Category Archives: Travel

Back to the Cité Universitaire, Part I

May 21, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

00324 — My friend Nancy and I attempt attitude-filled poses at the Cité Universitaire, July 1982.

I had not been back to the Cité Universitaire since I lived there that summer thirty-two years ago. (See That French Connection, April 2014.) I hadn’t expected to return on this trip. I thought it would hold minimal interest for my husband and daughter. But on our first day in Paris, a Saturday during spring break, we found ourselves engulfed in crowds. The area in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral was a roiling sea of humanity. The line for the Sainte-Chapelle stretched for blocks. We expected Palm Sunday at all the expected sites to be equally busy. This factor may have persuaded H and D that we should visit the Cité, located in an unfashionable area at the bottom of the Paris map. Tourists would certainly not be flocking there.

I had remembered the Cité as being far removed from the city center. I was surprised to see that it was only three stops from Luxembourg on the RER. I was also surprised to see the complex looking almost exactly as I recalled it, but spruced up and considerably less seedy. It wasn’t exactly run-down in 1982. Perhaps indifferently maintained is a good way to describe it. The grounds were wild and weedy, closer to messy than pristine. Litter was common. This past April, the Cité was looking comparatively fresh, fit and clean. The plantings were lush and well-tended. The buildings were grander and more imposing than I had remembered. And there were fewer shady characters skulking about.

001211 — In this view of the back of the Fondation des Etats-Unis from July 1982, I’m the red blotch on the balcony, fifth window from left, one floor from the top.

My little room was perfectly adequate, and I loved my balcony that looked out onto the big evergreen tree, the then-scruffy garden, and the Mexico building. On the top floor were much sought-after artists’ lofts, with high ceilings and skylights.

Europe2014099 — The Fondation, April 2014.

In the photo above, the open balcony door at the right suggests that the current resident was in my old room. The same red-orange draperies adorn the windows. The tall tree still flourishes in the courtyard.

00417 — July 1982: I do laundry in my room. Trying, and succeeding, in looking pitiful.

Although the institutional décor left something to be desired, I enjoyed that humble, well-worn room. In addition to the vinyl-covered armchair, there was a decent bed, desk, and a reading lamp with a shade covered in peeling contact paper. The open balcony doors provided all the air conditioning needed. Not a single mosquito, gnat or fly ever flew in. Toilet cubicles and showers were down the hall, of course. There was no adjusting the water pressure or its temperature in the shower. You pushed a button, which triggered a quick burst of water that lasted about three minutes. Luckily, the button could be pressed multiple times, or I never could have rinsed the shampoo from my hair. The atmosphere was classic Paris student.

The sight of those bare shelves in that room reminds me of how lightly and simply I traveled that summer. Some aspirin, soap, toothbrush, a little make-up, some paper, pens and pencils, a book or too. My address book and airmail envelopes for letters to the States. I did bring a travel iron, at my mother’s insistence, which I don’t think I ever used. Its adapter was nearly as large as the iron. No cell phone, iPod, iPad, no laptop. From the looks of the trash bin at my feet, I had recently polished off two boxes of French crackers. My friends and I snacked on packaged melba toast-like crisps and La Vache qui Rit cheese. For further between-meal sustenance, I had brought a large supply of grape Tangy Taffy from home.

Thirty-two years later, as I stood there in the garden behind the building, my husband and daughter by my side, looking up at the open door to my old room, the memories swirled around me. Some were vivid, others were just out of reach, like dreams upon waking. The experience was unsettling. I understood then why some prefer never to return to such places. As for me, though, I’ll go back. Those chances to glimpse the present through the eyes of the past, and vice-versa–they add a richness to life that I want to savor. Even if there may be bitter along with the sweet.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

Paris: The Luxembourg Gardens

May 19, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

paris81 — View of the Pantheon from the Luxembourg Gardens, July 1982.

