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"Seeing Them As Something So Purposeful"

My reading this year has mainly consisted of a series of "Best American Travel Writing" books. These collections feature several dozen travel-related long reads from magazines and newspapers, and they are consistently excellent. Be it a travelogue of an eat-and-drink walking tour through villages in France, a story about a trip to Vostok in Antarctica, a study of Moscow's traffic problems, or an article about Tristan de Cunha (the most remote place in the world, an island right in the middle of the Atlantic, in between South America and Africa), the writing is excellent and the stories are compelling.

Today, I read Susan Orlean's "Where Donkeys Deliver," about the role these animals play in Morocco. You can read the story here, there are interesting parts about medina and the vet clinic that takes care of the animals.

One excerpt that I particularly enjoyed, as it reminded me of our donkey encounter high in the Hajar Mountains in Oman a few weeks ago:

But seeing them as something so purposeful - not a novelty in a tourist setting but an integral part of Moroccan daily life - made me love them even more, as flea-bitten and saddle-sore and scrawny as some of them were.

2011 Year in Review: Great Books

I read over 30 books in 2011, and some of them were excellent. Most of my reading occurred while on holidays, like riding on trains through Europe. In Dubai, I would get several pages read each day on my morning and evening taxi commutes, and while waiting the 10 minutes for my laptop to boot up in the morning. Here were my favourite books this year, I recommend all of these with enthusiasm.

Too Much Happiness
Alice Munro

In December 2009, two years ago, James and I met in Boston on one of the many excellent "long distance romance" trips that we shared before finally moving together to Dubai. We went to the Harvard Book Store, which is (along with that place in Princeton and Daunt Books in London) one of the best bookstores around. There's something so inviting in the way that the selection is carefully curated and displayed, with notes of recommendation from the well-read staff. And so, in the Harvard Book Store, I said that I loved Alice Munro's writing and James offered to give me this book as a gift. I finally read it in 2011, and loved it. Efficient, crisp short stories that always have that moment of poignancy or stunned surprise, pulling me even deeper into the characters. Like the cold Canadian winter, bundle up in knits and listen to the quiet, and wonder about the thoughts and motivations flowing in the minds of the others bundled up around you.

 A Visit From The Goon Squad
Jennifer Egan

As you can tell from this list, my preference for book genres tends to favour non-fiction (memoirs especially) rather than fiction. However, two of my absolute favourite books of 2011 were fiction, and I loved them both for their trajectories and momentum. True storytelling, compelling and absorbing. I read this book on our trip through Europe in the summertime after buying it in Nottingham on a sunny day. Each chapter acts as its own standalone story, with a new character as the narrator or focus in each case. And yet, each chapter and character is gently connected, without any contrivance. Sometimes, the stories leap ahead many years to reveal things about peripheral characters who had appeared a few chapters before. Other times, these peripheral characters emerge in heroic or tragic ways that made me gasp. I closed this book and sighed.

The Submission
Amy Waldman

I loved this story, I loved the characters, I loved the examination of New York culture and political knee-jerk reactions, both liberal and conservative. A contest to design a 9/11 memorial brings together a cluster of jurors, who review the anonymous submissions and choose the one that best fits their vision. The envelope is opened and the winning designer is an American architect named Mohammad Khan. The book explores the ways in which the different characters react to this, including Khan himself. There is the 9/11 widow, the journalist trying to get her big scoop, the wife of a Bangladeshi illegal immigrant who had perished that day, the head of the memorial committee, the brother of a victim whose directionless life finds purpose in fighting the memorial, and the politicians who all approach the announcement with election-minded calculation. There is a public hearing. There are shifts in the steadfast beliefs of the characters. There is uncertainty. And it all comes together in an epilogue that ties everything together, all of the loose ends, in a most satisfying way.

Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu
John Updike

I bought this for James because he loves baseball, and I decided to read it because I love Boston. In a number of writing classes, the teachers would often bring out John Updike short stories as reading exercises, and just like those, this book was perfect: capturing the mood, the character, the atmosphere of Ted Williams' last game with the Boston Red Sox.

