The day dawned quietly, without fanfare on the world stage. The day when comparative financial security, stable home and hearth, and most crucial, the recognition that what my mother thought did not have to control my every choice, combined. It was a moment of insight on several levels. One revelation ( on how important a level is yet to be decided) was: I can eat whatever I want now.
To some readers this might be a true shoulder shrug event. BUT I grew up in the "poor children in China" clean your plate post war years; I also struggled for over a decade with buy milk or buy bread decisions as a young single parent on a shoestring, I deplore waste. Food preferences weren't optional for much of my life. My parents did not have a three bite rule ( i.e. If you are still gagging after three bites, you don't have to eat it.) although to be fair, they introduced new foods carefully and in small amounts. My mother ( who has well disguised food issues only perceived as I grew to adulthood) ruled the kitchen. Liver was not on the menu, but strangely lima beans (shiver) were. This indoctrination extended well into my own home...never thought about it really until the great day came.
HA HAH! I don't have to eat potatoes (until recently when I find I crave mashed), lima beans, or coriander. I will never be a tofu eating vegetarian, although I enjoy less and less meat. And I certainly prefer my food to arrive naked, faceless and wrapped in plastic from the shop. Food prep, sanitation and storage are important to me ( those food biology classes at University and later as shome child care supervisor cranked up my squeamishness.)
So here I find on the streets of Beijing all that sends my food alarm bells into overdrive. Unidentified featherless fowl bodies are suspended like clothes on a washline far above the pedestrians but close to the pollution dense streets (more flavor?) Tofu lurks for the unwary on every menu. Meat arrives from the kitchen with eyes and sometimes other bit intact. I did eat these street vendor wonderful little fruits on a stick. They were covered with boiling hot sugar syrup so I figure most the germs died. What a crunch sweet blast of flavor!
Some menu items are made out of , erm, guts. Some things are labelled edible (?) fungus, the consistency of which mildly resembles boiled rubber band. I have developed radar alert for such like things.
Now, truth be told we like most Chinese food. recipes. Sometimes the variations thereof are scary. In Beijing they like it spicy. No, I mean they like it hot. lip searing intestine scarring hot. My friend Laurie would die and go to heaven for the chili paste. The food radar usually alerts for chilies ..but these cooks are sneaky. The other morning a grilled tomato with lovely melted cheese looked for all the world like it came from London... via a good long soak in pepper sauce we found to my tongue's shriveled dismay.
We have mostly been able to navigate around pigeon soup complete with decapitated head with beak and eyes, sea cucumber in all its gelatinous ukky glory, and abalone which Himself will eat but did not pass my three bite test.But when someone else is doing the hosting and choosing we have to depend on pure good luck.
Take noodles...I give up. No chopstick skill. And I prefer not to be the table entertainment chasing my food over the plate. of course everyman here slurps their noodles. I am still my mother's child enough to know that having a noodle beard hanging out of my mouth over a little bowl it not happening in this lifetime. Of course someone runs for the fork...but I know me and noodles. It is an eating event reserved for home only even with western utensils.So they know now to order clumsy here dumplings--but please not 5 kinds!!!!!!!!
The Chinese restaurant menu has possibly 200 dishes on it. We choose maybe two and our hosts urge us to order more more more. No no no. Everyone shares what they order, but it is still always too much. I am glad to see that doggie bags are common here so the waste is mitigated somewhat but I see nearly full plates of food go into the bin at most meals. Makes me nuts because I know with a few hundred yards there are folks who have never seen the inside of a restaurant and would love this fresh food. The children don't look like they are starving but still...um the children in Africa are.
On the other hand, nothing of the animal is wasted. We went to have Peking Duck at this very famous place.Everything is used. yes, even the webs. And so as the guest of honor, Himself found himself with half a duck's head neatly cleavered in twain upon his plate. Not one to turn down odd food, he did eat. He lived to tell of it. Uck.
But then he was born and raised in a country where every bit of the pig is used except the squeak.
His mother would have competed with him to eat it. My mother would have died right there at the table.
I just go quietly quakers.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Schiphol, where you do not want to be handicapped.
