Lovejoy & Travel

Lessons While Flying

2010-09-05T13:19:25Z

4 Sept 2010

I ended up sharing what should really be generously called a love seat for the transatlantic flight with Agan, a Bosnian man. He had a much longer trip than me, originating from his home in upstate New York, to DC, to Zurich, to Sarajevo, and then on to his final destination, a town north of Sarajevo a hundred miles, the name of which I did not catch, to visit relatives. It was a full flight and I had a window seat, so one can only hope to share the row with someone of diminutive size. As I approached my seat, I was a bit disappointed to see a somewhat large and stoic looking eastern European man in the seat next to me. His appearance was made that much more imposing due to the dark green, shrapnel-like scars on his face, concentrated around his light blue eyes. I would later learn that this was the remnants of a land mine that a friend of his had stepped on during the Balkan War. His friend died as did another, and Agan spent two and a half months in a hospital, losing only his vision. He had come to this country after the war and has lived in New York for ten years now. He is now a US citizen, for which I congratulated him. We talked a bit about the war, life in the US, and such things.

As I drifted off into a red wine and Benadryl cocktail induced haze of something that resembles sleep, I thought about how lucky we are. As Americans, we have never and perhaps may never know what it is like to be a refuge in our own country. We will never know what it is like to leave your home with nothing, perhaps never to return. We will never know what it is like to start one's entire life over in a new country. It is imporant to remember this every so often. What circumstances might have to exist to be in that situation? I think of the Kenyan woman who fled the post-election violence several years ago and whom I had the privilege to represent in gaining asylum status. I think of my own grandparents who left what was by all accounts a dismal existence in Ireland. I think about the peace and abundance we so easily take for granted. As the ever-present and never-ending debate over immigration simmers and boils, perhaps we might remember that afterall, we are a nation of immigrants.

And add to the list of things to be thankful for: the ability to observe the brilliant orange horizontal swath across the sky and the emerging sparkling lights of civilization below as we fly into the sunrise.

Blueberry Muffins

2010-07-27T04:59:00Z

Blueberry Muffins: Recipe #1

I decided to go with the Joy of Cooking recipe just for the basic-ness of it, instead of the one from the Culinary School of the Rockies (CSR). Just out of the oven, my initial impression was okay, but a bit bland. I was also not impressed with the performance of the muffin liners (never have used those before) and think I’ll stick to good old butter next time.

I brought the batch to work and solicited reviews. The muffins lingered a bit in the communal kitchen after sending an all-company email alert. However, I suspect that there may be a direct correlation between the rate of food disappearance and the amount of sugar contained in said food, but more research will have to be conducted to confirm this theory. Most of my co-workers seemed generally appreciative of home-cooked, free food, taking their portion and wandering back to their desks with a wave or smile of thanks. Of course, there is nothing like a request for constructive feedback on food to ferret out a food-critic aspirant. My okay-but-bland initial impression was affirmed along with a more detailed description of the crumb texture (decent), moistness (not enough, I felt compelled to slather with butter), and blueberry ratio (can’t have enough).

Mostly what I would expect from the Joy of Cooking, with all due respect. As I said earlier, a solid starting point or baseline in this case. For the record the recipe also states it should yield approximately 24 x 2 inch muffins. Now, I’m not sure if the photo below gives a good sense of scale, but I’d say 2 inches is about right and I got just about 14 muffins, yet could have made it an even dozen had I filled the cups a bit higher…

Blueberry Muffins: Recipe #2

The following evening, I used the CSR recipe from the bread techniques class I took many years ago. The ingredients alone indicated there should be major improvement on the crumb texture, moistness, and flavor. Plain yogurt would add moisture; lemon zest and a mixture of brown and regular sugar would add flavor. Using no muffin liners this time, the resulting size was a bit less petite, although I am of the mindset to acquire a large-muffin tin for the muffin-as-a-meal option.

The rate of muffin disappearance at the office seemed to be a bit quicker this time around and general consensus was that this recipe was an improvement over the prior. Nevertheless, I’m still seeking something a bit more… perhaps some tweaking for additional texture and heartiness. To be continued…

--- every cooking project should begin with proper prep ---

--- Recipe #1: Joy of Cooking ---

--- Recipe #2: CSR ---

Lovejoy's Larder (Part II): reclamation and inspiration

2010-06-30T03:59:00Z

Spring/Summer 2010

The reclamation has gone in waves. There was a spate of soup-making this winter, bouts of bread-baking, and the ever reliable cookie escapades. I started actually reading some of the cookbooks on the shelf, thumbing through the pages and marveling at the pretty pictures, while trying to be realistic about dishes I might try making. Then my well-intended enthusiasm would wane and I’d be back to take-out and thrown together bits of food eaten while standing up at the counter.

There is nothing like a good foodie movie to stir up inspiration. A recent viewing of Julie & Julia provided just such the thing. If you have ever tried to cook something beyond your normal reach or ever been lucky enough to find your true love, you should see this movie. It is a love story about food and a food story about love. And what two things go better together? After all, food is a fabulous way to show one’s affection. I had read the book, but to be honest, I didn’t know much about Julia Child before seeing the movie. I was inspired. Inspired to cook great food or at least try on a somewhat regular occasion. Inspired too that the mutual adoration and respect that creates true love really can happen, but that’s a whole other story. I would start by making it a Sunday goal to cook myself a proper, healthy meal, perhaps even incorporating something from the garden. As for a project, a recent visitor had left a vat of blueberries in my fridge, so finding the perfect blueberry muffin recipe seemed like a good place to start. In the near future, I decided I must acquire my own copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, as well as read Julia Child’s autobiographical, My Life in France.

