Just a Wee Bit of Scotland... The List Begins

Just a Wee Bit of Scotland - The List Begins…

It is one of the downsides of travel.  Jet lag:  that feeling that creeps over your shoulder before the sun is down and insists you turn in for the night, or bounces on your bed at three am, intent on waking you up.  (Clarification:  Wilmont is just tired from a hike in the photo above.  He’s never been a victim of jet lag in his life.)   Since returning from Scotland I have been held captive by this gremlin; I actually went to bed the other night at eight-thirty, something I’ve not done since I was six.  But the fog is beginning to lift and I’m slowly returning to the land of the living.  Although I hasten to add, it is a reluctant re-entry.  This journey to Scotland, with a little icing of London to make it even sweeter, was so perfect, I find I’m frequently still there in my head.  And so much so in my soul. 

I know I probably prattle on about Scotland too much for some of you,

 but I’m going to risk it one more time by sharing a few special places

 I discovered this time out.

  Please indulge me. 

We’ll do London next!

Skye Pie Cafe

There’s a lot of what’s termed “social media” that I don’t participate in.  I don’t have a Facebook page.  Snapchat doesn’t interest me, and I consider a “selfie-stick” to be tangible evidence of the end times.  But boy, have I enjoyed Instagram.  Just pretty, inspiring photographs from people with fascinating viewpoints and eyes for beauty.  I’ve loved sharing some of the crystalline moments of my journeys that would otherwise be lost in the course of an ordinary day.  I particularly loved sharing my latest expedition to Scotland and London.  One of the special people on Instagram commented on a post I left before leaving for Scotland, telling me that I must visit a place called Skye Pie Cafe.  (Thank you so much, Christi.  Find her page HERE. She’s a wonderful photographer.)  So, I filed that tidbit away in my head and on a brilliantly bright morning as The Songwriter and I made our way up the Isle of Skye on the way to the Quirang, we found Skye Pie Cafe waiting for us on the Staffin Road.  Pulling in, I was immediately charmed by the whitewashed cottage with flowers blooming beneath the blue, blue sky.  

But when I entered, I was tickled beyond belief.

  All my favorite things gathered under one roof.

  A fascinating art gallery. 

Delightful rooms with bowls of yarn and knitting needles sitting on each table so you can knit whilst waiting for your pie.  You can also embroider your name and hang it from the ceiling.  When I was there the collective knitting project was blankets for the refugees, so as The Songwriter placed our order for lunch, I snooped around a bit and then sat down to knit my contribution.

 All is light and beauty and friendliness.  Just look at the dye/creative stuff room above!

 I was in heaven.  The Songwriter practically had to pull me out of there.  A little later,  when we arrived atop the Quirang, we found it to be the perfect spot for a picnic of Skye Pie.... 

And that pie?  Absolutely transcendent.

I also found out, you can actually stay there, too!

Next time, guys!

Find the Skye Pie Cafe, HERE.

******

Shilasdair Yarns

Okay, so I’ve mentioned Shilasdair Yarns before.   It’s one of my favorite places on earth.  The setting is unsurpassed, sitting as it does on the tip on the Waternish peninsula with views that stop my breath cold and make my heart sing symphonies.  It’s also the tiny building that made me learn to knit.  I first entered it on a bright, quiet morning about a dozen years ago and felt as though I had walked into a magical box of colour.

  All over the walls, on tables and tucked into cubbyholes, were the most glorious colours of yarn I’d ever seen.  I was speechless and horrified at my massive ineptitude.  I didn’t know how to knit, so couldn’t do a blessed thing with the treasures I saw before me.  Right then and there, I made a vow to myself.  I would learn to knit, and knit well, and I would return to Shilasdair to purchase some of this gorgeous yarn.  I did, and I have, several times. 

But this time was special.

Shilasdair was created by a woman named Eva Lambert.  Eva arrived on Waternish in the late sixties after attending university in Scotland and spending time in Turkey where she became obsessed with textiles and colours.  I can only imagine how remote Waternish must have felt back then.  She moved into a tiny cottage ( that I’d give my shoes for) and set up shop.  She had her own sheep and soon created a dye garden from which she would extract the marvelous colors for her yarns. 

