After two great months in Canada my summer has sadly come to an end. Here’s a quick wrap-up of our holiday.
The month of June always kicks off the social season in London: between Wimbledon, Ascot, Henley and Cartier Polo there was barely time to touch up manicures between parties. But with the torrential rains this past June most women threw fashion to the wind, swapping stilettos for Wellies and ‘My Fair Lady’ hats for Hefty garbage bags. Thankfully, The Wetherby Hillbillies didn’t partake in all the festivities, but our summer definitely started off with a vr-vr-vroom at Goodwood, The Festival of Speed, which takes place each year at the Earl of March’s massive country estate in Sussex. Most people come to Goodwood to watch the Formula One racing, bid on vintage cars at the auction or hike up to the forest (at least two miles straight up) where the infamous rally car race is held. But not us! While our guests, Chris and Carla* from Calgary, sipped champagne in the hospitality tent and watched the Formula One cars speed around the track, I donned a nifty blue crash suit, a helmet and fire-proof boots. I was invited to race with Stig Blumquest, a legendary rally car driver and a world-record holder many times over. I had no idea how famous this guy was until hordes of his fans approached our souped-up Audi and shoved festival programs through the window for him to sign. I sat in the passenger seat and enjoyed the spectacle while flash bulbs popped around us. When we got our 3 minute warning we inched up to the starting line and revved up the engine. The race official displayed large white cards that read 30 seconds, 20, 10 and five. He counted off the final five seconds on his hands and with a swipe of a white flag we were off. The race around the muddy track through the forest was INSANE. Even though I was strapped in like an astronaut ready to shoot to the moon I still bounced around like crazy. Since it was a hot day I left the window cracked—something I wouldn’t do again. By the end of the race my face was covered in grime and I could feel grit in my teeth. At the final turn Stig took a jump. We were airborne for a few seconds, and during those very long two seconds we ended up sideways. We landed with a crush and headed straight for a dirt bank. Stig turned sharply and we recovered, but ended up on two wheels. I for sure thought that we were going to roll, but somehow he managed to bring the car back down on all fours. After we bounced around a few more times we sped to the finish line and when the black-and-white checked flag came down it was all over in less than five minutes. I later found out this was one of Stig’s slowest times. He was going easy on me….
That night, after a traffic-clogged three-hour drive back to London, we rallied and went dancing at Annabel’s. With Chris and Carla in from Calgary, we wanted to show them a good time. This husband and wife are one of the most dynamic couples I’ve ever met. He’s mad about polo, cars and sailing. In fact two of Carla’s “pre-marital requisites” were that she learned to play polo and sail around the world with him. Carla embraced polo with a vengeance. I’ve seen her play and not only does she look great on a horse, she’s fierce with a mallet. They have their own polo club at one of their ranches, where they enjoy family matches as well as competing against other clubs. When they travel for polo they bring along their 12 horses (6 for each) and a groom. And I stress about lost luggage! Before they married, Carla embarked on that decisive around-the-world sailing trip and nearly made it until they reached the northern coast of California. By this time she was frozen to the bone, so she bailed. She checked into The Fairmont on Nob Hill and sank into a hot bubble bath for the next 6 hours. Even though she fell short of circumnavigating the globe in a sail boat, she and Chris married. Chris is the type of guy who knows what he wants and when he saw gorgeous, blue-eyed-blonde Carla it was all over. Now they have two adorable children and split their time between an Architectural Digest ranch just outside Calgary, an island estate which consists of two homes (a sunset and sunrise house) on a private island off of Vancouver, and waterfront property in Sydney, Australia. As I mentioned Chris loves his cars and used to race professionally (of course). He also collects antique automobiles. When he and Carla first dated she accidentally rolled his 1928 Model A. Since this was still in the early stage of their relationship Carla told me that in his eyes she could do no wrong. Now she says that he would probably banish her to sleep in the garage, which by the way, is a 6000 square foot structure with a luxurious ‘polo viewing’ space on the second floor. Their polo pitch is adjacent to this building, which also houses the ponies. Chris’s daughters, all older than Carla, are also avid polo players. They’ve even imported a few Argentinean players to live with them. Nice…
I had the opportunity to meet one of these handsome players at the house-warming and birthday party Carla threw for Chris. Their new home is spectacular. The site offers stunning views of the foot hills and Rocky Mountains. Just like a picture, the green rolling hills morphed into the Rockies with each mountain range fading into the distance. Carla arranged for one of Chris’s high-school friends, singer/songwriter Bruce Innes to perform along with blues singer Jilla Web. These may not be household names but their performance, along with the magnificent setting, moved me to tears. I’ve been to several private concerts where corporations or wealthy individuals have paid big bucks for pop stars, and let me tell you they didn’t even come close to these guys. Bruce’s mellifluous voice warmed us like a cashmere blanket (which we desperately needed as the wind whipped across the hills) while Jilla belted out the blues over to the next mountain range. The party was catered by one of their friends who owns The River Café, one of the best restaurants in town, so the food was fantastic too. I didn’t have a chance to ride with Carla the next morning, which may have been a good thing because I’m sure she would’ve left me in the dust. Plus I was running late. Luckily Chris’s 17 year-old granddaughter sped me to the airport where I made my flight by 30 seconds.
After my whirlwind weekend, I got back to Salt Spring and crashed on the couch. I always feel guilty about channel surfing, but I was too beat to do anything else. While flipping through the various news channels I saw this luscious Latin-looking guy being interviewed on Entertainment Tonight. Glued to the TV, I listened. The anchors talked about how he was a mega star in Italy, drawing in 10 million viewers a night. The actor, speaking with an American accent, said that the nightly program he starred in raised his profile dramatically in Italy, but now he was set to come back to the states. They went on to talk about his next movie with Ben Kingsley and Penelope Cruz. I was now sitting upright, waiting to hear the guy’s name. He’d make the perfect Franco! Finally at the end of the interview, they said his name. I rushed to my computer and Googled him. Of course his phone number and email weren’t listed so I continued surfing the net, hoping to track down the name of his agent. No luck there either. Finally I tried Facebook, and sure enough, he was on it. I thought “what the hell” and sent him a message. Shockingly I got one back. He said that he was interested in hearing more about my book and the part of Franco. He gave me his mobile number in Italy where he was doing some renovation work on his home. I called him the next day and we talked. From all the commotion in the background I think he held his phone in one hand and a hammer in the other. He couldn’t have been nicer and told me that he had a chance to read my material and would like to take this a step further. I cautiously asked him if he’d consider doing a made-for-tv movie. I was worried that since he starred in a film with Ben Kingsley and Penelope Cruz he may have set his sights on the big screen and the big screen only.
“Are you kidding?” he said. “I love those movies. I was just in a Lifetime movie last night.” I breathed a sigh of relief. After we chatted for a few more minutes, he told me to call his agent in Vancouver. This man was also super nice, which I’ve come to discover is an anomaly in the movie biz. He was excited about the project and told me that he and his company have an excellent relationship with Lifetime. Send me the book, he said. After a week or so, he emailed me back saying that he agreed—his client would be perfect for the role of Franco, and The Italian Connection would make a great Lifetime movie.
So now it’s up to us to make it happen. I’ll keep you all posted and will reveal the actor’s name as soon as things firm up. But in the meantime, ladies, you need to trust me. He’s smokin’!
Hope you all had a great summer!
* names changed to protect privacy
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Hollywood Here I Come!
Last week, while vacationing at our home on Salt Spring Island, I was invited to the premier of The Bourne Ultimatum in Los Angeles. A friend of mine, we’ll call him PC, is one of the producers and one of my husband’s oldest and best friends. I got to know PC quite well when he was filming parts of the movie in London. I’ll talk more about the movie later, but in a nutshell it was fantastic. Action, action, action!
Sitting in front of me on the plane to LA was Spike Lee. He wore a baseball cap and a bright yellow jacket with ‘Brazil’ written on the back of it. After a few minutes, Dr Dean Ornish, well-known for writing several books about how diet can reverse heart disease got up from his seat, approached Spike and sat down next to him. He introduced himself and offered his card. Why this conservatively dressed, middle-aged doctor would be chatting up Mister Lee, the King of Hip was beyond me. Maybe he was pitching a sequel to Boyz in the Hood, where a balding Jewish doctor saves the rappers and homies from death by cardiac arrest. After all, anything can happen in Hollywood.
The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills arranged a car to whisk me to the premier, although I barely moved in grid-lock traffic. Luckily I got there in time to see the last of the stars being interviewed on the red carpet. Ben Affleck, as attractive as a GQ model, was there to support his friend Matt Damon who looked the anti-thesis of Jason Bourne in a sharp grey suit and black striped tie. And by the way, he looks much better in person than he does on screen. I walked into the theater directly behind Julia Stiles who looked lovely in a floor length, white cotton dress. She probably felt wonderfully girlie in her summer frock after getting down and dirty filming her tense chase scenes through the streets of Tangiers. PC had kindly given Julia my book, The Italian Connection, to read. She’d make a great Christina! I introduced myself to her as she walked into the theater. She was a bit taken off guard, but when she put the face with the name of the author she smiled and said that she'd received the book, and then apologized for not having had the time to read it. She was very gracious and polite. The woman she was with interrupted us (in true Hollywood fashion) and then ushered Julia into the theater.
Joan Allen, who plays a CIA internal investigation agent, glided like a swan along the red carpet. It looked like a starvation diet combined with rigorous Pilates sessions had given her the sculpted body that she proudly showed off in a strapless black and silver dress. I thought she looked great, but I overheard a man next to me say that someone should force-feed her a plate of pasta. Others that I got a glimpse of were Jennifer Garner (all smiles and dimples), Ellen Pompeo and Joely Richardson. I only saw one ghastly plastic surgery nightmare: a woman who looked like a plumped-up Barbie doll with huge fake boobs, swollen lips and a shiny face. She preened for the paparazzi like she was an A-lister but I knew better.