It all started when Himself was invited to Beijing, no actually, it started with the announcement of a conference in China summer of 2012. Of course, I got on board immediately, as China is high on my list of loved places. We had discussed taking Thing One and Thing Two along because we could show them Beijing on one end of the visit and Shanghai on the other and perhaps Xi'an in between. When this invitation came, I suggested that we tack this other invitational "sabbatical" on to the end of that conference/ family visit, send the kids back to University, and stay on for whatever The Great Minds wanted him. Well, the great Minds wanted the meeting to happen well before next summer' s end so here we are. And I get TWO trips to China!
It has been a frenetic few weeks leading up to this visit. We have been burning the candle at both ends to clear our desks and leave tidy piles behind. A few nerve raveling bumps, as usual, but finally we kissed our teary eyed Sweetpea goodbye at the bus, loaded up our carefully measured and weighed baggage, and promptly found ourselves in the molasses slow evening rush towards the Amersfoort train station. We missed our train. Thirty minutes later we did the luggage into the train rhumba and off we went to Schiphol.
On of the nice things about Schiphol is that we are KLM elite flyers so we get the red carpet. One of the worst things about Schiphol is their cavalier and nearly always unsatisfactory assistance valet service. So, while checking in is efficient and often lineless, the wheelchair folks let us down badly, This time was the worst.
I have been told by a valet that the philosophy of the assistance service is to do the least they can for their customers "so they don't take advantage." Isn't that just stunning? Imagine coming to the Netherlands for the first time, with a handicap, and being treated so shabbily. What a first impression. I am ashamed. So, even knowing their track record, this episode was prize winning in its awesome consumer unfriendlyness. This time we were walked from the cheerless and uncomfortable assistance waiting area through Immigration, which is not that far, and since we go through the fast lane I don't have to endlessly stand, a main concern for me. So far so good. We got on the go cart went to security where it took forever and a day because Andries the Anarchist set off all the alarms. Well, yes, by the time he carries all the equipment and wires and electronics and stuff it does look worrying to security- and then he had a USB stick in his shirt pocket which made us even longer there.
By now our go-cart driver decided that she needed to go to another gate for a pickup because our delay might make her pickup think she wasn't coming.She did apologize saying that the scheduler had her booked very closely. So there we were whizzing right by our gate on the way to go get someone else. She parked and went off to collect the customer. We waited. and waited. Suddenly all in a rush our valet runs by at speed because she needs a wheelchair. She disappears. We waited. and waited. and then waited. Our girl rushes by with wheelchair, followed by another go-cart and driver WHICH IS EMPTY , AND PARKS AT THE GATE. Our frazzled valet vanishes with wheelchair. We wait five solid minutes. We can see our gate and our plane leaves in 20 minutes.
We finally decide enough is enough and waddle the way back to our to our gate. Luckily, the shuttle to Paris is not a big long lines kind of departure. So the standing was do-able. Luckily, I thought to inquire while on the way to CDG, a confusing a HUGE airport, if a wheelchair would be awaiting. Mind you, we had reserved one for all legs of the journey AND had email confirmation with us. The oh so French staff were so apologetic. Schiphol had assured them there were no wheelchair folks. Ah HA. But yes, they arranged, it was there, and Madame and her trusty valet were off through the cavernous Paris CDG terminal. So solicitous, so polite, and even apologetic when they had to switch valets- which valet wheeled me right to the plane entry with a smile and a steady elbow.
Schiphol is such that I don't remember a valet coming out to the baggage terminal-- but every where else this is normal. Beijing was no different. We again were in the express lane, no standing, and he even helped Andries with the baggage! Immigation went smoothly. Then we were met by two welcoming University students who were to take us to the University hotel by taxi. The valet actually stood there until the taxi was loaded and I didn't have to stand in line at all. Now THAT is a real blessing to me. and is the way handicapped folks should be treated.
I so appreciated that I am not wheelchair bound. When I must use one, I am often struck by the way the rest of the world treats the differently abled. Huh, and we call ourselves civilized. But we are safely in Beijing, and the saga begins....
It has been a frenetic few weeks leading up to this visit. We have been burning the candle at both ends to clear our desks and leave tidy piles behind. A few nerve raveling bumps, as usual, but finally we kissed our teary eyed Sweetpea goodbye at the bus, loaded up our carefully measured and weighed baggage, and promptly found ourselves in the molasses slow evening rush towards the Amersfoort train station. We missed our train. Thirty minutes later we did the luggage into the train rhumba and off we went to Schiphol.