A trip to the used bookstore yielded a surprising armful of goodies. Finding something particular you are looking for is always a bit of an ambitious goal, so I was loose with my expectations and came up in excess. Although I did not find Mastering the Art of French Cooking - not to my surprise - I did find a well-loved (or spilled upon), yet spine-in-tact copy of the Joy of Cooking. This got me thinking. Having once had access to a small library of cookbooks, I realized that there are certain books that are crucial as a sort of starting point or reference for everything else. I would consider those books to be:

The Food Lover’s Companion – for quick in-the-kitchen reference and general bet settling
Larousse Gastronomique – for when you need more information than what the Food Lover’s Companion can offer and for general knowledge and education
The Joy of Cooking – a good starting point for basic recipes on most dishes
Mastering the Art of French Cooking – ditto, and then some

From there you can then augment with books on specific cuisines, from special restaurants, or by favorite chefs. Speaking of favorite chefs, my second used-book score was a copy of Jamie Oliver’s Naked Chef. I’d have to say that the Naked Chef was one of the best shows to air on the Food Network – long before food became hip and hacks like Racheal Ray got airtime. Oliver made dishes that felt doable and all from his small, but well-appointed London flat, instead of some large made-for-TV kitchen set. My final book score was a copy of My Life in France. Brilliant! I enjoyed reading the introduction while lounging in the garden post-dinner before whisking off to bed for some reading-time before sleep.

Sunday’s dinner was a simple, but well-flavored meal of cooked tomatoes and kale over jasmine rice and with a bit of seasoned ground beef for protein. Besides the kale, I flavored the sauce with fresh lemon thyme, oregano, and parsley from the garden. I had finished out my earlier culinary shopping spree by picking up a muffin tin at Peppercorn and doing a bit of drooling over all the shiny toys as is too easy to do in that place. Once dinner was done, it was time for blueberry muffins…

Lovejoy’s Larder (Part I): a short history of my love affair with food

2010-04-30T03:55:00Z

sometime in early 2010...

Anyone who has spent any amount of significant time with me knows that I take food and eating seriously. If I say, ‘I’m hungry,’ you would be ill advised to stand between me and my acquisition of food. But, food is not merely sustenance. No, food is one of life’s great joys. Like a night of dreamless undisturbed sleep or mind-blowing sex, food fulfills both a basic human need and a decadent desire. As with anything taken seriously, there are a few rules, some guidelines, many preferences, and a backstory.

I can be, self-admittedly, a bit of a food snob. No matter how hungry and desperate I am, I won’t eat fast food. Don’t even suggest it. A recent love interest almost didn’t make it to breakfast on account of not having real butter in his fridge. I have been known to turn my nose up at the use of pre-packaged spices even when I’m not exactly sure how to concoct the proper flavoring otherwise. And I’m not much better when it comes to kitchen equipment. A high-quality, sharp chef’s knife is a must and do not dare leave it in the sink or put it in the dishwasher, at least not while you are in my house. It is not unfeasible to imagine me using one of said knives in defence of my Kitchen Aid blender. As for cook ware, one (hyphenated) word: All-Clad.

Let’s be clear about one thing: I am not a cook. Sure I can cook and even turn out a few good meals that may even impress. As a college roommate said reassuringly in response to an enthusiastic date for whom I had made dinner, ‘eat with Jilayne three more times and you’ll have that dish again.’ Those three meals may have evolved and a few side dishes have been added, but the statement remains mostly true. I will just never have the patience to learn some of the more elaborate techniques in the kitchen. Nevertheless, I like understanding the elaborateness that went into making a masterpiece and enjoy pontificating with an eating partner on the intricacies of the flavors and what exactly makes a dish stunningly successful (or not). The knowing only makes me appreciate the result all the more and respect those who master the craft and add their own artistry.

There is no doubt my knowledge and passion for food far outstrips my skills. But I was not always like this. I didn’t grow up in one of those households where cooking was considered an art, nor did I spend time baking at grandma’s side. Indeed, growing up, food was mostly sustenance and cooking mostly a chore to be tolerated. It wasn’t until I befriended a consummate foodie that my journey began. At first I was skeptical. I’ll never forget when she told me excitedly that the Food Network was coming to our local cable provider. A whole cable channel for food? Really? I nodded with support and accepted that perhaps my dear friend was merely a bit of a dork. I would not have believed it if you told me that the Food channel would become a permanent fixture in my very own home in the not so distance future.

And so it began. I took a few classes at the Culinary School of the Rockies and then my partner at the time took a few classes and a bit of a star was born. Despite my traditional family upbringing, I was happy to relinquish my place in the kitchen to a much better and more passionate cook who was willing to make me fabulous meals. It was all part of the master plan, I joked with my foodie friend, to get a man to cook for me. And cook he did, acquiring all the best tools with the same precision and discernment that is better associated in Boulder circles with the purchase of high-end sporting equipment. He experimented and refined his skills while I absorbed this knowledge and refined my tastes. Along the way I began working at the Culinary School of the Rockies in the office for the professional programs, cementing my love of food and appreciation for the very special occupation of those who cook for a living. There would be no turning back.

But knives dull, pans burn, and relationships end and so it was that I found myself with a fabulous kitchen, some of the requisite equipment with which to make great food, and a need to reclaim that space in both my home, my heart, and my stomach.

West Coast Travels

2010-03-21T05:13:00Z

February – March, 2010

With a few exceptions, this blog has depicted my various travels abroad. Already half-way through 2010, such an opportunity has not presented itself, but that does not mean I’ve been sitting idly in Boulder. In fact, I have been fortunate to make several trips to the West Coast. Cheap flights, family, and an increasing number of friends in the Bay Area makes this an easy justification for a quick getaway.

