F is for French and Flemish

Français—French.

Vlaams—Flemish.

Phlegm—phlegmish?

The United States has one official language (English), Canada has two (English and French) and Belgium has three official languages (French, Flemish and German). Meanwhile Phlegmish is only spoken by me when I have a bad cold.

Belgium is a young nation in a very old country. Over 2,000 years ago Celtic and Germanic tribes—including the Belgae—lived on lands between the Rhine River and the English Channel. When Julius Caesar arrived in Gaul and its surrounding territories he ordered his Roman soldiers to conquer the native tribes and fold their lands into the Roman Empire. Most of the Gaulish tribes capitulated quickly, but one Germanic tribe—the Belgae—fought long and fierce against the Romans. This fact frustrated Caesar while also earning his respect. In his book Conquest of Gaul, Caesar claimed: “Of all the Gauls, the Belgae are the bravest.” He also said: “They make the best chocolate.”

Eventually in 57 BC the Belgae capitulated to the well-trained Roman army and became part of the vast Roman Empire. In greater Gaul—including the southern lands of the Belgae—the Romans introduced roads, bridges and Latin. Eventually this Latin morphed into the French language. In the northern part of the Belgae’s lands, the population continued speaking Germanic languages which grew into Flemish. Flemish is very similar to the Dutch language as both share the same grammar and syntax. The differences that exist between the two lie in some vocabulary and accent. In other words, Flemish is to Dutch as American English is to British English. They are mutually comprehensible minus a “lorry” (truck), “lift” (elevator) and the Cockney accent. While Americans say we speak English not “American”, Flemish people living in Flanders prefer saying they speak Flemish not Dutch.

Running south of Brussels, an east-west language border, bisects the country into Flemish speakers in the northern part of Flanders, French speakers in the southern part of Wallonia and chocolate eaters everywhere in between.

Until 1794, both Flemish and French were spoken in this area. When Napoleon invaded and conquered Flanders and Wallonia he made only French the language of government, administration and the universities. Thirty-four years later when Belgium became an independent country with a king of its own, French was further established as the language of the aristocracy, the judicial courts, culture, the press, ranking military officers and the Belgian constitution. Strange but true: in a country with two languages, the country’s constitution was only written in one of them. Taken together these reforms effectively made Flemish a second-class language and discriminated against Flemish speakers.

There is a story from during World War I, when Belgian forces met German troops. The French-speaking Belgian officers ordered their troops to retreat, but unable to understand the French words, the Flemish-speaking soldiers instead attacked the Germans. It was a massacre. Unfortunately, that incident reoccurred several times during that war. 

After World War I and through the Treaty of Versailles, a small region of western Germany became part of eastern Belgium. To this day, some 80,000 residents of this area still speak German. Language traditions are hard to break. Just ask Caesar.

It was only in the freedom-loving, open-minded 1960s, that Flemish people won rights for their native language including: having the Belgian constitution written in Flemish, being able to attend schools and universities in Flemish and running for government office in Flemish. Likewise, it was just in 1991 that the Belgian constitution was translated into German.

Debates over Flemish and French—and which language to use where—have threatened the fabric of the nation because people become passionate when others limit their language use and by extension, limit them. Remember what Caesar said: The Belgae are fighters.

Today Belgium has a population of 10 million people, 56% of whom speak Flemish; 38% speak French; and 1% speak German. In Belgium this official language business means that in each region—Flanders, Wallonia and the German-speaking region—the laws, education and all government business must be conducted in the language of the region. This makes for many official languages for such a small nation. But then it’s important to remember that the languages existed before the nation. 

It’s also good to remember what else Caesar said about the Belgae: “They make the best chocolate.”

E is for the Eleven City Tour

Hans and Gretel Brinker did it.
In Sochi, the Dutch Olympic Team did it.
In 1997, 15,000 Dutch people did it.
I’m not talking “whoopee”, but speed skating on ice.

From Amsterdam to Zutphen, the Dutch love outdoor skating. Lucky for them, their flat country paired with a cold winter climate and ice-covered landscape provides the perfect venue for ice skating. The straight, narrow canals offer long stretches of frozen skating surfaces that indoor rinks simply cannot compare with.

As an American kid growing up in the Midwestern part of the United States, I learned to ice skate outdoors on the frozen river that ran through my grandparents’ farm. Skating surfaces outdoors are unique because they can have bumps, ridges and tree trunks sticking out of them. Speaking from my experience, there is no greater winter thrill than skating outdoors among the pastures, trees and my crazy, hockey stick-wielding cousins. No greater thrill that is, except the Eleven City Tour.

The Eleven City Tour—Elfstedentocht in Dutch—is an outdoor skating race that takes place in Friesland, the northern-most province of the Netherlands. The tour begins in Leeuwarden and winds through 10 more cities before skaters return to Leeuwarden to cross the finish line. The route is 199 kilometers long and speed skaters begin first, with leisure skaters following. The maximum number of people who can participate on the ice of an Elfstedentocht is 16,000.

That said, the Elfstedentocht only can take place if: 1) The ice thickness in all the canals of the eleven cities measures 15 centimeters; 2) Two people will skate; and 3) There are 16 million people willing to cheer them on. Participants receive a “Tour Passport” and as they enter each city their passport must receive that city’s stamp proving that the holders skated there and didn’t fly in on their magic brooms.

Once the ice is determined to be thick enough, the race is called to take place 48 hours later. However because of the strict ice requirements, the Elfstedentocht has only taken place 15 times since its inaugural race in 1909.

The last time the Eleven City Tour took place I spent it in the comfort of a house party with my Dutch pal Benny and some other Dutch friends. As the ultimate host, Benny sent out invitations, served oliebollen (a type of deep-fried Dutch doughnut) and screamed every time the TV showed clips of thousand of skaters on the ice. He—like all the Dutch partiers—was in ecstasy. Yes, the tour takes place in Friesland and sometimes just once every 20 years, but when it happens the entire country participates in the excitement. This unique national event binds Netherlanders together and celebrates the joy of being Dutch. Or as Benny says “YAAAAAAAAAAAH!” 