Today, many years later, she is known as a wizard of colour, still dyeing all the yarn herself using natural dyes from all the growing things around her.  This gives the yarn such individuality and depth, you cannot imagine how amazing the colours are.   When the Victoria and Albert Museum commissioned new linens for The Great Bed of Ware, it was to Eva they turned for the dyeing.  She is brilliant, and a treasure.

This time when I was there the sun was shining as it rarely does in this part of the world.  There was a soft breeze and the air smelled of salt and heather.  As I poked blissfully around inside the shop I heard The Songwriter (who’d been taking photos of the magnificent sea just below) talking to someone outside.  When I finally pulled myself away, swinging a bagful of lilac-coloured yarn on my arm, he said, “I think I just met your lady.”

“What?!”, I sputtered.  “That’s like me meeting Paul McCartney and you knowing nothing about it!”.

Yes, dear reader, I became a fan and marched up to the dyeing shed where I met Eva’s handsome husband and asked as sweetly as I could if it would be possible to say hello to her.  He smiled and took me to her.  We had a lovely conversation.  I told her it was because of her that I learned to knit.   We laughed.  We talked about colour, about Turkey, about Skye.  I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet.  You can see from my big ole' goofy grin exactly how tickled I was.

If you’re a knitter, or a lover of colour, or just an admirer of someone who created a marvelous, inventive life on the edge of the world, you must visit Shilasdair Yarns on the Waternish Peninsula of the Isle of Skye.  You simply must.

If you cannot visit in person, but would like some of the glorious yarn, 

the website is HERE.

Oh and to prove I did what I vowed to do... yes, I knitted the shawl I'm wearing above and also... so proud... this scarf to wear in the Scottish landscape. 

 It matched perfectly!

****

Coruisk House

For years The Songwriter and I have tried to hike into the edge of the Black Cuillin Mountains to reach Loch Coruisk.  We’ve never managed it.  You see, you have to take a boat there.  The boat drops you off and you hike and hike till you reach an isolated spot that has captured the imagination of countless artists and composers for centuries.

But on every trip we’ve taken to Skye, the changeable weather has held up a blue hand to stop us from sailing.  Either it was too bad to leave, or forecasted to be too bad to get back.  But, ever optimistic, we have continued to try.  This time was the charm however, and we spent one of the most incredible days of our lives there.  We felt like the only two people alive as we reached the loch and sat beside it, stunned at the view in front of us. 

Needless to say, we were pooped, with wind-chapped cheeks

 and sun-bleached hair, when we arrived back at the dock.

  Fortunately, we had an evening at Coruisk House awaiting us.

We discovered Coruisk House a couple of years ago and are so happy to have done so.  It’s run by a charmingly talented couple, Clare and Iain, who chucked successful London lives to pursue their dreams in Scotland.  I already loved them as soon as I heard this.

Coruisk House is known as a restaurant with rooms, but I’d say both experiences - the dining and the staying - are equally delightful.  The old cottage has been lovingly restored by Clare and Iain, and it’s just the perfect storybook place.  The staircase we climb to our room is small and atmospheric and when we enter our room, with its four-poster bed and dark sheepskin rugs, we feel utterly comfortable and cosseted.  

There are tiny details of delight everywhere you look. 

A bowl of fresh, crisp apples to tide us over till dinner. 

Scottish books on the windowsill.  Hot cocoa makings in the corner. 

A gorgeous mohair throw across the fat bed that I was sorely tempted 

to “mistakenly” stick in my suitcase.

Dinner is the most delicious event of the day.  Iain does the cooking (though I hasten to add that Clare makes some of the most mouth-watering bread I have ever eaten) and The Songwriter said as we climbed up the stairs to sleep… “That was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in my whole life”.  

Coruisk House is one of those rare finds along the way

 that make a perfect trip even better.  

