Tunisia: Stolen Summer

People say the way to happiness is gratitude. But sometimes what stands in the way of gratitude is feeling like I don’t deserve all the good in my life. Not in a self-hatred sense but in that I just compare myself to those less fortunate. And I wonder how it is fair that equally good-hearted people are not as lucky.

Tim and I lived in London for three years and that is where we started our married life so for our wedding anniversary, we went back to England to celebrate. On our way from the beautiful Lake District, we turned on BBC radio in time to hear of a terrorist attack on tourists in Tunisia, a famous destination for Europeans. The attack was on two of the most popular beach resorts in the area. Tourists were enjoying the beautiful day on the beach in the mid-summer high season when a gunman started shooting, taking 38 lives 30 of which were British at a hotel in Sousse. This happened just three months after 21 tourists were attacked by gunmen at the Bardo National Museum in the capital city of Tunis.

There are enough accidents and illnesses that can make this world a sad place but what makes it cruel is how you could be enjoying a family vacation on the Meditarean or praying in your church in South Carolina one minute and get shot with so much hatred and lack of purpose the next. Both times so defenseless and harmless that it all seems so pointless. What does this prove?

In the taxi en route to the airport at the end of our trip, we saw a “visit Tunisia” advertisement on the push-up seat in front of us. l love to travel, especially to exotic places I have never been. I could picture Tim and I a few months prior while we lived in London seeing that ad and adding Tunisia to our bucket list of places to visit before we move back to America. Unfortunately, the number of foreign visitors to Tunisia has dropped by 20 percent following the terror attacks this summer.

I could see us being there around the time of our wedding anniversary. I could also imagine that incident happening in Lebanon, from where I am originally and to where I dream of bringing Tim every single summer, pending stability in the country.

What scares me the most is not the fear that could have been us, but it is how much I relate to all of those people laying on the beach that day. How much they must have been enjoying the sunshine on their face they’d been craving after a rainy British summer. How long they probably saved up for their annual family holiday. How delicious that pina colada must have tasted and how warm the ocean must have felt. How they probably took smiling, glowing selfies moments before that happened. How lucky they must have felt.

I have a lot for which to be thankful – I am healthy. I have a loving husband, a supportive family, great friends, financially stable with the ability to do what I love. But I guess I’ve always been afraid of the high highs and the low lows and I feel most comfortable when I’m happy but not so lucky that the luck may run out.

Lebanon: Country of Contradictions

How to give Lebanon a voice? The Phoenicians, who are now known as Lebanese, are credited with inventing the alphabet. The people of language – who speak fluent Arabic, French and English and have a word for everything – seem to be silent outside of Lebanon. Through the eyes of a Christian Lebanese girl living in America, it is the country of contradictions.

You can look at where the mountains meet the beach and call it breathtaking. You can look at the parts destroyed by the war and call it beaten down. You can look at the army check points and call it scary. You can become family with strangers and call it friendly. You can think of the taxi driver who insisted the ride was free and call the people generous. You can look at the decades of fighting and call them greedy. In Lebanon, you’ll find a mosque next to a church, a woman in a string thong bikini next to one covered from head to toe, the glitz and glamour of South Beach next to the slums of Mumbai, a liquor-flowing Ibiza-style club scene next to a community whose religion forbids them to even drink.

It seems to me that what threads Lebanon together, and maybe every other country, is its love for music and food. Our sole goal when going out became to make it home before sunrise to be in good enough shape to visit with relatives we hadn’t seen in 17 years. That mission was only accomplished once in 10 days.

Perhaps people don’t know when peace will turn into war so they make the most noise of the quiet time they have.

And they feast. On magnificent, mouth-watering, excessive amounts of food. If you’re of Lebanese origin, the restaurant owner (and his mother, sister and cousin) will greet you with three kisses on the cheek, try to piece together your family tree and offer you baklawa on the house.

The day trips from Beirut rival the night life whether swimming the Mediterranean at Batroun’s beach clubs, drinking wine at the Cava vineyard, trying not to get claustrophobic in the caves of the Jeita Grotto or walking through the Cedars Forest Nature Reserve.

As we drove up Mount Lebanon, Jabal, we stopped to eat manoushes being made in the brick oven next to us and shared stories about my grandfather, a generous man who I never met but miss dearly. We walked around the cemetery where he was buried searching for his tomb and found him in an area accompanied by only four other Christian tombs amongst hundreds of Muslim names. It dawned on me that what used to be the only predominantly Christian country in the Middle East is no longer.

Since my family and I left when I was 3 months old to escape the war, I never learned how to speak Lebanese. But I understand it… every nuance, every emotion. They’re passionate, expressive people so you can get everything you need to know about a conversation by listening to the sound it makes.