Holidays in Hell
PJ O'Rourke

Following our trip to Beirut earlier this year, I wandered over to the mall and James asked if I could find him this book if I went to the bookstore. He had remembered reading it before, and remembered that there was a story set in Beirut that he wanted to read again, now having seen the place for ourselves. After James had finished reading the book, I took it myself, and I read it in the style that I often read collections of short stories: hopping around, nothing sequential, starting with the ones that most interest me, putting checkmarks in the table of contents as I go along. I started with "A Ramble in Lebanon," in which he is in Lebanon in 1984, a much different time from what we experienced during our visit, wherein he is essentially the only tourist in the country. Other stories find him making pithy observations in trashy America, or Panama, or in a chapter entitled "Third World Driving Tips," which includes the following list: "Honk your horn only under the following circumstances: 1. When anything blocks the road. 2. Why anything doesn't. 3. When anything might. 4. At red lights. 5. At green lights. 6. At all other times." The holder of the driver's license in our household found this to be particularly relevant to his current experience. I also laughed that this chapter began with the author saying, "It's important to understand that in the Third World most driving is done with the horn, or 'Egyptian Brake Pedal," as it is known."

Just Kids
Patti Smith

"It was a good day to arrive in New York City. No one expected me. Everything awaited me."

It's New York City, it's the 1970s, it's friendship, it's possibility, it's art and music and photography, it's random streets and stories in Brooklyn, and random streets and stories in Chelsea. "There were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of Brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a Leica, the view grainy and immobile." and "Pink light washed over rows of boarded buildings. New York light, the light of the abstract expressionists."

I bought this at Daunt Books in Marylebone on an April trip to London with James, and the woman at the counter glided her hand cross the cover as she rang up the price, saying "this is SUCH a good book." And it was.

 

How Did You Get This Number

Sloane Crosley

I loved her book, "I Was Told There'd Be Cake" and then I saw a series of her essays in the New York Times. These are the stories of being a young woman in Manhattan, dealing with apartment hunts, and moving days; travels and hopes; memories and nostalgia and all of the craziness that happens in the little moments. I bought this book for our trip to South Africa, rejoicing when I found it on an obscure shelf at the bookstore in Dubai (so massive that it's quite daunting to just go in for a browse, and difficult to locate a copy of a desired book if, say in the case of this one, it's been shelved in the "Travel Writing" section rather than memoir or essays or something more logical). Sloane Crosley reminds me of some of the girlfriends from New York City, the sardonic wit, the fun evenings out with great laughs.

Paris to the Moon
Adam Gopnik

I borrowed James's copy of this book, on his recommendation and read it before our summer holiday in Europe. It captures the spirit of the expat existence so well, wanting to live the romance of a chosen city and yet dealing with the ensuing headaches that come from not actually being a native son or daughter. But more beautifully, it captures the experience of living in Paris. The winters. The dinners at cozy bistros, at which James and I would soon eat on our holiday there. The strolls through the Luxembourg Gardens. The beauty. Truly, a lovely glance into the life of an expat in Paris.

Blood, Bones & Butter
Gabrielle Hamilton

I still think about various passages from this chef's memoir. I had eaten at her restaurant in the East Village many years ago, and I enjoyed her stories of the highs and lows of running that restaurant in much the same way as I had enjoyed Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential," i.e., you think it's a romantic venture to open a little cafe and serve plates of pasta and eggs to the locals, think again. Other things that I still think about many months after reading this on a train ride through Europe: at her wedding to an Italian man, rather than a wedding cake, they have serve a burrata, and everyone gets a little teaspoon from which they can take a small scoop of the creamy, cheesy mozzarella. Later in the book, during a blood sugar crash in Brooklyn, they drive aimlessly on the Sunday afternoon trying to find a proper restaurant for a sitdown meal, only to find that they are right in the purgatory between lunch and dinner service. As her blood sugar and mood worsen, her husband finally pulls up in front of a deli, where she procures beautiful rustic sliced meat sandwiches on fresh bread, and her husband hops over to the corner grocery for cans of cold beer, and they devour the whole meal in their car parked curbside. A last story, of learning from her mother-in-law the secrets of her orecchiete pasta, rolling it, pressing a thumb in the dough to make the little dimples, and drying it on the shelf to be boiled later. I made handmade pasta a few months after reading this book, and enjoyed the labourious process, the slow swirl of flour into egg yolks, the long process of kneading the dough until it was elastic and then rolling it out. It tasted like good, fresh pasta. As how I imagine those orecchiete tasted in the book.