From the Pantheon and our hotel, it’s an easy walk down rue Soufflot to the grand gated entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens, a green oasis in the heart of Paris’s streets of stone and brick. The name is proof that the French don’t forget their history. In the early seventeenth century, the land was owned by the Duke of Luxembourg. The palace and gardens owe their existence to Marie de’ Medici. After the assassination of her husband, Henry IV in 1610, the Italian-born Queen needed a change of scenery and a move from the Louvre. She bought the land in 1612 and commissioned a palace and gardens inspired by her memories of Florence’s Pitti Palace and Boboli Gardens.

Europe2014062 — The circular lawn panel.

The fifty-five-acre park features expanses of perfectly manicured lawn, bordered by allés of carefully tended horse-chestnut trees and bright flowers that change with the seasons. Many statues accent the greenery.

Europe2014057 — The Italian Renaissance-style Palace was completed in 1627. It now houses the French Senate.

Europe2014504 — The central pavilion of the Palace.

Europe20140581 — A popular spot in the park is the eight-sided pond known as the Grand Bassin. While children sail sturdy rental boats, parents may relax in the rows of green garden chairs.

Lawns are scarce in Paris and highly prized. Early on during my Parisian student summer, our group was picnicking in a park. We noticed an approaching gendarme, gesticulating enthusiastically. We thought he was happy to see us. Soon it became evident that we had mistaken his exasperation for overt friendliness. We learned then that the pelouse is typically interdit. In the Luxembourg Gardens, some of the lawns are preserved by alternating pedestrian access. While the above panel was off limits, a nearby one was populated by picnickers and sun-seekers.

Europe2014066 — Our daughter claims a perch between French Queen and a local child.

Europe2014498 — The Medici Fountain dates from the time of the Palace.

One of my favorite spots in the city is the Gardens’ Medici Fountain. The strangely beautiful, grotto-like structure reminds me of something I’d hope to see in a dream. It stands at the end of a short allée of chestnut trees. Even on the hottest summer days, by the fountain it’s cool and quiet in the welcome shade.

Europe2014075 — You take some of this park with you when you go. Your shoes will be coated with a tell-tale layer of fine white dust.

025 — My father walking along a Garden path, May 2002.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

Paris: La Place de la Contrescarpe

May 8, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

Many significant Paris attractions were within easy reach of our small hotel by the Pantheon. Typically, we’d begin our excursions by heading down rue Soufflot. One afternoon during our visit twelve years ago, my husband and I took an opposite route. For us, and perhaps for the typical tourist, it was the road less traveled. We followed the narrow streets behind the Pantheon, down the hill for several blocks, to emerge onto a lively little square. The upper stories of the old buildings leaned in all around, as though in intimate discussion. We had stumbled upon La Place de la Contrescarpe.

Europe 2014 372 — La Place de la Contrescarpe, seen from our entry point on rue de l’Estrapade.

It was a warm day in May, and we quickly settled into an inviting outdoor table at La Contrescarpe, one of several cafés bordering the square. We sipped our beers and watched locals running errands and socializing. The school day had recently ended, and the square was abuzz with activity and the musical sounds of French conversation. Teenagers from nearby lycées headed to the cafés or chatted by the fountain in the leafy center of the square. Parents and younger children paused for gelato, pastries and baguettes at the many small shops.

Because we discovered the square near the end of our trip, we didn’t get a chance to return. When we discussed plans for this visit, my husband and I agreed that we should go early and often to our favorite little Place. On our first day back in Paris last month, after leaving our bags at the hotel, we set off down the familiar streets for lunch at the café.

The square was just as we had remembered it, just as authentically French, still relatively untrodden by throngs of international tourists. Because the weather was sunny but chilly, we took an outside table within reach of an overhead heater. Thanks to these, April in Paris is more comfortable than ever. H and I ordered our celebratory “cinquantes,” 50-cl draft beers that we associate with an unhurried afternoon in France. Our daughter sampled her first Croque Monsieur. Or did she have the Croque Madame, topped with a fried egg? One of those, which she heartily enjoyed, along with her Orangina. The food was tasty, and the service was efficient and polite. The waiter understood our French without any apparent trouble. What’s more, he continued to address us in French, something we’ve learned to take as a compliment. It was quite the pleasure to be back.