In 2012 organizers thought the ice would be thick enough to have another Elfstedentocht. While the canals in the northern cities measured the requisite 15 centimeters, the ice in the southern cities measured less than five centimeters and therefore deemed unsafe. The tour did not take place in 2012, or last year, or this year.

But next year brings another winter and chance for an Elfstedentocht and if it happens, I’d love to participate with my skates. Of course if I wanted to win I’d have to have all my crazy, hockey stick-wielding cousins chase me the whole way. Hmmm, maybe next year…

D is for Diamonds

A kiss on the hand may be quite continental but

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

Square-cut or pear-shaped.

These rocks don’t lose their shape.

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

Tiffany’s Cartier! Black Starr

Belgium—

Belgium?!

It sounds ludicrous but this small country of two parts, three languages and beaucoup rain is the place to go for diamonds. That’s right. If a girl likes diamonds—and what girl in her right mind doesn’t?—you have to hightail it to Antwerp, Belgium. 

I did… Sort of. 

I was sent to Antwerp on a scholarship to study language and literature and while I was there, I became enamored with diamonds. Any girl in my shoes would have—at least any girl in her right mind would have. 

The city of Antwerp is located in the northern part of of Belgium near the border with The Netherlands. Some 2,000 years ago Antwerp was founded by the Romans on the banks of the Schelde River. There’s a popular origin myth story about the city stating that sometime during the 2nd to 4th centuries a giant ogre lived on the banks of the Schelde—as giant ogres are wont to do—and said giant charged a high toll of anyone who wished to ferry across the river. When travelers could not pay his fee, he cut off their hands and tossed them into the river. Frustrated at this ogre’s behavior, Brabo a young Roman man, refused to pay and in turn cut off the ogre’s hand and threw it into the river. (It’s a very big river that accommodates mucho severed hands.) And hence the name of the city: Hand-Twerpen, which translates as “hand thrower”. 

None of this information has anything to do with diamonds… except the Schelde, which is a wide river draining to the North Sea. Its width and depth meant large ships traversing the sea or the Atlantic Ocean could then sail down the river to the port of Antwerp and deposit their goods for sale right in the city. For centuries Antwerp has been one of the world’s busiest ports with the best origin myth about how it got its name. Even today Antwerp is the 15th largest port in the world, the third largest in Europe, and larger than the Port of Los Angeles, California—no joke!

When diamonds were found in India, and later in Africa, the uncut diamonds were brought to Europe to be cut, polished and sold. Since the 15th century Antwerp’s safe, accessible harbor paired with its wealthy population made the city a favored place for diamonds and the girls who loved them. 

I fit right in.

While exploring Antwerp’s Diamond District I discovered it encompasses just one square mile near Antwerp’s Central Train Station. The street leading to the station is sprinkled with jewelry stores whose window displays are full of diamond rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, broaches, pins, hair clips, tie clips, money clips. Basically if you have it, they can cover it in diamonds. 

While these stores welcomed visitors, what I really longed for was to see the Diamond Quarter’s professionals—known as diamantaires—buying, selling, cutting and polishing the stones. These are the people who determine the 4Cs: Carat, Cut, Color and Clarity. Unfortunately for me most of that work was done in safe buildings, behind closed doors by a small number of diamantaires who were wary of girls who loved diamonds. Most diamantaires entered the diamond trade because their families had been in the industry for generations. In fact, a large number of diamantaires are Hasidic Jews and Indians from the sub-continent.

During my time studying in Antwerp, I never got to see a diamond being cut, polished or prepared for its setting. But I did make a friend. We are very close. She has many facets I like, is sparkly and looks great in my ears. I call her “earrings” and I love her. I’ll never forget where I found her: Antwerp, Belgium.  

Oh, Diamonds! Diamonds! 

I don’t mean rhinestones!

But, Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

C is for Canal

"Another day in Amsterdam," I sang over my breakfast croissant.

"I want to take you to a coffeeshop!" Benny said downing another cup of coffee. 

"You've already had six cups and it's not even 9 AM."

"Dutch coffeeshops sell coffee, food and pot."

"I don't need anymore food."

"Maybe you want some pot?"

Dutch society is famous for being tolerant. The coffeeshops in Amsterdam, as in all of The Netherlands, sell coffee, sandwiches and cannabis, the sale of which is tolerated by the Dutch authorities. The cops wouldn't tolerate huge sales of marijuana but they will small amounts for personal consumption. Across the table Benny was dressed in his jeans, walking shoes and a tank top. He was ready to show me Amsterdam.

"What do you say?" Benny said bouncing in his chair. The bouncing was either due to his excitement or the liters of caffeine now coursing through his veins. "Want to see a coffeehop?"
"No, thanks," I shrugged.
"What?!"
"In California pot is legal. I'd rather see something I can't see in my hometown."
Benny scratched his head. "Want so see the Red-Light Disrict--" I looked at him. "My guy friends love seeing it."
"Is there anything else to see here?"
"There's so much--!"
"Let's start with one thing."
"The... canals?" I nodded.

We boarded on a canal tour boat, ordered two glasses of wine and from the deck of of the boat passed through the canals of Amsterdam. The sunshine, the watery canals the wine, laughing with my friend  the day was beautiful, unique and very un-California. I toasted to Benny's city, its relaxed way of life and its fabulous canals.

"To another day in Amsterdam!"

B is for Brussels

“Bonjour,” I said turning my gaze from the beautiful buildings to the waiter standing over me.

“Bonjour mademoiselle,” he replied sliding a menu before me.

 “Je prend un gateau chocolat.”

“Excellent.”

“Une bière.

“Excellent.”

“Et Jean-Claude Van Damme.”

Ah, Brussels! It’s not Amsterdam, in fact it isn’t even in the Netherlands but in Belgium, one of the Low Countries. Brussels brings to mind chocolate, beer and old buildings. It also makes me think of Brussels’ native son, Jean-Claude Van Damme—the “Muscles of Brussels”.

