We went to the gym early, then walked to The Flame diner for breakfast. No rain today. But there seemed to be more crazy people on the streets—not sure I would feel safe walking alone. Husband told me his work schedule for the next two days. Felt stressed. Although it will be good to have a couple of days to study, it will be lonely, and we will be on different time zones most of the time (actually, Husband will be on two time zones, because he has early UK meetings online and late US meetings in person). I will switch my clock back to UK time, and plan to get up at 2am I think.
We walked down the island. The first part is busy, needed to watch where we were walking, avoiding people, waiting for traffic, not much space for looking around. We dipped into Grand Central Station, just because we haven’t been inside since we lived here nearly 30 years ago, mingled with the commuters, saw the central clock, the shiny floor, the staircase from a Mafia shootout in The Untouchables. There is something exciting, busy, intense about the city. I was also very aware that NYC has very few public washrooms, so I was keen to arrive in a quieter part, where there would be nice cafes and facilities. We passed some parks, but I don’t find these to be pleasant, they tend to be grubby squares with litter and homeless people—not somewhere that’s nice to sit.
Gradually the mood of the city changes as you walk further south. There are fewer people, more homes and fewer shops (not as many flashing signs). The buildings are mostly red brick, less high. It feels quieter, cleaner, less stressful. Our walking slowed too, we stopped rushing, looked at the streets we were passing. As we arrived on the edge of Little Italy we looked for somewhere to stop. Went into a cafe, Bakery in Lafayette and ordered coffee and pastries. It was clean and comfortable and cool. Little Italy was busy with workmen preparing for a festival, lots of temporary structures being assembled. We avoided planks of wood and reversing trucks and made it unscathed into China Town. Saw the red Chinese lanterns hanging across the street, the photographs of bright food on the menus, the shops full of lucky waving cats and oriental tat. I was tired now, it felt like we had been walking for a long time. We ordered an Uber and went back to the hotel.
My next two days were more lonely. Husband was working on both time zones—so waking early for 5am meetings online with UK boards, then attending meetings and dinners in person with US boards. I tried to work, and went for walks round the city on my own, but it’s less fun without company, and I worried about walking in front of traffic and getting lost. I ate a lot of rubbish and felt lonely—the whole city seemed to be full of couples and people rushing to important meetings and I was detached, wandering on my own, not quite daring to sit in a cafe or pause in a park. Probably being tired didn’t help. Flew home overnight on Wednesday. Fun few days.
Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne
PS. Completely unconnected, but do you know what the two-hands emoji means? Some people use it to mean ‘praying’ but saw on Insta that it means ‘high five’. Or ‘thanks.’ Seems to mean different things to different people. An online search was no help at all! What do you use it for?
We arrived at The Knickerbocker Hotel, New York. Husband is working here next week, and I have tagged along for a weekend of tourism, and then I will study in the hotel room while he goes off to his client. Today has been very long—I woke at 5am, and it’s now midnight, bright and sunny in NYC. I am tired and feeling old. I remember the days when I could fly out to meet him when he was working here, and we’d go out for steak and red wine, and wander through the city before going to sleep. Now I can barely manage to order a room service pizza. It’s still a fun place to visit though.
The hotel is modern, and minimalist. There are very few drawers, or coat hangers, or walls, The wall bit is inconvenient. There is a sliding glass wall to close off the bathroom area, with glass-walled cubicles for the shower and toilet. Not much in the way of privacy. We arrived and ordered room service, which they said would take 25 minutes to arrive. That was plenty of time for a quick shower (always feel yukky after a flight). I quickly stripped off, leaving clothes strewn around the room because I was trying to be quick, and went behind the flimsy glass wall into the glass-sided shower cubicle. It was a good shower, lovely hot water, one of those soap dispensers on the wall (which I don’t especially like but it smelt nice so I used it) but nowhere to put your own shampoo because ‘minimalist’ means no shelves or soap dish, just a big empty cubicle. I was just shouting about all this to Husband when the doorbell rang. Room service was faster than expected. That’s okay, I thought, Husband will open the door but you can’t see into the bathroom from the doorway, no need to panic, he’ll thank the man, receive the food, shut the door.
But no. Husband opened the door, then stood back while the waiter wheeled a trolley into the room. I watched them (in horror) through the glass sides of the shower cubicle. The waiter (poor man—who wants to see their granny in the shower?) put the trolley in the middle of the room, and left fairly promptly, while I was desperately trying to cover my embarrassment with a towel. There was no hiding—the bathroom area has huge mirrors, brutal in their honesty—on every wall which isn’t glass. Great for beautiful young bodies, rather depressing for older women trying to hide from unsuspecting waiters. It was not a great moment. Need to discuss shower protocol with Husband.