La Contrescarpe became our local café, our destination for rest and refreshment after hours of sightseeing. It was a prime spot for viewing Parisian street theatre, which continued unabated. Several featured players, quirky character actors, as it were, returned again and again. Occasionally, when they became overly boisterous, they were courteously but firmly shooed away by the café staff. We enjoyed the feeling of being part of the scene.

Europe20142721 — View of La Place de la Contrescarpe from our outdoor café table.

I didn’t realize until after we had returned home that the Contrescarpe area, traditionally a working class district, has a rich historical association with writers. Rabelais frequented the area’s taverns. Balzac set much of Le Pere Goriot in the neighborhood. Victor Hugo’s Jean Valjean haunted its streets in Les Miserables. James Joyce wrote Ulysees there. George Orwell lived and worked in the neighborhood.

Its most evocative literary ties, however, may be with Hemingway. Just steps from the Place, and within sight of our table at La Contrescarpe, is the apartment at 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine, where he and his first wife lived in cheerful poetic poverty. On the opening page of A Moveable Feast, Hemingway writes how “the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe.” He rented a small garret room for writing around the corner on rue Descartes, in the same building where the poet Verlaine died in 1896.

I had generally avoided reading Hemingway because I wasn’t drawn to tales of bullfighting, fishing, boxing, or war. But A Moveable Feast, a memoir of his early years as a writer in Paris during the 1920s, had been on my to-read list seemingly forever. About two years ago, I read it. Hemingway’s Paris, so vividly and often comically evoked, was the Latin Quarter. “My” Paris. I remember appreciating the many references to my favorite spots, to the names of streets I traversed as a student. Like Hemingway, my friends and I were always on the lookout for cheap places to eat and drink. We were familiar with his Paris, of great beauty, bare-bones accommodations and inconvenient plumbing.

But the repeated mentions of La Place Contrescarpe, I’m disappointed to say, rang no bell of recognition. I recall thinking the unusual name sounded vaguely familiar, but I didn’t realize Hemingway’s first Paris home was immediately off that very same square H and I had enjoyed so much. I had no idea that as we sat at our favorite café table, we were facing the writer’s former “flat at the top of the hill.”

Hemingway avoided the café that adjoins the house he lived in. Then known as the Café des Amateurs, he described it as “the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard,” “a sad, evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together.” While we didn’t sample the current café in that location, preferring our post across the street, it looked perfectly pleasant, neither sad nor evil. Obviously times change. I can’t help but be relieved, however, that it wasn’t La Contrescarpe or a previous incarnation that received such a bad review. I like to think there were spring evenings when Hemingway, happy after a successful day of writing, joined his wife Hadley at an outdoor table there on the Place de la Contrescarpe. Should he have appeared during our visit, “Midnight in Paris” style, my family and I would have been glad to clink glasses with him in a contented “Salut.” I know he would appreciate the cinquante as much as H and I did.

Europe2014276 — Our favorite table at La Contrescarpe, with a view toward rue Cardinal Lemoine. The former Café des Amateurs is now the Café des Arts.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

Back to Paris: In the Latin Quarter

May 2, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

For me, one of the great pleasures of travel is returning to a well-loved place. “My” Paris is the Latin Quarter I came to know as a college student. That summer, on weekday mornings, two friends and I would take the RER train from Cité Universitaire to the Luxembourg stop. We’d emerge into the lively bustle of Paris to that unique smell: car exhaust, of a distinctly Parisian type, mingled with the freshness of the new day. We’d walk past the elegant Luxembourg Gardens and the big corner cafés, glimpse the Panthéon at the end of rue Soufflot, and continue down the Boulevard Saint-Michel for a couple of blocks to the Sorbonne, where we had our classes. We’d pass a restaurant where a waiter, setting up his tables, would blow us a kiss and make the beating heart gesture. That kind of chivalric appreciation could brighten even a dismal day. And that summer, dismal days were few.

August 1982: Toward the end of our Paris summer, my friends and I posed for photos around the Latin Quarter, trying our best to look cool. Above, Joanne and I on rue Soufflot, with the Pantheon in the background.