When you’re in Brussels you have to eat chocolate, drink beer, visit its treasure trove of 400 year-old buildings and see Jean-Claude Van Damme. Preferably all at the same time. And the spot to partake in these gastronomical, historical and pop culture pleasures is the Grand Place. Located in the heart of the city, this square dating back to the Middle Ages, is lined with buildings tipped in gold leaf and adorned with golden statues. Originally the houses lining this square were built as the headquarters for the guilds—such as the bread makers, beer makers, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. Today these buildings house museums, banks, chocolate shops, restaurants and cafes, which makes this the-place-to-be for chocolate, beer, old buildings (and potential) Van Damme sightings.

While living in Brussels I made a habit of going to this square for this double-double whammy extravaganza. Sitting outside at a cafe with a view of these grand old buildings I would eat countless Neuhaus chocolates and drink 436 different types of Belgian beer. (I went there a lot.) And although I always had my eye out for  J-CVD, I never did see the Muscles of Brussels.

Which meant I had to find a new cafe game. I did of course and called it the “Language Lip Pucker”. 

Before I explain the rules, first some background: Brussels is the capital city of the country of Belgium which lies between The Netherlands, France and Germany. The northern half of Belgium speaks Flemish (a form of Dutch), the southern part speaks French and along the border with Germany, a small group speaks German. As the capital city of two major and very different language groups, Brussels became an officially bilingual city speaking both Flemish and French. This means that street signs, buildings and menus are all written in both Flemish and French. Even the Grand Place has two names: In Flemish it’s called De Grote Markt, while in French it’s called La Grand’ Place.

In addition, Brussels is also the the capital city of the European Union, which has its own government buildings and the European Parliament in Brussels. As the lingua franca of the western world, English is widely spoken in EU offices and throughout Brussels. This means that when you go for drinks at the Grand Place, the local cafe or bowling alley you can order in English. Pretty much. 

This all boils down to the fact that in Brussels you can speak in three different languages and most people will understand you—pretty much.

With so many languages spoken in a city the size of four football fields, the protocol is for the customer to speak first—in Flemish, French or English. And depending on which language the customer speaks in—Flemish, French or English—the waiter, worker or employee must respond in the same language.

Now to my “Language Lip Pucker” game, which is the prefect cafe game to play in Brussels. First, I go to a cafe and address the waiter in English, which according to protocol means he must respond in English. 

When he returns to take my order, I speak to him in French—this language switch-a-roo throws him for a loop because in his mind he had pegged me as a dumb American. But now! He sees I’m a dumb person speaking French! I got him! Then he switches to French to say: “Bon, excellent, oui,” then off he goes to the kitchen to complain of the bilingual person at table 8.

When he delivers my meal and/or drink, I continue in French. Which is all charming, ha-ha, formidable! But wait for it. When I’m finished and want the check, I call him over and ask for it in Flemish. At this point his face is directed at me and I get so see the lips of his mouth press together and push out in a big fish-lips pucker. He doesn’t want to kiss me. Au contraire! Instead this Belgian waiter is thinking and perhaps a bit confused by me because the fish-lip pucker is what all Belgians do when they are thinking or confused. 

What exactly is he thinking?: “This person speaks English and French but is even dumber in Flemish!”

But all of that is worth it to see the “Lip Pucker”, which only switching languages can cause. Don’t knock the game before you try it! Besides, there is no other city in Western Europe where you can play this cafe game. So the next time you’re in Brussels use your English, French and Flemish and have some language fun. It’s the next best thing to seeing Jean-Claude Van Damme on the Grand Place—pretty much. 

A is for Amsterdam

“I’m in Amsterdam!” I said walking a busy thoroughfare in that city.

“Yes!” my Dutch friend said beside me rolling a suitcase.

“Look at the buildings!”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen anything like them!”

“Yes…”

“I feel like I’m on Sesame Street!”

“Ye—?”

Doing anything for the first time is exciting, liberating and perhaps a tad bit frightening. And visiting a foreign country for the first time is all this and more because it is often done in a language you don’t know, in a time zone you need to adjust to and with food you’ve never seen, not to mention wouldn’t put near your mouth. Yes, Scotland’s Haggis, I’m talking about you.

Luckily I was not in the land of the Scots but in Amsterdam, the economic and cultural capital city of the country of The Netherlands. I’d come from the U.S. to visit my Dutch friend Benny, and since this was his hometown, he took it upon himself to show me around. Benny was tall, thin and on this day wearing a faux red fur jacket that looked like he was being hugged by Sesame Street’s Elmo muppet. 

“800 years ago,” Benny said in a loud tour-guide voice. “The city was built on a dam of the Amstel River, which is why it became ‘Amsterdam’. Get it?” I did. Looking around, the dam explained all the water and canals that surrounded and crisscrossed the city. To me, a city inundated by so much water seemed foreign and charming. It also made me want to call FEMA. 

Together we visited the sights: The Van Gogh Museum, The Anne Frank House, the Royal Palace on Dam Square, the Rijksmuseum, the Red-Light District and the coffee shops that sold cannabis. Benny knew all the good places.

What I found more interesting was the architecture of the city’s houses. In the central part of Amsterdam hundreds of homes—some 400 years old—were built of a dark red or brown brick with decorative—but very narrow—facades. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. It made me think all Dutch people were 7 feet tall and 3 inches wide.

Benny explained that the houses were so narrow because the home builders—the wealthy merchants—wanted to live in Amsterdam’s most prestigious locations on the chicest canals, therefore to accommodate as many people as possible, home facades were limited in their width by a tax. Although the houses were allowed to extend their length as far back as the Stone Age. The depth of Amsterdam’s houses is one reason Anne Frank and her family could live in hiding during World War II in the back part of a house—far from the canals and streets. Fascinating.