Saturday 12th September
Slept well, woke about 3:30. Our favourite diner (The Flame Diner on 9th and 58th) is open 24 hours, so we walked there. New York is great in the early morning, it’s as light as day with all the huge billboards and screens, like walking through a television salesroom for giants. The air is warm in September, no need for more than a tee shirt (with a cardigan for the air conditioning inside). We entered the diner, slid into a booth, a waiter appeared with menus and glasses of iced water… I love NY.
After breakfast, we wandered up to The Met (The Metropolitan Museum — which in English we would call an art gallery). I have happy memories of here. When we lived in NJ my children were small and I would sometimes take them into the city. Before visiting art galleries, I would always show them pictures of the art first (our local library had some lovely art books) and they would each choose one picture. Then, when we arrived at the gallery, we would find each of the chosen paintings, and because they were so much bigger, and brighter, and because they knew something about it, when the children saw ‘their’ painting they were genuinely interested. Then we would go home (because 3 paintings is enough, when you have young children). I do remember one fun visit when as we climbed the marble staircase, my 4 year-old shouted: ‘Look Mummy! There’s Socrates drinking the hemlock!’ And everyone nearby turned in amazement to see who the child prodigy was! Anyway, that was a long time ago, and this time I was with Husband. Although I think 3 paintings was about his limit too.
We then went for lunch in another diner. I had a BLT, and a slice of New York cheesecake, which is fabulous and not sweet or lemony or rich, and I have only ever found it in New York. (Other places claim to serve it, but it’s never the same.)
Hope you have a good day too. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
I have just been out for lunch. My sister Ruth is visiting from Canada, Husband suggested I should break from work and have a pub lunch with them. To be honest, it’s too hot to achieve much decent work (lots of slow blinks as I read scholarly articles) so off we went. We arrived as the pub was opening, and it was initially lovely and peaceful. But then two women entered and chose a table near to where we were sitting. You might think I am going to moan about the volume of their voices, or that one spoke on the phone at the table (most people are incapable of speaking at normal volume on the phone). But no, they started to play music on their phone. Not quietly, full volume music. Not even good music. I realised they were watching a video of a concert. They started to sing along (I nearly choked on my french fries!) Then, to help things no end, Husband also started to sing along! I thought (hoped) this might encourage them to reduce the volume. No such luck. The pub started to play background music of its own, so now we were surrounded by screeching singing on one side, and hits from the 90s on the other. It was not peaceful. I thought about saying something, or taking a photo (people get very huffy if random strangers take their photo) but I did nothing. No point in making an enemy over a bit of loud screeching.
I did however take photos at Jersey zoo. We visited towards the end of our holiday, and it is the best zoo in the world. Lots of animal-friendly cages, not so large you want to die before the end, some spectacularly pretty landscaping. The zoo was originally set up by Gerald Durrell, who looked a little like Russel Crowe of Gladiator fame in later life, but he’s better known for his books–which I read many years ago. It really is a lovely zoo. Somewhat spoiled by people behaving badly.
The badly-behaved people were in the butterfly house. This was an amazing area–you walked through doors and plastic screens and entered a world of huge blue butterflies. (There were other colours, but the blue ones were the best.) There was a window into the hatching area, where recently emerged butterflies were hanging to dry their wings. There were feeding stations of nectar and fruit, and you wandered amongst the plants enjoying the wonder of it all. Except for the people–a family–who were encouraging their children to hold the butterflies. I mean, who does that? Who doesn’t understand the fragility of a butterfly, that children holding them is never going to end well for delicate wings? I was too annoyed to trust myself to say something appropriate, so I left.
Unfortunately for you, I did not inherit my sister’s patience for photography, and she wasn’t with us. Therefore my photos are mostly more like ‘Where’s Wally?’ pictures (other than the ones ‘stolen’ from the walls of the bird house). I will leave you to spend happy hours trying to find the animals in my photos, but really you should go to Jersey, even if just to visit the zoo.
Hope you avoid all badly-behaved people today. Thanks for reading. Take care, Love, Anne x
Really poignant display showing devastation of smuggling animals.My family likes a map!ButterfliesButterfliesTitle: Harming ButterfliesDryingSpot the birdsBit of a show-off and easy to photographSpot the gorillaPhoto of wall displayPhoto of wall displaySpot the birds!