April 2014: My daughter and I try to recreate the photo. The dome of the Panthéon is currently undergoing a massive re-stabilization.

Each time I’ve returned since then to Paris, the Latin Quarter has been home base. With each visit, I discover more to love. Twice now H and I have stayed at the same hotel immediately across from the Panthéon. This area is in the heart of historic Paris, with its roots in the Roman era, yet it’s a bit removed from tourist circuits. While the big tour buses swing past the Panthéon, on the sidewalks you’re likely to pass more actual Parisians than foreign sightseers. Many Americans are apparently unaware that there is a Panthéon in Paris. A typical comment is “I thought that was in Italy.” For the record, it’s a grand neoclassical building inspired by the classical Pantheon in Rome and situated on a hill known as the Montagne Sainte Geneviève. Begun as a Roman Catholic church dedicated to Geneviève, the patron saint of Paris, it was finished during the Revolution as a humanistic temple honoring the great men of France. It may look familiar to Americans because its majestic dome and portico were architectural sources for our U.S. capitol.

Surrounding the Panthéon on its Place, or square, are elegant buildings that function as centers for civic and student life. There is the Mairie, or Town Hall, of the fifth arrondissement, where locals marry, vote, attend concerts, meetings and special events. Opposite the Mairie is the University of Paris Law School. Another neighbor is the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève. This library’s arched reading room appears in many Art 101 textbooks because of its early use of structural cast iron. Near the library is the beautiful Church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, dating from the thirteenth through sixteenth centuries. Behind the Panthéon sprawls the historic Lycée Henri IV, which incorporates buildings from the medieval Abbey of Sainte Geneviève. Below are some of my favorite views in the old neighborhood I adore.

May 2002: View from our hotel of the Place du Pantheon. From left, the Law School, the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève, and the portico of the Panthéon.

April 2014: View from in front of the Panthéon looking down rue Soufflot toward the Luxembourg Gardens and the Eiffel Tower. The colossal bronze statue of a portly nude man was installed in January. A work by the Chinese artist Hong-Biao Shen and entitled Mongolian(Standing Position), it immediately became a popular photo-op destination.

The typical Paris street sign offers explanatory information.

April 2014: the entrance foyer of the Mairie.

In the light of sunset this past April, the buildings of rue Soufflot glow coppery gold.

Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

That French Connection

April 24, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

00227 — At the gates of the Cité Universitaire, July 1982.

As I’ve mentioned, I was lucky to receive an early formative introduction to France, its language and culture, thanks to a remarkably dedicated middle school teacher. See Vacation ’75: Part I: Paris, March 2013. Mrs. Correll emphasized the value of college study abroad, and I took her at her word. The summer after my junior year at UGA, I headed to Paris. Courses were held in the hallowed halls of the Sorbonne, where Mrs. Correll had received her Master’s degree. We had the option of living with a Parisian family, but I found the prospect of total immersion in French too daunting. My residence that summer was a dormitory at the Cité Universitaire, a complex for visiting international students.

0123 — Aren’t I original? With the gargoyles of Notre-Dame, July 1982.

My husband came to love France during his undergrad years at Union College in Schenectady, New York, a small liberal arts college that aims to turn out well-rounded students. Scientists as well as artists are encouraged to spend time in foreign study. H majored in mechanical and aerospace engineering, but he also studied French. He lived with a French family during a semester in Rennes, and before the program began, he and a buddy meandered through Europe by train. I distinctly remember telling a friend about H soon after we’d met as grad students, “He’s an engineer, but he speaks French!” My friend agreed that this was quite unusual. Maybe things have changed, but in the early 90s, the typical Princeton Ph.D. who toiled in the labs of the E-Quad did not speak French, unless it happened to be a native language.

00416 — H at the Loire Valley Chateau of Chenonceau, October 1, 1988.