On of the nice things about Schiphol is that we are KLM elite flyers so we get the red carpet. One of the worst things about Schiphol is their cavalier and nearly always unsatisfactory assistance valet service. So, while checking in is efficient and often lineless, the wheelchair folks let us down badly, This time was the worst.
I have been told by a valet that the philosophy of the assistance service is to do the least they can for their customers "so they don't take advantage." Isn't that just stunning? Imagine coming to the Netherlands for the first time, with a handicap, and being treated so shabbily. What a first impression. I am ashamed. So, even knowing their track record, this episode was prize winning in its awesome consumer unfriendlyness. This time we were walked from the cheerless and uncomfortable assistance waiting area through Immigration, which is not that far, and since we go through the fast lane I don't have to endlessly stand, a main concern for me. So far so good. We got on the go cart went to security where it took forever and a day because Andries the Anarchist set off all the alarms. Well, yes, by the time he carries all the equipment and wires and electronics and stuff it does look worrying to security- and then he had a USB stick in his shirt pocket which made us even longer there.
By now our go-cart driver decided that she needed to go to another gate for a pickup because our delay might make her pickup think she wasn't coming.She did apologize saying that the scheduler had her booked very closely. So there we were whizzing right by our gate on the way to go get someone else. She parked and went off to collect the customer. We waited. and waited. Suddenly all in a rush our valet runs by at speed because she needs a wheelchair. She disappears. We waited. and waited. and then waited. Our girl rushes by with wheelchair, followed by another go-cart and driver WHICH IS EMPTY , AND PARKS AT THE GATE. Our frazzled valet vanishes with wheelchair. We wait five solid minutes. We can see our gate and our plane leaves in 20 minutes.
We finally decide enough is enough and waddle the way back to our to our gate. Luckily, the shuttle to Paris is not a big long lines kind of departure. So the standing was do-able. Luckily, I thought to inquire while on the way to CDG, a confusing a HUGE airport, if a wheelchair would be awaiting. Mind you, we had reserved one for all legs of the journey AND had email confirmation with us. The oh so French staff were so apologetic. Schiphol had assured them there were no wheelchair folks. Ah HA. But yes, they arranged, it was there, and Madame and her trusty valet were off through the cavernous Paris CDG terminal. So solicitous, so polite, and even apologetic when they had to switch valets- which valet wheeled me right to the plane entry with a smile and a steady elbow.
Schiphol is such that I don't remember a valet coming out to the baggage terminal-- but every where else this is normal. Beijing was no different. We again were in the express lane, no standing, and he even helped Andries with the baggage! Immigation went smoothly. Then we were met by two welcoming University students who were to take us to the University hotel by taxi. The valet actually stood there until the taxi was loaded and I didn't have to stand in line at all. Now THAT is a real blessing to me. and is the way handicapped folks should be treated.
I so appreciated that I am not wheelchair bound. When I must use one, I am often struck by the way the rest of the world treats the differently abled. Huh, and we call ourselves civilized. But we are safely in Beijing, and the saga begins....
Monday, April 30, 2012
Shuffle off to... Shanghai
Back in 2005, we had back to back conference events in China. I LOVED Beijing; every single minute- even the crazy taxis and traffic. I had a great time in Shanghai too, even though it did not charm me the way Beijing did; Shanghai has it's wonderful elements. One of the best things to visit is the Shanghai Museum. Beautifully curated; equipped with a fine audio tour, I spent a very happy afternoon there, and even returned with Andries for a second time later. That is high marks for a museum: usually, once seen, I am done. But this museum is full of funerary art. And we all know about Jana's penchant for funerary art...well, maybe you don't...I only realized it after looking at my photos of Florence, Italy. I spend an awful lot of time around dead folks things.
So I was working companionably this weekend alongside Himself at the ancient but still serviceable Big Laptop, and came across the 2005 China photos. I have backed them up in a cloud, but they aren't on the PC we use for everyday, hmmmm how to get them there? In the meantime here are some highlights from the Museum
So I was working companionably this weekend alongside Himself at the ancient but still serviceable Big Laptop, and came across the 2005 China photos. I have backed them up in a cloud, but they aren't on the PC we use for everyday, hmmmm how to get them there? In the meantime here are some highlights from the Museum
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Little flat boy Tyler
Little flat man Tyler
arrived one day
in the post;
he came to play
All through Easter did he stay
riding in our pocket.