 You can find it HERE

***

The Fairy Glen

You may have noticed in some of these photos how brilliantly blue the sky is.  This remarkable weather condition was a constant throughout our entire trip to Scotland.  It was jaw-dropping, both in beauty and in rarity.  Though I’m one of those people who adore the cold and misty Scotland, I have to say that this perfectly salubrious weather allowed us to experience things we’ve never been able to indulge in before.  One of such halcyon moments was our afternoon in The Fairy Glen on Skye. 

The Fairy Glen is a unique and bewitching place.  An unusual formation of land that captivates the imagination like no other.  We’ve admired it before from the roadside; the weather being too prohibitive for a climb up.  But this time…. oh boy, did we love it.   I highly recommend this if you’re ever on this spectacular Scottish island.

Inside are circles of “fairy” stones that snare the senses.

I climbed to the top and sat for a long while.

Imagining and wondering.

A gift indeed.

Hopefully, you can see a bit of why I love Scotland so very much.

Would you like to see some special bits of London next?

What Am I Afraid Of.... A Dispatch From Scotland

White Sands Beach, Isle of Iona, Scotland

What Am I Afraid Of?

A Dispatch From Scotland

(For By Invitation Only)

The branch of the sweet gum tree bounced in the wind just outside our kitchen window.  For days my Mother and I had watched the robins come and go as they fed what was obviously a full nest of new babies.  I was little, I was fascinated, and I was bubbling over with curiosity.  I wanted to see inside that nest.  It was so easy for me to imagine fluffy yellow little birds, the sort that dipped and darted round Snow White as she skipped through the Disney forest.  Or the bright baby blue ones that helped dress Cinderella for the ball.   So finally, my Father took me outside and lifted me high in the air… up, up… to the nest of baby birds.  

No sooner were my eyes level with that nest then they were met with a 

scene so horrific I could only give that silent, Munch-like scream of the truly terrified.  Four hideous heads - if one could accurately call them heads, for they resembled nothing so recognizable to me - sprung up before me, sharply pointed mouths agape - squealing like spectres from hell itself .  These were not the birds of fairy tales, oh, no. These were creatures of Lovecraft and Poe and thus, this was the very first time I remember experiencing fear.  I did not like it one bit.  I still prefer to watch birds from a respectful distance.  

As I grew older I developed categories of fright.   Waterbugs and snakes were somewhere near the top of the list and invisible beings lurking beneath the bed rated highly.  Spiders were ranked according to size while sharks and horror movies, both terrifying, were both easy to avoid and were consequently regulated to the bottom of the list.   These were the frights of childhood, but as we clock more and more time here on Earth, those little scares and starts begin to coalesce into something more nebulous, more insidious and more internal - they become fear.

 To be human is to have known fear.  That grey shroud that cloaks the mind, erasing any hopeful feeling, deleting any comforting word.  It is the nadir of human emotion and we flee from it with justification.  But through the years I’ve come to realize that greatest thing I fear, is that very feeling of fear.  Roosevelt had it exactly right.   Rarely does the thing I fear equal the fear that I’ve felt anticipating it.   Even excruciating loss - so dreaded, so black -  has distilled into gratitude, bringing with it the comfort of memory and deep, abiding hope.  Crossing each and every frightful bridge has only given me a surer step.  Though, granted, it is difficult to remember this when that feeling of fear descends on the soul.

There are places on earth where the veil betwixt heaven and earth becomes sheer as gossamer.  I have stood in one such place this week, on the strange and holy white shores of the Isle of Iona, in the northwest of Scotland.  It was a luxury to ponder the question posed by this post in such a place as this for in this setting where the path between the ages seems clearly marked and beckoning I can see quite clearly that, at this point in my journey, the only real thing I truly fear is regret.  The ignored invitation, the shunned experience.

There were fat fluffy clouds in the blue, blue sky as I made my way along the path to the sea on Iona.  As I crossed a sheep-speckled meadow, I passed two elderly women going the opposite way and overheard one say to the other as she pointed to a blanket of bright sunlight illuminating the violet hues of the mountains across the sound on the Isle of Mull.  “See that?  That’s the pearl of great price.  You wait all day for a view like that and so many people just walk past and never notice”. 

A life half lived.