As I look back, I see that our mutual interest in French was a primary factor in bringing my husband and me together. Now, after nearly nineteen years of marriage, we share so much: a home, a church, fundamental values, a daughter, family, friends, a dog and a turtle. But we began as two strangers with very little in common. When we met at that grad college barbeque, he was just beginning his engineering courses at Princeton and his research into “the thermal decomposition of nitrous oxide.” I was writing my dissertation on medieval illuminated manuscripts, having finished my coursework and research abroad. My funding had run out, and I was working as a professor’s assistant in Intro to Modern Art. Our interests, on the surface, could hardly have been more different. And then there was the age difference. He was a dewy twenty-two. I was about to turn twenty-nine. Those seven years appeared to stretch like an unbridgeable river. No betting person would have put money on our going on a second date. Maybe not even a first.

But there was that French connection. We couldn’t discuss manuscript illumination or the burning of nitrous oxide for very long, that’s for sure. But we could talk for hours about France and our experiences there. Did that French link make him think twice about me? Consider that I might not be a hopelessly artsy, aging pseudo-bohemian? Was it the point that convinced me of his unexpected depth, of some wisdom beyond his years?

French was, and still is, a fertile area of common ground between my husband and me. While neither of us makes any claim of fluency or expertise, our appreciation for the country and the language is genuine and heartfelt. We don’t sit around and speak French and think how sophisticated we are, or how cool we sound. We know we don’t sound particularly cool. But we find humor in what we consider the quirks and oddities of the French language. For example, to our American-trained ears, the word pneu (tire), sounds silly. And we find it amusing that a stick to stir coffee is called, rather formidably, “un agitateur.” But then we reconsider and agree that the word is decisive and definitive, unlike our American terms. (Is it coffee stir, or coffee stirrer, or stir stick? I really don’t know.) The French seem to have a specific word for everything, and we respect and admire them for that.

Our mishaps in speaking are a source of many laughs. A favorite story is from H’s student days in Rennes. He’d bought a little second-hand moped to take him from his family’s house into the center of the city. One night after late partying he locked it up near the university and got a ride back with friends. The next day it was gone. He reported the missing moped to the police, saying “Quelqu’un a violé ma mobilette.” He was asked to repeat his story to officer after officer, each of whom maintained a strenuously serious expression. H was pleased that his report was being received with impressive gravity, certain that swift action would be taken to retrieve his trusty vehicle. Only later did he realize he’d been saying that his moped had been violated, rather than stolen (volé).

00510 — H with friends at Chenonceau, 1988.

H and I first traveled to France together in the spring of 2002, with my parents. They had funded most of my several visits but had never set foot in France themselves. We thought about taking our daughter along. She wasn’t yet three. We didn’t consider it very long, since H’s parents were willing to take care of her. We’d wait until she was old enough to appreciate the wonder of being in a foreign country.

Then, as they tend to do, the years zipped by with lightning speed. We realized we were in danger of waiting too long for our family trip to France. Our daughter’s idea of the perfect holiday is no longer hanging around with her parents, even if it does happen to be in an exotic locale. And before long, she would be a young woman in college, no longer our captive child.

This past spring break, the three of us flew to Paris.

Art and Architecture, Community, Friendship, Nature, Travel

Along the Atlanta BeltLine

April 10, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

The Saturday of my stay in Atlanta, my friend Connie and I walked a portion of the Atlanta BeltLine. Connie is among my parents’ most devoted neighbors. She’s there to help, as needed, in any way. She’s a nurse, and our family has relied on her numerous times for medical advice and assistance. When I thank her for all that she does, she says simply, “I love your parents. They’re family.” And she means it. I’ve come to think of Connie very much like a sister. She also loves Atlanta, and she can be counted on to know what’s worth seeing and doing at the moment. With Connie, I catch up quickly on the life of my old home town.

The BeltLine is a work in progress, the ongoing redevelopment of a former rail line that circles the city’s core in a twenty-two mile loop. It includes a wide paved path for walking, biking and running, along with other trails and parks branching off from the main circuit. It’s bringing revitalization and the excitement that comes with it to in-town areas that had tended toward the derelict and run-down. When finished, it will link up forty-five Atlanta neighborhoods. It’s already possible to walk from Virginia-Highland to the Carter Center. The BeltLine is an appealing place to get some air and exercise, to walk the dog, and to see city landmarks from unique perspectives.