There were several people in the crowd that looked familiar but I couldn’t place where I had seen them. One man in particular seemed to be getting a lot of attention. He was cute in a messy-blond-hair-and-blue-eyes kind of way. I racked my brain, but his name still didn’t come to me. Was he a break-out reality TV star? A supporting cast member of some Emmy winning show I had no idea about? Your guess is as good as mine. He continued to sign autographs and be interviewed by television reporters, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who he was. Half-way through the movie, it came to me: Larry Birkhead, the father of Anna-Nicole Smith’s baby girl. I found it strange that a crowd of people would want his autograph, but was absolutely shocked when a young girl about 11 wanted mine! I was flattered but felt bad that I had to tell her I wasn’t anyone famous. “That’s okay,” she said as she smiled and handed me her notebook filled with illegible signatures. I felt foolish actually signing my name, but the girl was on a mission to get signatures and I didn’t want to disappoint.
The movie played on several screens in different theaters at the ArcLight Cinema in Hollywood at Sunset and Vine. It flew by with one action-packed scene after another including a fight scene in a grungy bathroom in Tangiers that went on for five minutes before Bourne killed off the assassin (“asset” in CIA parlance) played by Joey Ansah, a hot English actor of West African descent. Shame to see him go as it would’ve been great to see him again in a sequel. I also learned that he performed his own stunts. Unbelievable! Stunts were a huge part of the movie, and when the credits came on at the end of the movie about 20 names of the actual cast members were listed and then the names of the stunt people rolled on for what seemed like five minutes.
I honestly have no idea how PC and his crew managed to film all those chase scenes in major metropolitan cities. PC told me that they literally had to close down the streets. Not an easy feat in Manhattan, Madrid, Moscow, Tangiers and Paris. In fact the police car that the Jason Bourne character had stolen and then drove like a madman through the streets of Manhattan (and ultimately ended up demolishing) was featured like a piece of art in the foyer of the Palladium at the after-party.
After spending so much time with PC and having dinner with him when he was dead tired—usually having just flown back from New York or Morocco or wherever (and sometimes he was out of the country for only 18 hours to re-shoot a scene), I really felt for the guy. But after seeing the movie it was clear that all his hard work had paid off. It truly was a full-throttle, pedal to the metal ride.
While PC was filming in London, he asked Lindsay and her 8 year-old friend if they’d like to be an extra in the movie. Of course we were thrilled and even took her out of school for the day. My husband and I escorted Lindsay to Waterloo Station and waited and waited and waited for 6 hours until they said Lindsay was up. She and her girlfriend put on their navy blue school coats, donned their straw boater hats with thick blue ribbons (picture Madeline) and walked over to the escalators where they were instructed to hold hands and stand while the stairs descended to the main floor where absolute mayhem was taking place. Bourne was running for his life, trying to avoid getting taken out by another assassin. At this same time, my husband was walking around the station talking on his cell phone (surprise surprise). He was captured on film (five times!) but adorable Lindsay and her friend were cut. That’s Hollywood for you.
The after-party at the Palladium was a zoo, at least 1000 people. I sat at PC’s table and chit-chatted with his other guests about their various movie projects. Seems like everyone’s in the biz. Matt Damon, his family and entourage were surrounded by security so I didn’t have a chance to speak with him, but I did have the opportunity to meet him in London. He’s very friendly, humble and has a wicked sense of humor. When I returned to the Four Seasons after the party, I switched on the TV which happened to be tuned to Jay Leno interviewing Matt. Obviously, it wasn’t live as he was still partying at the Palladium. I enjoyed watching the interview, which reinforced Matt’s charm and self-deprecating sense of humor.
The following morning I awoke to the bright LA sun blasting into my room—WAY TOO EARLY! Unable to fall back asleep I decided to go out for a walk. I asked the concierge where to go, and he looked at me like I was crazy. “No one walks in LA,” he said, “But there’s a great gym on the 4th floor.” Since I’m more of a fresh-air girl, I asked him to show me on a map where all the huge mansions were. I was hoping to peak into the homes of the stars. He pointed to an area above Sunset and highlighted the best way to get there. After passing a car dealership that rented Ferraris and Cadillac Escalades, I ended up in a more modest neighborhood called the flats of Beverly Hills, which consisted of lovely homes, manicured lawns and tree-lined streets. The place was as dead as a cemetery. The only action I saw were a handful of gardeners blowing around some leaves, a personal trainer unloading an exercise ball, a mat and some small weights from his SUV, and a yoga teacher who emerged from her hybrid Honda with a personalized license plate that read YOGA4U. By now it was only 9am but the sun was blistering. Too hot for me, so I aborted my plan of hiking up to the mansions. As I stood at the top of Hillcrest (one of the several palm-lined streets that you see in TV shows and movies) I heard some yelling and honking and then saw a man in a convertible Mini Cooper flipping off a guy in a blacked-out black Bronco. Bad move. The guy in the Bronco honked back and forced the Mini Cooper to the side of the road. This quiet neighborhood had finally come to life but I wasn’t sticking around to see what happened. Californians (especially those in LA) are known to carry guns like mothers of newborns carry diapers.
When I returned to the Four Seasons I ate my breakfast on the outside patio, only to have a guy next to me light up a cigarette. I couldn’t believe it! Here I was in Beverly Hills where your body is your temple and I’m sitting next to a guy smoking. After a bit of writing and a quick shower I grabbed a cab to LAX. By now it was stifling hot and very humid. The driver asked me if I’d like air conditioning—for $2 extra. I had never heard of this surcharge before, but I guess with gas prices through the roof this stuff happens. I said “sure”, but after five minutes of suffocating, I told him I’d like to cancel my air con upgrade and open the windows. Not sure which was worse. By the time I got to the airport I could taste the metallic exhaust fumes.
Even though I had a great time at the premier, I could hardly wait to get out of there. In fact I barely lasted 24 hours. The combination of skin-searing sun, traffic, pollution and all the posers was more than this Island Girl* could handle.
*For those of you who have spent time with us in Canada you'll recognize Island Girl as the name of our De Havilland Beaver.
Sitting in front of me on the plane to LA was Spike Lee. He wore a baseball cap and a bright yellow jacket with ‘Brazil’ written on the back of it. After a few minutes, Dr Dean Ornish, well-known for writing several books about how diet can reverse heart disease got up from his seat, approached Spike and sat down next to him. He introduced himself and offered his card. Why this conservatively dressed, middle-aged doctor would be chatting up Mister Lee, the King of Hip was beyond me. Maybe he was pitching a sequel to Boyz in the Hood, where a balding Jewish doctor saves the rappers and homies from death by cardiac arrest. After all, anything can happen in Hollywood.
The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills arranged a car to whisk me to the premier, although I barely moved in grid-lock traffic. Luckily I got there in time to see the last of the stars being interviewed on the red carpet. Ben Affleck, as attractive as a GQ model, was there to support his friend Matt Damon who looked the anti-thesis of Jason Bourne in a sharp grey suit and black striped tie. And by the way, he looks much better in person than he does on screen. I walked into the theater directly behind Julia Stiles who looked lovely in a floor length, white cotton dress. She probably felt wonderfully girlie in her summer frock after getting down and dirty filming her tense chase scenes through the streets of Tangiers. PC had kindly given Julia my book, The Italian Connection, to read. She’d make a great Christina! I introduced myself to her as she walked into the theater. She was a bit taken off guard, but when she put the face with the name of the author she smiled and said that she'd received the book, and then apologized for not having had the time to read it. She was very gracious and polite. The woman she was with interrupted us (in true Hollywood fashion) and then ushered Julia into the theater.
Joan Allen, who plays a CIA internal investigation agent, glided like a swan along the red carpet. It looked like a starvation diet combined with rigorous Pilates sessions had given her the sculpted body that she proudly showed off in a strapless black and silver dress. I thought she looked great, but I overheard a man next to me say that someone should force-feed her a plate of pasta. Others that I got a glimpse of were Jennifer Garner (all smiles and dimples), Ellen Pompeo and Joely Richardson. I only saw one ghastly plastic surgery nightmare: a woman who looked like a plumped-up Barbie doll with huge fake boobs, swollen lips and a shiny face. She preened for the paparazzi like she was an A-lister but I knew better.
There were several people in the crowd that looked familiar but I couldn’t place where I had seen them. One man in particular seemed to be getting a lot of attention. He was cute in a messy-blond-hair-and-blue-eyes kind of way. I racked my brain, but his name still didn’t come to me. Was he a break-out reality TV star? A supporting cast member of some Emmy winning show I had no idea about? Your guess is as good as mine. He continued to sign autographs and be interviewed by television reporters, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who he was. Half-way through the movie, it came to me: Larry Birkhead, the father of Anna-Nicole Smith’s baby girl. I found it strange that a crowd of people would want his autograph, but was absolutely shocked when a young girl about 11 wanted mine! I was flattered but felt bad that I had to tell her I wasn’t anyone famous. “That’s okay,” she said as she smiled and handed me her notebook filled with illegible signatures. I felt foolish actually signing my name, but the girl was on a mission to get signatures and I didn’t want to disappoint.
The movie played on several screens in different theaters at the ArcLight Cinema in Hollywood at Sunset and Vine. It flew by with one action-packed scene after another including a fight scene in a grungy bathroom in Tangiers that went on for five minutes before Bourne killed off the assassin (“asset” in CIA parlance) played by Joey Ansah, a hot English actor of West African descent. Shame to see him go as it would’ve been great to see him again in a sequel. I also learned that he performed his own stunts. Unbelievable! Stunts were a huge part of the movie, and when the credits came on at the end of the movie about 20 names of the actual cast members were listed and then the names of the stunt people rolled on for what seemed like five minutes.
I honestly have no idea how PC and his crew managed to film all those chase scenes in major metropolitan cities. PC told me that they literally had to close down the streets. Not an easy feat in Manhattan, Madrid, Moscow, Tangiers and Paris. In fact the police car that the Jason Bourne character had stolen and then drove like a madman through the streets of Manhattan (and ultimately ended up demolishing) was featured like a piece of art in the foyer of the Palladium at the after-party.