This is my second time of writing this. I am sitting on a veranda, in the sunshine, and I merrily typed on my keyboard while not being able to see my screen. When I checked what I had written, it was all in Hebrew script! It made no sense, because I had used English spellings, so it was a complete waste of time. I shall start again—in English…
It’s the end of July, and we have joined the family in Jersey. We rented a large Airbnb in St Martins, and as I write I can see the sea over the tree tops, and hear birds singing, a dog barking, and not much else. It’s very peaceful. We’ve never visited Jersey before. It’s part of England, so wonderfully familiar, yet not attached, so it feels slightly different. Driving, language, currency is all like home—but the island is quite small and very well-kept, so very pretty. The sunshine helps of course.
We haven’t done much, and various family members have worked (online) on different days, which has worked well in the house which is big, with rooms people can escape to or meet for (loud) chats depending on their mood. The days have passed much too quickly—walking next to the coast, visiting castles, eating lots of cake. One day we rode on an amphibious vehicle to a nearby island. Husband and I sat in a secluded garden and drank coffee while the others watched canons being fired.
Today we went to the tunnels—built during the German occupation by their war prisoners. There were shocking signs announcing that the the government had decided to not, ‘repeat not’ defend the island when the Germans attacked. Can you imagine how it would feel when the islanders read that for the first time? The tunnel displays showed what life was like under German occupation, much was sad (they killed all the cats and dogs because there was no food for them) and some things were practical, just getting on with life during difficult circumstances. It makes you question your own core beliefs—how would you behave when compliance with the enemy would enable food for your children? I had previously thought I would definitely be part of the resistance movement—no one forces a Thompson to do things. But some of the soldiers were 14. Big children. I don’t think I could have been involved in killing kids, even if they were the enemy.
Today we plan to visit the zoo. This deserves it’s own post (it’s an excellent zoo) so I will write some separate blogs when I am home. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
Things I Heard in Jersey/Only in a Family:
Is someone watching a video in the bathroom?
Don’t throw rocks at your brother.
I’ll give £5 to anyone who can hit him with a pebble.
Let’s get the curry, the linguine and the roast dinner, and then share them.
Stop trying to open the car door—that’s not our car!
Don’t open the flip-top bin with your foot, you’ll break it.
Please can we have a designated quiet area in the house?
(When playing Code Names): Oh great, that’s just what you want your vocal and dominant teammates to say…
Your washing is all over the lawn; let me introduce you to the peg basket.:
Hello, you may remember from last week’s blog that we had trouble getting home from Italy. After a week in the Italian alps, we packed ready to catch our flight home on Sunday. At 3am we received a message from BA saying our flight was cancelled (there had been storms in London and the plane did not arrive in Italy ready to take us back). We therefore booked into a hotel in Milan, and waited for our rescheduled flight on the following Tuesday. (Yes, Tuesday.) The hotel was lovely, and we had internet, therefore although inconvenient it wasn’t the end of the world, we could both work, there are worse things in life.
However, by Tuesday I was SO ready to go home. There was a limit to how useful my work was without my computer (I could access the library on my phone, but reading theology books on a phone is not quite as easy as reading them on a large screen). The weather was really hot, so although we were near Milan, a hot hour on a train to get to the centre, followed by tourism in an overheated city, was very unattractive. So we stayed in the hotel–literally inside the hotel. Which after two days made me a bit desperate for fresh air (but when I ventured outside, the air was thick with fumes and it was so very hot, it was not ‘fresh’ at all!)
Tuesday morning, we packed our things ready to go home. I joked with Husband about how I had mixed my clean and dirty clothes before, and this time I wondered whether I should try to keep the not-too-dirty ones separate…just in case… But I didn’t. Although I did decide to keep snacks and water bottles, thinking I would discard them at the very last moment.
We left the hotel and entered the stale-aired chaos of the airport. Too many people, concentrating on pulling luggage, avoiding other travellers, signs flashing, noisy tannoy, watching the red letters on the information board, keeping track of my valuables, ignoring the smells of fast-food outlets, and perfume, and bodies, trying to balance on the escalator. Much too much noise and smell and stress. (I am not a happy traveller.)
We checked in and left our bags. BA had moved us down a group when it reissued the tickets, so we requested to be put back into the group we had paid for (Group 4–so nothing fancy, just not left until the very end when all the overhead lockers would be full.) The kind person at check-in moved us into Group 3. We walked to the gate. Due to Brexit (so much I could write) we have to go to passport control via separate screens, entering details about visas and right-to-stay, which adds another long queue to enter and depart Europe. We eventually arrived at the gate, waited to board.