A section of the mid-town skyline, from the BeltLine.

A view of the Ponce City Market, currently in development, from Paris on Ponce & Pop Marché, a vast collection of cool boutiques. The enormous City Market building began its life as a Sears & Roebuck store in 1926. In the 1990s it functioned as City Hall East, but has now sat vacant for years.

One of many BeltLine oddities: medieval-style fencing of braided sticks, awkwardly meandering, for no apparent reason, across a desolate hill.

The Masquerade, a live music venue, seen from the back. I remember it as a popular restaurant and bar called the Excelsior Mill, so named because the building was constructed as a factory to produce excelsior, a stuffing and packing material that predates foam rubber.

An old water tower seems to perch precariously atop this apartment building.

Public art is common along the BeltLine.

An entrance to the Eastside Trail is near Grady High, my alma mater. In front of the school is its football stadium, renamed in 2011 for Coach Henderson, who was on his way to becoming a local legend during my Grady years.

Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

In Atlanta, to be a Daughter

March 29, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

The Atlanta skyline, from the MARTA train, March 21.

Last Thursday I did something I hadn’t done in nine years: I flew to Atlanta, alone, to visit my parents. Ever since my daughter was born, she has been my constant travel companion. Even as a baby she was good company when we flew together. The joy she found in the adventure of airplane travel almost made up for the difficulties of managing the clumsy baby seat and all the various gear she required. As she got older she became a great help, as she has a natural bent for understanding automatic ticketing machines. With her assistance, I learned to buy and reload a MARTA Breeze card and to make my way through the stations. It felt strange to be leaving town without her.

The last time I went to Atlanta by myself, Mama had been very sick. This time, it was Daddy. In February he underwent a serious surgery that left him in a fragile state. Typically healthy, hearty and appearing far younger than his years, time was making sudden and unwelcome inroads. Fortunately, Mama was feeling pretty well. Her usual chronic health concerns were manageable, and Daddy’s illness spurred her into action. She had recently had cataract surgery, which improved her vision and gave her confidence to drive again (although only to familiar, nearby places–she wasn’t about to attempt I-85). It had been over twenty years since she had regularly set foot in a grocery store, because Daddy had done nearly all the shopping and errand-running.

My parents are blessed to have a strong caring network of neighbors and church friends, so my immediate presence hadn’t been an absolute requirement. I can’t say how grateful I am to the many who step in so graciously to help. While I offered to fly down at any time, I sensed that Mama preferred I wait until Daddy was feeling better and regaining some of his lost weight. That way he could better enjoy my visit, and I wouldn’t be as alarmed at his appearance.

Another view from the train, showing the gold dome of the Capitol between the twin “Sloppy” Floyd Towers. The cream-colored tower to the left is City Hall, which dates from 1930.

I tend to think my family in Virginia can’t get through the mornings without me. Who will make sure our daughter is really, truly awake and up in the pre-dawn darkness? Who’ll make her breakfast and lunch? Who’ll walk Kiko? I knew they’d be fine in the evenings. While there would be no cooking, they’d have no trouble eating. My husband would bring home Chipotle, Chinese or Thai. They’re capable of opening cans, jars, and boiling pasta. Those mornings, though, they’d be rough. Then it hit me. So what if the mornings are rough? That just means they’ll appreciate me all the more once I return.

So I went, and I’m glad I did. I’ll go back, too, with more frequency. As those of us of a certain age already know or are coming to realize (at least those lucky enough to have our parents still with us), sometimes the duties and rewards of daughterhood take priority over those of motherhood.

The back of the High Museum of Art, much expanded since I worked there in the 80s.

The High Museum with the Promenade building in the background.

The Four Seasons Hotel, as seen from the Arts Center Station.

I was very glad not to see any snow. While the weather was cooler than I had hoped, it was sunny, and there were real signs of spring, such as this dandelion in the mulch. There are no dandelions yet in northern Virginia.

Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

A Pescadero Classic: Duarte’s Tavern

February 12, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

Our tour along the northern California coast ended on a festive note with dinner at Duarte’s Tavern, a Pescadero landmark and true American classic. Duarte’s dates from 1894, when Frank Duarte, an immigrant from Portugal, bought the tavern and began selling whisky from a barrel. The spot proved popular with local fishermen, whalers and farmers. While Prohibition was a setback, the original bar survived intact, and in the 1930s the Duarte family expanded the business to include food service (sandwiches, ice cream and pies). They also ran a barbershop on the premises. While the barber chairs have disappeared, the plain, unassuming décor has changed very little, which, depending upon your point of view, contributes to the place’s simple charm (as I see it), or its lack thereof. For the past several decades, Duarte’s has been famous for its flavorful soups, fresh fish, and delicious pies. The fourth generation of the family now runs the restaurant.

At the recommendation of our friends, who are Duarte’s regulars, we began with a combination of the two house specialty soups, cream of green chile and cream of artichoke. Served with fresh sourdough bread, it was as tasty as they had said it would be. The locally caught sole was just as described: absolutely fresh and simply prepared. I only wish I’d been able to sample the Crab Cioppino. My one Bay Area food regret is not tasting this regional specialty, a hearty seafood stew. Next time.

No one missed out on Duarte’s most famous pie, however. Our friends had spoken highly of the olallieberry pie. You East Coasters might well ask What?– just as I did. Surely that’s a made-up word. It sounds like something Dr. Seuss’s Cat in the Hat would serve up on that cold, rainy day. Perhaps in an early draft of Edward Lear’s The Owl and the Pussycat, the happy couple dined on slices of olallieberry pie? (for which the runcible spoon would be well-suited.)

But no. Olallieberry is a real word referring to a real berry, although one of fairly recent origin. Essentially, it’s a locally grown blackberry-raspberry hybrid, a cross that was developed by way of the loganberry and youngberry, (I had no idea my knowledge of berries was so rudimentary). Olallie, interestingly, is a Pacific Northwest Native American word for berry. At our table that day, all seven in our party ordered the olallieberry pie. No one was disappointed.

When we return to California in a few years, we’ll make sure to seek out our good friends again. I’ll even give them more than a couple of day’s notice of our impending arrival. And when we drive along the coast (next time we’ll venture farther south, to Monterey and Carmel), we’ll stop by Duarte’s. I feel sure it will still be there. Maybe the fifth generation of the family will be running the place by then. On second thought, no. We won’t wait that long.

Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Travel

In Pescadero: Harley Farms Goat Dairy

February 6, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

My final California posts have been much delayed. That most tiresome and expected of reasons has kept me away from the blog for almost two weeks: our old PC moved on to its greater reward. It had been ailing for a while, and its misery was contagious. Closing or opening a document had become a lengthy, frustrating process. Our home office often resounded with groans, moans and furious mutterings as one of us sat staring beseechingly at an endlessly spinning “loading” symbol. (Loading, loading, always loading, never loading.) Once the PC had given up the ghost, of course, there followed the dreaded prospect of replacing it. Fortunately, that falls under my husband’s purview, and he’s still dealing with the complex transition from old to new. What would I do if I were single?

Now, a second-to-last look at our time in northern California.

Because we toured the coast with local friends, we had the chance to visit some unique places we wouldn’t have discovered on our own. One such spot, a favorite of our friends, is Harley Farms, a farm-to-table goat dairy in the rural seaside community of Pescadero. This goat farm has a funky, unpretentious elegance and a chic sense of style. It’s a friendly, family-run operation in an inviting setting of thoughtfully restored old farm buildings. Two hundred furry, feisty Alpine goats munch and lounge happily in grassy pastures bordered by gardens and sheltered by rolling hills. Llamas stand guard, exercising particular vigilance over the kids. (Is anything cuter than a baby goat? Maybe only a Shiba Inu puppy.) The goats’ milk is processed on site into an array of award-winning cheeses. These include crumbly feta, creamy chevre topped beautifully with edible flowers, as well as the softer consistency fromage blanc and ricotta cheeses.