The White Album
Joan Didion 

I have been reading a number of bloggers who frequently declare their adoration for Joan Didion, and because of this, I realized that I would like to read some of her writing. While in London, at Daunt Books (again!), I found this book to be the only one of hers available for sale and so I bought it. A collection of essays, which I could read in my hop-around mode, as described in the PJ O'Rourke description above. It was only later that I remembered that I had in fact once owned this same book, not the exact copy, but a hardcover version, purchases from the canalside secondhand shop near Monmouth Junction. But I had never read it, and had donated it during the clean-out phase that preceded my move to Dubai. And so I found myself now reading the White Album, and enjoying it as I started to read in a coffee shop on the Champs Elysees and then finishing it on a 747 flying from Frankfurt to Dubai. "A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his image." Also, how I had I never known that she had this experience, much like my own: "In a few lines of dialogue in a neurologist's office in Beverly Hills, the improbable had become the probable, the norm: things which happened only to other people could in fact happen to me. I could be struck by lightning... "

Poser
Claire Dederer

A native of the Pacific Northwest and new mom takes up yoga and she writes about the experience with the same attitude that I take to yoga - enjoying it for many reasons, but not getting sanctimoniously serious about it.  She enjoys many unexpected benefits from a regular practice, both in her strength & physique and in her outlook on life. It reminded me of Vancouver; it reminded me of the little studio in Highland Park that I used to go to, where you could hear the night rainfall outside and the teachers were the most gentle people;  and it reminded me of the yoga studios that I visited in NYC, which featured patrons who ranged from lanky supermodel physique obsessives to aggressive financial types to "Wheatpacking District" bohemians, and which could be severe and intense, or nurturing with live guitarists. I was inspired to try to reboot my yoga in Dubai after reading this book, and thought I'd found the answer when a neighbour mentioned a place within walking distance that features drop-in classes. But then the same neighbour had nothing but complaints about the place, and I was getting adequate workouts from running so... well maybe in 2012 I'll start practicing on my crow pose again.

Day of Honey
Annia Ciezadlo

I wrote about how much I enjoyed this book here. As I wrote then, it's about a New Yorker who moves to the Middle East, honeymooning in Baghdad and then moving to Beirut. She writes about the rituals and traditions in each city, the little nuances that make up Middle Eastern life, with a particular focus on food. Having taken an Arabic cooking class this year, this book really enriched that experience, describing so much more about how things are cooked, and why. She also captures the spirit of a traveler, an expat, a nomad.  And also helped illuminate some of the tendencies that I observe amongst my coworkers - like, apparently it's a common Lebanese habit to comment on people's weight. Complimenting them on a weight loss, even when the recipient sheepishly protests that they have done no such thing, or stating the obvious when someone returns from a vacation with rounder cheeks, "you gained some weight!"

The Most Beautiful Walk in the World
John Baxter

A birthday present from James that was a lovely way to remember our time in Paris. The writer is an expat living in the city, thoroughly immersed in all of the daily rituals, and he has a keen eye for the unique "only in Paris" details that make you feel like you're walking the streets alongside him.

Fever Pitch
Nick Hornby 

There's a die-hard Arsenal fan in our household, and thanks to him, I have watched many a match during my time in Dubai. I owned this book many years ago, but after giving it a start, I never completed it. Just didn't pull me in, didn't resonate, didn't make much sense.But now, I have an ambassador to the team, a translator of all the references and lingo that Nick Hornby sprinkles throughout his stories. So we've been reading this together, with many pauses along the way for James to share his own memories of the same games or for me to ask for clarification on a reference. And it's good - it's more than just football, it's sport as metaphor. It's about growing up in England, it's about growing up anywhere, and the challenges that we all face, and the ways in which we get through them. It's about the routines we set up for ourselves, the hobbies we find to channel our energies, and the passion and identification with a group of people on a field. One of my favourite parts about this book has been the way that the chapters are entitled with a phrase and then the football opponents and the date of the match. Almost every time, I only have to read the opponents and the date, and James will instantly know the title. For example, I'll read "Arsenal vs Luton, August 27, 1983," and James will say, "Charlie Nicholas." Or "Liverpool vs Juventus, May 29, 1985," to which James says "Heysel!" Thanks to Nick Hornby, and James' stories during this book, I now have a greater appreciation for the history of what I'm seeing when we watch an Arsenal game.

Very Cold And Wonderful

I'm reading another excellent book, gifted to me by James for my birthday. It's called "The Most Beautiful Walk In The World" by John Baxter, and it tells stories about walking around Paris. So many familiar details from our own strolls, and interesting new stories to keep in mind for a future visit.

The chapter that I just started in my ride to work this morning had this excerpt from a piece by Ernest Hemingway, describing a meal at Brasserie Lipp (pictured above), and I found myself getting thirsty as I read it:

The beer was very cold and wonderful to drink. The pommes a l'huile were firm and marinated and the olive oil delicious. I ground black pepper over the potatoes and moistened the bread in the olive oil. After the first heavy draft of beer I drank and ate very slowly. When the pommes a l'huile were gone I ordered another serving of cervelas. This was a sausage like a heavy, wide frankfurter split in two and covered with a special mustard sauce. I mopped up all the oil and all of the sauce with bread and drank the beer slowly until it began to lose its coldness and finished it and ordered a demi.