While these unusual homes were intriguing in their differences from buildings I’d seen elsewhere, I also had the feeling I’d seen these houses before. Walking along the facades of all those Amsterdam houses gave me a comfortable feeling, as if I’d ben there before. As if I were with Sesame Street’s Elmo. And I didn’t mean Benny in his jacket. Unusual houses that were familiar: it was an odd dichotomy. But then traveling can be odd. And things are odd until they are understood. Wearing a Sesame Street Elmo jacket is never odd.

Then it hit me—actually I tripped over it—the stoop! In case your language is not up to speed on 17th century architectural features, a stoop consists of the stone steps found outside a house or building that lead to a platform that stops at the front door. Stoops were built for old Amsterdam homes, which put the entrance to the home several feet above the canal levels, thus preventing the houses from being flooded. Some houses also had a second entrance beside the stoop which was accessed by descending several steps to a lower level. In these older homes this basement area was where the kitchen and pantry were located. Today they’re rented out as separate apartments to people like Benny.

Except for their smaller size, these Amsterdam stoops looked just like stoops in so many of New York City’s Brownstone apartments. Then it hit me—metaphorically—I remembered how Dutch settlers had founded New York. Indeed, before New York City was New York City, it was called New Amsterdam after the Dutch’s most important city—and for some 25 years NAC it was part of New Netherland in present-day Manhattan. In the 1620s the Dutch created a settlement at the southern tip of the island and built a wall along the sea, which is today’s Wall Street. The Dutch came to America with their stoops in tow.

Now over 400 years later most buildings in New York City have stoops, including the one at 123 Sesame Street where Maria, Bob and Big Bird hang out. Ah, Amsterdam it has its share of foreign things:—the Sex Museum?!—and familiar things—stoops. Now I know what made me think of Sesame Street: the stoops of Amsterdam. That and Benny’s red Elmo jacket.

April Vacation

Vacations recharge the batteries, give fresh perspectives and are crazy fun!

For these and so many other reasons, my New House Girl Blog--about fixing up a house in Los Angeles while living in it--will be taking a vacation for 30 days. 

During the month of April I'll be blogging about my travels to Belgium and The Netherlands! These two countries, collectively known as "The Low Countries" because some of their lands are below sea, provide good comedy and uh, high times. 

I hope you'll join me on my April vacation!

Punch a Hole In It

“That was delicious,” I said laying my fork and knife across my empty dinner plate.

“Yes,” Mr. Wonderful said gazing at the overhead lamp.

“I love cooking in our kitchen.”

“Yes.”

“In fact I love everything about our kitchen!”

“Want to punch a hole in the ceiling?”

In most relationships when I spoke to someone they listened and spoke back to me on that same subject. Because when the tables were turned and someone else addressed me on a particular subject they expected—and I complied—to respond to them on the same topic that they’d initiated. However after countless hours of field research and several years of committed study, I’d discovered that these normal rules of interpersonal, human communications practiced by billions of people around the world were lacking in the man I promised to love, cherish and talk & listen to… until death do us part. 

As a scientific person who relied on facts, I had collected numerous examples of our odd communications. Recently I told him, “I had a great meeting today.”

Mr. Wonderful replied, “The kitchen is too hot.” Since he changed the subject from my “good meeting”, I switched to his topic of “the hot kitchen”.

“If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” I said with a grin. 

“The lamps are all wrong,” he mumbled then beelined for the tool shed.

It’s hard enough talking to men but talking to one who wasn’t even in the same galaxy of my conversation was becoming increasingly difficult. To be fair to Mr. Wonderful, it didn’t happen all the time, just every time we were in the house, out of the house or together. 

Clearly something was brewing in his head and I thought if he would just talk to me about it I would understand what he was pondering and we could talk about it together. So when he finally addressed me over dinner with the question of, “Want to punch a hole in the ceiling?” I was in shock for several reasons: 1) He wanted to punch a hole in our redone kitchen ceiling; 2) He was talking to me! and 3) He wanted to punch a hole in our redone kitchen ceiling?!

I’m a fair minded person. In fact I’m sure that King Solomon himself, the fairest judge in ancient Israel, would totally agree with me on this point: My spouse was off his rocker. Mess up our lovely kitchen, which we had lovingly redone and that I totally loved by punching holes in the ceiling?! 

I stayed on topic and responded to my dear spouse, “No way!”

Mr. Wonderful proceeded to tell me he’d done oodles of research and discovered that LED lights were the coolest lamp option for a kitchen which meant that when they were on they would not contribute to the heat of the kitchen, thereby relieving us from leaving the hot kitchen—ever again. Also, LED light were highly efficient using just a fraction of the wattage of traditional bulbs or even the curly fluorescent ones. But I still balked. None of these features could convince me to make a disaster zone of my fabulous kitchen.

“I can put the LEDs on a dimmer,” he said.

“Yes way!” we shared a fist bump.

“I’m glad we talked & listened to each other about this,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“To get a saw to punch a hole in the ceiling,” I mumbled beelining for the tool shed.

As a scientific person, in my mind the most important fact about dimmable LED lights was: they looked cool!

Farmer's Market--California Style

Another Sunday, another trip to the Market. I love going to the Farmer's Market in Los Angeles.

It has:

And: 

And:

Plus, all the produce is:

 Long live fresh food!

A Helping Hand

“Your… ‘garden’ is looking good,” my 86 year-old neighbor said adjusting his glasses.

“Thanks, Harold,” I said smiling while gazing at my blooming Lantana, Lavender and Verbena lilacina.

“Lots of colors.”

“Hmmm,” I said looking at the yellow blooms of the Aloe, the orange California Poppies and the red Salvia.  

“And such weird plants.”

Hmmm?

In Southern California we had a winter with so little rain and so much sun that we rolled from Christmas right into spring—before New Year’s. In my neighborhood, plants and trees have been blooming since Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. So although the calendar has finally declared it officially “spring” this announcement seems rather anti-climactic in our neck of the west. Spring sprang months ago. In fact we’re ready to hop right into summer—yesterday.

