travel

Jamaica Inn

Posted by

0


Day 6

A travelling day. Never fun. Miami airport was quite difficult to negotiate, with various steps which were not obvious. We flew with American Airlines, which involved checking-in at the airport (using a screen, but it needed a person to verify our documents so not possible to check-in ahead of schedule in the hotel). Then we had to add the labels and drop our bags ourselves, which always makes me nervous. But all was fine. The security check was as rude as most security checks in the US, with officials snapping instructions, and our stuff whisked away on the conveyor belt before we were ready, and then it arrived in a heap the other side, with no time to snatch our belongings before the rude person operating the machine dumped another lot of belongings on top—so we lost a nail (but not a finger) and nearly lost a passport, and the man next to us couldn’t find his backpack and all was confusion and stress.

To enter Jamaica we needed to complete an online form—the website was at the airport (though not advertised in advance, so was unexpected). We used our phones to complete the form while we waited for our flight, and then when we landed in Montego Bay we used the machines to scan our passports, and it photographed us and printed out a thin document, which allowed access to the country. It was very efficient.

One of the declarations on the form asked whether we had an fruit or veg. I had a packet of walnuts and almonds to snack. Did that count as fruit? I seem to remember that the outbreak of foot and mouth in the UK a few years ago was due to a lorry driver throwing away a ham sandwich. But I don’t know how anyone would know that, so possibly a myth—though the fact I had heard it made me wonder whether it was possible, and therefore whether carrying nuts—even processed ones from a supermarket—might be a problem. I decided I was too scared of security guards to not declare it, and too scared of Husband being annoyed because we would be delayed at the airport if I did declare it, so I threw them away before we left Miami. What a waste.

We arrived in Jamaica, picked up a hire car, drove to Jamaica Inn. Beautiful spot. It was like giving birth—instantly forgot the pain of travel in the wonder of being somewhere beautiful. I won’t remember it properly until I have to travel again, and then the horror of airports will come flooding back!

Day 7

I am writing this in our outside sitting area. We have never had one of these before, the hotel room is a suite, with the doors from the bedroom leading to a covered patio with sofas, dining area, fridge and lamps. The open side looks across the garden to the beach. Rather lovely. It’s currently raining. It seems to rain a lot here—warm wet showers that make the banana leaves glisten. In a few minutes it will stop, the sun will break through the clouds and the air will be warm and moist. Easy to relax in a place like this.

After breakfast on the terrace, we went to find a supermarket. Most were shut (it’s Sunday) but we found one online with a big car park, about 10 minutes from the hotel. Driving there was easy but we needed to be aware—lots of potholes in the road, fast drivers coming towards us and the car behind sitting inches from our bumper. We are the only people in Jamaica who obey the speed limits (but we’re foreign, I don’t expect they would be kind if we were caught speeding).

The supermarket was a mini adventure in itself. Supermarkets in other countries are always unfamiliar; this one had high shelves, and narrow aisles. We took a shopping trolley from outside, and searched the shelves for bottles of water and bread for lunch (because the hotel provides breakfast, tea and dinner, but we didn’t want to pay extra for lunches too). I felt very foreign, I was the only white person, and I was aware that people spoke very fast in a dialect that was hard to understand, so I walked round smiling at people but trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. At the checkout, the shop assistant told us we couldn’t take the trolley outside, there were other ones for going to the car. I went outside, found a metal trolley, started to take it into the shop, but a man stopped me, said it wasn’t allowed. I explained the situation, apologised, went back inside. The assistant told me I could not take the trolley outside. Another assistant appeared with a metal trolley, said she would push it, customers were not allowed. Now, this was difficult. In all probability, there was a system which we did not understand—but it was possibly a scam and the person pushing the trolley for us would expect to be tipped and be nasty if we refused. Difficult. Husband (who also spotted the possibility of a scam) politely refused, said we were fine, he could carry the water, our car was nearby. They looked confused (which probably indicates it wasn’t a scam) and let us carry our groceries. At the door, we were stopped by the man who wouldn’t allow me to move the trolley, and asked for our receipt. He took it, wrote something on it, handed it back. Husband checked it, we said thank you, left. I noticed as we left that the man who was behind us in the checkout also showed his receipt as he left. There was obviously a system here, which we didn’t understand. Maybe if you pack your own bag you need to show your receipt before you leave. I don’t know. We left, feeling foreign, got in the car, locked the doors—though nothing had been at all threatening, we just didn’t know the system. Drove back to the hotel without incident.

The hotel is lovely, too beautiful to describe though I’m hoping the photos give some idea. It’s not cheap—it’s Husband’s birthday treat, a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Most of the guests are English or American, and mainly white. The staff are all local, and I can’t help wondering what they think of us, a whole hotel of mostly white-skinned guests visiting their lovely island. I don’t know why I am noticing this. In SriLanka we were the only white people, and on some of our trips to India and to China. But it feels different here—I wonder if it’s because I know there was a history of slavery here, or because in the UK some of the dark-skinned people at university talk a lot about the history of slavery and systemic racism—whereas those of Chinese or Indian ethnicity do not, so I am less aware of the difference, less worried about how they view me, a white person. I don’t know.

