Travel

Tears always run down my cheeks as we cross that first bridge on the way to the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I promise myself repeatedly that I won’t cry, but I always do. I can feel my emotions start to well up when I am denied Paris air when the Air France autobus door shuts out the sweet scent of my favorite city. I get anxious knowing the door won’t open again for a whole year as I start my ungraceful shuffle homeward bound. I’m not sad to be going home, I’m sad to be leaving Paris.

For 12 months I dream of all the smells of my early morning walks on the quiet streets of my favorite Arrondisement. The aroma of onions and shallots cooking in cafes as their day starts, the sleepy venders setting up their display at the daily market smile at me. The familiar butcher from a few doors down has arrived for his morning glass of red wine with his apron stained with fresh blood. No need for him to talk; an empty glass slides across the copper bar and the bartender fills it to the rim. The same faces of my wordless companions sit at the same surrounding tables as we all sip our morning beverages silently. We never talk but yet I miss them. I even check my watch when the garbage truck is running late. The sound of the truck and the assault of diesel fumes that fills my favorite café on the corner, I miss that too.

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harrysbar.jpg One of the finest lessons I ever learned in my life was from my grandmother, "Mamie." We were having dinner at Harry's Bar in Venice many years ago on a warm summer night in July. My parents had given me, as a graduation gift from high school, a month in Europe. I had gone through numerous brochures and found the perfect trip, 10 countries in 28 days. I was exhausted on day 22 but Mamie was quick to remind me, as I was slouched in my chair, my head nodding dangerously towards what is probably the most expensive spaghetti in the world, that most people would break their left arm to have the opportunity to have dinner on a Saturday night at Harry's Bar in Venice. I sat up straight in my chair and have always remembered her poignant words.

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hawaii-tour-book
The tremors began on the couch.

Shannon and I were leisurely thumbing our way through an Hawaiian tour book, making lists of potential activities for the trip we had just booked.

“Swimming with dolphins sounds like fun.”  We wrote it down.

“Let’s go to the volcano!” More notes.

“How about skydiving?”

Palpitations.

Dry mouth.

Quaking.

I clasped my hands together so that he would not see them shake violently.

“Sure.” I replied, nodding robotically.  “Sure.  Sure.”

“You okay honey?  You look a little pale.”  Shannon got up to get me a glass of water and I tried to calm myself down.

I think skydiving is one of those things that everyone considers for at least a moment or two.  It’s a thrill that you might feel 100% capable of or interested in when you’re sitting, say, at a bar or a restaurant in the middle of New York City in the dark depth of winter.  But here it was on the table for real. 

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sanfranciscocablecars.jpg The trouble with San Francisco is that there are way too many fabulous places to eat. Regardless of how much over-eating a person chooses to do, enjoying more than 3 meals a day may be the digestive limit. Just two days in which to eat in the city by the bay upped the ante for my family. Our weekend in San Francisco was to visit with our adult children. What a difference from those early years when only a small selection of beige foods would cross the little lips of our youngest. Now he’s 6’5”, so that early limited palate clearly didn’t stunt the kid’s growth. He and I plotted for months about where to eat, and at first we thought we’d go to one of the recent James Beard award winners, but all were booked four months in advance. How frustrating. But the depth of eating possibilities in the city and beyond left no time for sulking. Rock, paper, scissors, and plans were made.

On this perfect Saturday, we started the day at Tartine, the fabled bakery. A long line of hungry eaters surrounds Tartine every morning and evening, so we planned our arrival at the opening bell. Long lines in that neighborhood are pretty common because there’s such an abundance of good eating in so many places. If you are in the Castro/Mission area of San Francisco, just cruise the streets and jump into a line spinning out of one or another of the local food joints, and you’ll be well-fed.

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dinosaur1When my sons were young, we loved to read dinosaur books. They turned the pages pointing at the scary tyrannosaurs rex attacking a hapless three-horned triceratops or a silly looking long necked brontosaurus eating the leaves off a tall tree.

Wide-eyed, they asked the obvious question, "Are dinosaurs real?"

Those oddly shaped monsters didn't look like the lions, tigers, elephants and zebras we saw at the zoo. Without the fossil record, nobody would believe dinosaurs ever existed. Recently I was offered a tour of dinosaur sites in Utah, one of the best places on earth of view the fossil record. I jumped at the chance.

My journey back in time began with a trip to the Natural History Museum on the campus of the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. Opened in 2011, the stone colored building is built into the hillside as though it were an ancient creature only half-excavated. The museum focuses on the history of Utah so the creatures and artifacts on display came from excavations in nearby areas. Studies of the earth (geology) and long dead animals and plants (paleontology) can be difficult to understand.

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