This was the first winter of our California native and drought tolerant garden. The plants soaked up moisture from the major rainstorm we got last month. In fact that was the reason they were looking so healthy and lush now. I spent a couple weekends trimming back the overgrowth and some dead from a fluke December freeze but then, my weeding work in the front garden was… finished. There might be more minimal pruning come summer but there won’t be any more planting and as for grass mowing? Zippo! With the hard work done all I had to do now was sit back and enjoy my garden’s beauty.

“Have you seen Harold’s yard?” I asked Mr. Wonderful early one Saturday morning.

“Huh?” Mr. Wonderful said through sleepy eyes.

“It’s a wasteland in the front and overrun with ivy in the back.”

“So?”

“What if we fix it up for him?”

“Who?”

“You and me.”

“Ask me after I’ve had a cup of coffee.”

I was so excited to help Harold remake his yard into the Garden of Eden I forgot it was only 6 AM on a no-work weekend. I prepped the espresso machine then bounded outside for the newspaper where I saw Harold’s spouse sweeping the front walk.

“Hi, Norma!”

“Morning, neighbor,” she said turning her sea blue eyes toward me. “Your garden is so beautiful. We like watching all the… unusual… plants grow.”

“Thanks. Hey, if you need any help with your garden—planting the front or weeding the back—just let me know. I’d love to lend a helping hand.”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“You don’t have to answer now.”

“No, thanks.”

“Think about it.” 

“No, thanks,” she said storing the broom and retreating inside her house.

I returned to the kitchen scratching my head. 

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Wonderful said setting down an empty espresso cup.

“Maybe you should ask Harold if he wants us to help him with caring for their yard.”

“If he wants something, he’ll ask us.”

“Harold is from a different century,” I said explaining how Harold helped everyone else but would rather swim shark-infested waters in Antarctica without a wetsuit than ask us for help. Mr. Wonderful nodded.

“You do have a point.”

Later that day Mr. Wonderful and I were playing a game of Pétanque when Harold moseyed out to collect his flag. 

“Now!” I elbowed my spouse. Together we approached Harold. “Hi, neighbor,” I said smiling.

“Hi?” he said shifting his gaze from me to my spouse then back again. He looked like a mouse cornered by two ferocious tigers.  

“Say, Harold—” Mr. Wonderful began.

“If you want to borrow my green bin, go ahead.”

“We don’t, thank you,” I said then gave my spouse “the look”, which said: speak now or forever hold our peace.

“Harold, you help us all the time so we’d like to return the favor,” Mr. Wonderful said. “If you want us—or just me—to help plant some things in your front yard or weed the backyard, just say the word, we’d be happy to lend a helping hand.”

“Oh, no thanks,” Harold said folding up his flag.

“You don’t have to answer now.”

“No, thanks.”

“Think about it.” 

“No, thanks,” he said escaping to the safety of his house. 

It was so strange. Two people who clearly liked our garden but flat-out refused our help. Why? Were they just being polite? Did they really dislike the idea of depending on us that much? Or did they just say they “liked” our garden but deep down hated the “unusual and weird” looking native plants? I longed to know but they weren’t talking.

Before we could return to our Pétanque game, a car pulled into our neighbors’ driveway. A blond woman rang the doorbell and was greeted with hugs from Harold and Norma. The next day when I retrieved the paper, I saw the blond woman planting pansies in the front flower beds under my 86 year-old neighbor’s watchful gaze. 

“Hey, Harold. You have a helping hand today.” 

“My daughter,” he said. I shook Peggy’s bare hand covered in potting soil. She had a firm grip and friendly smile.

“Your garden is so beautiful,” she said. “I love the Verbena lilacina.” She knew our natives? By name?! I liked her—immediately!

“No lollygagging,” Harold told me. “After this Peggy has to rip out the ivy in the backyard.”

I nodded and left them to their work. Sneaking a look over my shoulder, I saw Harold give his daughter not a helping hand—but a hug.

Evolution of a Chair

"Doesn't it look beautiful," I said to lifting the chair out of the convertible.
"Yes," Mr. Wonderful said smiling in the driveway.
"The new fabric makes it pop!"
"Yes."
"I can't wait to sit in it!"
"You and someone else..."

I didn't have time to contemplate who he was talking about. But yes, not only did my spouse and I fix up The House, the Guesthouse and the backyard birdhouse, we even fixed up some of our furniture. There are few joys like taking an old piece of furniture, reupholstering it and making it a new piece of furniture.

The chair in question was given to me by a friend whose mother had gotten it at a Hollywood garage sale some years ago. It had a metal frame and was covered in a faded brown vinyl fabric. Why would someone cover a chair in vinyl? My friend's mom paid $45 for the secondhand piece and estimated that it dated to the 1950s or even late 1940s. Since she never used the chair, she gave it to her daughter who felt the same way about it and gave it to me. I loved the lines on it and had a vision of what I wanted. I drove to Downtown Los Angeles where fabric stores are as plentiful as sand on Long Beach and within 10 minutes I found the fabric: A western theme in red, blue and white wool.

The upholsterer did an excellent job removing the vinyl back and seat and recovering it with the western fabric. The whole chair really popped! I sat on it. Firm, functional and beautiful. I loved it!

Some evolutions happen quickly. My chair evolved from a garage sale find to a conversation piece overnight! 

After work I met my friend for coffee to thank her for the chair and tell her how well it turned out. She was gracious saying how happy she was that I enjoyed it so much.

When I got home that night Mr. Wonderful met me at the door. 

"You have to see where the cat is." He led me to the room with my gorgeous western chair and there was our feline. Lounging on it, fur all over it, exposed claws which had been sharpened on it.

My heart sank.

"My chair! But I love sitting in it!"

"I told you you wouldn't be the only one."

Evolutions are slow: Neanderthals evolved into homo sapiens over thousands of years. 

I evolved from a wine novice to a knowing wine drinker in a couple years. 

My chair evolved from garage sale find to conversation piece to cat scratcher in one weekend! 

If I'd had a firmer fabric maybe Jackson wouldn't have attacked my chair. Or may he would have. There's only one thing I know for certain: next time I recover that chair it's going to be in vinyl!