That’s what I’m afraid of.  So I notice.  I appreciate.  I am grateful.

 I hold both arms as wide open as I can to gather in all the beauty around me. 

 It’s there for all of us.
***
Find lots of other interesting takes on this topic HERE

And to see more of my Scottish journey, look HERE

Farewell To Summer... A Big Fat List of Good Things

Farewell to Summer

A Big Fat List of Good Things
There's a mustard stain on my white linen shirt,

a hole in the toe of my espadrilles.  

The jewel tones of the garden have been bleached to pastel 
and all of the robins have flown.  

 Yesterday I bought a candle that smells like autumn.   I’ve loosened my hair from its three month knot and I’ve opened up all of the windows.  Edward has that familiar autumnal spring in his step once more.  We are saying farewell to summer.

Here’s a list for the transition of summer to fall.

Such an invigorating time of year, don’t you agree?

1.  Arthur and George

While watching Poldark this summer I chanced to see a preview of the upcoming BBC production of Arthur and George.  An adaptation of the novel by Julian Barnes, Arthur and George was quite a sensation when it was published in 2006.  Trouble is, I missed it.  So I grabbed it up and took it to the beach with me earlier this month and could not put it down.  Do yourself a favour…. if you’ve not read Arthur and George, do it now!  Before it shows up on Masterpiece Theatre later this fall.  Martin Clunes is going to be pitch perfect as Arthur.

Find the book HERE.  
If you're lucky enough to find a hardback, it has a gorgeous cover.

Also, for an eerie, spooky, midnight read... try THIS BOOK.
And for a delightful love story... try THIS ONE.

*******

2.  Brioche Knitting

Late in the spring I happened to come across this pattern and my heart did a back flip.  I had to learn to make this.  Little did I know at the time, I was looking at a two-colour brioche scarf, a knitting technique of which I knew nothing.  So I set about learning. I sat by the beach (see the photo at the top....the perfect place to learn)  and knitted and ripped, knitted and ripped.   Two Colour brioche is a complicated stitch, there’s no denying, and I probably invented some brand new bad words during my learning phase.  But when the penny drops, so to speak, it’s fairly simple and really a lot of fun to do.  I’ve completed four Brioche scarves this summer.  
Here’s Edward modeling the second one!

The best book on Brioche is THIS ONE.

Try it!

***********

3.  Beans!

Everyone knows that beans are good. 

 High in protein, something that’s essential for energy and good health.

 And a tasty, welcome alternative to meat.

  I came across this recipe this summer and tried it. 

 Delicious! 

 And it smells so good while it’s cooking. 

 The perfect dish for fall.

Find the recipe HERE.

Note:  I only used fresh beans here.  Fresh garlic, instead of powdered, too. And not as much bacon as the recipe calls for. 

4.  The Picture of August.

I couldn’t resist posting this photograph.

  Taken during the Dog Days of August when it was so sweltering outside,

 afternoon walks were excruciating.  

Edward dozing on my foot.  

Lazy, contented, and daydreaming of snow.  

The very picture of August.

*********

5.  London Scarf

For those of us who love London…

this scarf seems perfect for every single day of autumn.

Find it HERE
*********

6.  Birthdays

So many of my friends have birthdays in summer.

This video is for them.

Words to remember because life is so short.

********

7.  Skirt

I’m kinda crazy for this skirt.

With a black sweater?

It satisfies by Bloomsbury longings a bit.

Find it HERE
*********

8.  Back to School

Despite the fact that I believe that school should begin promptly on September 1st, just like it does at Hogwarts, the children in my neighbourhood have been back in school for a month now.  No matter, my longing for school supplies never kicks in till September, but when it does… pencils and pens, notebooks and journals… I’m a sucker for all of these.  

Love these little notebooks for a bit of whimsy on an ordinary day….

Find them HERE

and love these gorgeous pencils….

Find them HERE.