My first foray was in early February for a week of cycling and other fun, mostly spent in Santa Cruz. I managed to dodge the rain drops of a very wet El Nino season and enjoyed some warmer weather riding among the redwoods and along the coast – a much needed respite from cold Colorado. In late February, I was back for “girls’ ski weekend” in Tahoe. Four of us convened from Colorado to join Kerry at Squaw Valley for two days of fantastic skiing: One day of fresh snow that turned to classic Sierra cement by the end of the day, followed by a second day of warm weather and sun. A third trip for work to attend the Open Source Business Conference in San Francisco brought me back again in mid-March. I stayed for the weekend after and managed to sneak in a run in Marin and a ride in Santa Cruz. I think I’m getting the hang of how to maximize one’s time on a short trip!

--- cycling along Route 1, north of Santa Cruz ---

--- February Santa Cruz sunset ---

--- fields of flowers ---

--- powder day at Squaw! ---

--- the girls ---

--- Squaw Valley... with visibility ---

A Tribute to Jeanne D. Lovejoy

2009-12-09T06:00:00Z

Saturday, 5 December 2009

Today my Mom, Jeanne D. Lovejoy, passed away. We all made it in time to let her know she was loved, she was not alone, and that we would be okay. A memorial was held on Wednesday, 9 December 2009 at the Westbrook, Connecticut Congregational Church. I wanted to say something that anyone who knew her could relate to; something that made people smile, not cry; something that she would have liked. Here's what I said:

When I arrived at the hospital at 1am Friday night, the woman lying there fighting to breathe, so weak, so pale, so aged, so fragile and small, could not be my mom. This was not how she would be remembered.

My mom, Jeanne, was always strong enough to give everyone a hug. When she hugged you, she gave you a little bit of her love; a little bit of her joy; she made you feel weclome; she made you feel special. She gave you a little bit of herself for that small moment. And she had a lot to give.

My Mom hugged everyone - family, friends, new acquaintances - whether that person wanted a hug or not. Sometimes she hung on a bit harder and for a bit longer than the recipient was comfortable with, but this didn’t stop her.

In my younger years, this habit of hers mortified me. Like any good teenager, I cringed or rolled my eyes as she hugged all of my friends. Then, somewhere along the way and unknowingly, I began to emulate her. Among my friends, I became known as a “hugger” as well. More recently, I strayed from the hugging habit, I had effectively gone on a “hugging hiatus.”

Upon realizing this, I thought about my Mom and her hugs. I thought about the power of human touch; how important it is to tell or show people you care; how sometimes it is imperative that you reach out to others – for your own sake, as well as theirs. Essentially, A hug can convey all of this and more in one simple gesture.

We lead busy lives. We are inundated with a plethora of impersonal modes of communication. We appreciate the many special people in our lives, but often forget to tell them. We are in a hurry much of the time. But nothing replaces the moment taken to give or receive a hug – as a greeting, a good-bye, for no apparent reason, sometimes without words - a simple gesture that can mean so much.

With my Mom’s death, there are now fewer hugs to go around. My hope is that we can all fill that huge void by continuing my Mom’s “hugging habit.”

Home

2009-10-29T06:00:00Z

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

I came home to the making of a winter wonderland. The long, gray light of dusk and a storm approaching seeped through the plane’s windows as we touched down in Denver. Rain on the drive to Boulder turned to snow by the end of dinner. By the time I curled my weary body between the flannel sheets, large heavy flakes had coated the trees and ground with a wet, sticky sheath of white. I could think of no better welcome home. The snow continued to fall through Wednesday and into Thursday. Trees that still clung to their leaves bowed to the weight and broke, including my peach tree. (Although, it should be noted that no Toyota Prius’ were injured in its sad and lonely descent.) By Thursday a couple feet of snow left the air crisp and muffled the usual sounds of civilization. As I walked to the store on a quiet back street, I marveled at the soft, clean, achromatic world that had been created at the end of October. The Flatirons rose proudly with their thick, alabaster cloak against the dark night sky as a somewhat foreign thought passed through my mind: ‘I love my life.’

--- home in the morning light ---

photo thanks to K. Harper

Bilbao, Bakio, and back to London

2009-10-26T06:00:00Z

Sunday, 25 October 2009

If the theme of my trip was the kindness and graciousness extended to me by friends, then Sunday would be the encore. Thanks to a few emails by Leah to her network of Basque friends and family, I was greeted at the bus station by Imanol, a friend of a friend of a friend. We headed directly to the Museo Guggenheim Bilbao, Frank Gehry’s masterpiece and a building I have always wanted to see since it was built in 1997. We spent a fair amount of time walking around the outside while I snapped many photos and tried not to get a neck ache from looking up at this incredible structure. As luck would have it, there was an extensive Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit, which Ima and I enjoyed immensely. We saw some of the permanent exhibit, but ran out of time to see everything, as Ima had made lunch reservations at a restaurant in Bakio. At this point, I had already come to the conclusion that the Spanish, and the Basque in particular, have their priorities straight when it comes to food and wine. Everything I had eaten and drank since arriving in Spain had been fantastic. But the multi-course meal at Eneperi, a restaurant perched on the cliff over-looking the Atlantic, was the topper and easily the best meal I have had in some time. We started with grilled langostinas and a foie dish that was the perfect blend of textures and tastes. For the main course, we each had a local fish and swapped dishes – both very different and both excellent. While waiting for dessert, the server brought a complimentary dessert taster that involved a shooter of patzaran, crème fraiche, and some other flavor that is escaping my memory now – suffice to say, it was incredible. Unfortunately, I resisted the urge to take pictures of each course we ate! There was just enough light after dinner to enjoy the view from outside the restaurant before meeting Leah’s cousin for a drink nearby. Then it was back to the airport, where Isidoro, the link between Leah and Ima, met us to say hello. I’m pretty sure I’ve never had the privilege of two lovely Basque men to keep me company while waiting for a flight before.

Words really can't describe the generosity and graciousness that was bestowed upon me by a virtual stranger while in Bilbao. I’m not sure what I did to be so lucky to be the recipient of such hospitality and only hope I can return the favor some day.