Our Ideal Bookshelves

I received a delivery at work yesterday and waited until I got home to open the envelope. I knew from the return address that there was a treat waiting inside the package, and as James carefully opened it, I held my breath. And then gasped in delight.

Presenting: our Ideal Bookshelves, as painted by artist Jane Mount in California.

I've seen her paintings in the last few years, and always loved the idea, especially since I always appreciate my books. Knowing that James is an avid reader as well, we decided that this would be a fantastic gift for each other.

First, here is James's selection, his top ten favourites.  He has a mix of favourite writers, stories about favourite places, favourite sports and favourite hobbies.  After seeing this selection, I have set a nice goal for myself and am going to read each one. One amazing thing about seeing this painting in real life is the vibrancy of the colours and shine of the silver paint (see the title of Fever Pitch? it's metallic). It's a beautiful, happy painting.

Here is my Ideal Bookshelf. Not only are these my favourite books, but the overall colour scheme is my favourite sky blue colour (which I didn't plan, it just happened). I am so in love with these paintings!

My selection includes some all-time favourite stories (Anne Michaels, Margaret Atwood, Jhumpa Lahiri), some science including the 1st Oliver Sacks book that I bought on my 1st trip to Berkeley, a dose of adventure (Philip Petit's To Reach The Clouds), a memoir that combines running, Boston and New York stories (Murakami), and a tribute to favourite places including Vancouver, UAE and NYC (which is also sentimental because Oma gave me the NYC book after I ran my first marathon there).

The process is quite fascinating - you choose your ten favourite books and send the artist a photo of them. But how, when you're an avid reader, do you narrow a lifetime of reading down to a top ten? In my case, I made a long list and then slowly whittled it down. Douglas Coupland's Souvenir of Canada was nixed in favour of City of Glass so that I could have a Vancouver reference. View From The Summit by Edmund Hillary was substituted with the story of the World Trade Center tightrope walker, as a representation of my love for adventure stories. Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik, and its happy associations with recent memories of Paris, was bumped off the list by the Lonely Planet UAE Guide, as a representation of our lives together in Dubai.

As the painter says on her website, "picking your ideal books is not an easy task (try it!). I think of this project as an intimate form of portraiture; a way to illustrate who the subject is on the inside instead of out."

 

Day of Honey

I wrote a fan letter to a writer yesterday. I've never done that before, but I had just finished "Day of Honey" in my taxi ride to work, and it was such an enjoyable book, so specifically meaningful to some of my recent experiences, that I felt that I should somehow commemorate it.

A New Yorker moves to the Middle East to be with her husband, and honeymoons in Baghdad. They then move to Beirut, where she wanders the same streets that we had explored on our holiday there. And she writes about the rituals and traditions in each city, the little nuances that make up Middle Eastern life, with a particular focus on food. Having taken an Arabic cooking class last month, this book really enriched that experience, describing so much more about how things are cooked, and why. And the life of a traveler, an expat, a nomad: We all struggle to reconcile these two sides of our natures: the nomad and the homebody...

So many favourite passages...

I wonder if someday I'll see Baghdad, and Mutanabbi Street, because this is my idea of paradise too:

My idea of paradise is more like Mutanabbi Street, in Baghdad's old city: an entire city street with no cars, just books and cafes. Every Friday, book and paper merchants laid down blankets and sheets of plastic, covered them with books, magazines, and newspapers, and hawked the written word as if it was potatoes or watermelons.

In Cambridge, back in the  MIT days, there was an Afghani restaurant with a thick-bearded breadmaker who looked like he had fought the Soviets. They served beautiful lamb and pumpkin dishes, and yogurt dips.  It became a regular hang-out for a while, especially after September 11. The author captures this when she writes:

After September 11, liberal New Yorkers flocked to Arabic restaurants, Afghan, even Indian - anything that seemed vaguely Muslim, as if to say, "Hey, we know you're not the bad guys. Look, we trust you, we're eating your food."  

There's something about wandering the grocery aisles here in Dubai that I find very comforting. So many familiar brands, mixed with so many unique products. The pomegranate seeds in a container. The boxes of dates, standing in tall piles. The non-Muslims-only pork sections. It's both foreign and familiar.

Some people construct work spaces when they travel... When I'm in a strange new city and feeling rootless, I cook... I cook to comprehend the place I've landed in, to touch and feel and take in the raw materials of my new surroundings. I cook foods that seem familiar and foods that seem strange. I cook because eating has always been my most reliable way of understanding the world.