After spending so much time with PC and having dinner with him when he was dead tired—usually having just flown back from New York or Morocco or wherever (and sometimes he was out of the country for only 18 hours to re-shoot a scene), I really felt for the guy. But after seeing the movie it was clear that all his hard work had paid off. It truly was a full-throttle, pedal to the metal ride.
While PC was filming in London, he asked Lindsay and her 8 year-old friend if they’d like to be an extra in the movie. Of course we were thrilled and even took her out of school for the day. My husband and I escorted Lindsay to Waterloo Station and waited and waited and waited for 6 hours until they said Lindsay was up. She and her girlfriend put on their navy blue school coats, donned their straw boater hats with thick blue ribbons (picture Madeline) and walked over to the escalators where they were instructed to hold hands and stand while the stairs descended to the main floor where absolute mayhem was taking place. Bourne was running for his life, trying to avoid getting taken out by another assassin. At this same time, my husband was walking around the station talking on his cell phone (surprise surprise). He was captured on film (five times!) but adorable Lindsay and her friend were cut. That’s Hollywood for you.
The after-party at the Palladium was a zoo, at least 1000 people. I sat at PC’s table and chit-chatted with his other guests about their various movie projects. Seems like everyone’s in the biz. Matt Damon, his family and entourage were surrounded by security so I didn’t have a chance to speak with him, but I did have the opportunity to meet him in London. He’s very friendly, humble and has a wicked sense of humor. When I returned to the Four Seasons after the party, I switched on the TV which happened to be tuned to Jay Leno interviewing Matt. Obviously, it wasn’t live as he was still partying at the Palladium. I enjoyed watching the interview, which reinforced Matt’s charm and self-deprecating sense of humor.
The following morning I awoke to the bright LA sun blasting into my room—WAY TOO EARLY! Unable to fall back asleep I decided to go out for a walk. I asked the concierge where to go, and he looked at me like I was crazy. “No one walks in LA,” he said, “But there’s a great gym on the 4th floor.” Since I’m more of a fresh-air girl, I asked him to show me on a map where all the huge mansions were. I was hoping to peak into the homes of the stars. He pointed to an area above Sunset and highlighted the best way to get there. After passing a car dealership that rented Ferraris and Cadillac Escalades, I ended up in a more modest neighborhood called the flats of Beverly Hills, which consisted of lovely homes, manicured lawns and tree-lined streets. The place was as dead as a cemetery. The only action I saw were a handful of gardeners blowing around some leaves, a personal trainer unloading an exercise ball, a mat and some small weights from his SUV, and a yoga teacher who emerged from her hybrid Honda with a personalized license plate that read YOGA4U. By now it was only 9am but the sun was blistering. Too hot for me, so I aborted my plan of hiking up to the mansions. As I stood at the top of Hillcrest (one of the several palm-lined streets that you see in TV shows and movies) I heard some yelling and honking and then saw a man in a convertible Mini Cooper flipping off a guy in a blacked-out black Bronco. Bad move. The guy in the Bronco honked back and forced the Mini Cooper to the side of the road. This quiet neighborhood had finally come to life but I wasn’t sticking around to see what happened. Californians (especially those in LA) are known to carry guns like mothers of newborns carry diapers.
When I returned to the Four Seasons I ate my breakfast on the outside patio, only to have a guy next to me light up a cigarette. I couldn’t believe it! Here I was in Beverly Hills where your body is your temple and I’m sitting next to a guy smoking. After a bit of writing and a quick shower I grabbed a cab to LAX. By now it was stifling hot and very humid. The driver asked me if I’d like air conditioning—for $2 extra. I had never heard of this surcharge before, but I guess with gas prices through the roof this stuff happens. I said “sure”, but after five minutes of suffocating, I told him I’d like to cancel my air con upgrade and open the windows. Not sure which was worse. By the time I got to the airport I could taste the metallic exhaust fumes.
Even though I had a great time at the premier, I could hardly wait to get out of there. In fact I barely lasted 24 hours. The combination of skin-searing sun, traffic, pollution and all the posers was more than this Island Girl* could handle.
*For those of you who have spent time with us in Canada you'll recognize Island Girl as the name of our De Havilland Beaver.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Bordeaux or Bust
February 2007
The Wetherby Hillbillies and two friends from Washington DC flew British Airways down to Nice to meet some friends who live in Monaco. We had dinner with them at the two Michelin-star restaurant, Oasis, near to their home in Theole-sur-Mer. If you’d like to read about this stunning part of the world, as well as more about Oasis, please refer to my posting “Tale of Two Cities.”
After spending a night at our friend’s gorgeous villa, we all piled into a super-fast Lear 45 and flew to Bordeaux. Craig, our friend from Washington DC, provided non-stop entertainment. He boarded the plane carrying a French guide book, wearing a beret on his head and a silver, Burgundian tasse a vin, or “tastevin”, as it’s more commonly called, around his neck. On each of the comfy 8 leather seats, an itinerary of our week was printed in the style of a fancy wedding invitation. I saw that we would be given a private tour of several Premier Grand Cru chateaux, as well as Chateau d’Yquem, famous for its sweet Sauterne.
Craig, after asking Grover several times, “Daddy, are we almost there?” started singing car songs: “One hundred bottles d’Yquem on the wall, one hundred bottles d’Yquem. Take one down, pass it around ninety-nine bottles d’Yquem on the wall.” We finally shut him up by popping a bottle of Dom and passing it around.
We landed at the Bordeaux airport (not too tipsy because it was such a quick flight) and were met by Ben and Georgina from Justerini & Brooks in London. They were kind enough to arrange the entire trip for us and did an outstanding job. Outside the airport next to the parking I noticed a small vineyard. Not certain if anyone actually made wine from the grapes, but at least it got all the visitors in the mood for a week of tasting. I can’t imagine the cement terroire being ideal for planting, but possibly the diesel fumes create a unique bouquet to the finished product.
I’ll touch on a few of our visits:
First stop: Haut Brion in Graves-- one of the five Grand Cru, premier growth chateaux of Bordeaux. We had lunch with Jean-Philippe Delmas, the managing director. This was my introduction to our daily four course meals served with at least five wines. Haut Brion is known for its distinctive reds (the gravel on which the vines grow provides a taste and finish unique to this region), but they also served two whites which were the best I’ve ever tasted. For the remainder of our trip I kept comparing them to the other whites that we had tasted on the trip, saying they weren’t as good as the wine at lunch at Haut Brion. My husband laughed and said that’s like saying, “Wow, that Porsche drives so much better than the Ford Fiesta.” To be fair, none of the wines we tasted were in the same vehicular league as a Ford Fiesta, but apparently the two white Graves, the Chateau Haut Brion Blanc (very expensive and extremely rare--only about 500 cases made) and the Laville Haut Brion are considered to be some of the best in the world, and rarely available for purchase.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite:
Florence Cathiard, the owner of this beautiful chateau and massive vineyard, had us over for drinks in her home and then joined us for dinner in her newly created casual dining room, called the Table de Lavoire which was built on the premises of the place where the local ladies would wash all the wine-pickers shirts. Natural hot springs still gurgled outside the restaurant and antique washboards and buckets decorated the room.
Florence is an attractive, fit woman in her late fifties. She told us she bikes everyday throughout her vineyard to stay slim. But I also noticed that when the dessert menus were presented she swiped her hand in front of her and said that she never takes dessert. ‘Jamais!’ She was as adamant about not taking dessert as a New Yorker who never takes s*** from anyone. I’m sure I’m not the first traveler to France who has noticed that the French don’t drink coffee or tea, but ‘take’ it. They also don’t eat bread with every meal, but ‘take’ it. But she did say that she ‘drinks’ a large pot of specially-blended herbal tea after each meal. All of the women raised our hands and in unison told the waiter that we’ll have what she’s having. It wasn’t as dramatic as the Meg Ryan scene in When Harry met Sally, but this woman was obviously doing something right. She will host Le Fete des Fleurs this year, the annual wine-tasting festival, at her Chateau and told us that she will “serve her white 2000, because she wants to show the world that we age well.” Of course she was referring to the wine, but in my opinion she’s aging even better.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite also has a fantastic spa on the property called Caudalie. It was started by Florence’s daughter and son-in-law. They utilized the waste from the grapes and turned it into products for the skin and bath. This line of skin products and body treatments is known as vinotherapy. After one too many four-course lunches, five- course dinners and nearly a barrel of wine over the past few days, I needed to sleep in and skip one of the morning wine-tasting sessions. Instead I took a run through the vineyards and spent the morning getting a Cabernet body scrub and facial. Time well spent indeed!
After a leisurely bath, a pot of hot lemon-water and some freshly-squeezed honeydew melon juice for breakfast, I met the group for lunch at the Lion d’Or in Margaux. Apparently all the wine makers in town lunch there. I wish I had brought all my single girlfriends with me because every seat in the house was occupied by an extremely handsome man—something I never see in London.
Chateau Mouton Rothschild, another Premier Grand Cru chateau:
This chateau was the most interesting. Their cellar was dark and musty but we could still see that it stored some amazing dust-covered bottles of wine—a few dating as far back as 1848. We watched the winemakers test the wine from the barrel for sediment, holding a candle to the glass. This is considered the classic French way, and has been done like this for hundreds of years. I also saw one of the wine makers whisking up some egg whites in a copper bowl. I’m thinking: who ordered an omelet? I asked, and was told that the egg whites are placed in the barrel to help remove any impurities from the wine. Apparently the 2005 vintage only needed one egg white, while some vintages need as many as six.
Chateaux Mouton Rothschild is also well-known for hiring a famous artist every year to design their label. Artists from Picasso, to Chagall to Warhol have all left their mark on these distinctive bottles.