I returned to London for one final day and a beautiful one it was. I met up with the owner of Cycle Chic (cool cycling accessories, check them out at: www.cyclechic.co.uk) to talk bike stuff and swap a helmet for Leah, which also provided a good excuse to meander around Hackney a bit. My final evening on vacation was appropriately spent with friends – Shane and Caron – at their local pub in Bounds Green, enjoying good beer, cheer, and company.

--- Museo Guggenheim Bilbao ---

--- the view from Restaurante Eneperi ---

San Sebastian

2009-10-24T06:00:00Z

Wed-Sat, 21-24 October 2009

I arrived in San Sebastian to a mild, damp evening as Matt and Maria walked me from the bus station to their flat near Playa de la Concha. Being that it was late was no deterrent to enjoying bread, cheese, wine, and unas gildas, a pinxto of olives, anchovies, and Guindilla peppera over the dining room table as we exchanged stories in a mixture of English and Spanish. A nightcap of patzaran finished us off in the wee hours of the morning.

I managed to arrive just in time for the change in weather and we awoke Thursday morning to pissing down rain. This made the city no less charming as Matt gave me a walking tour of the Parte Vieja and we climbed to winding path to the Castillo de Santa Cruz de la Mota on Monte Urgull for a stunning, wind-whipped view of the Atlantic to the west and La Concha to the east.

After fortifying ourselves with pinxtos and a glass of wine in the local bars, we decided to head out on the bikes in spite of the wet weather. Once out of town, the rain subsided as we headed to the national park at Aia. We enjoyed a steep climb on traffic-less roads amid the lushest, steep terrain I have ever seen. Each casa sported a superb garden and the hills were so green it almost hurt my eyes. Checking in with Maria, we learned it was now raining in San Sebastian. Hmmmm, perhaps our dry spell would not last to the end of the ride. We descended down to the fishing village at Oria and then climbed up Monte Igueldo as dusk fell and the wind drove a storm off the Atlantic. Our descent into San Sebastian was entirely in the dark in a torrential down pour where the rain seemed to come from every direction all at once. I began to worry that it might simply wash the contacts right out of my eyes, as if I wasn’t having enough trouble seeing. Just when I thought I couldn’t be any wetter and was relieved to finally get into town, a bus passing the bike path we were on splashed (splash is actually an understatement) a wall of water in my face, at which point, I just started laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Maria opened the door to the flat to two large puddles of people, as I stated, “estamos loco!” to which she could only agree. In actuality, we weren’t the only people out in such weather. I was surprised and impressed to see more than a few locals running along La Concha as if they didn’t even notice the wind-driven rain.

Friday we did more touring around the city, including a fascinating exhibit at the Museo Naval called on Basque maritime history. After a beer at Constitution Square, we hopped a bus to San Pedro and took at boat across to San Juan for a fabulous dinner of langostinas, foie, other local fish and meat.

Saturday the sun shined and we rode to France for lunch. Really, how decadent is that? We took the valley route north via to the French border town of Hendaye where we enjoyed baguette sandwiches before heading back via Hondarribia and over the infamous Jaizkibel climb of the Clasico San Sebastian. The climb was fantastic with more lush, steep hillsides, roaming horses and cattle, and breathtaking views. I enjoyed stretching my legs, working off the night prior's escapades and stopping often to snap pictures of the views.

--- Playa de la Concha ---

--- remnants of Castillo de Santa Cruz de la Mota, an 800 year-old fortress ---

--- pinxtos in la Parte Vieja ---

--- Paisaje - looking across from San Pedro to San Juan, where we would eat dinner ---

--- the view from near the top of the Jaizkibel climb, looking back towards France ---

--- the top! ---

--- the descent back to San Sebastian ---

Cambridge

2009-10-21T06:00:00Z

Monday, 20 October 2009

Today, Ray gave me a world-wind tour-by-bike of Cambridge, which seems to be the best and most appropriate way to see the city anyway. We parked at Ray’s son’s house and rode along the river into a stiff headwind laced with pellets of rain. Luckily the rain subsided as we got into town. We enjoyed peeking into the courtyards of several colleges (they charge for admission...), touring some of the narrow side streets, and generally taking in the highpoints of the charming town. Ray was generous enough to offer to “guard” the bikes while I took a tour of King's Chapel, which did not disappoint. The practicing organist pierced the austere atmosphere while I wandered around looking up at the soaring windows, vaulted ceiling, and impressive oak organ screen.

History lessons aside, the real highlight of the trip to Cambridge was getting a personal viewing and inside perspective from landscape painter and Ray’s son's partner, Melanie Max. I felt quite honored to hear her thoughts and process on her painting and to be asked to share my impressions as we stood casually in her living room before all four of us headed to dinner at a nearby Algerian restaurant. Check out her work at www.melaniemax.co.uk.

-- Fall colors, punt boats, and the College Magdalene – the last of the Cambridge colleges to admit women in 1988… --

-- punt boats are propelled by pushing a pole against the shallow river bottom --

-- Round Church built in 1130 by the Knights Templar --

-- the vault of King's Chapel rises 80 feet from the floor in the most spectacular display of fan vaulting --

-- Ruben’s The Adoration of the Magi in the altar --

England’s next track stars will be born on the streets of London…

2009-10-20T06:38:00Z

cycling in London various days...

The new Ritchey Cross Breakaway had survived the international flight and an inspection by the TSA just fine, despite my worries otherwise. Having come down with a bad cold the day prior, I was determined to stick with the plan to ride with Shane up to Caron’s in Bounds Green Friday afternoon, stopping along the way to pick out Shane’s new ‘cross bike. As I followed him through the traffic, I must admit I was having a hard time remembering why I had previously enjoyed this type of riding. The diesel exhaust was suffocating and I offended at least several people with my cold-necessitated farmer’s blows.