We boarded the flight pretty much on time. Then we waited. There was a fault on the aircraft; an engineer was sent. We waited. After a couple of hours (yes, hours) they brought round cans of drink and biscuits. At one point they warned us the lights and air-con would turn off, as they were ‘switching everything off and then restarting the system.’ This reminded me of my son’s advice when my computer won’t work. It did not bode well. After about 4 hours, we were told they couldn’t fix the fault, we should collect our luggage, and we would be sent to hotels and contacted about new flights. Super.
We went back to the terminal (via the annoying extra queues because of Brexit) and collected our bags. There was no one with a sign telling us what to do or where to go. I went to security, and they suggested I should go to the BA lounge. There was a BA representative, but he did not make his presence obvious, and certainly did not make any announcements. If I had been travelling alone, I would have felt very insecure. I chatted to a couple of passengers who were travelling alone, and told them the information I had. When we left, I went via the lounge and told them they should send someone with a sign to the arrivals hall, because people did not know what to do. I’m afraid the bossy-school-teacher is still in me.
However, I was not alone, and 40ish years ago, I chose wisely. As soon as the flight was delayed, Husband had looked online for other flights leaving Milan. The instant they announced our flight was cancelled, he booked tickets on the flight the following day, and rooms back at the Sheraton. I suggested that if the flights BA sent were better, maybe we should use those? He made non-committal noises.
We returned to the lovely Sheraton. No clean clothes, yuk. But I still had water and snacks. We got to our room sometime after midnight. A message from BA arrived. They offered us tickets at 5am the following mornings (so after maybe 3 hours sleep) to Zurich. Yes, Zurich. We would then spend 12 hours in Zurich airport, and catch the evening flight to Heathrow. We declined, and requested a refund.
Wednesday, three days after our scheduled flight, we returned to the airport. The flight was delayed, which worried me, but after about an hour, we taxied to the runway. We made it home. It was so lovely to finally arrive, to see the animals, to unpack, to have clean clothes and my own bed. In the grand scheme of things, a few days in Europe staying in a hotel is not so bad. But something about being in limbo, of not being able to do things we have planned (I missed the funeral of a friend, for example) was very unsettling. We have our plans, and we like things to be normal. Normal is something to be valued, but we often don’t notice it until it’s missing.
Hoping you have a nice ‘normal’ week this week. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
It’s holiday season, so we escaped to Italy for a week. We did very little, so enjoy the photos (but the diary is possibly not worth reading unless you want to see what doing nothing in Italy means!)
A Week in the Italian Alps
Taxi 5:30. Flew BA to Milan from Heathrow. Now, I don’t book the flights, therefore I have no right to criticise. But I would like to say that there are nearer airports, and cheaper flights, and I am not convinced that BA are the best. But that is just my opinion (and mostly I am just grateful that I don’t have to book the flights.
Picked up a Fiat, drove to La Thuile. Apartment opposite Montana Lodge (nice). It overlooks the glacier from the front, and the meadow from the back, so wherever you sit is beautiful.
Dinner in La Grotta, and we had to sit outside, which is not my favourite thing (insects always bite me). Husband had cheesy starter and cheesy main. A LOT of cheese.
Each day began in the same way: I open the shutters and windows, in rushes the crisp cold air, the sound of cow bells from the forest, the smell of pine trees. I make coffee and sit on the balcony reading my little Tanakh. Lovely. Later we have a second coffee and croissant on balcony. No kettle but hob super fast for boiling water. I hadn’t realised the advantage of convection hobs before, they are very space-age.
Our days varied, but we never did very much, we just returned to the places we have enjoyed on previous visits. Walked up to river (the little local shop we used on previous holidays has closed).
I did some washing (yaay). I do like having a washing machine on holiday (this is not sarcasm, I actually do).
Mostly we ate at La Grotta, but it’s closed on Tuesdays–many places were closed on Tuesdays. Actually, most places haven’t even opened for the season yet—coming before July is very quiet, which is mostly good but does limit restaurant choices. We managed to book dinner at Lo Tata. Very lovely. We shared a cheese and meat platter, drank wine and beer. I then couldn’t eat all my spagetti, and received an angry scowl from the owner!
One day we drove to the most beautiful valley in the world. Still beautiful. It was early, so not too hot (excellent) but we got entangled with a herd of cows going to be milked, on a narrow path next to the mountain edge. They were very big (a bit worrying). Made it back unscathed.