I forgot to mention: I’m highly allergic to mold and as a consequence I’m not supposed to drink wine or eat cheese or chocolate (apparently the cocoa is made from beans that have mold residue on them) This kills me because I used to eat dark chocolate and drink red wine every day! It never affected my weight, and it put me in a good mood, so I thought why not? In fact, I didn’t even consider it to be indulgent; as far as I was concerned red wine and dark chocolate were an essential part of my diet. But unfortunately a horrible fungus has invaded my body, wreaking havoc in my gut and nearly destroying my lungs. At the time of my first allergy test my lungs were reduced to functioning at half-capacity. For someone who’s an athlete this result was quite shocking. I don’t take this condition lightly, but on a wine-tasting trip to France it’s impossible to avoid wine. And since cheese is served with every meal, as well as chocolate, I certainly fell off the proverbial wine cart. I did draw the line, however, when I smelled the mold as we descended into the dark, musty cave at Chateau Mouton Rothschild and saw that the walls were covered in a thick, black fungus. As politely as possible I excused myself from the group and sprinted back up the stairs.
Upstairs in the tasting room, the director poured us each a glass of their 2000 vintage which is apparently quite collectible because it’s the year of the millennium. I noticed in the wine shop at the chateau that these bottles sold for 525 Euros. He also poured us a glass of the 1998, another great vintage and although one isn’t supposed to drink it for at least another 5 years I had no problem swallowing instead of spitting. We also had the opportunity to taste the very young 2005 which is meant to be one of the best vintages since 1989.
The tasting room was set up as a proper wine bar with long marble tables and tall stools. After sniffing, swirling and spitting several world-class vintages, including the blockbuster 2005, I sat down to enjoy a glass of the 1998 (which is considered too young to drink by the wine aficionados but not for me). Craig swaggered up to the bar, swirled his glass of wine and asked me if I came here often. He then offered to buy me a glass of wine. Good lord.
That evening, after a quick change, we walked through the muddy vineyards from our chateau, Marajollia in Margaux, to Rauzen Segla the chateau owned by the famous French fashion house Chanel. We were met by the Managing Director in his living room. He had a roaring fireplace and a glass of champagne waiting for us. He explained to us that the chateau was built from the ground up just ten years ago, and was particularly proud of the fact that the floor boards, made in Germany, we’re built to creak so they sounded old. The inside of the house felt more like an English country house, with its hunting pictures on the wall and Chippendale dining table, than a chateau owned by one of the most important design houses in the world.
Lunch at Pontet-Canet:
The owner, Alfred Tessseron, an adorable man in his late 70s raised the Union Jack flag for our visit and then apologized after hearing our American accent. While at lunch an email from an associate came through on his Blackberry. He barely knew how to use the thing, so he handed it Ben. The email was a board alert from Robert Parker saying that his 2003 were motherf******* amazing. (I actually saw the email and he did indeed use asterisks to finish spelling the adjective.) 2003 was the summer of the deadly heat wave that hit most of Europe and killed over 10,000 French. It also killed off many of the grapevines. After reading this alert, Ben got on his Blackberry and sent out a mass email to all his sellers requesting any amount at any price of Pontet-Canet 2003.
Alfred’s charmed oozed as much as the warm gooey center of our chocolate soufflé. He explained how he and his brother have managed the vineyard for the past 30 years, but when they were younger his father ruled them and the farm with an iron fist. He also told us that both he and his brother farm quite differently from their father. For one, they age the wine in cement fermenting tanks which is almost unheard of in Bordeaux. He also said that they prefer smaller yields, but their father always liked a big crap. No, this isn’t a typo. We we’re trying so hard not to laugh. Of course he had meant to say a “big crop”. I looked across the table at Craig and saw that his face was turning red. Ben, sitting next to me, kept his face glued to the soufflé on his dessert plate. Somehow our group of jokesters managed to give this dear man a pass--but after lunch we all busted out laughing.
We were running late, so after a few pictures with Alfred and a big “thank you” we sped off for the airport. The same pilots who flew us to Bordeaux from Nice were standing outside the terminal flagging us down. They told us to leave the cars at the curb—we had a tight landing slot at Northolt, a military airfield just outside of London, so we needed to take off right away. We settled into the plane and didn’t even think about popping a bottle of champagne or drinking anything alcoholic for that matter.
The one thing I regret is that I forgot a supply of bleach trays. I really wish I could’ve left one on each seat (like a party favor) because our teeth were blue from all the tasting and spitting. I also felt sick from the fatty and moldy food I had eaten, but it was a great experience and my husband really enjoyed himself. And since he likes to limit his air travel to less than an hour, this was a perfect trip for him.
Back in London we were invited to a dinner and tasting by Justerini & Brooks and Federic Enjérès the Managing Director of Chateau Latour, another Premier Grand Cru chateau. We had also visited him in Bordeaux and tasted several of his stellar reds. Coincidentally he graduated from Stanford University, close to our house in Portola Valley and near my husband’s office in Palo Alto. Jancis Robinson, a well known journalist, who’s been writing a wine column for the Financial Times for nearly 20 years, also joined us.
The descriptions Monsier Enjérès used to describe the wine were straight from Wine Snobs 101: “you could feel the wine smiling as it swirls in your mouth, the accessibility of this wine is delightful…. Then his descriptions started becoming more like how a French man must really think: “This wine eeez like a beautiful 18 year old woman. She eeez beautiful now, but can she possibly age well?” He swirled his glass and kissed the air. "She eeez easy and goes down well—thee flesh is plump and ripe.” I looked at my husband who was snickering as much as I was cringing. He turned to the man next to him and said: “Not sure about you, but I’d like to know where I can get some of that.”
Luckily Jancis Robinson shot back at him. “Okay,” she stood and held her glass high, “if we’re going to speak in this context, I’d say that this next wine we’re tasting is like a pumped- up athlete who looks good but has nothing to say.” Touché.
The Wetherby Hillbillies and two friends from Washington DC flew British Airways down to Nice to meet some friends who live in Monaco. We had dinner with them at the two Michelin-star restaurant, Oasis, near to their home in Theole-sur-Mer. If you’d like to read about this stunning part of the world, as well as more about Oasis, please refer to my posting “Tale of Two Cities.”
After spending a night at our friend’s gorgeous villa, we all piled into a super-fast Lear 45 and flew to Bordeaux. Craig, our friend from Washington DC, provided non-stop entertainment. He boarded the plane carrying a French guide book, wearing a beret on his head and a silver, Burgundian tasse a vin, or “tastevin”, as it’s more commonly called, around his neck. On each of the comfy 8 leather seats, an itinerary of our week was printed in the style of a fancy wedding invitation. I saw that we would be given a private tour of several Premier Grand Cru chateaux, as well as Chateau d’Yquem, famous for its sweet Sauterne.
Craig, after asking Grover several times, “Daddy, are we almost there?” started singing car songs: “One hundred bottles d’Yquem on the wall, one hundred bottles d’Yquem. Take one down, pass it around ninety-nine bottles d’Yquem on the wall.” We finally shut him up by popping a bottle of Dom and passing it around.
We landed at the Bordeaux airport (not too tipsy because it was such a quick flight) and were met by Ben and Georgina from Justerini & Brooks in London. They were kind enough to arrange the entire trip for us and did an outstanding job. Outside the airport next to the parking I noticed a small vineyard. Not certain if anyone actually made wine from the grapes, but at least it got all the visitors in the mood for a week of tasting. I can’t imagine the cement terroire being ideal for planting, but possibly the diesel fumes create a unique bouquet to the finished product.
I’ll touch on a few of our visits:
First stop: Haut Brion in Graves-- one of the five Grand Cru, premier growth chateaux of Bordeaux. We had lunch with Jean-Philippe Delmas, the managing director. This was my introduction to our daily four course meals served with at least five wines. Haut Brion is known for its distinctive reds (the gravel on which the vines grow provides a taste and finish unique to this region), but they also served two whites which were the best I’ve ever tasted. For the remainder of our trip I kept comparing them to the other whites that we had tasted on the trip, saying they weren’t as good as the wine at lunch at Haut Brion. My husband laughed and said that’s like saying, “Wow, that Porsche drives so much better than the Ford Fiesta.” To be fair, none of the wines we tasted were in the same vehicular league as a Ford Fiesta, but apparently the two white Graves, the Chateau Haut Brion Blanc (very expensive and extremely rare--only about 500 cases made) and the Laville Haut Brion are considered to be some of the best in the world, and rarely available for purchase.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite:
Florence Cathiard, the owner of this beautiful chateau and massive vineyard, had us over for drinks in her home and then joined us for dinner in her newly created casual dining room, called the Table de Lavoire which was built on the premises of the place where the local ladies would wash all the wine-pickers shirts. Natural hot springs still gurgled outside the restaurant and antique washboards and buckets decorated the room.
Florence is an attractive, fit woman in her late fifties. She told us she bikes everyday throughout her vineyard to stay slim. But I also noticed that when the dessert menus were presented she swiped her hand in front of her and said that she never takes dessert. ‘Jamais!’ She was as adamant about not taking dessert as a New Yorker who never takes s*** from anyone. I’m sure I’m not the first traveler to France who has noticed that the French don’t drink coffee or tea, but ‘take’ it. They also don’t eat bread with every meal, but ‘take’ it. But she did say that she ‘drinks’ a large pot of specially-blended herbal tea after each meal. All of the women raised our hands and in unison told the waiter that we’ll have what she’s having. It wasn’t as dramatic as the Meg Ryan scene in When Harry met Sally, but this woman was obviously doing something right. She will host Le Fete des Fleurs this year, the annual wine-tasting festival, at her Chateau and told us that she will “serve her white 2000, because she wants to show the world that we age well.” Of course she was referring to the wine, but in my opinion she’s aging even better.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite also has a fantastic spa on the property called Caudalie. It was started by Florence’s daughter and son-in-law. They utilized the waste from the grapes and turned it into products for the skin and bath. This line of skin products and body treatments is known as vinotherapy. After one too many four-course lunches, five- course dinners and nearly a barrel of wine over the past few days, I needed to sleep in and skip one of the morning wine-tasting sessions. Instead I took a run through the vineyards and spent the morning getting a Cabernet body scrub and facial. Time well spent indeed!