***********

9.  The Poetry of Trees

Edward and I are so fortunate to live beneath these tall trees.  I fill the house with fresh flowers every week but I can never match the beauty they provide every day, just outside my windows.  The myriad of greens of springtime, the emeralds of summer.  The elegant minimalism of winter.  And soon, very soon, the dazzling colours of fall.  Alive, always changing, they are old friends who surround us with beauty.  Their branches hold songbirds and owls, the wind plays symphonies when it rushes through their leaves.  On a dark, windy night last week, when a full fat moon painted fingers of shadow on the floor of my screened porch, I read this poem.  And understood.

The Country of the Trees 

by Mary Oliver
 from her book Blue Horses

There is no king in their country

and there is no queen

and there are no princes vying for power, 

inventing corruption.

Just as with us many children are born

and some will live and some will die and the country

will continue.

The weather will always be important.

And there will always be room for the weak, the violets

and the bloodroot.

When it is cold they will be given blankets of leaves.

When it is hot they will be given shade.

And not out of guilt, neither for a year-end deduction

but maybe for the cheer of their colors, their

small flower faces.

They are not like us.

Some will perish to become houses or barns, 

fences and bridges.

Others will endure past the counting of years.

And none will ever speak a single word of complaint, 

as though language, after all, 

did not work well enough, was only an early stage.

Neither do they ever have any questions to the gods -

which one is the real one, and what is the plan.

As though they have been told everything already, 

and are content.

**********

10.  Another Journey

I’m heading back to my favorite place on the planet.

Follow the journey on Instagram, HERE

I’ll be in touch!

One Good Term Here On Earth

 One Good Term Here On Earth

I have always felt a special connection to former US President Jimmy Carter, and for the dumbest reason possible.  Some years after his presidency - a presidency I was pretty much oblivious to due to a shallowness resulting from my young age and the sort of self-absorption that blooms with profusion when one is lacking in life experience - I found myself on an airplane from Los Angeles to Atlanta.  It’s a four hour plus flight, so to spend the time profitably I had brought along a piece of needlepoint that I was doing as a Christmas present for a family member.  Somewhere over the mid-west I was happily stitching away, cozy in my normal state of inattention, when I felt bit of electricity in the air around me.  Looking up from my aisle seat I saw my fellow passengers sitting a bit straighter, all eyes directed to the front of the plane.  The recirculated air was quiet, but electric, with expectation.  Suddenly, as though someone had opened up a jar of irritated flies, black-suited men began to pour down both sides of the plane, gravely serious faces turning this way and that, sharp eyes focusing everywhere and nowhere at once. This managed to capture my interest.  

As one particularly tall member of this line passed my seat I found myself looking up into the face of former president Jimmy Carter.  To my stunned amazement, he stopped.  Smiling, he bent forward to better see the needlepoint I had suddenly forgotten I had.  He asked me who it was for, and I think I told him.  Then he looked at me, directly into my eyes, and in a warm, grand-fatherly way he reached out and touched my cheek.  “You’re very pretty”, he said.  

Now, I don’t take compliments well, especially those about my appearance.  I have a tendency to argue with the those kind enough to bestow one upon me.  I’ll point out my flaws, make a flippant remark about the inadequate strength of their eyeglasses, and blush like a beet, all of which makes the person fervently rue their kindness.  However, faced with a compliment like this from a man like this, I did not launch into my usual list of rebuttals.  I’m sure I blushed brightly, and I hope, God how I hope, I managed to thank him.  I only told The Songwriter about it and, though I’m well aware that we’re all pretty when we’re that young, I have held that compliment in my heart like a secret ever since.

Through the years I have, thankfully, become more aware.  I now know my place in this big crowded world and each day I try to make a small difference in the way that it spins.  I have also watched this former president make his faith in a good God tangible and real.  Jimmy Carter has filled every day in happy effort to effect a positive change.   Rather than spending his evenings on the banquet circuit reeling in high-figure honorariums to flesh out his bank account, or his days painting by numbers in the sunshine, this former president as been working to eradicate a hideous disease in Africa.  He has been traveling far and wide in his effort to ensure countries in conflict have free and democratic elections.   His has been building houses for the homeless.  He has been a tireless champion of the rights for women.  He has written twenty-nine books.  His professed faith has been quickened by his tireless, hopeful, work.