We are right on the coast, but behind us are mountains. Everywhere is lush with plants. The coast seems to be full of resorts, with private coves and fancy hotels. The roads are less plush, and many of the buildings are either half-built or falling down (it’s sometimes hard to tell which one). There are brown dogs wandering around (not sure of the breed—maybe thin golden retrievers) and goats, and thin horses. Not sure why the horses are thin, as there’s lots of grass, maybe they are naturally lean, like the herd of cracker cows we saw in Florida which survive the heat because they are thin and muscular rather than fat. The road is lined with large billboards, often faded by the sun.

The island is very beautiful, and the people seem friendly and helpful. I will tell you more in another post. I have never stayed in such a luxurious resort, it’s such a treat.

Hope you have some treats planned too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Day 1, Florida Road Trip 2025

Posted by

0


I’m writing this in a happy fuzz of espresso martini treat. This is my current drink of choice, and it’s always fun to see whether the order brings a look of joy or fear in the bar tender’s eyes. Sometimes it’s a very long time in arriving and I wonder if they have gone to search the recipe on the internet! I’m thinking of doing a survey—which place in the world serves the best espresso martini? So far the winner would be the King’s Head near Rye. Today’s entry was in Punta Gorda, Florida. It was nice, but very strong. I was quite giggly by the end. When I had finished the waitress came to offer me a second one, and Husband said No! in a very definite voice. He told me I was the same colour as my shirt. (I was wearing pink.) Tasty though.

I will try to remember the rest of the day through the blur. I woke at 2 am, stayed in bed until 3am, because I have decided to adjust to US time an hour a day. Made a coffee, and read until 6am, when the business lounge opened (they serve breakfast). Very nice breakfast. I had porridge, because it’s healthy and I am reducing my cholesterol. Then had a muffin, and a cake, so it didn’t finish so well. Husband went straight to the fried stuff, so he’s worse.

First job was to collect the car (a Ford Mustang convertible—treat for Husband’s birthday). It took a long time to walk to the correct place (which was right opposite the hotel) and even longer to drive back, because we kept missing the turning and all the roads were fast and multi-carriageways. Made it while still friends.

We left the hotel and drove to Sanibel. It was cold. Husband wanted the roof down on the Mustang, which was very chilly. Stopped at a nature reserve to use the washroom and walked along a raised walkway, looking at alligators and exotic water birds, and turtles and huge fish. Very peaceful with an undercurrent of threat. Didn’t actually see anything attacking anything else, but felt it was imminent.

Sanibel was devastated by a hurricane a couple of years ago, and some parts were still broken. Our favourite cafe (The Sanibel Cafe) had reopened, so we ate lunch there. It’s very nice. I ate a fish burger. Then we drove to Sanibel Moorings, where we have stayed a few times, and it was being rebuilt, though some apartments were already open. Walked along the beach, and saw scary looking puffer fish that had washed up in the tide and were drying on the beach, their spiky backs waiting to catch bare feet. I chose a pretty shell to keep. The weather was warmer, and it was fun to have the roof down. Sanibel is so pretty. It’s a bit false (really it should be covered in sand or swamp I suspect) but full of plants and flowers rather than plastic false, so I like it.

We drove north to Punta Gorda. Husband used his initiative a few times, which makes map reading more of a challenge, but we arrived eventually, I was really tired. We had an early dinner in the hotel. (Staying at the Four Points by Sheraton, Harbourside,) Nice meal, friendly staff. After dinner we walked along the dock. Saw a boat that had been wrecked by the hurricane, lifted from the water and smashed into the dock. Didn’t see any crocodiles or mosquitoes, but I’m guessing they were there somewhere. Lurking out of sight, waiting to bite us.

Went back to the room. Nice day.
I hope you have a nice day too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Journey

Posted by

0


Usually I hate travelling abroad—the rush, stressy people, irritable security staff with too many passengers and not enough time, the stale air, grimy seats, over-crowded, germ-laden, rule-induced tension of the whole experience. But this was different. This was a treat for Husband’s big birthday. This was a splurge of years of accumulated air-miles. This was Virgin Upper Class.

Our taxi drove through barriers, up a separate ramp and swept into an empty bay. Suited men appeared to carry our luggage and we followed them to the security desk. A smiling woman dressed in red checked our documents and we were guided to a conveyor belt. No need to remove electronics or separate liquids, everything stayed in the bags while we walked through the scanner. (I always hate these, I assume it’s an x-ray with accompanying cancer risk, but there’s no way to avoid them if you travel.) Then into the main terminal, with too many people and not enough air, along crowded walkways with shiny shops and too much perfume, up a spiral staircase, into the lounge.

Aaahhh, the lounge. We sat at a table and ordered food and drink. Husband went to the washroom so I selected a newspaper and sipped coffee until he returned. Life was comfy. I ordered a grapefruit (nice and sweet, didn’t need the small pot of Demerara sugar). The Eggs Florentine  (a single muffin half, which is perfect for me, with thick salmon, a poached egg blanketed in low-cholesterol-diet-busting hollandaise sauce). I finished with a ‘croffle’ which turned out to be a croissant pastry cooked in a waffle iron—which only half worked (very tasty but a bit too chewy) topped with fruit compote and coconut yogurt. Not a bad start to the day.