Thanks, Book Soup!

A local bookstore.
Some reading.
A glass of wine.

These are the ingredients for a wonderful author's day. Yesterday I had a book reading and signing of my book EVOLUTION OF A WINE DRINKER at Book Soup, a beautiful, smart local bookstore. The event was fun, funny and thrilling!

The bookstore staff was helpful. Thanks, Molly!

The bookstore tweeter was busy. Thanks, Dan! 

The audience asked questions! Thank you, audience!

Afterwards we celebrated with glasses of white wine and rosé.

The bonus: no one fell asleep. Major score!

It was a very good day author's day. So good in fact I'm going to remember that recipe and make that type of day again soon!

Book Soup!

I like books.

I like soup.

But I love Book Soup!

Today I'm having a book event at West Hollywood's famous bookstore, Book Soup!

Nestled between the Sunset Strip's oversized movie billboards, Gordon Ramsay's Restaurant at the London Hotel and The Viper Room is this wonderful local bookstore.

I'll be reading and signing books starting at 4 PM. I hope to see you there!

P.S. There's parking behind the store!

Curling Class

“I love watching the Winter Olympics,” I said sitting on the sofa sipping a blueberry smoothie.

“Is that guy a referee?” Mr. Wonderful said indicating a man on TV wearing crazy-patterned pants. 

“He’s an athlete.”

“For what sport?”

“Curling.”

“That’s not a sport.”

The Winter Olympics is an exciting time: there are tense hockey games, intense figure skating competitions and countless relaxed discussions over beer of how curling is not a sport. The dissenters’ proof: the pants. They contend that no sport on earth condones wearing such colorful pants. But come now: if the Olympic Committee decided that sliding a 42-pound granite rock across ice is a sport, then it’s a sport… Kind of.

As far as curling goes, I was one of the supporters of the sport and Mr. Wonderful, well, he was one of the dissenters. To settle our “is it a sport or isn’t it” discussion I signed us up for a curling how-to class. Mr. Wonderful was nonplussed.

“Why?” he said 

“Because it will be fun.”

“Whose idea of fun?”

We brought a friend to be an impartial third party representative and off we went to the ice. I live in Southern California and last year we had 736 days of sun; in short, this area of the world hasn’t seen ice since the Pleistocene Epoch. Unless of course you count my smoothie, homemade lemonade or gin and tonic on the rocks. Nevertheless this great City of the Angels has pebble ice, a rink and several curling leagues.

Our curling instructor greeted us—and for the record she was not wearing a pair of crazy-patterned pants—instead she wore a crazy-patterned skirt. After lots of talk about what constitutes a team (four people); what to call the team captain ("The Skip"); and how to push a broom (it’s called “sweeping”), we were allowed to get into position and push the curling stone around on the ice. FYI: 42 pounds of granite slides pretty well on ice. But the trick is not to slide the stone in a straight line from A to B but to make it curl around and around and around and still go in a straight line so that it lands in a bullseye circle at the other end of the rink.

Let me tell you, it’s harder than it looks.

Another thing about curling, the curler slides over the ice and the force of the human body in motion propels the curling stone forward. But you can’t just slide with two legs over the ice. Oh, no! you have to crouch into a starting block, push off with your foot and slide across the ice with one knee bent and the other leg dragging on the ice in a scene reminiscent of Bambi swirling out of control on the frozen lake.

So, curling’s harder than it looks.

Finally once you have the curling and the slide down, you have to carry a broom that you will never use. Yes, as you’re sliding across the ice dragging half your body behind you and pushing a rock 1/3 your body weight, you have to hold a broom in your other hand like a drum majorette in the college marching band during the halftime show at the Rose Bowl. Can you say multitasking?

This sport is way harder than it looks!

Our friend threw a curling stone and Mr. Wonderful and I swept a warm, flat path for the stone to make it to the circle area to score a point. Then while Mr. Wonderful and our friend swept, I threw a stone. The curling coach raved about my form, how I slid across the ice dragging a leg and balancing a broom with the greatest of ease. People stopped, stared and applauded the beauty of my form. Already I loved this sport! 

There was just one little, itty-bitty problem: my stone didn’t make it to the bullseye to score a point. In fact it didn’t even make it to the general vicinity of scoring a point. Actually when I threw my stone, it flew backwards and out the rink’s front door. Which meant that after I threw the stone it was farther way from the scoring target than before I’d touched it. What idiot said this was a sport?! 

Then it was Mr. Wonderful’s turn. He folded himself awkwardly into the minuscule starting block, he pushed off with a wobble looking like he would topple over any moment like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and his face was marked with a grimace that revealed how much pain his knees were in. I could hear him now berating the sport of curli—

Then something incredible happened: he let go of his curling stone and it slid forward toward the scoring target all the while it was curling around and around and around. He was doing it! His stone approached the wide scoring circle then slowed to a stop right in the middle of the bullseye! He scored! I leaped up and gave him high five. He nodded, a slight lift affecting his lips not a full fledged smile, mind you, but a tiny, partial one. 

Then our threesome played the other team and—incredibly!—Mr. Wonderful did the same thing all over! He scored. Again and again! I also threw some more stones and did the same thing of exhibiting beautiful form and making lousy—okay, zero!—scored points. Through it all we laughed and marveled at Mr. Wonderful’s ungraceful way of getting the stone from his grip to the target’s bullseye. In the end he scored all of our team’s points and single handedly crushed the competition. In short, he was wonderful! After the game we caught our breath on the ice.

“You were right,” Mr. Wonderful said. “This is athletic and challenging—curling is a sport.” Our friend nodded in agreement. 

“Thank you,” I said smiling at them having finally seen things my way.

“You know, I really liked this,” Mr Wonderful said jutting his chin toward the ice and the curling stones.

“We won thanks to you,” I said giving him a fist bump.

“I mean, let’s do this again tomorrow,” Mr. Wonderful said grinning.

“Why?” I said 

“Because it was so fun.”

“Uh, whose idea of fun?”