Since working in my office here in Dubai, which is mostly made up of Lebanese expats ("yalla!"), I have noticed how my colleagues always comment on people's weight. Complimenting them on a weight loss, even when the recipient sheepishly protests that they have done no such thing, or stating the obvious when someone returns from a vacation with rounder cheeks, "you gained some weight!" Thankfully, I've never had any such comments directed my way, which I would find quite embarrassing.

We trooped into the living room [on a visit to Lebanon] and sat on matching brown sofas. "You got fat!" [the father] said to [the son] Mohamad as soon as he sat down... Mohamad had gained a little weight, but this seemed awfully direct. I was not yet accustomed to the Lebanese way of welcoming wandering sons and daughters home. Over the next six years, I would learn many things; one of them would be the unfortunate habit of greeting people by pointing out minor fluctuations in their weight.

In my cooking class, we sat rolling grape leaves one night, each of us creating dozens and dozens of the little tubes of ground lamb and rice wrapped in a vine leaf.  Our teacher looked at mine and said they were more cigar-shaped than the skinny shape that she had asked us to roll.

Stuffed grape leaves take forever to make. Make them alone and you'll die of boredom, which is why very few people make them these days. You need to be surrounded by relatives, friends, neighbors; you need gossip and stories and talk. Perhaps you have to be a little distracted, so that the leaves come out different sizes and cook in different times. Or maybe the leaves need to be rolled by many different hands...

On Middle Eastern hospitality, and why we're always offered something to drink in certain stores here.

The word for [water] spring, ain, is the same as the word for eye - both are essential; both produce water. Arabic folklore and literature abounds with stories of Bedouins who die nobly giving their share of water to another. To this day it is a desert tradition to greet outsiders with a liquid: a glass of water in the heat, a cup of tea against the frigid night.

I found this fascinating, about the word "tandoori":

Next time you order chicken tandoori at an Indian restaurant, chew on this: you are speaking a word that human mouths have been pronouncing, in one form or another, for at least four thousand years.

I love this story, so funny:

In Spain [the Iraqi Sheikh Fatih] had eaten Spanish food at a restaurant. "I remember, I had a very excellent drink there," he mused. "It was very delicious. I believe it is a sort of national drink of Spain."

He smiled and wrinkled his forehead, looking toward [another guest, the photographer] Moises. "What is it called, this national drink of Spain?"

Nobody said anything. I could tell from Mohamad's [her husband's] face he was thinking the same thing I was: Sangria. If the sheikh had drunk wine without knowing we did not want to call attention to it. Silently, we telegraphed Moises the urgent message: Please, Moises, don't say sangria.

Moises was quiet, a little hung over maybe, hunched above his plate. "The national drink of Spain is wine, man."

Sheikh Fatih laughed indulgently. "No, no, it was not wine!" he scoffed. "This was sweet! Very sweet, very delicious."

Maybe it wasn't sangria after all. Maybe it was horchata, or something else. Maybe there's some other national drink of Spain.

"What did it taste like?" I asked.

"Ahh..." he replied, looking into the distance, savoring the memory of travel. "I remember it was red; it had fruit in it. Very delicious, very sweet."

 This next passage reminded me of these photos that we took in Beirut.

Beirut still had neighbourhoods where old men wheeled up every morning on bicycles hung with hoop-shaped sesame breads called kaak, shouting "Kaaaaa-EEK!" Women would come out on their balconies, lower money down in baskets to the old men, and reel them back up filled with bread.

A crazy scene at a Lebanese funeral:

The sofas and armchairs were cleared out of the living room, which was then filled with dozens of metal folding chairs to make space for a stream of relatives, friends of relatives, and relatives of friends... An old man showed up in a rusty black suit and began reading verses from the Quran. Nobody knew who he was. Finally someone paid him five thousand lira to go away. Later we learned there was an entire class of freelance mourners, old men who scored the obituaries, attended condolences of perfect strangers, and remained until they were paid off - a kind of squeegee men of mourning.

And, lastly, even though there were so many more passages that I had underlined and enjoyed in this book, I will end with this one. From now on, I will always make pesto with a mortar and pestle because of this:

Pesto is best pounded by hand with a mortar and pestle; bruised, the cell walls of the basil leaves expel their oils more generously, making a silkier, more emulsified sauce than if they are slit open by the sharp metal blades of a blender or a knife. In this case, the secret ingredient is blunt force: pesto, from the Italian pestare, means "pounded."