The bike shop was a pleasant surprise after prior reconnaissance missions had revealed less-than-knowledgeable and unimpassioned staff. Upon entering Two Wheel Good with the Ritchey, a guy wearing a Rabobank jacket strode right up to the bike, quite excited about finally getting to see a Breakaway up close. This is a good sign, I thought. Rabobank and I nattered a bit about bikes and then got right to the task of ordering up Shane’s Trek XO, who was quite pleased to let his “bike broker” do all the talking.

Saturday, I rode back to the flat armed with the most direct route and a map, of course. As inevitable as the diesel exhaust while cycling in London, is the chance of taking the wrong street and needing to stop multiple times to consult said map, with the possibility of feeling quite proud of oneself for “recognizing” the streets, only to realize that said streets are familiar only because one has managed to end up circling back the way one just came… not that I would know anything about this sometimes frustrating experience. But alas, navigational victory would come my way, as I remembered my old to-school route on Monday morning when riding to catch the train to Euston Station to meet up with Ray on the other end.

By Tuesday evening, when I disembarked at Marylebone for the half-hour ride back to the flat, it all came back. It was post-work timing and the streets were busy. I moved up between the cars to the advance stop line at every stop light and tried to keep up with a couple guys on fixed gears. After multiple standing-start sprints, I began to sweat and then smile. England’s next track stars will be born on the streets of London, there is no doubt. The rush of dodging the double-deckers and taxis and motorbikes, all senses keen, is better than a criterium any day. On one stretch of road where there was an actual bike lane, there were so many cyclists cruising along, that it qualified as traffic. I couldn’t believe it. I had noticed a marked increase in the number of cyclists since two years ago, but this was insane! I had to scoot out into the regular lane to keep up with my target. By Bethnal Green road, I decided to say hello to the guy I’d been following and we had a nice chat about how many more people were commuting by bike now. He said he actually leaves a bit earlier for work to avoid the “bike traffic!” If only we’d see this day in an American city…

East End weekend

2009-10-18T06:28:00Z

Sat-Sun, 17-18 October 2009

After a proper lie-in on Saturday and a ride back to the flat from Bounds Green, there wasn’t much of the day left. I finally ate at Story, the groovy pizza place on Dray’s Walk, that I had walked by countless times two years ago, but never ate at. Business has done well, as they had just moved next door into a space twice the size. The simple, charming décor remained the same, though: worn wood communal tables with cardboard stools, white walls, and white candles for a soft light. Although a bit pricey, the food lived up to the atmosphere. The light, airy pizza crust of my chosen dinner was adorned with pumpkin, red peppers, and goat cheese, as well as some other goodies. Delicious!

Sunday was, naturally, market day. I made my rounds of the Columbia Road flower market, down Brick Lane to gander at the hand-me-downs on the street and wander in a few high-end shops, and then on to Spitalfields market. I visited my favorite church, Christ Church by Nicholas Hawksmoor, to check the progress on the organ restoration (still raising funds) and finished the day with dinner at my old standby and favorite vegan restaurant-on-a-bus, the Rootmaster.

--- interior detail of Christ Church, Spitalfields ---

--- maybe the next time I visit, the organ will be restored and in all its glory ---

Royal Exchange, The Monument, and Borough Market

2009-10-16T09:20:00Z

Friday, 16 October 2009

In spite of coming down with a nasty cold and laying low in the East End for all of Thursday, I rallied today for one grand task – a trip to Borough Market, by way of a gander around the Royal Exchange building and a short climb to the top of Christopher Wren’s Monument to the start of the 1666 fire. I even have a certificate to prove that I ascended the 311 steps required to take in a spectacular view. The Monument was under renovation when I was last here, so this was another key thing to tick off the good-tourist’s list.

--- posh shopping and dining inside the Royal Exchange building --- --- murals on the inside of the exterior wall tell the story of London and the building ---

--- The Monument – a memorial and morale booster for rebuilding London after the Great Fire ---

--- 311 stairs to the top… ---

For anyone who appreciates food, Borough Market can only have a deer in the headlights effect. Just like my last visit, I found myself wandering slowly, like a wide-eyed zombie, inventorying each stall’s contents with profound indecisiveness. At least, I didn’t drool, or at least, I don’t think I did… I had to finally give myself an internal slap across the face to focus on the first and most pressing task at hand: lunch. After making a couple loops by the prepared food section, I settled on some cooked-fresh spinach and ricotta ravioli with a simple tomato sauce. I took a seat in the church yard alongside London’s professionals and tourists alike enjoying an informal outdoor meal of exquisite food on a spectacular autumn day while perched adjacent to London’s oldest Gothic building – Southwark Cathedral.

Sufficiently satiated, I re-entered the market for task #2: get comte cheese, some bread, perhaps some salami, and whatever else tickled my culinary fancy. My fancy included a striped aubergine for Shane and a couple peaches to have with breakfast. Naturally, it was then time for dessert of sorts and tea. I stuck up a conversation with the organic tea guy about the fabulous choices and he speculated that there were twenty vendors who are “really at the top of their game,” Upon telling him I had bought comte cheese, he recommended an Italian vendor who made a sort of spreadable salami pate that he said was lovely with melted comte over top. Unfortunately, that vendor was not there (fewer vendors on Fridays) so I had to settle for some Basque salami, which I think I had bought when here before (it’s delicious and I’m a creature of habit and what can I say.) Tea was enjoyed with a pain au chocolate, once again in the churchyard, before walking home through The City and Spitalfields with my goods in tote.