After a leisurely bath, a pot of hot lemon-water and some freshly-squeezed honeydew melon juice for breakfast, I met the group for lunch at the Lion d’Or in Margaux. Apparently all the wine makers in town lunch there. I wish I had brought all my single girlfriends with me because every seat in the house was occupied by an extremely handsome man—something I never see in London.
Chateau Mouton Rothschild, another Premier Grand Cru chateau:
This chateau was the most interesting. Their cellar was dark and musty but we could still see that it stored some amazing dust-covered bottles of wine—a few dating as far back as 1848. We watched the winemakers test the wine from the barrel for sediment, holding a candle to the glass. This is considered the classic French way, and has been done like this for hundreds of years. I also saw one of the wine makers whisking up some egg whites in a copper bowl. I’m thinking: who ordered an omelet? I asked, and was told that the egg whites are placed in the barrel to help remove any impurities from the wine. Apparently the 2005 vintage only needed one egg white, while some vintages need as many as six.
Chateaux Mouton Rothschild is also well-known for hiring a famous artist every year to design their label. Artists from Picasso, to Chagall to Warhol have all left their mark on these distinctive bottles.
I forgot to mention: I’m highly allergic to mold and as a consequence I’m not supposed to drink wine or eat cheese or chocolate (apparently the cocoa is made from beans that have mold residue on them) This kills me because I used to eat dark chocolate and drink red wine every day! It never affected my weight, and it put me in a good mood, so I thought why not? In fact, I didn’t even consider it to be indulgent; as far as I was concerned red wine and dark chocolate were an essential part of my diet. But unfortunately a horrible fungus has invaded my body, wreaking havoc in my gut and nearly destroying my lungs. At the time of my first allergy test my lungs were reduced to functioning at half-capacity. For someone who’s an athlete this result was quite shocking. I don’t take this condition lightly, but on a wine-tasting trip to France it’s impossible to avoid wine. And since cheese is served with every meal, as well as chocolate, I certainly fell off the proverbial wine cart. I did draw the line, however, when I smelled the mold as we descended into the dark, musty cave at Chateau Mouton Rothschild and saw that the walls were covered in a thick, black fungus. As politely as possible I excused myself from the group and sprinted back up the stairs.
Upstairs in the tasting room, the director poured us each a glass of their 2000 vintage which is apparently quite collectible because it’s the year of the millennium. I noticed in the wine shop at the chateau that these bottles sold for 525 Euros. He also poured us a glass of the 1998, another great vintage and although one isn’t supposed to drink it for at least another 5 years I had no problem swallowing instead of spitting. We also had the opportunity to taste the very young 2005 which is meant to be one of the best vintages since 1989.
The tasting room was set up as a proper wine bar with long marble tables and tall stools. After sniffing, swirling and spitting several world-class vintages, including the blockbuster 2005, I sat down to enjoy a glass of the 1998 (which is considered too young to drink by the wine aficionados but not for me). Craig swaggered up to the bar, swirled his glass of wine and asked me if I came here often. He then offered to buy me a glass of wine. Good lord.
That evening, after a quick change, we walked through the muddy vineyards from our chateau, Marajollia in Margaux, to Rauzen Segla the chateau owned by the famous French fashion house Chanel. We were met by the Managing Director in his living room. He had a roaring fireplace and a glass of champagne waiting for us. He explained to us that the chateau was built from the ground up just ten years ago, and was particularly proud of the fact that the floor boards, made in Germany, we’re built to creak so they sounded old. The inside of the house felt more like an English country house, with its hunting pictures on the wall and Chippendale dining table, than a chateau owned by one of the most important design houses in the world.
Lunch at Pontet-Canet:
The owner, Alfred Tessseron, an adorable man in his late 70s raised the Union Jack flag for our visit and then apologized after hearing our American accent. While at lunch an email from an associate came through on his Blackberry. He barely knew how to use the thing, so he handed it Ben. The email was a board alert from Robert Parker saying that his 2003 were motherf******* amazing. (I actually saw the email and he did indeed use asterisks to finish spelling the adjective.) 2003 was the summer of the deadly heat wave that hit most of Europe and killed over 10,000 French. It also killed off many of the grapevines. After reading this alert, Ben got on his Blackberry and sent out a mass email to all his sellers requesting any amount at any price of Pontet-Canet 2003.
Alfred’s charmed oozed as much as the warm gooey center of our chocolate soufflé. He explained how he and his brother have managed the vineyard for the past 30 years, but when they were younger his father ruled them and the farm with an iron fist. He also told us that both he and his brother farm quite differently from their father. For one, they age the wine in cement fermenting tanks which is almost unheard of in Bordeaux. He also said that they prefer smaller yields, but their father always liked a big crap. No, this isn’t a typo. We we’re trying so hard not to laugh. Of course he had meant to say a “big crop”. I looked across the table at Craig and saw that his face was turning red. Ben, sitting next to me, kept his face glued to the soufflé on his dessert plate. Somehow our group of jokesters managed to give this dear man a pass--but after lunch we all busted out laughing.
We were running late, so after a few pictures with Alfred and a big “thank you” we sped off for the airport. The same pilots who flew us to Bordeaux from Nice were standing outside the terminal flagging us down. They told us to leave the cars at the curb—we had a tight landing slot at Northolt, a military airfield just outside of London, so we needed to take off right away. We settled into the plane and didn’t even think about popping a bottle of champagne or drinking anything alcoholic for that matter.
The one thing I regret is that I forgot a supply of bleach trays. I really wish I could’ve left one on each seat (like a party favor) because our teeth were blue from all the tasting and spitting. I also felt sick from the fatty and moldy food I had eaten, but it was a great experience and my husband really enjoyed himself. And since he likes to limit his air travel to less than an hour, this was a perfect trip for him.
Back in London we were invited to a dinner and tasting by Justerini & Brooks and Federic Enjérès the Managing Director of Chateau Latour, another Premier Grand Cru chateau. We had also visited him in Bordeaux and tasted several of his stellar reds. Coincidentally he graduated from Stanford University, close to our house in Portola Valley and near my husband’s office in Palo Alto. Jancis Robinson, a well known journalist, who’s been writing a wine column for the Financial Times for nearly 20 years, also joined us.
The descriptions Monsier Enjérès used to describe the wine were straight from Wine Snobs 101: “you could feel the wine smiling as it swirls in your mouth, the accessibility of this wine is delightful…. Then his descriptions started becoming more like how a French man must really think: “This wine eeez like a beautiful 18 year old woman. She eeez beautiful now, but can she possibly age well?” He swirled his glass and kissed the air. "She eeez easy and goes down well—thee flesh is plump and ripe.” I looked at my husband who was snickering as much as I was cringing. He turned to the man next to him and said: “Not sure about you, but I’d like to know where I can get some of that.”
Luckily Jancis Robinson shot back at him. “Okay,” she stood and held her glass high, “if we’re going to speak in this context, I’d say that this next wine we’re tasting is like a pumped- up athlete who looks good but has nothing to say.” Touché.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Tale of Two Cities
Each June I’m invited to visit a friend of mine, Laura, from London who has taken up residence in Monaco but spends her weekends at her husband’s family villa on the French Riviera. Two years ago, just days after leaving the Riviera, I also had the opportunity to spend some time with Kelly, my college friend in Illinois. Théole-sur-Mer, a jewel in the heart of the French Riviera and Danville, Illinois, a small industrial town in the heartland of America are about as different as caviar and deviled eggs, yet when I reflect back on my experiences at each, they were surprisingly similar.
Laura’s home on the Riviera is an impressive white villa, called Le Trident. It sits precipitously on a three-pronged point overlooking the vast Mediterranean Sea. The guest suite where I slept was the best in the house: one window looking eastward toward Cannes, the other straight out to the ocean, and the third onto a secluded cove--which as the sea gull flies, would be on its flight path to St. Tropez.
I awoke each morning to the glowing red sun rising over the city of Cannes and fell asleep each night to the rhythmic sound of the ocean. Along with a few other guests of the villa, we spent the day lounging by the pool, talking about our children, our husbands and mutual friends. When we tired of gossip and sun bathing, we walked down an ancient stone path to jump off the rocks and dive into the sparkling blue sea where we’d swim until the refreshing initial plunge started to chill us through like a bottle of wine pulled from a crystal ice bucket. We lazed our way through the evenings sipping champagne cocktails on the veranda and watching the glittering lights of Cannes come alive in the distance.
After a heavenly week on the Riviera, I hopped a British Airways flight to London, and the following day headed back to Heathrow where I boarded a United Airlines jumbo jet to the United States, enroute to visit Kelly who lives with her family in Central Illinois. Her house didn’t have a name or the spectacular ocean views, yet it was comfortable and inviting. Most importantly, I spent time with my college roommate, talking about our old friends in common and catching up on our two very different lives. After a few days there, we planned to attend our 20th college reunion, where--as my dad joked-- Kelly and I would “knock ‘em dead”. I think he was referring to the fact that we both still had it goin’ on.
At Kelly’s house I swam at the local country club pool; which putting it politely, was just a bit more chlorinated than the soft water of the Med. And instead of seeing schools of brightly coloured fish I swam above colored band-aids and floating mosquitoes. Even though the water wasn’t exactly crisp--more like bath water better suited to children’s swimming lessons, I still felt revitalized by the end of my workout.
As we were in farm country, I suggested to Kelly that I’d like to take her husband and three children to dinner at a local ‘steak joint’. Her husband, Tom, said that he knew of the perfect place, The MoonGlo; but it was a bar, a real bar, he emphasized. “Sure,” I said, wondering why he was smirking. “Let’s go for it.”