In the cozy restored barn that houses the shop, cheeses may be sampled and purchased. Prior to our visit, while I had no objection to goat cheese, I wasn’t an outspoken fan. Harley Farms changed that. After nibbling on a wide range of samples, we left with three tasty varieties. My favorite may be the Monet chevre, seasoned with herbes de Provence. The lavender and honey chevre runs a close second. Also available in the shop are soaps, lotions and other bath and body products, all made with the milk of Harley goats. Additionally, the farm produces nine lovely colors of durable, environmentally friendly FarmPaint. The barn’s hayloft, with its unique fir table that seats twenty-two, serves as a truly atmospheric event space. Looking for a wedding venue like no other? Harley Farms will handle all the details.

A goat farm had not been on our list of northern California must-sees. But thanks to our friends, it is now.

Some of the Harley nanny goats. One appears to be kneeling in prayer.

A guard llama eyes us warily.

An immense eucalyptus tree shades the milk processors.

Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Travel

An Afternoon in Half-Moon Bay

January 24, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

To continue our tour of the northern California coast, we met up with good friends who had settled in Palo Alto to raise their family. Although we’d kept in touch through Christmas cards, it had been perhaps seventeen years since I’d seen my former housemate Laura, and probably twenty since I’d seen her husband. Laura and I became fast friends when we lived on the same small gray corridor of the New Graduate College in Princeton. Together with our buddy and hallmate Ben, we could face anything the weird world of ivy-league graduate study could throw at us. We considered ourselves a formidable trio. And, when we weren’t working hard, we sure had fun.

When Laura completed her master’s degree and landed a job at Bell Labs, she stayed in Princeton and we rented a funny little blue house on Humbert Street near the cemetary. More accurately, Laura rented it, and I provided her with pocket change. I was still a poor student, and she graciously let me share the house, accepting as payment no more than the fractional amount my stipend would allow. When our landlord sold that house, we moved across the borough to the lower level of a really lovely Victorian home on Murray Place. I was with Laura at a Grad School cookout when we met two new engineering students, one of whom would later become my husband. Our Murray Place house was conveniently near the E-Quad, where H spent his days in the lab. He often parked on our street, which made it easy for me to plan to run into him by accident. Laura was from New Jersey, with lots of family nearby. On many Thanksgivings, Super Bowl Sundays and various holidays when I couldn’t get back to Atlanta, they welcomed me as one of their own.

With such a foundation of shared history, a couple of decades is nothing. We picked up easily, and the years fell away. We met the children we had watched grow up in photographs. Laura’s son is sixteen, her daughter fourteen, with D right in the middle at fifteen. The kids had little trouble breaking the ice; it was almost as if they were old friends, as well. The same was true when D had the chance, several years ago, to meet Ben’s kids.

One of our coastal convoy’s first stops was Half Moon Bay, about thirty minutes south of San Francisco. This quaint town has gained worldwide renown for its proximity to the phenomenal surfing spot known as Mavericks. Until the 1990s, the enormous waves that develop under certain weather conditions were a closely kept local secret. Since then, though, the word has been out, and elite surfers cross the globe to catch the waves, prove themselves (and risk their lives) at Half Moon Bay.

Today, as I write, the conditions for those near-legendary waves are ideal. Twenty-four of the world’s top surfers, from as far away as Australia, South Africa and Brazil, are gathered at Half Moon Bay for the Mavericks Invitational surfing competition. Waves as high as forty-five feet are forecasted. Crowds have flocked to witness the action at waterfront hotels and restaurants. No one is allowed to observe from the beach, however, due to the unpredictable nature of the waves. Several years ago, a dozen spectators at Mavericks were injured by a rogue wave, an ever-present danger along this section of the coast.

In this Dec. 30 view of Half Moon Bay, looking toward the harbor,
the waters are deceptively calm.

The coast is rocky,

and the bluffs are steep. Sudden strong waves reared up periodically, seemingly out of nowhere, even on the day of our visit, when no surfers were out.

A view along Main Street.

The town’s historic Methodist Episcopal Church.

Another Main Street view. Flanked by mountains and the sea, lush with picturesque foliage, Half Moon Bay is one of those charming California towns that I had suspected existed only on movie lots.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.