After our meal we chose something to read and settled into an easy chair. I chose Vogue magazine, which I read at my 6-monthly trip to the hairdresser. It’s heavy, over-priced, and mainly full of pretty adverts for expensive items aimed at beautiful people. Good for a mindless hour. I noticed that the photos of the various famous people (I didn’t recognise many, but they were all beautiful and even the old ones didn’t look old) included a description of their clothes. This was detailed—a long list of everything they wore, including belts and shoes. (Not underwear of course, that would be weird.) I wondered why, and whether most people (that undefined group of the masses which seems to move as a unit) are actually interested in such things. I assume the editor of Vogue wouldn’t bother with the details if no-one cared. I must be in the minority. I don’t always notice what I am wearing, never mind the rest of the world. I remarked on this to Husband (who dresses even more badly than me) and we agreed that for this reason alone, we must never become famous. We must save the world from the details: ‘He wore vintage Marks & Spencers from a decade ago teamed with slightly shrunk jeans from the tumble dryer.’ (It would be unkind to suggest it wasn’t the jeans that have changed size.) ‘She wore her husband’s old shirt under her favourite green sweater, with a matching but threadbare very comfy men’s cardigan, black jeans with a muddy paw-print on one leg, and black boots with a broken zip’ As I said, best if we never become famous.

Another nice feature is the washrooms. They have small cloth towels, and hand lotion. My only criticism is the mirror wall, which completely confused me when I first entered, so I apologised, thinking I had entered an occupied washroom, and then realised I was talking to myself! It was also unnecessary, I felt. Who needs to watch themselves peeing? Maybe they need to check all their clothes are straight before someone takes their photo for Vogue. It also meant you could see the back of your head, which I always hate because I hear my mother’s voice telling me to comb the back of my hair. I am sixty, sixty! and my mother still tells me to comb my hair. Perhaps she also notices what I am wearing. I will have to ask her. She would enjoy Vogue.

After enjoying the lounge, we were invited onto the plane. Now, a plane is a plane, wherever you are sitting. It’s a metal tube with recycled air and plastic food and it smells of toilet cleaner. But they do their best. I was given a whole pod to myself, with cupboards (more mirrors—they were going to be depressing towards the end of a nine-hour flight!) Lots of plug sockets, and a bag of bedding that rolled out during take-off and disobeyed the ‘keep the footwell clear’ rule, so I had to hold it, which would be substandard if I needed to leave in a hurry. The steward came to introduce himself and gave me a tour of the mirrors, sockets, hidden table and light switches. Which kept us occupied until take-off. 

The flight is too long, but it’s easier if you’re at the front. It was possible to get up without disturbing lots of other people, and there are fewer people using the washrooms. The chair could be made completely flat for sleeping, though as it stretched forwards into the hollow of the seat in front, it felt a lot like sleeping in a coffin. Not for the claustrophobic. The food was nicer, and we could help ourselves to snacks and ice-cream between meals, which was a nice treat.

Is it worth the price tag? No. Is it a fun treat if you have enough air-miles? Absolutely.

We landed at midnight UK time, which I found very tough. The arrivals hall was slow, it took nearly an hour to get through passport control, and I find US security to be one of the rudest in the world. Occasionally you find an official who is polite, very occasionally they are friendly, but mostly they are incredibly rude. The officious young man in Miami told us to stand in front of the camera, then glanced up and said ‘Glasses!’ (I was tempted to reply yes, yes they are glasses. Or, do you mean “please remove your glasses?” But I didn’t. Wrong time to be snarky.)

We were staying at the Sheraton at the airport, which I then discovered did not mean actually at the airport, it meant a bus ride. Which meant pushing our bags along a busy pavement, and waiting for the bus. It wasn’t a long wait, but I was so tired. The day was too long. I always (unreasonably) blame Husband in these situations and feel extremely cross with him. Managed to not say anything.

Eventually arrived in our room. Very noisy broken ice machine right outside our door. Lumpy mattress.  Slept badly. Woke early. I plan to adjust my clock one hour per day. Anything more and I will have a migraine. Difficult time complete. Now to enjoy our holiday.

Thanks for reading. I will let you know how the holiday goes—we’re driving round Florida, so hoping to see alligators. Then we go to Jamaica (which I am very excited about!)

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Eating In The City

Posted by

0


This was a last-minute, bit of a risk trip. Husband needed to come to New York to work, and I cannot tell you how much I hate being home alone—mainly because I simply do not sleep. If I don’t sleep, I can’t work, so when he told me he was coming here, I was not a happy bunny. But then I began to explore the idea of coming too—the kennels had a place for the dog, a friend could feed the other animals, I could attend online seminars anywhere, and I could take my books with me. I decided I would risk it. How did it turn out? It was great!