In sports, like life, it's not what you look like, it's who scores the most points. Clearly scoring and winning had made a curling fan of Mr. Wonderful. Now he liked it because he excelled at it. Hmmm… Maybe I should lobby the Olympic Committee for the Summer Games in Rio de Janeiro to make Pétanque an Olympic sport…! 

New Olympic Sports

Ted Ligety’s gold medal in alpine skiing.

Dave Wise’s gold medal in freestyle skiing.

Jamie Anderson’s gold medal in slopestyle. 

Slopestyle?!

What’s slopestyle?! All I know is it’s a new event in this year’s Winter Olympics! And since Jamie Anderson won the women’s event and Sage Kotsenburg won the gold in the men’s slopetyle it’s something worth cheering about. U-S-A! Hooray!

While millions of couch potatoes watch the world’s finest athletes perform incredible feats in Sochi, my neighbors have proven that they too have been bitten by Sochi’s Olympic bug. Here are the sports my suburban California neighbors have been performing—and excelling at:

Every day of these Olympics Harold has been raising the US flag on his flagpole in less than 10 seconds. His personal best is 8.0 seconds flat.

In the past 10 days Norma has cooked on the grill 14 different cuts of beef—burgers, steaks and ribs—and all of them smelled delicious.

Gary has sprayed his 101 roses, hitting every single bush right on target. His aim is outstanding.

After getting home from work, Charles has chatted to everyone on the block in less than two hours.

Stephen has pruned their citrus trees into Dr. Seus-like specimens. That citrus triathlon event is tricky because trimming a lemon tree is uniquely different from trimming an orange tree or a grapefruit. Grapefruits are notoriously challenging!  

Mr. Wonderful has spent 47 hours trolling the home improvement store for supplies for his next DIY project.

Jackson the cat has slept for 1,096 hours straight. In fact he fell asleep during the opening ceremonies and hasn’t awakened since. Every day I lean down and check his heartbeat. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jackson is going for the gold!

And me? Well I’ve been perfecting two events: 1) Trimming the front and back gardens and 2) Watching—like a couch potato—all the events of the Olympics and my neighbors. And I’ve made a decision: for the next Winter Games in South Korea, perhaps the Olympic Committee will consider adding my neighbors’ events.  

Imagine: Harold winning the gold for raising the flag! Hey, I’d watch that! U-S-A! Hooray!

The Love Day

She was sad she was single today.

She was blue she didn't have plans this evening.

She was depressed she was not getting lucky tonight.

Why? Because it's Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day: the day rational people put totally irrational pressure on themselves to have the perfect love, lover and lovely dinner with flour-less chocolate cake and French vanilla ice cream with zero calories. My normally rational friend was having a serious melt-down about being single and very free on Valentine's night. For some reason she thought that I, a married woman, was going to have the most romantic day--and night!--ever because my husband was going to give me a bouquet of roses, a box of chocolates and six heart-shaped balloons that said "U R gr8t 4 me".

Beth got some things right: I am married, I am a woman and I have a husband. She also had several things wrong, namely if my spouse wanted to tell me how he feels, he should use big person words--not emoticons and text talk.

"I told my husband I didn't want a bouquet, chocolates or balloons," I said pumping my arms on a pre-breakfast walk around Lake Hollywood.

"You're crazy!" she said panting beside me. "Are you giving him anything?"

"I making him strawberries and cream for breakfast."

"That's so romantic!" 

"And instead of cut flowers we're going to buy some plants for the garden." 

"That's so lovely! You're making Valentine's Day about spending time together not about the stuff." I nodded.

"You can do the same thing, " I said.

"No one wants to be with me today. No one loves me." I stopped walking while the bluebirds kept swooping past us along the path, the azure water kept rippling from the soft breeze, which whispered through the pines under the warm rays of the sun.

"Am I no one?"

"What?" Beth said a wrinkle stamping her forehead.

"I'm here with you. I'm walking with you. I love you."

"I--," she laughed. "I mean, no guy loves me, no guy's going to give me roses or chocolates or balloon--"

"Valentine's Day isn't about the stuff," I said. "It's about spending time with someone you love." 

Beth's eyes grew large with realization as if she finally grasped what I was saying and what we were doing together here at Lake Hollywod at the crack of dawn.

"I love you, friend," she said flinging her arms around my neck.

Valentine's Day: the day rational people learn it's a day about celebrating love in all its guises: love for friends, family, dates, spouses and oneself. 

Here's wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day with all the people you love in your life!

Why Here?

"I'm finished," I said pushing dead branches into the green bin.
"It looks great," Mr. Wonderful said nodding his approval.

"Everything is trimmed, pruned and blooming."

"Very nice."

"Now when we look out the front door all we'll see are our beautiful plants--" 

Just then a stranger parked his car in front of our house.

It's not a crime. There's no way to control it but I'm putting out an APB: Hey Parkers, I didn't spend months killing my grass to replant it with native plants and succulents so random strangers could park their car--for days!--in from of my house thereby obstructing my gorgeous front garden view with your cars.

It was official. It had happened. I had become a grump... about cars. 

Don't get me wrong. I loved cars and living in Southern California where our roads are free of snow, ice, and salt & pepper the cars you can see are gorgeous specimens of the automobile species. Some are 25, 30, even 60 years old and outright classics.

There are Camaros in tip-top condition that make your head spin, pico bello Thunderbirds that make your heart soar and Mercedes SL 500s that make you weep with joy, appreciation and a pinch of envy. I love these cars and their thoughtful owners because they take care of their vehicles and everything around them.

But these are not the cars that park in front of my house. Oh, no! Instead I get a lot of modern BMWs whose owners smoke a pack of cigarettes and dump their butts on the street. I get Honda Accords operated by people who shouldn't operate a steering wheel because they're parked crooked and on my property. And I get the beaten up Toyotas with peeling paint and hanging mufflers that are parked in front of The House for days and days and daaaaays. 

I was a real grump... about cars.