--- lunch by Borough Market and Southwark Cathedral --- --- some of the pickings at Borough Market ---

A beautiful day

2009-10-14T04:33:00Z

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

You always hear about rainy England and foggy London, but today was a day that looked those stereotypes clear in the eye and gave them the proverbial middle finger. To say it was a beautiful day would be trite, but it simply was. You also often hear about the depressingly short days of winter in the far northern latitudes. The upshot of low angled sunlight is a mesmerizing glow, even at midday. I managed to make it to Trafalgar Square in time for a lunch-time free concert at St. Martin-in-the-fields featuring prodigies from a girls’ music school. St. Martin-in-the-fields was under massive renovation when I was last here, so this was a much-need follow-up. It did not disappoint. The clean, white, molded plaster ceiling and columns reflected streaming sunlight and were only interrupted by the dark, rich wood of the galleries. One musician – a girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve – played a violin piece that was nothing short of stunning. It was the kind of thing that causes you to lean forward to confirm that all of that music is really coming from the combination of one instrument and two hands.

--- St. Martin-in-the-field's reflection in the new entrace to the crypt ---

I meandered around the church and the square for a bit, enjoying the sun’s warmth, as did many others. Making my way towards Piccadilly Circus, I found a convenient Japanese market and deli on Regent Street for a quick bite of miso soup and pork gyoza. I was headed for Royal Albert Hall, hoping to squeeze into the final tour of the day, but got there late on account of a required stroll along Hyde Park where the trees still shimmered with autumn leaves. The day winded up with a busker show at Covent Garden and pints at a nearby pub, before Caron and I caught Chicago at the theatre. A well-used day for a jet-lagged traveler, indeed.

--- Royal Albert Hall ---

--- Bethnal Green gets renamed for the upcoming holiday... ---

Moving Forward, Circling Back

2009-10-13T14:00:00Z

Monday, 12 October 2009

Two years felt more like two weeks, as I made my way from airport to tube to cab to the flat, navigating with the comfort of familiarity. As I waited for Shane outside the flat building, school children sprinkled out with hovering and scarved mothers close by. The richly moist morning air and brilliant green grass revived my travel-weary eyes and lungs, if only temporarily. Shane suggested an appropriate first meal at Pelicci’s where I caused some amusement by ordering lunch at what was really breakfast time. Bright mid-morning light and the sounds of week-day life filtered through the yellow curtains as I lay down in the familiar room. The combination of travel, time, and recent insomnia overrode the beckoning brightness as I fell soundly and quickly to sleep.

Upon waking from a much-needed nap, I began my “new” day tending to the immediate needs of travel with a trip down to Oxford Street for mobile phone service and pharmacy. While there, I took a gander down Charing Cross road with the aim to pick up a travel book on Spain. Naturally, I felt obliged to first try Lovejoy’s Books, which is quite small and not much for travel books, but does have a sex shop down stairs. Considering the number of times people have joked about my porn star last name, I found this all too appropriate and wondered if I had missed this grand fact on my prior visit. Returning from Tottencourt Road, I got off at Liverpool Street, strolling down Artillerary Row, through Spitalfields, up Brick Lane, and down Cheshire Street barely suppressing an outward smile. By the time I strolled to the local grocer, the backdrop of Bethnal Green Road had turned to mottled pinks and blues and then glowed gray and orange in the direction from whence I came. It is a beautiful mystery that this place, so different from the clean, crisp airiness of Boulder, Colorado, can feel so right, so engaging, so much like home.

--- Lovejoy's Books (and other sundries...) ---

Travelling Without Moving

2009-03-26T18:15:00Z

Thursday, 26 March 2009

I’m not quite sure who Murphy was of the infamous Murphy’s Law, but I’m not particularly fond of this character right now. As witnessed by the lack of posts on this travel blog (as it has so evolved), I have not been doing much of that activity. In fact, the only time I’ve left Boulder since our East Coast trip of August, was to Moab for a wedding in October and one night in the mountains a month ago. To say that I am antsy to get out of town would be an understatement. So, it was with great pleasure that I have been preparing for our annual spring break mountain biking extravaganza; this year to ride the Kokopelli Trail, a 140 mile route from Fruita,Colorado to Moab, Utah over four days, camping along the way.

It has been a mild, dry winter. February was downright balmy and March has not cracked up to be the wettest month as it is known. There was an impetuous daffodil blooming in the backyard as of this past weekend. It would then be an incident of Murphy’s Law that the day we were set to leave would coincide with the “storm of the season.” I woke to find my car, packed and ready to go looking like this:

After a harrowing trip about a mile and back from my house that included getting stuck on the hill up Broadway (whereby assisting others to also get stuck) requiring multiple sessions of scraping slushy snowpack from in front of my tires and then engaging the assistance of some young men to push my car (and all the others that were stuck); followed by a slippy-slide trip down 9th street, back through town to Broadway (I did actually see a snow plough) and a running start into the driveway, I am back where I started. My utterly useless car is now where it belongs – in the garage – still packed with mountain bike, camping gear, cooler, etc. All told, I believe that equates to a net loss in the progress of my much-needed vacating motion.

I will be partaking of the time old tradition of shoveling… if I remember how to do that since it is a skill I have used minimally this season. If nothing else, there appears to be plenty of amusement sitting by the big front window watching the cars go by. I waved to one vehicle that did a graceful sideways slide down the center of the road at an opportune traffic-free moment, ending with a quarter-spin and facing our house. I’m sure she appreciated the friendly gesture before she unceremoniously headed in the opposite direction from whence she came.

Of course it is still spring and the temperature is barely freezing, so the snow is not the usual light, airy affair Colorado is known for, but is of the heavy variety – back-breaking for shoveling, great for snowmen-making. It is coming down in a sort of pins and needles formation and there appears to be wind adding to the equation. Wind means the promotion to “blizzard” status and the forecast calls for 16-24 inches by morning (nevermind that there looks to be 16-18 inches already accumulated on the lids of the garbage bins). Luckily I’ve been reading Into the Woods by Bill Bryson, as the only travelling I’ll be doing today is of the armchair variety...