The drive through the cornfields brought back many found memories of my childhood in the suburbs of Chicago, a time when there were still fields of corn growing and not acres of 4000 square foot homes sprouting from the earth. After about 20 minutes we approached “the bar.” The parking lot was full of motorcycles and pick-up trucks, but the smoky smell of meat barbequing on the grill was exactly what I‘d been salivating for.
We walked into a dark building with low ceilings and small windows. An electric red and blue Pabst Beer sign flickered from one window, and from another a small air-conditioner hummed, dripping water onto the cement floor. The metal tables were covered with wipe-down plastic covers. The waitress brought out a stack of paper plates, small white bar napkins and a pile of cutlery for us to place around the table. The laminated menus listed three cuts of steak, as well as hamburgers and cheeseburgers. The ‘sides’ consisted of an array of fried vegetables: mushrooms, onions, zucchini and French fries-- but since this was the heart of America we wouldn’t have dared referred to one of our dietary staples as anything French, so we called them Freedom Fries as they do in the cafeterias of the US Senate. Kelly and her family all ordered hamburgers, fries and onion rings, but I came for nothing except a thick, juicy steak.
The waitress told me that she’d put the steak on the grill, but that I’d have to cook it myself. Of course I thought she must be joking. I looked up at her with bewilderment, but my friends explained that this place was not only famous for great steaks, but also for their ‘grill your own’ policy. Okay, I thought, I’ll go with the program. I excused myself from the table and headed up to the grill situated next to the bar, which was rapidly filling up with men in sweaty t-shirts and work boots. From a five-gallon plastic bottle I poured a bit of yellowish, viscose liquid onto the steak, salted and peppered it and returned to my table to join my friends where we chit-chatted about our upcoming college reunion and our children’s summer activities.
Within a few minutes I heard our waitress shouting from the bar area, “Steak on fire! Steak on fire!” I snapped my head around, and sure enough, two-foot flames were shooting from my steak. I jumped up from the table, ran to the grill and grabbed a pair of metal tongs. I managed to grip the steak without burning myself and move it to another part of the grill; but the steak was still on fire. Thinking quickly, I pulled a pitcher of water from the bar and poured it onto the grill. The flames were extinguished within seconds and my steak was saved. But I almost didn’t get a chance to eat it.
From the tv hanging over the bar, a severe weather report was flashing on the screen. The winds outside had picked up and the sky had blackened. An emergency alert was now in effect, warning everyone to move away from the windows and into a stable part of the building, better yet into a basement. The wait staff and bartender were ready to pack it in but I came for a steak, and tornado or no tornado, I was going to eat it! Even though the heavy raindrops were pounding fiercely against the windows, the sky was not yet green, which from my past experience indicated an imminent funnel cloud, so I wasn’t too concerned. I looked over at my friends and they didn’t look too worried either. The children had dug into the basket of fries and Tom and Kelly were devouring their burgers. Within five minutes the winds had died down, and my steak was cooked to perfection.
My dining experiences on the Riviera were more than just an ocean and continent apart from those in Illinois. In France, when we weren’t dining on the villa’s open-aired veranda eating plates of fresh fish and drinking perfectly chilled blush wine, we were indulging our taste buds at a two-star Michelin restaurant called The Oasis. The setting and décor of this elegant restaurant--pale pink linens and subdued lighting--made me feel like I was ensconced in a pastel-colored cloud. Lush green plants and gently trickling waterfalls created a surreal ambiance that was only topped by the exquisitely prepared food.
The five-course meal started with a bowl of spring pea soup in a whipped cream base. Along with this delicious potage, a basket of warm bread and puffed pastries, baked from their wood-burning oven was passed around the table. I chose a cold succulent lobster placed over a bed of freshly picked vegetables and greens from their organic garden as my second course. The lobster was so sweet and creamy that if I weren’t looking at my plate I would have guessed that I was eating lobster ice cream. For my third course I ordered a locally caught fish drizzled in basil oil complimented by miniature vegetables and potatoes dauphinoise. This masterpiece was arranged on my plate like the work of a 19 century impressionist—but painted on Limoges china. Next came the cheese course that I ignored, because I had earlier spotted the dessert trolley laden with creamy cakes and fruit-filled pastries. After two of our guests sampled a variety of French cheeses, which I later learned were as sacred to the French diet as American-made cars are to Michigan, the dessert trolley rolled over to our table. The four of us agreed to split a chocolate cake. The warm liquid center oozed onto the plate when we cut into it; and after my first forkful I felt like I had drowned in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. At this point none of us could eat another bite, but that didn’t stop another wave of sweets from flooding our table. With the coffee the waiter presented us a large glass bowl of puffy meringue cookies and a plate of hand-dipped chocolates. Even I have limits on how many culinary creations one can consume in a night, so I slipped a few of the pastel-colored cookies into my purse for my six-year old daughter. Very déclassé, I know, but she loved them.
Throughout the meal the wait staff, dressed in black suits and white gloves, was beyond attentive. Both the wine and the water were poured from a silver cradle and the warm bread continued to seamlessly appear on our plates, discreetly served to us from delicate silver tongs. Besides the food and ambiance, everything else about this meal differed drastically from my dining experience in Illinois.
In France, we discussed business deals in Bangalore, India and Lagos, Nigeria. Other topics of conversation included the Monaco Grand Prix and the post-parties at Jimmy’z where the minimum drink tab, including a bottle of water, was 78 Euros. In Illinois we talked about summer camp, swim team and our college days. At the end of each of meals, I walked away thinking that I had a great time laughing with my friends and enjoying fantastic food. The only major difference was that in Illinois I got off by paying less than fifty bucks, where as in France I had to take out a second mortgage.
Laura’s home on the Riviera is an impressive white villa, called Le Trident. It sits precipitously on a three-pronged point overlooking the vast Mediterranean Sea. The guest suite where I slept was the best in the house: one window looking eastward toward Cannes, the other straight out to the ocean, and the third onto a secluded cove--which as the sea gull flies, would be on its flight path to St. Tropez.
I awoke each morning to the glowing red sun rising over the city of Cannes and fell asleep each night to the rhythmic sound of the ocean. Along with a few other guests of the villa, we spent the day lounging by the pool, talking about our children, our husbands and mutual friends. When we tired of gossip and sun bathing, we walked down an ancient stone path to jump off the rocks and dive into the sparkling blue sea where we’d swim until the refreshing initial plunge started to chill us through like a bottle of wine pulled from a crystal ice bucket. We lazed our way through the evenings sipping champagne cocktails on the veranda and watching the glittering lights of Cannes come alive in the distance.
After a heavenly week on the Riviera, I hopped a British Airways flight to London, and the following day headed back to Heathrow where I boarded a United Airlines jumbo jet to the United States, enroute to visit Kelly who lives with her family in Central Illinois. Her house didn’t have a name or the spectacular ocean views, yet it was comfortable and inviting. Most importantly, I spent time with my college roommate, talking about our old friends in common and catching up on our two very different lives. After a few days there, we planned to attend our 20th college reunion, where--as my dad joked-- Kelly and I would “knock ‘em dead”. I think he was referring to the fact that we both still had it goin’ on.
At Kelly’s house I swam at the local country club pool; which putting it politely, was just a bit more chlorinated than the soft water of the Med. And instead of seeing schools of brightly coloured fish I swam above colored band-aids and floating mosquitoes. Even though the water wasn’t exactly crisp--more like bath water better suited to children’s swimming lessons, I still felt revitalized by the end of my workout.
As we were in farm country, I suggested to Kelly that I’d like to take her husband and three children to dinner at a local ‘steak joint’. Her husband, Tom, said that he knew of the perfect place, The MoonGlo; but it was a bar, a real bar, he emphasized. “Sure,” I said, wondering why he was smirking. “Let’s go for it.”
The drive through the cornfields brought back many found memories of my childhood in the suburbs of Chicago, a time when there were still fields of corn growing and not acres of 4000 square foot homes sprouting from the earth. After about 20 minutes we approached “the bar.” The parking lot was full of motorcycles and pick-up trucks, but the smoky smell of meat barbequing on the grill was exactly what I‘d been salivating for.
We walked into a dark building with low ceilings and small windows. An electric red and blue Pabst Beer sign flickered from one window, and from another a small air-conditioner hummed, dripping water onto the cement floor. The metal tables were covered with wipe-down plastic covers. The waitress brought out a stack of paper plates, small white bar napkins and a pile of cutlery for us to place around the table. The laminated menus listed three cuts of steak, as well as hamburgers and cheeseburgers. The ‘sides’ consisted of an array of fried vegetables: mushrooms, onions, zucchini and French fries-- but since this was the heart of America we wouldn’t have dared referred to one of our dietary staples as anything French, so we called them Freedom Fries as they do in the cafeterias of the US Senate. Kelly and her family all ordered hamburgers, fries and onion rings, but I came for nothing except a thick, juicy steak.
The waitress told me that she’d put the steak on the grill, but that I’d have to cook it myself. Of course I thought she must be joking. I looked up at her with bewilderment, but my friends explained that this place was not only famous for great steaks, but also for their ‘grill your own’ policy. Okay, I thought, I’ll go with the program. I excused myself from the table and headed up to the grill situated next to the bar, which was rapidly filling up with men in sweaty t-shirts and work boots. From a five-gallon plastic bottle I poured a bit of yellowish, viscose liquid onto the steak, salted and peppered it and returned to my table to join my friends where we chit-chatted about our upcoming college reunion and our children’s summer activities.
Within a few minutes I heard our waitress shouting from the bar area, “Steak on fire! Steak on fire!” I snapped my head around, and sure enough, two-foot flames were shooting from my steak. I jumped up from the table, ran to the grill and grabbed a pair of metal tongs. I managed to grip the steak without burning myself and move it to another part of the grill; but the steak was still on fire. Thinking quickly, I pulled a pitcher of water from the bar and poured it onto the grill. The flames were extinguished within seconds and my steak was saved. But I almost didn’t get a chance to eat it.