Being passable at math I tallied the numbers and calculated that if every person in my neighborhood had one car they could park it in their driveways not the street. But oh no! This is America! Every person needs two or three cars. That's a 1:3 ratio! No wonder there were so many cars parked in front of my house!

I was a total grump... about cars!

After careful study worthy of a bi-partisan government commission's report, I noticed that the parking situation was especially bad on the weekends. Clearly the people in my neighborhood must go out an get lucky--a lot--because early on Saturday and Sundays mornings, the cars have multiplied and they are parked bumper to bumper in front of The House!

I was an absolute grump about cars!

"I don't see what the big deal is," my 86 year old neighbor said squinting in the sunshine. 

"Because Harold, I want to look at my garden, not their cars," I said brushing the windswept hair away from my face.

"I'd like people to park in front of my house but they rarely do."

"Because they're all parked in front my house!"

"You're lucky."

Lucky?! That isn't the word I'd use. But after reflection I guessed Harold wouldn't mind an extra car or two parked in front of his house because it would give him something to look at and contemplate in his retirement. After all, he was a member of the Neighborhood Watch, which meant he needed something in the neighborhood to watch. With nothing in front of his house, he was forced to watch the cars parked in front of The House that Mr. Wonderful and I shared. 

"Maybe Harold's right," Mr Wonderful said. "Maybe we should take it as a compliment that people want to park in front of our house."

Just then another stranger parked a car in front of our house. I rolled my eyes. 

"Here's we go again," I said. 

The woman locked her car, checked her parking job then turned to look at Harold, Mr. Wonderful and me in our driveway.

"What a pretty garden you have. I love it," she said smiling. "You don't mind if I park here?"

"Go ahead," I smiled back.

I was a total softie... about my garden.  

Sochi 2014!

I live in sunny California.

We've been experiencing a winter drought.

But I love curling!

I also love downhill skiing, cross country skiing and ice skiing. Nevertheless I won't be in Sochi this month to watch the 2014 Winter Olympics. In fact the closest I'll get to Russia in the present, near future or distant past is through the Russian readers of my blog. After the U.S.A, the country with the most numerous readers of my New House Girl blog is Russia. Who knew?

So I'd like to say привет (privet/"hello") and спасибо (spasibo/ "thank you")! Also, I send you kudos for a beautiful Sochi Opening Ceremony last night! I look forward to learning about your country in the coming weeks.  

Let the Games begin! Happy curling! Vodka!

Winter Garden: BEFORE and AFTER

Planting a summer garden is an exercise in patience. You plunk the little guys in the ground in the spring when all other plants dwarf the new vegetable plants. Then you have to wait until the Fourth of July or the fourth of August for one little tomato. 

However, planting a winter garden is a pleasant surprise because you put the itty bitty broccoli and rinky dinky kale in the ground in November when everything else is dormant, dead or a cactus. 

BEFORE:

Then POOFF! One day in January you notice how the broccoli plants are huge and are topped with gorgeous broccoli florets worthy of a dish made by locavore Alice Waters! Vegetables grown in my own backyard? "Eating local" doesn't get any more local that that!

AFTER:

I just wonder if I can wait a few more days to harvest the broccoli for a special heart-healthy dinner for Valentine's Day...

A Slippery Slope

"Look at that tree," I said as our car drove along California Route 46.
"Nice," Mr. Wonderful said at the steering wheel.
"Its foliage is beautiful."
"Yes."
"Wouldn't it look good in our garden?"
Silence.

One of the best things about traveling is souvenirs and how they give you new ideas for your own life. Sometimes what you see sparks an idea for: 1) A gift for friend; 2) A gift for yourself; or 3) A regift for your boss who made you work overtime without overtime pay.

While vacationing in the California Sierras, Mr. Wonderful was hesitant about my affinity for the tree because: 1) It was large; 2) It had a mass of leaves; and 3) It dropped every last one of them on the ground in the seven seconds that we were looking at it. If my spouse had to choose between raking leaves and going to the home improvement store 106 times in one day, he would take the latter, hands--and drills--down.

But the tree was just one of the good ideas I'd gotten while we were vacationing in California's mountain country. I also liked the indoor stone fireplaces, the outdoor fire pits and the random boulders decorating the grounds. My spouse informed me that we already had an indoor brick fireplace, an outdoor fire pit and although we didn't have any boulders, we had some nice pebbles near the front door, which were sort of like boulders.

Sort of, like. Not. But wouldn't another another fireplace, another fire pit be better? More was always better.

Determined to find some idea I could import to our house I saw one at the hotel.
"Aren't the little bears on that statue cute?" I said laughing at the carved wooden bears clustered around the hotel's welcome sign.
"It's a slippery slope," Mr. Wonderful said pointing to a second larger statue of three bears foraging. Together the statues would have created a fine grotto that Smokey the Bear fans would have loved.

"Look there, and there, and there," Mr. Wonderful said pointing out three more bear statues, which were composed of increasingly more bears. It was a regular Bear Jamboree!

I grabbed my camera to document the situation since I hadn't seen so many bears out of hibernation since my last family reunion.

Bears, bears everywhere! I even took a picture of a bear statue which had its own cameras! I thought it was hilarious!  

Mr. Wonderful was not amused. He likes simple things and usually I do, too, but there was something comical and appealing about the bears. When I stopped looking through my camera viewfinder, I noticed there were even more bear statues. Whoever did the landscaping for this hotel and its grounds was "barely" thinking because when I scanned the property I noticed two dozen works of "bear art" aka "Be'art".

Then it ht me. This was indeed a slippery slope for more was not always better. One well placed bear statue would have said it all about the nature of the hotel. Yes, the landscaper would have been wiser to have used just the original statue I'd seen of the two little bears. Or if they wanted to express their humor, the bear with the cameras. Or if they wanted to express their "more is better" motto, a bear falling over a slippery slope. A slippery slope indeed.

"Do you want any souvenirs before we leave the Sierras?" Mr. Wonderful asked as he loaded our luggage into the souvenir-free car.

"I've got everything I need," I said linking my arm through his.