Being away from home means no responsibilities. I could study all day, just taking breaks for fresh air and to find food. Finding food in New York is very easy. I kept to UK time, waking at 2am and studying for a couple of hours until Husband (who was doing more of a hybrid model) also woke. We went to the gym and ran for half an hour (to make us feel slightly less guilty about all the delicious but unhealthy food we were eating). After breakfast, he toddled off to work, and I had several hours of uninterrupted study. It has been brilliant.

I have achieved much more work than I would have done at home. For one thing, there is something about travel—probably the adrenaline and the change in routine—which enhances my ability to be creative. I have felt in bit of a rut with my work, thoroughly preparing the background of my research without a clear focus for where I was going. Then one morning, at 2am, it suddenly became clear! I began to have a thought, that led to a better thought, and I now have a plan on exactly what I want to study.

NYC has therefore been all about study, and all about food. The food here is great (especially if you decide to suspend any diets, and just enjoy what’s on offer). We both had food which we hoped to eat while we were here. Husband wanted a Philly cheesesteak, his sandwich of choice when we lived here in the 90’s. I was keen to eat a cinnamon bagel with cream cheese (nowhere has bagels like NY). I bought one from a deli, which was perfect–warm and fresh and thickly spread with cream cheese. The New Yorkers tend to speak very fast, with a thick NY accent, so I only understood most of the conversation but I managed to buy what I wanted. I also managed to eat New York cheesecake, which is unlike other cheesecakes, as it’s less sweet and lemony. Plus of course we had to have pancakes; and Eggs Benedict. Marvellous. My clothes are now all rather tight, but it was so worth it.

Buckwheat Pancakes, which I discovered I don’t like much! Buckwheat is a grain, not a flour, and it doesn’t have gluten. I ate the fruit and yogurt and stole one of Husband’s banana and pecan pancakes to compensate.
A mushroom burger that dribbled down my chin.
New York cheesecake.
Meals arrive with warm bread, butter and parmesan.
More cheesecake.
Pasta, mushrooms, avocado and tomatoes.
More pancakes.
Sneaky donut between meals.
Nothing beats a diner.
Philly Cheese Steak.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy your day.

Take care (and don’t eat too much—I am eating enough for both of us!)

Love, Anne x

The City Never Sleeps, But It Dozes…

Posted by

0


The City That Never Sleeps (But Sometimes It Naps)

When you walk through New York City in the early hours of the morning, it’s quiet. Not asleep—this city really does never sleep—but it definitely dozes. The streets are well-lit, there are always cars edging between the millions of traffic lights, and several diners are open all night, serving a few shift-workers, and insomniacs, and us.

I have developed a fun routine, keeping roughly to English time. I wake at 2am, eat a pastry, then work for a couple of hours by torchlight until Husband wakes at 4. We then go down to the hotel basement and use the gym. It’s a good gym—lots of fancy equipment, and not many people at 4am. We run on the machines because it’s -11º outside. After a shower, we walk to the Flame Diner for breakfast. I’m edging back on-track with my healthy eating (vaguely) and order oatmeal (which is porridge) with strawberries and blueberries and a tiny pot of maple syrup (that they gave me on the first day, and I only use a bit of it, so I kept it and bring it back each day. If the lid ever comes off in my bag I will regret it!) Not as nice as pancakes, or cinnamon bagels, but I feel less guilty.

I have a sandwich/bagel for lunch, then we have dinner in the Westway Diner at about 1pm US time, when everyone else is finishing their lunch. I then use earplugs and eye-mask and go to bed about 5pm US time. It has worked well so far.

The first day here we walked down the island, which is my favourite thing, walking through the various districts and looking at the shops and restaurants. Midtown, Garment District, Chelsea, Greenwich Village, SoHo, then East to Little Italy and Chinatown and into Wall Street. Districts that are vaguely familiar (we lived in NJ in the late 90’s) but still exotic, unreal places that exist in films and distant memories.

We visited the World Trade Centre Memorial. In previous visits I haven’t wanted to, because I knew people who died there (not well—other parents at the school pick-up, people I would recognise by sight but not really friends). Enough time has passed for it not to be upsetting, though it’s still sombre, still reminds of the tragedy, the fear, the loss. They have built two huge fountains on the footprint of the building, with water sliding down, out of sight. It’s very dignified. Someone had left a rose in one of the names engraved on the edge—23 years is not long for those who lost loved-ones.

World Trade Centre Momorial.
World Trade Centre Memorial. (Look at the people for perspective on the size.)

A completely different vibe are the animal sculptures nearby. They are great fun, a storybook reminder that we need to care for endangered animals or we will lose them. Impossible to resist joining the animals for a photo op!

It snowed. We were forecast lots of snow, but weather forecasts always promise more than arrives. The next day was mainly ice, though there was more snow in the park. We thought the paths would be clear, but they weren’t, and it was quite precarious walking. People had salted, but the temperatures were so low the salty water had frozen, leaving sheets of ice across the paths. In Central Park everyone was walking their dogs, and enjoying the bright sunshine and the crisp air. Some people (us) had dressed appropriately and resembled walking duvets. Others were still beautiful, with uncovered hair and unbuttoned long coats that flowed in the breeze, showing designer outfits. Beautiful but uncomfortable I imagine, as it was absolutely freezing! I managed not to slip over on the ice (it was quite close a few times) and I actually managed to find the castle—which every other time I have come to the park has either been closed or impossible to find. It looks better in films.