From the tv hanging over the bar, a severe weather report was flashing on the screen. The winds outside had picked up and the sky had blackened. An emergency alert was now in effect, warning everyone to move away from the windows and into a stable part of the building, better yet into a basement. The wait staff and bartender were ready to pack it in but I came for a steak, and tornado or no tornado, I was going to eat it! Even though the heavy raindrops were pounding fiercely against the windows, the sky was not yet green, which from my past experience indicated an imminent funnel cloud, so I wasn’t too concerned. I looked over at my friends and they didn’t look too worried either. The children had dug into the basket of fries and Tom and Kelly were devouring their burgers. Within five minutes the winds had died down, and my steak was cooked to perfection.
My dining experiences on the Riviera were more than just an ocean and continent apart from those in Illinois. In France, when we weren’t dining on the villa’s open-aired veranda eating plates of fresh fish and drinking perfectly chilled blush wine, we were indulging our taste buds at a two-star Michelin restaurant called The Oasis. The setting and décor of this elegant restaurant--pale pink linens and subdued lighting--made me feel like I was ensconced in a pastel-colored cloud. Lush green plants and gently trickling waterfalls created a surreal ambiance that was only topped by the exquisitely prepared food.
The five-course meal started with a bowl of spring pea soup in a whipped cream base. Along with this delicious potage, a basket of warm bread and puffed pastries, baked from their wood-burning oven was passed around the table. I chose a cold succulent lobster placed over a bed of freshly picked vegetables and greens from their organic garden as my second course. The lobster was so sweet and creamy that if I weren’t looking at my plate I would have guessed that I was eating lobster ice cream. For my third course I ordered a locally caught fish drizzled in basil oil complimented by miniature vegetables and potatoes dauphinoise. This masterpiece was arranged on my plate like the work of a 19 century impressionist—but painted on Limoges china. Next came the cheese course that I ignored, because I had earlier spotted the dessert trolley laden with creamy cakes and fruit-filled pastries. After two of our guests sampled a variety of French cheeses, which I later learned were as sacred to the French diet as American-made cars are to Michigan, the dessert trolley rolled over to our table. The four of us agreed to split a chocolate cake. The warm liquid center oozed onto the plate when we cut into it; and after my first forkful I felt like I had drowned in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. At this point none of us could eat another bite, but that didn’t stop another wave of sweets from flooding our table. With the coffee the waiter presented us a large glass bowl of puffy meringue cookies and a plate of hand-dipped chocolates. Even I have limits on how many culinary creations one can consume in a night, so I slipped a few of the pastel-colored cookies into my purse for my six-year old daughter. Very déclassé, I know, but she loved them.
Throughout the meal the wait staff, dressed in black suits and white gloves, was beyond attentive. Both the wine and the water were poured from a silver cradle and the warm bread continued to seamlessly appear on our plates, discreetly served to us from delicate silver tongs. Besides the food and ambiance, everything else about this meal differed drastically from my dining experience in Illinois.
In France, we discussed business deals in Bangalore, India and Lagos, Nigeria. Other topics of conversation included the Monaco Grand Prix and the post-parties at Jimmy’z where the minimum drink tab, including a bottle of water, was 78 Euros. In Illinois we talked about summer camp, swim team and our college days. At the end of each of meals, I walked away thinking that I had a great time laughing with my friends and enjoying fantastic food. The only major difference was that in Illinois I got off by paying less than fifty bucks, where as in France I had to take out a second mortgage.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
First Episode: Caribbean Christmas Vacation in St Barth's and Bequia
St Barth’s was everything it was cracked up to be: lots of glamour, delicious food and fabulous fashion (the island is French after all). Every time we went to lunch (always at a beach side place) there was a DJ spinning sexy tunes and a live fashion show for our lunchtime entertainment. In fact, I’m still humming the groovy re-mix of Jim Morrison’s Riders on the Storm. Besides the island being trés chic, it’s also trés Francais. The menus and road signs are all in French and everyone, including the domestic help, speaks French as their first language-- and many of the women go topless (an eye-opening experience for my seven year-old daughter Lindsay and her best friend, Stevie). Most memorable were a trio of beach babes wading through the waves in front of Nikki Beach, flaunting their implants and wearing scrunched up cowboy hats. Who needs a fashion show when you have that?
Scattered along the beaches were skinny French women with skin like brown leather stretched across their skeletal frames, groups of bling sistahs accompanied by their rap-star hubbies and several local surfer dudes. Throw in a manicured-handful of pale New Yorkers, a few sport stars and music producers and you’ve got St Barth’s!
As with any family vacation, we had our share of un-glamour as well. Like the time five of us descended on the only doctor in town (it was two days before Christmas). My seven year-old daughter had an ear infection, Stevie, her best friend, had pink eye (very contagious), my mom had strep throat, my husband’s son had the stomach flu, I had been stung by a jelly fish and needed some ointment, and my husband needed to adjust the dosage on his blood-pressure medicine. I think the shock of 400 Euro lunches day-after-day had taken its toll! Luckily, Stacy our back-up nanny from Salt Spring who’s originally from Montreal, translated and took charge of dispersing the meds after spending an hour getting the details of the life-threatening drug interactions. The French doc had wanted to charge us 100 Euros a person, but since we were in-and-out in less than an hour my husband negotiated a group discount. Phew!
As traffic started to clog the small streets of St Barths just before Christmas (the highest of all high seasons where homes can rent for up to 100,000 Euros a week) we high-tailed it out of there and flew to Bequia, a small island in the Grenadines, just north of Venezuela. For some reason, whenever I board a private aircraft, I never manage to feel like Isabella Rossellini in those slick Samsonite ads--especially when we left St Barth’s on our way to Bequia. We loaded up the luxurious PC-12 (a roomy eight-seat airplane with plush leather seats) like a Volvo station wagon. Boogie boards, dive gear, snorkels, fins and masks overflowed from the luggage compartment into the back of the plane, and our loose duffel bags had to be strapped into the spare seat. Even though the plane is fully catered (I submit a list of food I’d like to have on the plane and it’s there waiting for us) we still can’t shake the habit of bringing our own water, snacks, antiseptic wipes and whatever else we’re accustomed to carrying just in case we get stranded at an airport in some third world country. All this only adds to our bulk and hillbilly aura.
We arrived Bequia in grand style, landing at the brand new Sir James Mitchell airport. Sir James is the former Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. We were fortunate enough to be staying in his house for the eight days. Sabrina, Sir James’s lovely daughter, a lady with dark brown skin who’s as svelte as a top model, greeted us at the airport. Grover and the two little girls drove with Sabrina in her air-conditioned Subaru while another couple, Stacy and I piled into the back of a pick-up truck. The roads were narrow and treacherous, but our driver took the switch-back turns like a pro, honking the horn at every corner, which sent the natives scattering back to their road side wooden homes.
I was truly blown away when we arrived at Sir James’s home, called Helianthius which means Sunflower in Greek. It sat high on a hill overlooking the vast blue ocean and the mile long drive way was flanked by flowering trees and manicured green lawns. Luigi Vietti, who was the master architect for the Costa Smerelda, designed this house so it had a very Mediterranean feel—lots of marble and terra cotta tiles. I later discovered that Mr. Vietti had also designed the Aga Khan's personal compound in Sardinia, Italy as well as many other homes of famous people all over the world. All of the corridors of the home were open to the sky. When we entered we looked straight through the arched hallway across the infinity pool and over the ocean to the island of Mustique. I had never, ever, seen a house and view so spectacular. We were greeted by the staff of 4 with cold fruit drinks and warm smiles. In the middle of the house sat an open courtyard filled with tropical plants. We had dinner each night between the pool and the courtyard. On Christmas eve, my husband’s son Eric, still carrying a bit of the stomach flu from St Barth’s, said he wasn’t feeling that well and didn’t have too much of an appetite. Of course we wanted him to join us for dinner on this special night, so he obliged. But after the first bite he turned white. He then swiftly swiveled his head behind his chair and got sick in the courtyard. For some reason, after that highly appetizing moment, the courtyard didn’t have the same appeal as when I initially saw it.
We finished off the week snorkeling, windsurfing, diving and sailing. Needless to say it way hard to leave.
#####
Stay tuned for the next episode when the Wetherby Hillbillies fly to Bordeaux where several of the Premier Cru chateaux rolled out the claret-coloured carpet for this motley group. It's shaping up to be a week of debauchery, but can Jill hold her own with the wine snobs and serious drinkers?
Scattered along the beaches were skinny French women with skin like brown leather stretched across their skeletal frames, groups of bling sistahs accompanied by their rap-star hubbies and several local surfer dudes. Throw in a manicured-handful of pale New Yorkers, a few sport stars and music producers and you’ve got St Barth’s!
As with any family vacation, we had our share of un-glamour as well. Like the time five of us descended on the only doctor in town (it was two days before Christmas). My seven year-old daughter had an ear infection, Stevie, her best friend, had pink eye (very contagious), my mom had strep throat, my husband’s son had the stomach flu, I had been stung by a jelly fish and needed some ointment, and my husband needed to adjust the dosage on his blood-pressure medicine. I think the shock of 400 Euro lunches day-after-day had taken its toll! Luckily, Stacy our back-up nanny from Salt Spring who’s originally from Montreal, translated and took charge of dispersing the meds after spending an hour getting the details of the life-threatening drug interactions. The French doc had wanted to charge us 100 Euros a person, but since we were in-and-out in less than an hour my husband negotiated a group discount. Phew!
As traffic started to clog the small streets of St Barths just before Christmas (the highest of all high seasons where homes can rent for up to 100,000 Euros a week) we high-tailed it out of there and flew to Bequia, a small island in the Grenadines, just north of Venezuela. For some reason, whenever I board a private aircraft, I never manage to feel like Isabella Rossellini in those slick Samsonite ads--especially when we left St Barth’s on our way to Bequia. We loaded up the luxurious PC-12 (a roomy eight-seat airplane with plush leather seats) like a Volvo station wagon. Boogie boards, dive gear, snorkels, fins and masks overflowed from the luggage compartment into the back of the plane, and our loose duffel bags had to be strapped into the spare seat. Even though the plane is fully catered (I submit a list of food I’d like to have on the plane and it’s there waiting for us) we still can’t shake the habit of bringing our own water, snacks, antiseptic wipes and whatever else we’re accustomed to carrying just in case we get stranded at an airport in some third world country. All this only adds to our bulk and hillbilly aura.