As for Murphy, according to Wikipedia and other easily-found internet sources, Murphy was an engineer who, while working on an Air Force project in the early 1950’s, complained about a technician that if there was any way to screw up, this guy would find it. Hence, the age-old concept of what can go wrong, will go wrong, was given an official name when referred to at a subsequent press conference by a fellow-engineer who, ironically, attributed their success to Murphy’s Law (because everything that could go wrong was taken into account).

There are certain folks on the other side of the pond who will tell you that this rule was known to them much previously as Sod’s Law (because they did do everything first, don’t you know.) For those of you unversed in British slang, this would be a reference that anything bad that can happen, will happen to the poor sod who least needed something bad to happen. The same concept has also been known to be referred to as Reilly’s Law and Finagle’s Law, which seems to suggest a certain Irish tendency, but I’ll leave any commentary on that to someone else.

more of NY and Long Island Sound

2008-08-05T03:42:00Z

Monday, 4 August 2008

After such an ambitious tour the day prior, I was a bit slow going and not quite as motivated to cover as much ground. We sauntered down Canal Street, browsing all the cheap knock-offs and walked through SoHo and back to the Village for one more satisfying meal at Tea and Sympathy.

--- tea and scones at Tea and Sympathy in the Village ---

Our last major sight would be the magnificent and iconic Chrysler Building, an appropriate cap to our whirlwind tour of the Big Apple.

--- the one and only ---

--- elevator door detail ---

Hopping a late afternoon train, we got to Norwalk, CT just in time for an evening sail on Long Island Sound with my cousins, Owen and Cheryl, who managed to arrange for a perfect sunset as our backdrop. South Norwalk continues to see upscale improvements, with the latest addition a decadent and sumptuous bakery in a refurbished brick warehouse building along Water Street simply called SoNo Bakery. I highly recommend. We lucked out with another perfect day and so squeezed in another sail with Owen, this time out to Peck’s Ledge via Bett’s Island Bay for a nice swim. No trip to Norwalk would be right without a serving of oyster’s on the half-shell, which we enjoyed over dinner with an old college friend before turning our rental car inland. The remainder of our trip was spent visiting with the family at my parents home in Portland, CT, with the California and Massachusetts factions of the family converging for meals, bocci ball, and kayaking on Lake Pocotopaug before we had to head back to Colorado.

--- Sheffield Lighthouse at dusk ---

--- Ira gets a sailing lesson from Owen ---

--- sunset over the Connecticut coast ---

--- we didn't have time to get to the Statute of Liberty, so Ira filled in ---

New York, New York

2008-08-04T03:29:00Z

3 August 2008

After some much-needed sleep, we appropriately fueled up on bagels before strolling through Central Park towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thus fulfilling Ira’s goal to have visited the National Gallery, the Louvre, and the Met within the same year. Somehow I never managed to go to the Met despite its proximity to my childhood home, which is shameful to admit. We spent several hours there and seemed to cover only a fraction of the possibilities, including the voluminous collection of impressionists, a walk through the modern wing to ogle at Warhol’s Mao and Jackie O, and a quick peak at the Turner exhibit which included the large painting I missed seeing at the Royal Academy because of its touring!

--- the Great Lawn in Central Park ---

--- the Metropolitan Museum of Art ---

--- Peg Leg the Pigeon II ---

Back out into the beautiful day, we grabbed a hot dog and soda and oddly came upon another peg-legged pigeon. By way of recollection, we had photographed a previous peg-legged pigeon while eating lunch outside the steps of St. Paul’s in London, so it was quite coincidental that we might see another – or the same? – while eating lunch by the steps of the Met.

Downtown, we walked from City Hall, by the mayor’s house over to the World Trade Center, which was crawling with tourists not quite sure what they were supposed to be looking at. Construction has begun and the whole Ground Zero area is cordoned off with fencing covered with tarp, making it almost impossible to satisfy one’s curiosity of what is going on down in that vast hole. And vast indeed; when we did find a gap in the fencing, the scale of size is revealed when one realizes that full-sized cranes look like Tonka toys milling about. Unlicensed street vendors were rife in the area, hocking their fake Prada and Gucci bags. At Ira’s urging I bargained down for a small purse, which afforded us the humor of seeing an angry woman return to the seller, carrying several bags and exclaim, “these aren’t real, they’re made in China. Give me some of my money back!” I had to wonder if she really believed it was less indignant for her to think she was buying hot designer purses…

Nearby, St. Paul’s Chapel miraculously survived the 9/11 attacks and served as a place of respite for the firefighters during the rescue efforts. An homage to the stump of an old sycamore tree that sacrificed itself for the sake of the 200 year old church and the symbolic gift of a large bell from the United Kingdom (made in the White Chapel Bell Foundry, of course) adorned the chapel grounds. Inside were sobering tributes to the firefighters and the people who perished in the attack and a tear-jerking account of how the chapel served the neighborhood during this most difficult time.

We then hopped a bus to Greenwich Village for a proper New York dinner at John’s Pizza and a bit of a rest before tackling the Empire State Building, another major New York attraction that I managed to avoid as a kid. We waited in multiple endless lines, during which time we were hounded by various salespersons. I felt a bit embarrassed and disgusted by the commercialism of it all (not to mention the ridiculous prices), but was also determined to be at the top for sunset just one time in my life. Check.

--- Empire State Building, sans King Kong ---

--- the observation deck was packed... ---

--- ...but the view was worth it ---

Ira insisted on a piece of key lime pie at one of the many 24-hour diners before retiring. We enjoyed a sidewalk seat on a mild night and some friendly banter with the not-busy-enough waiter, who then took our friendliness as an invitation to rant about all the things wrong with the City he had called home his entire life. The more he talked, the more his anger surfaced, as we smiled politely and nodded, trying to figure out how to end the conversation and get out of there!