I prefer to walk in NYC, but sometimes we use the subway. It’s easy, but always feels a bit scary—I think it features in too many crime and ghost films! South of 100th Street was always safe, but nowadays maybe everywhere is. I’ve used it several times, and never actually seen any crime (or ghosts).

Hope you stay warm today. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

A Cheeky Trip to New York City

Posted by

0


Husband had a work trip, I hate being in the house on my own, plus (I told myself) I will manage to do more work if I’m not also juggling animals and housework, so I went too. We left home Saturday morning, flying from Heathrow—which is not my favourite place in the world. Airports are always too full of people and germs and flashing signs and hard deadlines. Everything that I find stressful, especially because everyone seems tense and everything matters—you really cannot forget to put your hand sanitiser in a separate plastic bag, and you can’t take too long taking off your boots—even though you find it a struggle to balance and there isn’t a chair—because the people behind you are also anxious and rushing and the staff are grumpy, and arghh, arghh, arghh.

But it was fine. I didn’t end up in a small room with a woman wearing plastic gloves, nor did I lose any valuables. Our departure gate was at the far end of the airport, and rather than use the transit we walked. Did you know that is a thing? I didn’t until recently. If you go down to the basement, you can walk the mile or so under the runways and avoid using the rail-link. It’s a bit spooky down there, so even though there are lots of security cameras I’m not sure I would feel comfortable walking on my own, but I prefer it to riding in a crowded train. You can stretch your legs and avoid the crowds for a minute, and although there’s no weather (another thing I dislike about airports and hospitals) it is at least cool, and the air feels cleaner, less artificial.

The plane ride was uneventful. Husband sat at the front because his ticket was paid for by work. I sat next to a tall Chinese boy (probably a man, but he looked young to me) who was on his way to New Zealand. I’m always pleased when I’m next to a man, because on the whole they understand it’s inappropriate to have physical contact with a stranger and therefore they keep within the confines of their own allocated space. Women do not—if a woman is larger than is comfortable on an airplane seat she will sometimes spread sideways, into my seating area, and is not as sensitive to territorial boundaries. I find it quite difficult to have a Christian attitude to this, and do not easily forgive.

I managed to work on the flight, which was good use of time. I read most of a book about animal theology. Did you know that was a thing? It’s very interesting. Plus, I have treated myself to a very fancy selection of sticker/post-it highlighter/marker things. They are brightly coloured and remind me of when I played post-offices as a little girl. Intrinsically pleasing to use. 

We are staying at the Sheraton, Times Square. I stayed here with my sister a few years ago, and it has become a bit more run-down since then and is currently being renovated. Not a great time to be staying here, but the room is clean and everything works (even if the taps do wobble and the lights have slightly dodgy switches). Being in New York is a treat in itself, and the position is great.

I am keeping to UK time, so I ate the sandwiches I had packed at home, and drank a tiny bottle of Merlot that I saved from the flight, and went to bed early. Husband went out for dinner, and I told him to be careful not to get mugged if he was going out in the dark. He muttered something about it being 4pm, and not as late as I thought.

This morning I woke at 2 am US time, and ate a stale croissant while reading by torch light. When Husband woke, we walked to a nearby diner. Nothing in the world beats a New York diner. This is why I came. We sat in a booth at 5am, it was clean and bright, with a large plastic menu. When we sat, we were given glasses of iced water and offered coffee. Perfect. I am trying to reduce the cholesterol in my diet—so that went out the window! I had pancakes (delicious) and dipped slices of banana in sweet smokey maple syrup, and snaffled a piece of bacon from Husband’s plate. (He had a full bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and toast breakfast—so his was even less low-fat than mine!) We had fat glasses of freshly squeezed juice, and I lusted after the pies and cakes in the glass cabinet. The diner was fairly empty (I wondered why anyone would be there are 5am). They were playing a church service on the radio, and it was all rather lovely.

Afterwards we walked down to Times Square. It was still before dawn, but Times square was as bright as daytime with the huge billboards flashing colours and light into the street. Walking through Times Square is like scrolling through Instagram. Lots of perfect young people looking happy and attractive as they dance or walk their dogs or show you a new toothpaste. In the early morning it’s quiet, so rather lovely, and we walked hand-in-hand, arguing about whether we should obey the traffic lights and remembering all the other times we have visited New York. I felt very happy (and very full of pancakes).

Walking through Times Square is like scrolling through Instagram. Lots of coloured lights and attractive images.

I hope you have something happy too this week. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

The Blue Mosque

Posted by

0


We visited the Blue Mosque. I was expecting it to be more blue and only the roof was blue. But it was still very pretty, and they managed to herd lots of tourists through their holy space in a dignified manner. There was no entrance fee. Very well done.