It’s hot and cloudy. Thunder is rolling round the mountains and odd spots of rain fall occasionally. Some evenings the storm passed over the valley, which made walking to restaurants rather damp (the day that we had hail, Husband drove, but mostly we walked unless it was too wet).
We returned for dinner in Lo Tatà again. It was busy. They put different parties on shared tables. Boss lady wouldn’t allow Husband to mix meat dish and pasta dish (‘In Italy this is not possible.’) I thought maybe she was joking, both were available on the menu. But no, she refused to serve them at the same time. He switched to a more Italian-acceptable order. Nice food.
Saturday was a sort of nothing day. I started to pack, we strolled around Gollet and found the restaurant (now closed and overgrown) where we enjoyed an unexpected lunch a few years ago. We watched several lorries unload sheep onto the meadow, then different lorries collected most of them. We tried to guess why. (A sale place? Switching to Swiss lorries? A respite break?) They were still there the next day.
There were storms in the evening again, but it was dry enough to walk to La Grotta for dinner. Nice to be back somewhere familiar with no scary Italian women checking our behaviour!
I finished packing, set alarm for 6 am, went to sleep. It has been a lovely week, and now I am ready to go home. I miss my animals and my books, and just being at home with the routine of days. (Sometimes I wonder if I am slightly autistic, I prefer routine.)
Sunday
Husband woke at me at 4am to say BA had cancelled our flight and put us on one Tuesday evening. I was so sleepy, I couldn’t think. There was opportunity to try to get on an earlier flight, but I needed to decide quickly. I was too sleepy. I didn’t have my diary, but thought I could probably stay if I could extend the animal care for an extra couple of days. But I wouldn’t know that until England was awake, which would be too late for quickly booking an earlier flight. Chicken-and-egg situation. And I was SO sleepy. Agreed I would get the allocated flight.
Then it was difficult to get back to sleep. Put a load of dirty clothes in washing machine (not enough socks for the extra days!) Sort of dozed until 7.
We left apartment and drove to Malpensa airport. Three hours, good run. Returned hire car. Then we headed for the terminal, pushing cases that never roll straight, avoiding crowds of other passengers, into the noise of electronic announcments, flashing advertisement boards, flicking flight information. Just being there, bombarded with stale air and too many people makes me feel tense. Then, just as I braced for a difficult route towards the hotel, there it was. Before we even entered the main terminal, there was a sign, and electric doors opened before us, and whoosh, we were in an atmosphere of cool air and calm.
Checked into Sheraton Milan Airport (Husband had booked it as soon as he heard about our flight). It was very easy. I did not know such places existed. I shall seek airport hotels whenever we travel now.
Hotel is nice. Big. Quiet. We have access to the club lounge due to Husband-who-travels gold card. They have nice drinks and snacks. Our room is okay. Weather hot (35°) so we’re staying inside.
Went for a stroll around airport terminal. Husband ate a Pret. Looked at art in the foyer. This was really good—portraits made from buttons, drink cans, circuit boards. If you zoom in on the photos you will see how clever they are.
Dinner (small one) in the lounge (a bit crowded). It was okay (I wasn’t really very hungry). In room, phoned family.
Monday
I was really tired, so slept well.
We went to the exercise room, 20 minutes on a treadmill. Then breakfast . Fresh orange juice was €8, so we stayed with the free stuff! There was a trolley of take-away fruit, with little paper bags. Very nice touch. I had an apricot (nice).
We both worked in the morning, then went into terminal for Pret sandwich (never nice). Husband had online meetings all afternoon. These are always very loud, and (not unreasonably) he uses the only desk and chair. I was therefore somewhat dislocated. It was too hot for tourism. I went to the executive lounge (free with Husbands card) and tried to work. Tired, so switched to watching Bridgerton on my phone.
Then they brought in some food I had a glass of red wine. I sat there, Hebrew grammar book on the desk, watching Netflix on my phone, nibbling parmesan cheese dipped in honey and sipping red wine. Not too much to complain about. Now have a headache.
We checked in for flight tomorrow. I so want to go home…
Thanks for reading. I hope any unexpected problems that happen this week are easily resolved.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
PS. Things did not go as smoothly as hoped. I will write a post for next week!
Texas Farmhouse is an unfortunate name. A wooden house, with dim lighting, far from the nearest town, evokes images of ‘The Texas Farmhouse Massacre.’ (A very slight modification of the film name, which I have not seen, but kind of evokes an unsettling image.) I think the furnishings don’t help. There are austere-looking people gazing from the walls, and although I have similar photos of my own ancestors at home, not knowing these grim people, and feeling nervous, makes for a bad combination.