You can also get a sense of the culture – one of faith and belief, where there are five different ways to say God willing. “Bookra” means anything from “tomorrow” to “next time,” as if this non-committal tribute to the future ensures that there will in fact be a tomorrow.

As I make my way to the airport, there are Islamic prayers being chanted on loud speakers at sundown. Each mosque louder than the other. How could something so beautiful also cause so much hate? In my many travels worldwide, Lebanon was the hardest country to understand and the hardest one to leave. In tears, I thought about the injustice this country has endured. I cried for those left behind. My mother’s uncle who became my grandfather when mine passed, in whose eyes I saw how long it had been and how long it will be until we see each other again. A man who has bullet holes on the side of his building at which he looks every morning as a reminder to live in gratitude. A man who will never leave his home… Shallah.

I cried for my family who fled. Scared for their lives, they were ripped out of their roots, left to look for somewhere else to plant the life they once had… most are still searching.

Milan: Wine and Dine

I must be feeling homesick because I ended up spending my only night in Milan taking a cooking class in a woman’s kitchen, which reminded me of watching my Mom (and aggressively taking notes) as she cooked Lebanese cuisine. Aurora, who used to be a chef for many years and has recently started giving private cooking lessons, runs Cook and Dine through her own home – what a treat!

The booking was a little shady so after submitting the payment of only 50 Euros, I immediately called to reserve a time slot (and to ensure it was legitimate). I was instantly comforted by the welcoming voice on the other side of the phone. The only question was wine or beer and the only rule was to arrive at 6pm as the pumpkin for the ravioli stuffing would be pre-baking in the oven.

My flight into Linate was delayed and I landed at 5:20pm. Skipping the drop off at the hotel, I went directly to her home – hand luggage, sweaty and all – to arrive promptly at 6:00. She is centrally located, conveniently only four subway stops away from Duomo.

After buzzing the door, I entered into a quaint community of typical Italian houses with laundry hanging and neighbors chatting across their balconies. I went up the four flights of stairs (note to self: best to leave the luggage behind next time) but was then greeted by Aurora and her husband with a choice of refreshing Proseco or Iced Tea.

The smell of baking pumpkin that filled her home and the plate of salami with crackers that awaited on the kitchen table made me wonder: Is it ok to dine before we cook? She placed a Cook and Dine apron around my neck and the intimate class of only three amateur cooks began.

We started by making the dough for the profiteroles so they could bake while we made the rest. We then made the stuffing for the ravioli to which the baking pumpkin would be added, flavored with Mostarda (a sweet and sour apricot with cherries condiment) and lots of nutmeg. We moved on to the fun part: home-made pasta! Aurora disclosed her rule of thumb: for every 100 grams of 0.0 flour, use 1 egg. We saved a ball of dough for the gnocco fritto, which we would later fill with lard and fry.

Gnocco fritto with Parma ham

We flattened the pasta by hand with a roller and then used a machine as it is near impossible to get it down to a few centimeters by hand. We cut one rectangular piece, added a small ball of the pumpkin stuffing to fill each ravioli, used a paintbrush dipped in water to wet the corners, folded the dough over, pressed down to get rid of the air and cut it into squares.

Ravioli from Modena

We used the machine to shred the rest of the dough into spaghetti for the carbonara, which was later boiled in bacon fat with a slightly cooked egg added at the end.

Spaghetti Carbonara

Separately, we caramelized the onions and cooked cubed eggplant on a skillet. We added black and green olives, freshly chopped tomatoes and raisins (yes, you read right) to create a healthy medley of Mediterranean vegetables.

Caponata from Sicily

When we were done cooking, Aurora invited us to freshen up and go sit down at the dinner table in their living room. We were asked for our choice of red or white wine and waited anxiously for the dishes we created.

The gnocco fritto was served separately from the parma ham for us to create our own bites of goodness. The ravioli was served with sage. By the time we were served the spaghetti, we were stuffed and were taking a breather. “You eat when the pasta is ready, not when you are ready,” Aurora explained. We began eating immediately. The caponata was served as the fourth course, not as the side I would have expected it to be.

I was so full I couldn’t even fit an olive in my mouth when Aurora arrived with the desert pyramid. “You don’t always have room for desert, but you always have room for profiteroles,” she said as she placed the plate in front of us. And she was right! They were served covered with chocolate and powdered sugar but thankfully the cream filling was not too sweet.

Profiteroles

Our meal lasted well into 10:30pm and just when I was afraid we may have overstayed our welcome, Aurora appeared from the kitchen with certificates of completion rolled with a bow.

Throughout the evening, her husband took photos for us, judged the shape of the ravioli, served the wine and cleaned up after us. It appears that not only is Aurora a wonderful cook but she also seems to have created the perfect recipe for a good marriage: put him to work but wine and dine him in return.