There were clear signs, telling us what was expected (like women wearing a headscarf and everyone removing their shoes) so you knew what to expect before you arrived.

The outer courtyard had information boards, explaining their beliefs. (I checked, and they were happy for me to post them on my blog.) Do read them, and think about whether they compliment or threaten your own views. It’s helpful to know what other people believe, even if we differ from them (and perhaps you don’t differ as much as you thought you did!)

It interests me how many overlaps there are with Jewish, Christian and Muslim beliefs. Obviously there are extremes within each religion, and I would not, as a Christian, want to be linked with the violent hateful sects that call themselves Christian (like the Klu-Klux-Klan in the US) while not showing much in the way of love or purity that Jesus taught. We should remember this when viewing other religions, I think, and not judge the whole by the extremes at the fringe. When I read the boards I did feel some were written in a slightly unrealistic light though, especially the ones referring to the equality of women. I am not sure the ethos described reflects the thinking in practice. But maybe it does sometimes. It’s always hard to remove religion from the culture it has developed within.

We filed into the entrance area, removed our shoes and put them into a bag to carry with us. (Some places have an area where people leave their shoes, but I worry they might be stolen, so this felt more comfortable.) Inside the floor was carpeted, and the prayer area was sectioned to one side. People had hushed voices, though photography was allowed.

There was an information desk, and I had a question about the plurality of words for God in Hebrew, and whether the Quran was the same (it is). The person was well-informed, and spoke excellent English, and probably I could have asked about anything that I didn’t understand. (In case you’re interested, the Hebrew Canon/Old Testament has several places where a plural word for ‘God’ is used, even though Jews and Christians believe in one God. I am exploring why this might be, so I am interested that the Quran is similar.) Whilst my beliefs are different to Islam, I am aware there are overlaps, and there is lots that we agree on. (To be honest, while I do disagree with some of what Islam teaches, I also disagree with what some Christians teach. I guess it’s a matter of deciding what is essential–dogma, and what is variable–doctrine.)

It was, I think, a much better experience than when tourists visit our cathedrals, which seem to lose all reverence and become places that want to collect money rather than inform about Christian belief. This makes me sad. We could learn a lot from Turkey. Tourists can’t enter mosques during prayer times, which are advertised outside.

The call to pray sounds five times a day, reminding people to pray. I liked it, though it sounds very foreign to English ears. It’s too easy to forget about God and all spiritual things when we are busy with our day, it’s good to be reminded to pause.

I hope you will remember to pray today (even if not five times). Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
****

Istanbul

Posted by

1


We arrived in snow. It was Saturday, 23rd November, and Istanbul was colder than expected. The grass between the runways was white, and parked planes were frosted with snow. When we left the airport (which seemed very efficient) we stepped over slushy puddles to reach our hotel car. Pre-booking a car (with a fixed price) was definitely a good decision, as there were queues into the city and the journey was a long one. We crossed a long bridge over the river that divides Asia and Europe, and saw the new mosque (which is not called the new mosque) perched high on a hill overlooking the city.

The snow continued for a while, and we saw cars that had parked on the motorway so people could throw snowballs! Then it turned to rain, and by the time we reached the city everything was cold and grey and damp. 

The hotel is nice, and warm and very clean. But there are no cupboards or drawers so we can’t unpack, and the light switches are confusing so every time we try to adjust the lighting one of us touches the master switch and we are plunged into darkness! We ate in the restaurant on the roof, and the food was nice but grossly overpriced. The linen had embroidered cuneiform script, which said Mesopotamia, and I felt clever for recognising it was script (not that I could read it, or even know whether it went left to right or vice versa). We found out later that some cuneiform tablets had been found here—of a receipt for a delivery of furniture. (Cuneiform script is when they pushed a wedge-shaped stick into clay to make symbols, a very early form of writing.)

Breakfast the next day was fun, as we ordered a Turkish breakfast and lots of tiny pots arrived with honey and jam, meats and cheeses and fruits and nuts. There was no room left on the table. All so pretty. I remembered this from our last visit, Turkey is a very hospitable place, with friendly people who seem to enjoy feeding you.

Our hotel is in the old town, and we walked along cobbled streets, sharing the space with motorbikes and men hauling heavy trolleys. There were tourist shops with shiny wares, colourful sweets and bright fabrics and heaps of spices. The skyline is full of minarets, there are so many mosques. We walked to the nearby spice market. It was pretty, a mass of colour and smells in a high-arched ceiling hallway. But it was very touristy, no locals seem to shop there, which made it feel rather artificial. (Though I don’t know who would buy spice when on holiday—I have never felt the urge to take home a few grams of cumin after a week away!) There were streets of stalls outside the spice market, and these felt less tidy and more authentic. Tahtakale is much nicer I think. There were pots and linens and tools and spices, with local people buying them, while men with trays of glasses of tea glided between them and cats watched from every corner. Cats are everywhere here, they are fed by the shopkeepers and stallholders, and they watch everyone and seem very content. I guess they keep the rodents in check. (New York should learn from this: people put out bowls of food and water, the cats are free to roam, and I didn’t see a single rat the entire visit.)