Naturally, like many others, I was saddened to hear of Jimmy Carter’s recent cancer diagnosis.  It brought me back to the day on that plane, which seems like only yesterday, and  it reinforced how fleeting our time really is.  But it also reminded me of the grandness, the sheer scope, of life and how shameful it is to waste a minute of it in incuriosity or cynicism.  He began treatment yesterday and there is every hope that President Carter has many, many days left to serve out his term here on Earth.  Oh, and he will be teaching Sunday School this coming Sunday in his home church in Georgia.  

 Signs lining the roadway to welcome President Carter's return home today.

Find Jimmy Carter’s latest book, 

A Full Life - Reflections at Ninety, HERE.

Burning Roses

Burning Roses

They are burning flowers in Russia.  In what is suspected as a retaliatory act against the Dutch for their investigation into the downing of a Malaysian airliner over rebel-held east Ukraine in July last year, Russia has ordered all flowers shipped from the Netherlands to be burned.  Television cameras captured workers burning boxes and boxes of freshly cut roses.    To me, this seems all too appropriate a metaphor for the world today.  Of course I always tend to veer into melancholy during an election season, something that seems a greater problem these days when election season lasts much longer than a mere season, stretching now from spring into winter, winter to fall.

Here in the states at present, politics has become comedy led by a megalomaniacal buffoon who draws the sort of television ratings comedians can only dream of achieving in a lifetime.  It is embarrassing in the extreme.  He is unencumbered by reality, a fact his emphatically stated opinions nakedly reveal, and qualities such as empathy and compassion are merely euphemisms for losers within his gilded world.  Such a blowhard is best ignored, just as our mothers instructed us to do with any schoolyard bully, but when he leads in the republican polls, as he sadly does at present, it is difficult to look away.  As I said, it’s embarrassing.

You can easily look up his pronouncements for yourself, but I’m taking issue with one in particular because it’s bothered me on many levels beyond it’s obvious stupidity.  This past weekend while, inexplicably, commenting on the former model, Heidi Klum, this “candidate” declared her to be, “Sadly, no longer a 10.”.  Now, let us leave aside the vacant validity of this declaration - Ms. Klum is a gorgeous human being, as anyone can easily see.  And I suppose for a man whose sideline is the ludicrous Miss Universe pageant, one should not expect a higher level of discourse.  But when, oh when, will we manage to stop allowing women - fascinating, intelligent women - to be evaluated by their appearance alone?  Will it ever stop?  And if you think this weekend’s comments were an anomaly, think for a moment on how much we’ve already heard regarding Hillary Clinton’s hairstyles and pantsuits.  

If this were just one comment from one knuckle-dragging glacier dweller, then fine.  But it isn’t.  Face it, this attitude has managed to weave an insidious thread throughout our culture so expertly that we women are often guilty of the sins of comparison and judgment ourselves.  Is there one of us who hasn’t felt just a wee bit “less than” when flipping through the pages of Vogue?  Or been tickled by the tentacles of schadenfreude when a famous beauty puts on a few pounds? Rather like burning roses, I think.

Just yesterday, I came across a new project by photographer Peter Freed.  Entitled, Prime, it is a book of essays and portraits of women.  A bouquet of glorious women, from ages 35 to 104.  Completely funded through a successful Kickstarter campaign, the book is now being printed and should be out soon.  Will it change society?  Probably not.  But it’s a start.  And I would send a copy to the aforementioned “candidate” if I only thought he could read.

Take a Look.

Talking Design...

This little corner of my home, shown above, is a hint.

 I’m talking design today on the fabulous blog, Daily Plate of Crazy.

Come on over.

HERE.

and don’t forget to follow Edward and Me on Instagram.

We are having fun there!

Travelers

Travelers

It was a very early morning in the forests of Bavaria and The Songwriter and I were in a bus packed full of locals on our way to the village of Hohenschwangau.  (Okay Americans, try to say that word three times before you’ve had your coffee.)  The bus was packed full - The Songwriter stood in the aisle by the door, I was seated next to a young woman at the rear - and the riders were obviously locals for they greeted each other by names and nods with nary a word of English spoken.