Trains Across Europe: Books on Board

One last post, to wrap things up. As we traversed the northern European landscape, I associated our path in between cities with the stories that I was reading at the time. These are the books that accompanied me along my journey, filling my train time with vivid images and characters. I loved all four of these books, and recommend each.

Blood, Bones & Butter, by Gabrielle Hamilton

Cities: Dubai to Nottingham

Inner Cover Inscription: Laura R brought us a shipment of books from San Francisco, when she stayed with us in Dubai, en route to Kilimanjaro. This is the 1st of three that I am reading.

Underlined passages: None, because I loved this entire book, and kept repeating various stories throughout the rest of the journey.

Girl Walks Into A Bar, by Strawberry Saroyan

Cities: Nottingham to Ely

Inner Cover Inscription: I originally bought this years ago and packed it to reread on a holiday in Europe (from Dubai) in July 2011. The underlined passages are from the 2nd read. Canalside path, Nottingham England. James at cricket.

A few passages that I underlined:

Manhattan is, after all, the only place I know of that moves at the speed of panic.

Of course, fantasy exists in most romance, but I think it is particularly encouraged and intensified in all aspects of one's life in New York. To live in the city almost demands it, for why else would so many people put up with so little space, such high prices, such bitter winters, such feverish summers?

There's something about being part of a group of kindred spirits, a whole group of people that you not only like but that you also aspire to be like in certain ways, and who seem to, amazingly, feel the same way about you.

A Visit From The Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan

Cities: Ely to London to Paris

Inner Cover Inscription: Nottingham, July 31, 2011 [the day I purchased the book]

I loved this book, and only underlined one phrase early on:

She saw her apartment as he must see it - a bit of local color that would fade almost instantly into the tumble of adventures that everyone has on first coming to New York.

The White Album, by Joan Didion

Cities: Paris to Dubai

Inner Cover Inscription: August 2011, bought at Daunt Books in London, started in Paris on the Champs Elysees, completed aboard a 747 flying from Frankfurt to Dubai

A few passages that I underlined:

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his image.

The big antennae with the pulsing red lights had been for a month our landmarks. The big antennae with the pulsing red lights had in fact been for a month our destinations.

Sunshine, Canals and Toffee Pudding

Our plans had us starting our journey near Nottingham, where James had worked many years ago, and where he still has lots of good friends. Nottingham, also where India and England happened to be playing cricket the day after our arrival. Straight from Heathrow, we made our way to St Pancras train station, where we caught the northbound train to Notts.

There are several things that I love about clear summer evenings in England: the longer daylight hours being one, as we headed out to "the Vic" after dropping off our luggage in Beeston and noticed that it was 9:45pm, still light. Also, the sound of people enjoying the nice weather and longer hours, the hum of happy drinkers at the Vic, gathered on the patio outside. Also, mild temperatures - 19C, glorious.

The next morning, the guys slathered on the sunscreen and readied their hats and sunglasses, prepping manwiches and bags of chips for a full day at the cricket stadium. I, relishing the cool summer air, threw on my runners and trotted out along the high street, heading through town until I reached a park and felt elated enough to turn around and come back.

Then, I ate cereal in the backyard with this friend.

I packed a purse and caught the train to the Nottingham downtown station, where I followed the crowd so that I knew where I was heading. Right into the heart of the shopping area, where I climbed the hills, listened to street museums, and then saw a nice Italian restaurant that sparked my ultimate plan.

...

The first book that I had to read on this great holiday was "Blood, Bones and Butter" by Gabrielle Hamilton, an excellent memoir by the owner of the restaurant Prune in NYC. I loved this book so much, that throughout our trip, I kept talking about various passages, telling James about how "the Prune chef" had lived near Lambertville, New Jersey, one of my favourite places from the Central Jersey years, or about how she drinks Negronis in Italy, which always remind me of the time I took my folks to Dumont Burger in Williamsburg and mistook a Negroni for a Peroni, and when the bitter martini arrived, it was SO not the refreshing beer that I had wanted with my burger. (We split it between the three of us, on that afternoon in Brooklyn).

Other things she mentions, that I remembered long after finishing the book... the way her friend in Michigan shaped her style of eating, leaving wedges of good cheese out on the counter to just ooze away.  The hardships of opening a restaurant, the crazy neighbours, the gross clean-ups thanks to the East Village crazies, the way an admired chef prepared a simple omelet by scooping out every last bit of egg from the shell and then using a tap-tap-tap method on his wrist.