I was keen to buy a teapot, and found a set that is bright green, and slightly garish, and very Turkish-looking. They sell them in sets, a smaller one for tea balanced over a larger one for hot water. Turkish tea is served in fluted glasses, boiling hot and without a handle so you hold them by the rim to sip the tea. But I didn’t buy those. We spent most of our days just wandering. There is lots to see, and people seem happy enough with strangers wandering round. One area was manufacturing goods, the items put into boxes and wrapped into huge white bundles that were heaved onto small lorries or the backs of motorbikes or metal trolleys. You had to watch out for them when you walked, and take care not to fall down one of the gaping holes that plummeted to a warehouse cellar, or to trip over the various uneven paving stones or steps that were randomly on the narrow pathways. I stopped trying to look and walk at the same time, because there were too many hazards, so we stopped frequently, to notice the crumbling buildings above the modern shops, or to stare at the bright wares, or to simply look up at the hills. There are domes, and minarets,  and it is all very beautiful.

I will tell you more in another blog. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

A Day in Rome —Italy in August continued

Posted by

2


We caught the train to Rome. Thankfully there was air conditioning on the train. Although you are probably reading this in somewhat cooler temperatures, I can assure you that Italy, in August, is almost unbearably hot. It’s not the best time to visit, but it was the only week when the whole family could meet, hence we were there, and coping.

The train to Rome took about an hour. It was a double-decker train and a screen showed which stations we were visiting, which made it very easy. We bought tickets at the bar next to the platform, and they seemed to work, so all was good.

When we arrived in Rome we looked for toilets at the station. Toilets in Rome are difficult—there are very few of them, and they are expensive and dirty. The ones at the station were hard to find, but there were some at the end of a foodcourt. The foodcourt looked good, and easy, so we ate lunch before setting off. My family always seems to do tourism at midday, which combined with the weather in August, is the absolute worst time to attempt tourism in Italy. But this is just how it works. It is impossible to motivate anyone to get up early when they are on holiday, and it always takes ages to leave the house, and after several decades, I have learned that coping with the midday sun is easier than trying to change my family.

Places to eat, and washrooms, at the main station.

We set off for the colosseum . This can be reached by the Metro, which is relatively easy to use once you have found it.  It seems that my family are not the only ones who do tourism at midday, as the colosseum was very crowded. There were people everywhere! Tourists from every continent—some in designer clothes, leathery skin and musical accents, some with umbrellas for sunshades, some with baseball caps and white sneakers and loud voices—some following guides with worried expressions, some looking lost, some striding confidently and ignoring the queues. The whole world was here, and everyone was hot. But when you paused, and for a moment actually looked then the heat didn’t matter. The colosseum rose next to us, timelessly strong and dominant, ignoring mere humanity as it loomed against the sky. You could almost hear the crowds as they thronged to watch the Roman games, you realised that the same hot sun had seared their heads, and whilst the noise of cars would be replaced with chariots and shouts and horses, it would not, I think, have been so very different.

Rome does this. History in Rome forces itself into the present day. You cannot avoid it. Wherever you look, whichever path you take, you are constantly confronted by another age, another civilisation, people from another era. There are steps, worn by feet that wore leather sandals two thousand years ago, and buildings that have witnessed the best, and the worst, that humans can achieve. Modern society may have built roads, and cars that speed through the city, but the ancient spires rise above them, the bridges guarded by angels are still the only routes over the river, the crumbling walls of  Caesars still emerge from the foundations.

We walked to the Trevi Fountain. Someone was playing opera, and the sound wafted through the remains of an ancient palace as we negotiated the traffic on narrow roads. The fountain was full of sunshine and tourists and traffic. We escaped for a while into the cool of McDonalds and drank bottles of water.

We  tried to catch a bus to the Vatican, failed, and hailed taxis. St. Peter’s Square was no less hot, no less crowded. The snake of visitors waiting to visit the cathedral wound round one side of the square. We have all visited before, so going inside seemed like more trouble than it was worth. There was a new sculpture though—a raft carrying immigrants—over to one side. I went to look at it. Some of the sculptured people were obviously Jewish, some looked like slaves from Africa, some were clearly poor. Something with wings was hidden in the middle, and I wondered if this was a Nazi raven, something representing the holocaust. Later, I read about it online:

The sculpture is called ‘Angels Unawares’ and it is based on the book of Hebrews in the Bible (Hebrews 13:2). Timothy Schmalz wanted to sculpt a raft carrying immigrants from every age, and the wings signify that amongst them is an angel—therefore we should care for them because we might be caring for an angels, whilst being unaware. It’s a lovely work (spoiled, I thought, by the people using it for Instagram photos). I walked round it, looking at the faces, hoping that perhaps, one day, the world (us) might be kinder to people who are forced to leave their homes.