St. Tropez: One More Toy

I instantly felt fabulous walking the beach of Pampelonne, around the bend from St. Tropez. I could envision gazillionaires sipping Belver Bears Belvedere in a beach club. Those same gazillionaires would come in via yacht from St. Tropez and be escorted by shuttle boats from their floating mansions to the beach club.

Instead, we walked up barefoot carrying a change of clothes in a plastic bag from the Radisson Blu and went from club to club asking – in French, proudly – how much it costs to rent a beach chair. Mind you it was 3pm on a Monday in May -22 Euros per chair in the second row and 26 Euros in the first row – towels not included. We lived large and took the first row – even though no one else was there.

It quickly occurred to me that however serene and secluded, this wasn’t the type of beach you come to unprepared. I wished the onesie from Target I was wearing could suddenly turn into Chanel. But as the beach bar tender reminded us – we weren’t from there. If we were, we wouldn’t be asking the price in the first place.

When we headed back to St. Tropez, the glitz on one side almost blinded me while the beauty on the other took my breath away. The main street is lined with yachts whose owners have paid good money to reserve space in one of the world’s most sought-after parking spots. Owners and five of their closest, best-looking, friends, stand on the back porch as their yacht pulls in. Tourists wait, point, whisper and take pictures as if watching zoo animals. We were feet away yet no one interacted with them. They were just there to look pretty.

At the end of the main street though is where the land ends, meeting the golf of St. Tropez. There, surrounded by only water and the Citadel, I felt hints of the unassuming fishing village it was once and the charming people that occupied it.

A town where servers, dressed as fishermen, let you pick the table, even if it is the only one not already made up for dinner. Once you’re seated , you eat moules frites and sip on rose while watching the sun fade, casting a magnificent light over the old town and its harbor.

But once that meal is over, you’re reminded that this is now the place that draws billionaires, the place where one fellow calls his hundred million dollar yacht, “One More Toy.”

Cannes before the Storm

There was something eery but also almost A-lister-y to be in the city of the Cannes Film Festival the week before the big event. Have you ever shown up to a party early and the hosts are trying to convince you it’s going to be a great time? I never have – shown up to anything early for that matter – but I imagine it feels loser-ish and elitist all at the same time.

We were there for the fussing, hyping and anticipation of the service industry, who were readying for the difficult requests that would come in just 10 days, such as Angelina Jolie asking for a cold glass of ice water. Given Europe serves just about any beverage at room temperature, that requires quite a bit of preparation.

But of course this being us, it was completely unplanned. I happened to have a meeting in Nice on a Tuesday and Monday was a UK Bank Holiday so we naturally took advantage of the weekend.

We flew from London to Nice, rented a car and drove the 25 minutes to Cannes. We had imagined we would stay one night and continue on the Côte d’Azur but the Radisson Blu, where we stayed on accumulated points, welcomed our arrival, which must have been a nice distraction and somewhere to put their nervous energy. We were upgraded to ocean view and given free access to the spa, which rivaled the one at Canyon Ranch, a hard feat: http://www.canyonranch.com/miamibeach. The rock-star treatment and “Le 360 & Panoramic Rooftop Terrace,” were enough to convince us to stay three nights.

We didn’t have to look far for a beach as the one across the street was gorgeous.

And while I couldn’t wait to check out the glitz and glam of St. Tropez, the yachts in Cannes weren’t bad either.

Bonus: what happens when you’re all dressed up at a 5-star restaurant the week before the Cannes Film Festival? The owner stops by to ask whether she can tag a photo of you on the restaurant’s Facebook page.

“Please arrange royalties with my agent. Merci!”

Cotswolds: Chasing Swans

Tim had to renew his visa, which meant not traveling outside of the UK until it was returned and gave us the opportunity to do just that. Our friends had recommended the Cotswolds and particularly the Old Swan & Minster Mill, an adorable English country house hotel and inn along the River Windrush that was not only pet-friendly, but considered dogs to be elite guests. Tim made driving a manual with the left hand on the other side of the road look easy and we drove the two hours from London, with a dog sleeping in the back seat.

We adopted Nutella from Vermont and two days later, drove the six-hour drive to Brooklyn while she slept sitting up on my lap with her face snuggled right below my chin. This has caused two things to occur: me to become utterly obsessed with cuddling her, and her to be an excellent car passenger. When we arrived, Nutella got a warmer welcome in the lobby than we did followed by “room service,” a full bowl of organic dog food. Even though the dog bed provided was way too small for her, she slept well knowing this was going to be the best weekend of her life.