Returning… in more ways than one

2008-08-03T02:47:00Z

2 August 2008

Riding along Route 36 in the waning hours of the day, I realized that winter and spring had given way to the dog-days of summer. While I focused on memorizing inane legal rules for the bar exam, the foothills had bleached from the hopeful pale green of spring to the burnt ochre of August. It was now just over seven months since returning from London, but in many ways I still felt as though I had just gotten back. Those seven months were filled with stress and very little of the exploration, travel or self-reflection that the fall had provided. There remained friends I had barely seen since returning and many tasks left undone.

August would mark a full year since the day when Ira drove me, a bit tearful, to the airport for a flight to the largely unknown. But I had been put into good hands and would be greeted on the other side of the US and the Atlantic Ocean by the incredible hospitality and warmth of my new English and Irish friends. At that point I only knew that what would follow would be an adventure, both physical, intellectual, and emotional, which would have a lasting impact on my life.

It was only appropriate that a year later, Ira and I would resurrect our newfound enthusiasm for exploration and be East Coast bound for a week-long vacation, beginning with a few days in New York City. Although I had grown up 40 miles outside The City, it had been a long time since we’d been acquainted and I realized I never knew her that well to begin with - only heading into the city as a teenager for concerts and trips to the Museum of Modern Art and not bothering with the major tourist attractions. So, I was excited to apply the curiosity and ambitious agenda-setting that I had engaged in abroad. It also quickly came to my realization that London was now my standard to which all other cities would be judged. And so Ira and I would spend a bit of time comparing the two trans-Atlantic global villages while strolling through the various New York neighborhoods and trying to pack in as much as two and a half days could hold in the glorious late summer weather.

We arrived in LaGuardia in the early evening and took a bus directly to the Upper West side to check into our hotel, freshen up, and drop off our bags. Now, finding a remotely affordable hotel in New York is a saga in and of itself, especially when one is booking a mere forty-eight hours in advance. We were thus pleasantly surprised to find our room clean, bright, and even equipped with air conditioning. The lack of an elevator was a small concession to make and I dare say we would even stay there again. We began our evening stroll with a walk over to the Dakota Building to pay homage to where John Lennon was shot (it appears that some kind of Beatle recognition may have become a theme in our travels since walking the zebra stripes on Abbey Road) and generally wondered what it would be like to live in such a grand building. We then hopped a bus down to Times Square to experience the hustle and bustle and the flashing lights as dusk began to fall. Onto to Greenwich Village where we covered Bleeker Street and Greenwich Street before retiring to a wee spot called Tea and Sympathy, complete with its own tea blend, posters with Cockney slang sayings, and run by ex-pat Brits who had adopted American style service. I ribbed Ira a bit; something about how we’d come all the way to New York to go to an English café, but this was before tasting the Shephard’s pie, which was the perfect comfort after a long day of traveling. Weary and ready for bed, we caught the wrong subway uptown and ended up waiting on a platform in Harlem for quite sometime before getting a train back down to our hotel, all of which was far less exciting than it might sound, I’m happy to report.

Fruita Spring Break 2008

2008-03-22T22:34:00Z

22-24 March 2008

Nine of us headed for the desert for our annual spring break weekend mountain biking retreat. For several years prior, we have camped and ridden the White Rim trail in Canyonlands National Park near Moab, Utah. This year, for a change we traded tents for the Super 8 Motel and the isolation of the desert for the small town of Fruita, Colorado. Now, for those readers who are non-Coloradoans, you need to know that Moab and Fruita have a bit of a rivalry over which is the grander mountain biking hotspot. Knobby-tired folks will have long debates over which locale they like better and why they are right about this opinion. I’ll just settle the score right here by telling you that a weekend of riding in either place will not disappoint.

Fruita is located on the Western Slope of Colorado in the Grand Valley of the Colorado River. Colorado National Monument National Park stands just outside of town, on the edge of the Uncompahgre Uplift, offering scenic views of vertical walls, sedimentary rock sculpted by years of erosion, the valley below, and the Bookcliffs in the distance. A four hour drive (for those of us with lead feet) from Boulder, the temperature is not so much warmer, but less snowfall and drier terrain means rideable trails in March while our Sugarloaf Mountain singletrack is still subsumed in snow.

In true Boulder-slacker style, seven of the nine of us managed to play hooky from work on Friday, all arriving in Fruita by early afternoon. Ira and I had brought our road bikes to check out the Monument, while the others got a teaser of dirt. The whole gang convened in the evening at the Hot Tomato. Jen and her crew treated us well for some proper carbo-loading of pizza and pints, as well as some tips for Saturday’s route.

--- heading up into Colorado National Monument ---

--- Independence Monument ---

Saturday morning we headed out to ride Zion Curtain, an alleged 20 mile loop that skirts the Colorado-Utah border (or as the guidebook calls it, the border between the “free world” and the “not so free world”). After a short diversion at an over-sized anthill, we hit the main trail and climbed the sweet singletrack to the overlook (mandatory group picture was taken here.) We were just about back on the dirt road that would shortly bring us back to the trailhead, when a wrong turn was involved in the ride, leading to some extra (unnecessary) climbing. It still remains unclear who exactly is responsible for this “bonus,” but one thing is for certain; my out-of-shape hind-quarters were not happy about this “diversion.” We all retired to our rooms for post-ride naps and reconvened for a proper Mexican meal at a local restaurant.

--- heading out ---

--- the oversized anthill ---

--- Zion Curtain overlook ---

Sunday, the vehicles were all loaded up and we headed out to the 18 Road riding area. This was a great choice after our unintentionally epic ride on Saturday, as there are plenty of trails, all looping back to the parking lot, for as little or as much riding as one fancies. After some fun on Joe's Ridge and Kessel Run, we all headed back to Boulder and reality... well, sort of.

--- staying on top of Joe's Ridge ---