Many photos later
we bid a fond adieu
We had such fun
with little Flat One
we share it now with you!
I hope the album linky works!!
click on the photo to see the album!!
arrived one dayin the post;
he came to play
All through Easter did he stay
riding in our pocket.
Many photos later
we bid a fond adieu
We had such fun
with little Flat One
we share it now with you!
I hope the album linky works!!
click on the photo to see the album!!
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
ROAD KILL
Along the road to eternity one meets all sorts of fellow travelers. Some keep in step along the entire way, some whizz through, leaving indelible memories behind; some fall out of step, fall behind, and are lost, some catch back up after a while. Some fellow travelers are destined to become road kill.
Yes, indeed, when I accidentally kill a relationship it is very like road kill. You know, when one day you are totally immersed in each other’s life (so I think) and the next day, poof, gone, dead as a doornail friendship. No explanations.
I never forget it. It makes me worried about every other relationship. I lose my choice making confidence. I mourn every time I think about it. Did I run over your feelings accidentally or did you jump in front of the oncoming destruction. Please just tell me what happened!
I like to think I am a caring, compassionate, loyal person; someone you would like to be a friend with. I have character flaws that might be off-putting. One being: I don’t trust easily, because for a while abandonment was my middle name. Death, divorce, disloyalty have all left significant scars on my mental landscape. But if I do trust you and I open my heart to you I expect you to be on that eternal road with me for a good long time, because I am loyal. Disposable is not a word I use as an adjective in front of friend.
On bad days, I pick open those memories. Am I really such a bad friend? Why did I think we were friends? And boy, do I wish I knew the answer.
Because I miss you,still.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Backroads
The other day started out poorly. I suppose I was tired, I often am if I don't keep the CPAP mask on all night. Himself was away on a long business jaunt; I like it less and less to be left behind. I misplaced keys, I tried to pack too much in to the morning; just dumb shoot-myself-in-the-foot things I do.
Later in the day I was driving home from an appointment. I chose the longer but more scenic route. The radio was playing some song that I was dancing to in my head. One thought lead to another and I realized how often I took the back road, the more scenic route in life. It takes longer to get to the destination, it is not as direct, nor efficient. Sometimes the back road is dark, lonely, and scary. It often is not the way people expect.
But I get where I need to be eventually, and usually have a great story to tell as well.
Like dancing in my head. I do it often. I do it well. Sometimes I skate too. I wanted to dance when I was a girl. According to "them", I was too tall; I was large boned. I was not a prima ballerina type. To my parents, dancing was ballet, period. I guess it never occurred to "them" that my not so Margot Fonteyn physique did not disqualify me from other forms of dance. Later in life, the backroads took me to ethnic dance, and ballroom, and theatre dance. I was pretty good after all.
But now I am traveling autumn roads, and my time and season for dance is over. So I dance in my head. Oh, how I dance! I hardly recognize the confident, strong, free woman who dances on the stage of my mind.
But as I drove on that frosty afternoon backroad, I smiled.
Backroads are worth traveling.
Later in the day I was driving home from an appointment. I chose the longer but more scenic route. The radio was playing some song that I was dancing to in my head. One thought lead to another and I realized how often I took the back road, the more scenic route in life. It takes longer to get to the destination, it is not as direct, nor efficient. Sometimes the back road is dark, lonely, and scary. It often is not the way people expect.
But I get where I need to be eventually, and usually have a great story to tell as well.
Like dancing in my head. I do it often. I do it well. Sometimes I skate too. I wanted to dance when I was a girl. According to "them", I was too tall; I was large boned. I was not a prima ballerina type. To my parents, dancing was ballet, period. I guess it never occurred to "them" that my not so Margot Fonteyn physique did not disqualify me from other forms of dance. Later in life, the backroads took me to ethnic dance, and ballroom, and theatre dance. I was pretty good after all.
But now I am traveling autumn roads, and my time and season for dance is over. So I dance in my head. Oh, how I dance! I hardly recognize the confident, strong, free woman who dances on the stage of my mind.