Meanwhile, Tim and I had dinner in the Old Swan’s living room referred to as “gastro-pub” cuisine, which was the finest food and the most quaint pub I’ve seen.The next morning, we used our spa vouchers from booking through Secret Escapes treating ourselves to aromatherapy massages followed by a breakfast buffet of locally grown produce to prepare for a choice of three hikes: a “short,” “medium” and “long” walk. We opted for the medium walk, which was a nine-mile walk from Minster Lovell through sheep fields and the town of Swinbrook to the adorable village of Burford.

As we turned left into the first field, something awoke within Nutella that neither she, nor us, knew existed: what a Labrador mixed with a German short-haired pointer is innately bred to do. Ponds lined the field causing her to lift her right leg and point her tail enough to signal where birds were hiding. The Labrador in her would emerge just in time to run toward the birds, not catching them, but scaring them enough that they would fly up.

From field to field, we walked – surrounded by openness and fresh air. The only noise was our footsteps and the occasional gun shot of hunters. The fields were separated by intricate gates and Tim would responsibly look ahead before letting Nutella run free. Nutella is somewhat trained “off-leash” (known here in the UK as “off-lead,” which is comforting that I’m not the only one that gets led when dog-walking. When you live with a 6’6 man and want to name your dog Nutella, the dog has to be at least 60 lbs.). She won’t run away and will come back eventually but only when she feels like it or is done eating horse poop (yes, this has occurred. More than once).

There was a pond on the left that would for sure attract her attention but she was already covered in mud so a little fresh water would do us all some good. We let her go, both keeping a close eye on the pond below the small hill. A few minutes went by, enough for me to catch up, and no sign of Nutella. As we walked toward the pond, there was a sighting: about 100 sheep parting ways on the top of the hill and one most-excited-she’s-ever-been crazy black dog circling around them. “New friends!”

Tim was worried for the sheep. I was worried for Nutella (well, not so worried that I didn’t have time to pull out my iPhone to catch this on video). Soon enough, the peacefulness of endless farmland quickly deteriorated into one tall man and a short girl sprinting with echoes of our screams across the fields of the English countryside, “Nutella!.. Nutella!.. Nutella!” I would have liked to hear the farmer’s thoughts when he came out with a shot gun: kill the dog who is threatening my sheep, my livelihood or kill the two crazy Americans in dire need of chocolate-hazelnut spread.

We had barely caught our breath when we arrived at the next gate. Nutella couldn’t have been more proud of herself. She was dog smiling and tail wagging. If she was human, the conversation would have been high pitched with excitement. The prawn collar went around her neck – the equivalent of grounding. Tim held on to her leash as he maneuvered around a tiny gate he could barely fit into but the mud got the best of him. As he slipped, he could feel Nutella’s leash slip through his fingers. I always seem to trail behind those two.

There she sat: a beautiful swan, making her Queen proud. In England, all swans are the property of the Queen. It is a felony to harm a swan, which comes with a high fine or even imprisonment. Have you ever seen a swan try to fly? It is like a 747 preparing for take-off. Slow and steady. And in came Nutella: fast and flaky. The swan waddled into a run before slowly raising off the ground and Nutella, running full speed ahead with her eyes laser focused above, neglected to see the drop ahead and flew into the river below. One moment you saw her. The next you didn’t. My heart stopped and I turned the video off. Sure enough, she emerged from the river slightly startled but tail wagging. If there’s one thing she loves more than birds, it’s water!

When we reached Swinbrook, yellow flowers lured us into the town. As we approached, an old woman mumbled something to us. I laughed even though I didn’t hear what she said – I hoped it was meant to be funny. On our way out of the town, that same woman gave it another try. This time, we stopped. As she struggled to remember the name of the nearby town she was trying to recommend, I wished the Swan Inn (what is it with swans around here?) up the road would just swallow me. All I wanted was a warm seat and a cold beer. When we finally sat down, they were done serving lunch so we put in our order – a beer for Tim and a coffee with Baileys for me. Nutella laid at our feet, seizuring with uncontrollable leg kicks which continued throughout that entire night. Enough so that I purchased data to look on WebMD pet and make sure she was going to be ok. Doctor’s orders: “You have to be your dog’s off switch. It doesn’t have that on its own.”

The next day, we took her on the “short” walk called “The Great Cotswold Ramble” following a path known as ‘Wardens Way’ for about 2.5 miles, which goes from Upper Slaughter through Lower Slaughter and ends at Bourton-on-the-Water. We passed sheep fields again but knew better this time and kept Nutella on the leash. This was wise because these fields were littered with lambs wobbling at a few days old like Nutella did when she was just a puppy.

Beyond the field was the small town of Lower Slaughter, a postcard village on the water where a plaque announced Prince Charles and Lady Diana visited in 1981. We had cream tea along the river while Nutella whined. She had had enough fun.