with the city on that first trip. The architecture, the food, the spirit of the people was unlike anything else I’d experienced in Europe. As much as the people of Barcelona prefer to consider themselves European, they are something quite unique.
The activity on La Rambla was endlessly entertaining and invigorating! Buskers, street performers, music, chaos, life!
The influence of Gaudi was everywhere – in the streetlights, in the Park Guell, in the houses he built.
Lifetime musings 