But as I drove on that frosty afternoon backroad, I smiled.
Backroads are worth traveling.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Rolltop Desk, adieu
I cannot remember not loving wooden furniture in all its warmth and comfortable glory. Along our partnership journey we have collected a few eclectic bits here and there, generally secondhand, and some real treasures right off the pile awaiting the bone and rag man ( or whatever he is called these days) on neighborhood curb sides. I don't know what we will do to replace our hybrid dining table. Legs and frame from one table and in-folding extension top from another: it is higher than most tables and suits our family well. I dare not think what a custom made version of that would cost.
In fact, I pretty much don't know how much new furniture costs, period. We built our beds, our wardrobes, our bedside tables. OK, so I designed them and Himself made them while I hovered. Our bedroom shelving is IKEA adjustable open stuff...not particularly high end. We have purchased two sofas new, no three, but one was super crappy dirt cheap make do foam rubber sofa bed because we needed somewhere to sit and sleep when we moved here. Long gone.
There is only one piece of bought new furniture that I can think of: furniture that was purchased simply as an I-want and the price was right. The Rolltop Desk. Oh man, I was thrilled to find it- in our local DIY of all places. We didn't really need it. But I had to have it. I swoon over roll top desks. I can't remember how we got it home, since at that time we didn't own a car. But home it came- I remember fitting it together and giving it a good rubdown with beeswax. AH! My desk.
Yeah.yeah. Whose desk? Somehow it never really was my desk after all. It was always so chockablock with stuff that no one ever sat at it . I tried a few times to organize and streamline the chaos. However, my methods of archiving and administration are polarly different than Himself's style; I finally gave up. Once in a while I would shove stuff around so the top came down and I wouldn't have to look at the mess. It was a total fail as a desk in reality. It was a great catchall though.
The renovation of the house has finally reached the dining room, which is also a study/office most of the time (when I was sewing in here it was a three ring circus.) We plan to line the walls with book and showcases and have just the refectory table in here with ladderback chairs. No room for any desk.
Goodbye, lovely rolltop.
So Himself put it on the internet for sale and within a couple of hours it got snapped up. Amazing because most Dutchfolk like streamlined steel and glass these days- sharp corners, straight lines, black leather.
I am trying not to think about it. I still love that desk.
I am sorta planning on not being here Saturday when it goes to its new home.
She'll probably use it like a desk.
I wonder if I can come and visit ?
In fact, I pretty much don't know how much new furniture costs, period. We built our beds, our wardrobes, our bedside tables. OK, so I designed them and Himself made them while I hovered. Our bedroom shelving is IKEA adjustable open stuff...not particularly high end. We have purchased two sofas new, no three, but one was super crappy dirt cheap make do foam rubber sofa bed because we needed somewhere to sit and sleep when we moved here. Long gone.
There is only one piece of bought new furniture that I can think of: furniture that was purchased simply as an I-want and the price was right. The Rolltop Desk. Oh man, I was thrilled to find it- in our local DIY of all places. We didn't really need it. But I had to have it. I swoon over roll top desks. I can't remember how we got it home, since at that time we didn't own a car. But home it came- I remember fitting it together and giving it a good rubdown with beeswax. AH! My desk.
 |
| It still looks pretty good |
 |
| Just look at all those drawers to be organized and tidy |
Yeah.yeah. Whose desk? Somehow it never really was my desk after all. It was always so chockablock with stuff that no one ever sat at it . I tried a few times to organize and streamline the chaos. However, my methods of archiving and administration are polarly different than Himself's style; I finally gave up. Once in a while I would shove stuff around so the top came down and I wouldn't have to look at the mess. It was a total fail as a desk in reality. It was a great catchall though.
The renovation of the house has finally reached the dining room, which is also a study/office most of the time (when I was sewing in here it was a three ring circus.) We plan to line the walls with book and showcases and have just the refectory table in here with ladderback chairs. No room for any desk.
Goodbye, lovely rolltop.
So Himself put it on the internet for sale and within a couple of hours it got snapped up. Amazing because most Dutchfolk like streamlined steel and glass these days- sharp corners, straight lines, black leather.
I am trying not to think about it. I still love that desk.
I am sorta planning on not being here Saturday when it goes to its new home.
She'll probably use it like a desk.