About twenty minutes into our trip the bus shuddered to a stop in a curve and a young man clambered on. As there were no more seats to be had, he stood beside The Songwriter and grinned a greeting at his fellow passengers.  A trickle of amusement began to run through the crowd as, one by one, people began to notice this hapless new rider had omitted a certain vital sartorial requirement.  His trousers were unzipped.  Titters and giggles turned to roars and peals.  The lady next to me poked me in the ribs and whispered something indecipherable to my ears, but I laughed heartily anyway.  Glancing up, I saw The Songwriter being clapped on the back by an elderly gentleman who was red in the face with laughter.  The young man, his own face scarlet as he found  himself the cynosure of so many eyes, joined in the merriment with everyone else.  I met The Songwriter’s gaze and we grinned.  Once again, we were grateful not to have taken a tour bus.  It was a delight to be mistaken for a local in a place so far from home.

For this, our very first foray into Europe, The Songwriter and I, youngsters both, had made no plans.  We booked a hotel in London for a week and we had a Eurorail pass for the month after that, but basically we were footloose and, for the most part, fancy free.  There were a few wrinkles in the smoothness of our journey, such as arriving in Paris just at the start of Fashion Week when hotel rooms were as scarce as our high-school French.  Or the morning in Amsterdam when I attempted to explain to our cab driver that, no, I wasn’t having a psychotic break,  I’d just been stung by a wasp.  Our days were spent mingling with the locals.  We at neighbourhood cafes, ordering what the regulars ordered because we couldn’t read the menus.  We employed mispronounced words and elaborate hand gestures when we “asked” for directions and were met with happy grins and buckets of help.  One old lady even watched us leave and clapped her hands loudly when we started to make a wrong turn.  Thanks to her, we made it to the Van Gogh museum safely. 

This is how we’ve traveled through the years, immersing ourselves in the local culture as much as we can.  (Our only experience with a “tour” was excruciating, you can read about it HERE.)   We tend to eschew hotel dinners for out of the way places.  We stay off tour buses, rent cars and strike out on our own.  When The Songwriter broke his ankle on the Isle of Mull we saw an entirely different face of Scotland than the one featured on the travel posters and were so grateful we did.  The kind attention gifted to us by the Scots will never be forgotten.  (You can read about that adventure, HERE.)

I have never considered our method of travel to be anything remotely like a political act, but after listening to travel writer Rick Steves this past weekend, I realized that it has been just that.  By staying off the tour buses and cruises, by mingling with the locals wherever we are, by remaining open to, and interested in, the people we meet along the way, the scope of my world has enlarged, my curiosity has deepened along with my understanding, and my fear has diminished.  By being a traveler instead of a tourist I’ve learned that people rarely resemble anything shown on the news.  They are generally kind, usually thoughtful, always interesting.  They love their children.  They are proud of their culture.  They long for peace and beauty.

Travel has not only changed the way I view other countries, it has changed the way I view my own.  It has underlined my natural reluctance to believe everything I’m told, made me search out answers for myself, and erased any intellectual laziness I might have.  It has influenced the way that I vote.   I’ve learned that as much as I love and appreciate America, it is imperative to remember that we here in the States do not have a monopoly on patriotism.  As Steves puts it, “ I think Americans need to realize that the world’s not a pyramid with us on top and everybody else trying figure out how to get there.  Until well into my adulthood that’s how I saw the world.  And then I traveled and I found smart people who had nowhere near the opportunity, or freedom, or affluence that I had who wouldn’t trade passports.  It blew me away.  I couldn’t understand it.  And then I realized they don’t have the American dream.  They’ve got the Sri Lankan dream, or the Bulgarian dream, or the Latvian dream, or the Norweigan dream.  That’s not anti-American, that’s celebrating the diversity  on this planet.  It’s just a beautiful thing when you travel to realize you don’t have to fear that diversity”.

As I prepare for another journey soon, I think I’ll read this book.

You can hear the interview with Rick Steves that I listened to HERE