The time she had low blood sugar and wanted to find a nice place to have a family lunch, but every place was closed at 4pm, so they ended up pulling up to a fantastic deli in Brooklyn and scarffing down sandwiches while parked at the bus stop. Or the orecchiete she eats with her Italian in-laws, or the cold crisp wine and eggplant. Instead of a wedding cake, she and her Italian husband had a large buratta and everyone received a spoon to take a bite.

...

I only had about 40 pages left in this book, which I was carrying in my purse in Nottingham. And after I saw the Italian restaurant, inspired by Gabrielle Hamilton, I created my plan - I would go first to the bookstore to get a next book to read after this one. Then I would go get some money from the bank machine that I'd spotted on a sidestreet. And from there, I would go to the Italian restaurant and sit for hours and hours, me and my book, a plate of pasta, a glass of crisp white wine. It would be decadent and perfect.

Except that after buying a book at the bookstore, I proceeded to the bank machine wherein I discovered that I had emptied all of my bank cards into my passport holder, which was sitting one train stop away in Beeston. Oh no, what to do? Should I return the book? Should I go home to get the cards?

I counted up every last coin that I had in my wallet, and I had 5 pounds.  I marched into Delilah's fine foods, a place I'd spotted on my first reconnaissance stroll earlier that day, glanced at the chalkboard menu, and saw a dessert for 3 pounds - sticky toffee pudding with vanilla ice cream. Perfecto. I slid into a seat at the corner of the bar, placed my order, and over the last 40 pages of the book, I slowly scooped out the caramelly vanilla goodness.

Dessert and book complete, I packed up my things and set out for a many-hours long walk through Nottingham.

Yes, there are many Robin Hood references throughout town, and I like watching how everyone stopped to pose with his statue in front of the castle.

I also found a nice long path along the canals, which were dotted with bars and restaurants, jampacked on this glorious Saturday afternoon.

Soon, I'd had my fill of walking, so I caught the train back to Beeston and settled in to wait for the cricket fans, who would arrive soon after me, ecstatic from the sudden England turnaround.

To Pack And Wear

I begin with a reference to a place, from many years ago. When I lived in Central New Jersey, there was a gorgeous running trail that had once been the towpath along the Delaware-Raritan Canal. Miles and miles of running happened along that flat gravel pitch. Trees on both sides. The quiet water. An occasional white-tailed deer, watching me with large brown eyes, standing perfectly still until it suddenly dashed away with a hop.

There was an old lock house at one junction, which had been converted into a second hand bookstore. Box after box of books, shelves lined with treasures. I found a copy of Douglas Coupland's "Girlfriend in a Coma," a story that starts atop Grouse Mountain in Vancouver, and Carl Djerassi's "Cantor's Dilemma," which a chemistry professor had recommended back at UBC, a fictional tale of the ethics of independent research.

I also bought a copy of Joan Didion's "The White Album."

I remember this because at Daunt Books in London, this past holiday, I consulted my wishlist of books, and for one item I had simply written "Joan Didion." They only had a copy of "The White Album" in paperback, and it wasn't until I had carried it through London and across the channel via Eurostar to Paris, that I remembered that little bookstore in Central New Jersey and the fact that I already owned a copy of this book.

Except that I didn't own it anymore - I searched and searched upon our return, and have realized that I gave it away in a recent bookshelf purge ahead of my move to Dubai.

And so this copy, purchased in London, and first opened to be read at a coffee shop on the Champs Elysees, before finally being completed on a flight from Frankfurt to Dubai, is now a part of my collection.

...

There are a million stories and details to share from this great voyage. Where my brother Joe embarked on a Eurail trip many years ago, backpacking from hostel to hostel, country to country, I never did any such grand schemes. This trip then, with our reliance on train travel across several countries, felt like the closest I'll ever get to such a Eurail excursion.Watching the landscape speed past, looking up at the flipping letters of a departure board, listening to the announcements, settling into a comfy seat with a book in my lap, and (in once memorable case, which I will detail in a later post) enjoying the best train picnic of all time on a Thalys from Paris to Amsterdam.

One consideration as we prepared for our travels - what to pack for the weather in Europe where we could likely expect every kind of weather system and temperature. And we did indeed experience every kind of European summer weather system and temperature. The coat, grabbed at the last minute as we were leaving for the airport, proved to be a very wise decision. The nice skirts and tank tops, little to no use.

There is an essay in "The White Album" in which Joan Didion writes about "a list which was taped inside my closet door in Hollywood during those years when I was reporting more or less steadily. The list enabled me to pack, without thinking, for any piece I was likely to do."