I wonder if I can come and visit ?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
How It All Began...
I never assumed I would see so much of this planet. My parents were avid tourists, certainly, and we did the annual family vacation thing like USAmericans do. Mother continued to tour the world after my dad died; but I was a working single parent and the few vacations I ever had back when those children were young were to take the kids to see Grammy, my brother's wedding, and a couple of trips to see my sister on her husband's Coast Guard base; my godchild's baptism in New Mexico. Mother took me to Paris and Luxembourg in the mid 1980's. The most important memory I have from that tour is meeting her cousin in Haller, Lux, and finding my parents'wedding photo in their family's photo album; I also remember that it seemed like every warm meal had french fries in Paris ( cuisine?) I was a tourist and an infrequent one at that.
My worldview, my lifestyle, and just about everything else dramatically changed in 1990 when I met my husband, a native Dutchman. Our romance sparked on a road tour from Wisconsin to New Mexico, and one year later as I visited Utrecht, Netherlands, at his invitation, I accepted his proposal of marriage. And just like that, I became a traveler.
I am on three concurrent journeys:
1. the partnership journey: with its pitfalls and perils complicated by culture, language and personalities. Himself is a cutting edge solid-state research chemist. He makes light. He is in demand all over the world. He is a professor at Utrecht University. Most of our far flung trips are because of his work.
2. the parenting journey: re-learning to parent WITH a companion, in middle age, in a foreign environment. I was 43 when David came along: Else was born just short of 17 months later. Middle age, motherhood and menopause is a heady mix.
3. the spiritual journey: becoming a better follower of Christ. I am a Latter-day Saint. FAR from Salt lake City. Learning to pick my battles.
I could have started this blog many times over the last 20 years: why now? Truly, I am determined to find a way to share my photos and impressions of the world that doesn't require three different kinds of contact. Some folks don't use Facebook, others won't click a link. Others want to live the whole experience with me. I struggle with uploading, downloading and the internet in general. ( a whole blog experience in itself) Now that the parenting journey is nearly at the end of the teen years, I have more time to write, I travel more with Himself, sometimes, I feel like I have something useful to share. So.
We just got back from 10 days in Israel. We have been to China, Japan, all over Europe, Brazil. This summer we toured for 5 weeks in the Mountain West of the Unite States. With a 17 and 18 year old. And we survived! As I sort through the thousands of photos and memories, I invite you to come along for the ride.
P.S. Himself was amazed: You forgot New Zealand! Indeed, how could I? It was the bestest time.
My worldview, my lifestyle, and just about everything else dramatically changed in 1990 when I met my husband, a native Dutchman. Our romance sparked on a road tour from Wisconsin to New Mexico, and one year later as I visited Utrecht, Netherlands, at his invitation, I accepted his proposal of marriage. And just like that, I became a traveler.
I am on three concurrent journeys:
1. the partnership journey: with its pitfalls and perils complicated by culture, language and personalities. Himself is a cutting edge solid-state research chemist. He makes light. He is in demand all over the world. He is a professor at Utrecht University. Most of our far flung trips are because of his work.
2. the parenting journey: re-learning to parent WITH a companion, in middle age, in a foreign environment. I was 43 when David came along: Else was born just short of 17 months later. Middle age, motherhood and menopause is a heady mix.
3. the spiritual journey: becoming a better follower of Christ. I am a Latter-day Saint. FAR from Salt lake City. Learning to pick my battles.
I could have started this blog many times over the last 20 years: why now? Truly, I am determined to find a way to share my photos and impressions of the world that doesn't require three different kinds of contact. Some folks don't use Facebook, others won't click a link. Others want to live the whole experience with me. I struggle with uploading, downloading and the internet in general. ( a whole blog experience in itself) Now that the parenting journey is nearly at the end of the teen years, I have more time to write, I travel more with Himself, sometimes, I feel like I have something useful to share. So.
We just got back from 10 days in Israel. We have been to China, Japan, all over Europe, Brazil. This summer we toured for 5 weeks in the Mountain West of the Unite States. With a 17 and 18 year old. And we survived! As I sort through the thousands of photos and memories, I invite you to come along for the ride.
P.S. Himself was amazed: You forgot New Zealand! Indeed, how could I? It was the bestest time.
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