The ‘farmhouse’ (‘log cabin’ is more accurate) is furnished with historical artifacts so it sort of feels like living in a museum exhibit. They have also tried to make things ‘more old’ by scraping off paint, not removing grime from sinks—which to me seems very inaccurate. ‘Old’ does not equate ‘dirty’ and I’m sure the original occupants would have repainted things when they needed it, and kept their sinks clean and free from rust. There are some concessions to modern living (indoor bathroom and modern plumbing and air/con, heating system). I think it would be nicer if they had also removed rust and grime from the sinks. But we are getting used to it.
The first morning we discussed changing our plans, and abandoning the cabin. We would lose our fee, but if we weren’t going to enjoy it, what was the point? But we have now settled into ‘camping’ mode—ignoring the grubby parts and enjoying what is lovely. And there are lovely parts. Yesterday evening, as we sat in rocking chairs on the veranda, sipping red wine, enjoying the peace, it was perfect. Leaves rustled in the breeze, birds sang, the spanish moss swayed on the ancient trees.
There are also animals, which I love being near to. We found a field nearby with deer, which came up to the fence to greet us. There were also bison, huge shaggy bodies squarely facing us as they decided whether we were interesting. Then they walked towards us, one deliberate step after the next, slowly coming towards the fence. (We were quite happy to have a fence between us—I don’t know much about bison). An emu appeared, and did a sort of dance next to us (which may or may not have been aggressive—if it was a cockerel I would have been wary, but it’s hard to feel threatened by a bird which has a perpetual smile). It followed us along the fence line as we continued our walk.
Then there was screaming, or a siren—something loud and urgent, which made us stop and look, and worry about whether we should be running towards or away from the noise. It ended with a definite animal noise, and a he-haw that we recognised as ‘donkey-noise.’ Out from the trees, our side of the fence, ran a donkey. It looked very cute, but something about the noise had sounded aggressive, so I wasn’t so sure. Husband assured me it just wanted to be fed, I thought it was warning us away. We walked on, it followed, although never got very near. A second donkey appeared, and they both followed us. It was a shame, because it stopped me wanted to stay and watch the fenced animals. That’s the trouble with animals you don’t understand—it’s hard to know what might be dangerous. (Later, I looked online to see whether donkeys are ever aggressive. The main result was newspaper articles about a mayor in Texas who had been killed by a donkey on his ranch. This was not reassuring.)
Other than the scary donkeys, it was a lovely walk. That, and the wine-on-the-veranda moment encouraged us to stay for another day. I like staying in weird places (for short periods). It’s less comfortable than the ubiquitous modern motels, but also more interesting, something that builds memories. And if we get killed by donkeys—well, it’s a pretty unique way to die and probably better than hooked to machines in a skyless hospital room, isn’t it?
Thanks for reading. More of our road trip in my next blog. Take care (and avoid haunted houses). Love, Anne x
Btw, I have since done more research into donkeys, because there were loads of them in Texas. Apparently, they make very good guards and keep foxes and coyotes away from livestock. So people keep them to protect their sheep, flocks. I’m now trying to persuade Husband that we need a donkey to keep foxes away from my birds. He is not yet convinced.
We drove from New Orleans to St, Martinsville. I was desperate for a washroom when we arrived. It was Sunday, in a sleepy town there were not many options. We tried to buy coffee in a Mexican restaurant, but they said they did not serve coffee. (They may not have understood us.) We bought a couple of bottles of coke. I asked if I could use the washroom. Relief! Now, it might seem strange to begin a travel blog with washroom details, but that will only be if you are not an older female who has had children. Age and children muck up bladders, and this can become something of a hindrance to travel. However, usually it’s not a problem in the US, as there are usually plenty of restaurants with washrooms (you just have to drink a lot of coffee, because they are only for customer use).
We were in St. Martinsville because the guide book told us there was a famous oak, a famous square, and an eternal flame. The people who we spoke to in the street seemed unaware of this. We did, eventually, find the oak, and the square (which was not really identifiable as a square) and the eternal flame (which could be seen by walking across some grass and peering through a fence). I don’t think they get many tourists. Most things were closed (it was Sunday).