We sat in the shade for a while, and then walked to Piazza Navona, which is near to where we stayed 10 years ago when we visited Rome. It is a lovely square, with amazing fountains, but unfortunately this time they were surrounded by scaffolding. Not as atmospheric as we had hoped. We then split up, those with energy staying for more tourism, the rest of us going back to the station. It was a quick trip, and there is more in Rome than we could hope to experience in a week, never mind a day. But even a short trip reminds you of the beauty of Rome. It is an exciting city, one that needs to be revisited many times. Preferably not always in August. I have put an October visit on my wish-list, we shall see…

Thank you for reading. I hope your week goes well.

Take care.

Love Anne x

anneethompson.com
*****

Corrie ten Boom: Life in Vught Concentration Camp Revealed

Posted by

0


While we were in ‘s-Hertogenbosch, we realised there was a concentration camp a short walk away. It was used by the Germans in the war, and Corrie ten Boom was sent there. You may not have heard of Corrie ten Boom, but when I was young, I read all her books and she feels like a distant relative. Corrie and her family hid Jews in their house in Haarlem, near Amsterdam, during the war. They were betrayed by a visitor, and sent to prison. After a while, Corrie and her sister were sent to Vught.

The camp was about an hour’s fast walk from the town, so after my conference finished, we set off to find it. We followed Google maps, and the walk was very pretty, next to the river and then over the railway and through a wood. The wood was lovely, paths meandering through the trees, people walking their dogs, birds singing. Then we rounded a corner, and there was the camp.

Kamp Vught is now a memorial, with a prison (still used today) next to it. The memorial mainly shows a few rebuilt areas, with photos and information. It was okay, but not as effective as the Auschwitz camps—which changed your heart and soul slightly, simply because they were so vast and so cruel, and completely impossible to ignore. The remains of this camp were smaller, and it felt more like a museum than somewhere real—though for the inmates, it was very real. I will copy some extracts from Corrie’s book, so you can glimpse something of her experience, and add a few photos from my visit.

‘[…] We seemed to have stopped in the middle of a wood. Floodlights mounted in trees lit a broad rough-cleared path lined by soldiers with leveled guns.

‘Spurred by the shouts of the guards Betsie and I started up the path between the gun barrels. “Schneller! Close ranks! Keep up! Five abreast!” Betsie’s breath was coming short and hard and they yelled at us to go faster. It had rained hard here, for there were deep puddles in the path.’

‘[…] The nightmare march lasted a mile or more. At last we came to a barbed wire fence surrounding a row of wooden barracks. There were no beds in the one we entered, only long tables with backless benches pulled up to them. Betsie and I collapsed onto one of these. […] We fell into an exhausted sleep, our heads on the table[…]’

Days later, Corrie is processed into the main camp, and allocated to a room. During a roll call, she looks at the woods beyond the fence: ‘[…] The group of prisoners grew until there were forty or fifty of us standing in line beside a high anchor-chain fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side of the fence was a white birch wood, above our heads the blue Brabant sky. We too belonged to that wide free world. […]’

‘[…] The barracks appeared almost identical with the one we had left this morning, except this one was furnished with bunks as well as tables and benches. And still we were not allowed to sit: there was a last wait while the matron with maddening deliberateness checked off our documents against a list. […]’

‘[…] Part of the way [to her daily work detail] we walked beside a small wood, separated only by a roll of barbed wire from a glistening world of dew-drops. We were also marched past a section of the men’s camp, many of our group straining to identify a husband or a son among the ranks of shaved heads and striped overalls.

‘[… T]he discipline in the male section was much harsher than in the women’s; executions were frequent. Almost every day a salvo of shots would send the anguished whispers flying: How many this time? Who were they?

‘[…] The guards were noticeably tense. Roll call was an agony. The old and the ill who were slow reaching their places were beaten mercilessly. Even the “red light commando” came in for discipline. These young women were ordinarily a favored group of prisoners. Prostitutes, mostly from Amsterdam, they were in prison not for their profession—which was extolled as a patriotic duty—but for infecting German soldiers. […]’

‘[…] Then rifle fire split the air. Around us women began to weep. A second volley. A third. For two hours the executions went on. Someone counted. More than seven hundred male prisoners were killed that day. […]’

And then, as the camp was evacuated when the Allies drew nearer: ‘[…] At last the path ended and we lined up facing the single track, over a thousand women standing toe to heel. Farther along, the men’s section was also at the siding: it was impossible to identify individuals among the shaved heads glistening in the autumn sun.

‘At first I thought our train had not come; then I realized that these freight cars standing on the tracks were for us. Already the men were being prodded aboard, clambering over the high sides. We could not see the engine, just this row of small, high-wheeled European boxcars stretching out of sight in both directions, machine guns mounted at intervals on the roof. Soldiers were approaching along the track, pausing at each car to haul open the heavy sliding door. In front of us a gaping black interior appeared. Women began to press forward. […]’

Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1972)

The Hiding Place is available from Amazon, as either a paperback or on kindle. It gives real insight into what it was like during the war, the bravery of the Dutch Resistance, and the horror of the concentration camps. Throughout it all, Corrie is strengthened by her faith until finally she is released. It’s worth reading.

Thanks for reading. I hope your week is a good one.
Take care.
Love, Anne x