TO PACK AND WEAR:
2 skirts
2 jerseys or leotards
1 pullover sweater
2 pair shoes
stockings
bra
nightgown, robe, slippers
cigarettes
bourbon
bag with:
shampoo
toothbrush and paste
Basis soap
razor, deodorant
aspirin, prescriptions, Tampax
face cream, powder, baby oil

TO CARRY:
mohair throw
typewriter
2 legal pads and pens
files
house key

While I wouldn't include the cigarettes or bourbon, nor the typewriter in this day, this could be a good list for me to use in future European train travels, just replacing skirts with jeans and slacks.

At Daunt Books, along with "The White Album," I purchased a souvenir tote bag, and by the time we reached Amsterdam, it was full of books purchased along the way. I finished four excellent ones on this trip, thanks to all of the train travel (free time on platforms and settled into the coaches) along with lots of pleasant quiet breaks along the way.

Now settling back into the Dubai heat, the tulips bulbs purchased in Amsterdam (our only other take-home souvenirs) are in the crisper, where we were told to leave them for two months at least ("it's too hot in Dubai otherwise"). In a few months, we'll plant them to see what happens.

And for now, I will start to post photos and stories from our train travels from England to Holland. Our excellent Eurail adventures.

What I Think About When I Think About Books

There's a woman who paints "Ideal Bookshelf," and as someone who has always loved reading and books, I have really loved the idea of this project. I offered to get James a painting of his Ideal Bookshelf for upcoming birthday, because he is also an avid reader.

The artist writes:

"I paint people's ideal bookshelves: your favorite books, books that changed your life, books that made you who you are.  Picking your ideal books is not an easy task (try it!). I think of this project as an intimate form of portraiture; a way to illustrate who the subject is on the inside instead of out. I love that a book is something created very personally and then mass-produced in order to affect many other people very personally. I paint them to turn them back into something very personal and intimate."

And so, this week, we've each started to assemble our ten favourite books, the ones that we would most want captured on such a painting. It's an illuminating experience. I started with a list that far surpassed ten, and have been whittling it down to the most memorable and meaningful.

There's a sentimentality to the process, considering the memories associated with each book. Why I loved it, what themes I most appreciated, where I was at in life when I read it. What it meant and still means. Why I still, to this day, think about passages and scenes and word choices from its pages.

Lately, I've been rereading some old favourites, and whenever I open old books, I like to read the inscription that I scratched inside the cover. From Rock On, by Dan Kennedy:

Jennifer J
March 2008
Funniest book in YEARS. Seriously.. I had tears running down my cheeks while riding on the Jersey Transit bus."

Or from The Namesake, by Jhumpa Lahiri:

Jennifer J
August 2006
Union Square, New York City
This is one of the best books that I have ever read!

I also often use random souvenirs as bookmarks, which means that I'll open a book that was read years ago and find a photo of friends, or a For Better Or For Worse comic from my Mom, or a card from Oma.

This card was inside one of my choices for 10 favourite books, which I would include in an Ideal Bookshelf painting. It is New York: An Illustrated History, and Oma bought it for me to commemorate my completion of the New York City Marathon in 1999. I had watched the Ric Burns documentary that year, while in Boston, mesmerized by the story of NYC, and then planned my training for the run, which was a life-changing experience.

Opening the cover, after all these years, there was the card with which it came, and Oma's perfect handwriting.

"To buy a 'New York' book to remind you of your run 1999. Love Oma"

I'll include this New York book on my Ideal Bookshelf because it reminds me of the marathon, because it was a gift from Oma, and because of the many years that I spent in New York City.

I've assembled the rest of the my Ideal Bookshelf, and I will share it whenever we get the paintings made.

Rain Throws A Coloured Blanket

I've been reading "The Mind's Eye" by Oliver Sacks, one of my favourite writers - I first bought "An Anthropologist on Mars" at Cody Books in Berkeley way back in the UBC days, and still think about the neurological case studies in that collection. This book, I have inscribed with the words: "JJ October 2010 On my last evening in NYC, I bought this at Chelsea Market before walking the High Line. The next morning, I left for Dubai."

And now I have finished the book while in Dubai, on an evening of cups of hot tea, pieces of milk chocolate, glowing lamps, and the heaviest rainfall outside that I have yet experienced here. Absolutely cozy.

In the book, he quotes a blind man who talks about how his "senses assumed a new richness and power" and how the blind man could tell the smallest differences in the sounds of rain falling:

Rain has a way of bringing out the contours of everything; it throws a coloured blanket over previously invisible things; instead of in intermitten and thus fragmented world, the steadily falling rain creates continuity of acoustic experience... presents the fullness of an entire situation all at once... gives a sense of perspective and of the actual relationships of one part of the world to another.