We then drove, without much optimism, to the nearby Cypress Swamp reservation. This also seemed deserted. We parked and followed a pathway to look at the river. It was swampland, with wooden decks into them, and it was pretty amazing and very beautiful. However, the decking was low over the water, and broken in places, and I worried it might give way and we would plunge into the swamp water and be eaten by alligators. (Not that we could see any alligators, I think it’s the wrong time of year.) We survived, and took some photos. We could see large white egrets in the trees, getting ready to nest. It was beautiful, and peaceful, and very unnerving because we are foreign and not sure of the dangers. We went into the information hut afterwards. This is like reading the instructions of a machine after trying to work it out first. There was a helpful man, and information boards, and it all seemed very well organised and safe.
We drove to Lafayette and checked into a Residence Inn which are my favourite motels because they have a little kitchen area, and a shared laundry. I like being able to wash our clothes. We ate in a nearby restaurant, which had welcoming music, and comfy booths, and a very friendly waitress. I ate alligator nuggets, which were deep-fried and tasted exactly like chicken. Apparently, alligator meat is high in protein and iron, but low in fats.
(I think from my current study of Noah, that humans were told they can eat fish and ‘creepers,’ not all animals. I have not yet finished researching this, so I may come to a different conclusion, but currently I try to only eat veggie food or fish/‘creepers.’ I decided alligators are ‘creepers.’ Husband is not admiring of my food choices nor my theology.)
The following day (Monday 23rd Feb) we drove through Louisiana (LA) towards Texas. We passed flooded fields, and swampland, and vast green fields of cows. According to the internet, the flooded fields are for rice, which some farmers alternate with crawfish after the harvest. It would be interesting to stop, and see one properly. I hadn’t realised that rice was grown in the US.
As we neared Houston, the roads grew very busy. We stopped for food, and I asked the waitress for the name of a good grocery shop. Kroger’s. (It’s very hard to find supermarkets, because Google does not differentiate between the small garage shop with outdated food and the big supermarket that locals use.) We drove through Texas. There were fewer farms, and lots of industry: aggregates and oil. Some of the oil refineries were huge, the size of a town, filled with tall metal tubes and machines and nasty smells. Driving around Houston was no fun. Huge lorries, 9-lane roads, junctions on both sides, everything moving very fast, overtaking on either side, roadworks shutting lanes.
We made it, and left the main road for our next stop.
Husband had booked an airbnb on a ranch. Sounded nice. It took 15 minutes to drive down the dirt track. The houses were cabins, hidden in the trees, full of historical furniture. As we parked the car, we saw a wooden outside loo. I was silent.
We went into our cabin. It felt haunted, I don’t really like houses that have photographs of dead people on the walls (which makes no sense). The facilities were quirky, but there was modern plumbing, so I felt happier. We ate some food, and went to bed. No ghosts visited. I rather like the place now, it’s very unusual, but has good working washrooms.
It had a washing machine. Sort of…
Thanks for reading. More of our road trip in my next blog. Take care (and avoid haunted houses). Love, Anne x
Our last day in New Orleans was Sunday. We woke early (managing a sort of hybrid UK/US time, although the extra hour when we moved from Florida towards Alabama was brutal). We ran in the hotel gym, because even though we wait until it’s light, running in New Orleans would feel unsafe due to all the drug addicts—who I suspect are unpredictable when needing money.
We wanted to attend a church. I like attending local churches when away from home. Since I went to Spurgeon’s College (a Baptist college) I have definitely become less Baptist ironically, and much more interested in how different denominations express their faith. Most of the churches near us were black churches, so I checked with the hotel receptionist whether we would be welcome in a black church, or whether it would be rude to attend. She assured us we would be welcome, and also suggested we could try the local Catholic church—St. Jude’s. This, plus the information that the local Baptist church service would run to at least 2 hours, was helpful. We walked to St.Judes.
The walk to church typifies New Orleans for me. The roads were big, but easy to cross because traffic stops at crosswalks. The streets were fairly busy, with a mishmash of people—many with dyed (blue/green/pink) hair, many looking smart, music seeping from doorways. Lying on the hard tarmac, huddled under old coats because the weather was chilly, were the homeless. There was a police convoy, stopping traffic as floats from Mardi Gras swept past—going I guess into storage until next year. The floats were bright, huge figureheads, painted fences to enclose the people who would ride on them.
As we neared church, I saw a couple of people, sleeping with blankets pulled over their heads, bare toes peeping out from under the cover. It was sad, sadder for some reason than the homeless that I see in London—perhaps because there are places they can go to if they choose, and here I don’t know what their options are. Plus so many were young men, thin faces and blank eyes, ravaged by drugs. It broke my heart. I wanted to lay my jacket over them, but Husband stopped me, said it would probably be sold for drugs, better to donate money to a charity that could help them properly. But it was sad. As we arrived at the church I felt very near tears. I kept wondering where God was in this city, wondering who was working for him to help these people.
The church was welcoming when we entered. We are not Catholics, and much of it was completely confusing, everyone else seemed to know what to chant at intervals, which responses to give. It was a big church, packed with a whole variety of people—many were very smart, posh clothes ladies wearing hats and heels, some were casual, some looked like they had wandered in from the street in search of somewhere warm to rest. The choir were dressed in white and processed down the aisle to signify the start of the service. Most were fairly old, and they wore fez-type hats. All the church wardens wore red gowns, which helped to know who was an official. There was a brass band, and the songs all had a Kum by Yah African-American spiritual-folk flavour to them. The offering was collected in baskets with long handles (like fishing nets) and after collecting it, they came back a second time, which was unexpected. (I think they were collecting for two different things, but it made me giggle.) The Priest gave a talk, which was short but I thought it was good—about Jesus being tempted and how people are tempted today by Power and Prestige and Profit (even the leaders). There was then a prayer asking that leaders of countries should behave according to God’s will, and for the good of the world not just their own prestige or the good of their own country. (But he did not name anyone specifically.) At the end was a little prize-giving for the women’s group (who seemed to do all the work in the church) and they reminded me of the strong women working in the Zambian church we visited. Then it ended, and people walked out, dipping their fingers in a bowl of holy water.
We packed our bags and drove away from New Orleans. I’m glad we visited, but it made me sad. There was so much creativity, a lot of carefree relaxation, a lot of excellent music, all with an undercurrent of heartbreaking sadness when you noticed the lost faces of the addicts. But we were only there for a few days, so my impressions might be wrong.
I cannot explain my first impression of New Orleans to you, I can only show you what I saw and try to describe my feelings about the city. It is not like any other city I have visited previously, and it felt sad, like I had entered a world read about in the past. A city I thought no longer existed today in our modern world of mental health care and intellectual superiority.
Arriving was easy—Google maps guided us along highways, bridges over vast rivers, lanes of traffic swooshing past the clogged streets of the city until finally, just before our hotel we were taken onto smaller roads, a brief moment of stress and traffic lights before arriving at the hotel. We’re staying at a Courtyard by Marriott—a nice reliable chain of hotels—you know what you’re going to get. We checked in, dumped our bags, went for a walk.
The pathways were busy, lots of colour, lots of noise. Mardi Gras finished this week, so we thought it would be quieter. Not sure there was anything quiet. There was music. Bands and piano music drifting from bars, trumpets played on the street, children using upturned plastic cartons as drums beating out a rhythm. It made you want to dance.
The creativity of the city is undeniable. There were poets, offering to write for any price. Artists with paintings hung on walls. The buildings were pretty with lattice work on balconies, strung with beads and draped with bright fabric. Even the people wore bright clothing, hair dyed pink and purple and blue.
But the sad side of the city is unescapable. People in drug stupors lying on the kerbs, on benches, huddled in corners. Homeless people carrying all their belongings.
There were the businesses I wanted to avoid: the photos of naked girls outside, the ‘first church of witchcraft’ the stalls offering tarot readings. We had only walked a few minutes when we encountered a naked man, and a shouting policeman, watched by a grinning crowd filming the spectacle on their phones. I didn’t see the crime—the drug sellers, the pick-pockets, the people traffickers—but I felt they were there.
The authorities were easy to spot, but I’m not sure what they were doing. We saw a few groups of National Guard—young men struggling in layers of uniform in the humid air, looking uncomfortable, as if they didn’t know what they were doing either. Mostly they seemed to be standing in a group, looking aimless. Some were walking, but they still looked a little aimless, maybe they had finished for the day, were on their way home.
I don’t know how to explain the city. It is somehow creative without being beautiful, as if all the creativity is too much for itself, and it doesn’t know where to go. Maybe for creativity to be beautiful it also needs boundaries, or it spins out of control into drugs and aimlessness. It all felt a bit pointless, as if the people there—the musicians and artists and entertainers—had forgotten what they were trying to achieve. As if they were searching for freedom but had become trapped not having any goals; trying to escape but unsure what they were escaping from or where they wanted to go. Overall, it just felt sad. I wanted to wrap it up and take it home, show it some security, the beauty of the countryside, the peace of routine. It felt like a city that has lost its mother, and it needs some care. But first impressions can be misleading. I will look further tomorrow.