We arrived Bequia in grand style, landing at the brand new Sir James Mitchell airport. Sir James is the former Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. We were fortunate enough to be staying in his house for the eight days. Sabrina, Sir James’s lovely daughter, a lady with dark brown skin who’s as svelte as a top model, greeted us at the airport. Grover and the two little girls drove with Sabrina in her air-conditioned Subaru while another couple, Stacy and I piled into the back of a pick-up truck. The roads were narrow and treacherous, but our driver took the switch-back turns like a pro, honking the horn at every corner, which sent the natives scattering back to their road side wooden homes.
I was truly blown away when we arrived at Sir James’s home, called Helianthius which means Sunflower in Greek. It sat high on a hill overlooking the vast blue ocean and the mile long drive way was flanked by flowering trees and manicured green lawns. Luigi Vietti, who was the master architect for the Costa Smerelda, designed this house so it had a very Mediterranean feel—lots of marble and terra cotta tiles. I later discovered that Mr. Vietti had also designed the Aga Khan's personal compound in Sardinia, Italy as well as many other homes of famous people all over the world. All of the corridors of the home were open to the sky. When we entered we looked straight through the arched hallway across the infinity pool and over the ocean to the island of Mustique. I had never, ever, seen a house and view so spectacular. We were greeted by the staff of 4 with cold fruit drinks and warm smiles. In the middle of the house sat an open courtyard filled with tropical plants. We had dinner each night between the pool and the courtyard. On Christmas eve, my husband’s son Eric, still carrying a bit of the stomach flu from St Barth’s, said he wasn’t feeling that well and didn’t have too much of an appetite. Of course we wanted him to join us for dinner on this special night, so he obliged. But after the first bite he turned white. He then swiftly swiveled his head behind his chair and got sick in the courtyard. For some reason, after that highly appetizing moment, the courtyard didn’t have the same appeal as when I initially saw it.
We finished off the week snorkeling, windsurfing, diving and sailing. Needless to say it way hard to leave.
#####
Stay tuned for the next episode when the Wetherby Hillbillies fly to Bordeaux where several of the Premier Cru chateaux rolled out the claret-coloured carpet for this motley group. It's shaping up to be a week of debauchery, but can Jill hold her own with the wine snobs and serious drinkers?
Blackout
As a Californian living in London, words which used to be part of my everyday vocabulary like ‘rolling black out’, ‘brown out’, ‘power grid’ and ‘electricity surge’, have all but vanished from my memory. That is, until last week when my family and I experienced the Courtfield Road blackout of December 2003.
It was a lazy Sunday evening; my five-year old daughter had finished her well-balanced supper of plain pasta and mashed potatoes, had her bath and was rubbing her eyes. Jenny, our Scottish nanny was curled up on the sofa under a cashmere blanket watching ‘Maid in Manhattan’. Suddenly, the lights started flickering. After a few seconds of halogen bulbs dimming in and out, I knew that we were headed for darkness. I snatched the remote control from my nanny, turned off the television and lunged for the computer. I shut it down in the nick of time, just before it crashed on its own.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Jenny asked, throwing her blanket to the floor. “I was watching that movie!”
Before I could say “blackout” the house went completely dark.
Swiftly, Jenny located the flashlight my daughter, Lindsay, had been playing with earlier. Thank goodness she didn’t run the batteries down while she was pretending to be Britney Spears and dancing under the spotlight. In the meantime, I fumbled around for matches and lit the Dyptique candle that sat on our entry-hall table. Within seconds a luscious Mimosa scent wafted throughout the front hall.
Next, I heard my husband knocking against the walls as he rushed up the stairs from his office on the lower ground. “Where are the flashlights, the candles? What about canned goods?”
He was already in full-disaster mode and began shouting orders like a general.
He looked first at my dumb-founded nanny. “Before the shelves are emptied, go to Harts (local convenience store) and stock up on batteries, candles, bottled water and long-life milk.”
My nanny mobilized, scrambling to find her coat. “And don’t forget some duct tape,” he barked. I expected his next words to be: ‘We’re under attack.’
Hearing the words ‘duct tape’ I knew I needed to put a stop to this hysteria. For those of you who aren’t living in constant fear of a saran gas attack, you wouldn’t understand that duct tape is an essential item to keep in your emergency supply bin. You’re meant to use it to seal the windows in order to prevent deadly gas from seeping into your house.
“Calm down, Grover,” I said throwing my body in front of the door to prevent my panicking nanny from rushing down to Gloucester Road. “I didn’t feel the building shake, so it’s not an earthquake, I don’t hear the wind hailing or raindrops pounding, so it’s not a hurricane. And at this time, it doesn’t appear that we’re a victim of a terrorist attack.”
“You never know,” he pointed a finger at me and raised his voice. “We’re completely unprepared. We don’t even have walkie-talkies.”
“Walkie-talkies?” my nanny blurted out. “What heavens for?”
“In case we split up,” my husband said, nearly out of breath. “We can’t rely on cell service.”
“Split up?” I questioned. “Are you insane? We live in a three-bedroom flat, not some cavernous, country pile.”
I had to admit, though, the ‘unprepared’ bit began to make me a little nervous. At home in California I had a garage full of warm blankets, tents, gas stoves, a year’s supply of bottled water and enough canned goods to feed the entire neighbourhood. After all, we lived in earthquake country. Not to mention El Niño and fire country. Of course, we had a few cans of tuna and soup in the cupboard; but I knew that I had committed the ultimate emergency faux-pas: our can opener was electric. That alone was enough to guarantee death by starvation for my entire family.
Speaking of starvation, I needed to make an executive decision about what to do with the organic milk and chicken I had bought at Waitrose earlier that afternoon. I knew the whole lot would spoil in a couple of hours after the fridge started to warm. But if I opened the refrigerator, the last few cubic feet of cold air would escape, thereby banishing the contents to the bin by the next morning. I calculated the outside air temperature to be close to freezing, cold enough to preserve the freshness of the food. Should I risk the veggies to save the meat, dairy and poultry? A no-brainer. I swiftly opened the fridge and removed in one swipe an armload of perishables and placed them on the windowsill.
Mission accomplished in the kitchen, I called out for Lindsay. It was nearly 9:00 and far past her bedtime. I held her little hand and guided her down to our bedroom. After stumbling around in the dark, I tucked her in, lit my other Dyptique candle on the bedside table, and crawled into bed with my daughter. She fell asleep peacefully, and I nearly did too, until I heard my husband shout down the stairs.
“Make sure to shut all the windows,” he barked. “The heat’s been cut off and the outside temperature is dropping two degrees an hour.”
“Thank god,” I thought. Normally he likes our flat hot enough to roast a turkey in the reception room. At least we’ll all cool down a bit.
Somehow, only armed with a few fragrant candles and one pitcher of Brita-filtered water, from 8:15 p.m. until 4:30 the next morning, we managed to survive the Courtfield Road blackout of December 2003. Okay, so I slacked off a bit when it came to preparing my family for an emergency. But as my precious daughter slept soundly, cradled in my arms, I knew I had everything.
It was a lazy Sunday evening; my five-year old daughter had finished her well-balanced supper of plain pasta and mashed potatoes, had her bath and was rubbing her eyes. Jenny, our Scottish nanny was curled up on the sofa under a cashmere blanket watching ‘Maid in Manhattan’. Suddenly, the lights started flickering. After a few seconds of halogen bulbs dimming in and out, I knew that we were headed for darkness. I snatched the remote control from my nanny, turned off the television and lunged for the computer. I shut it down in the nick of time, just before it crashed on its own.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Jenny asked, throwing her blanket to the floor. “I was watching that movie!”
Before I could say “blackout” the house went completely dark.
Swiftly, Jenny located the flashlight my daughter, Lindsay, had been playing with earlier. Thank goodness she didn’t run the batteries down while she was pretending to be Britney Spears and dancing under the spotlight. In the meantime, I fumbled around for matches and lit the Dyptique candle that sat on our entry-hall table. Within seconds a luscious Mimosa scent wafted throughout the front hall.
Next, I heard my husband knocking against the walls as he rushed up the stairs from his office on the lower ground. “Where are the flashlights, the candles? What about canned goods?”
He was already in full-disaster mode and began shouting orders like a general.
He looked first at my dumb-founded nanny. “Before the shelves are emptied, go to Harts (local convenience store) and stock up on batteries, candles, bottled water and long-life milk.”
My nanny mobilized, scrambling to find her coat. “And don’t forget some duct tape,” he barked. I expected his next words to be: ‘We’re under attack.’
Hearing the words ‘duct tape’ I knew I needed to put a stop to this hysteria. For those of you who aren’t living in constant fear of a saran gas attack, you wouldn’t understand that duct tape is an essential item to keep in your emergency supply bin. You’re meant to use it to seal the windows in order to prevent deadly gas from seeping into your house.
“Calm down, Grover,” I said throwing my body in front of the door to prevent my panicking nanny from rushing down to Gloucester Road. “I didn’t feel the building shake, so it’s not an earthquake, I don’t hear the wind hailing or raindrops pounding, so it’s not a hurricane. And at this time, it doesn’t appear that we’re a victim of a terrorist attack.”
“You never know,” he pointed a finger at me and raised his voice. “We’re completely unprepared. We don’t even have walkie-talkies.”
“Walkie-talkies?” my nanny blurted out. “What heavens for?”
“In case we split up,” my husband said, nearly out of breath. “We can’t rely on cell service.”
“Split up?” I questioned. “Are you insane? We live in a three-bedroom flat, not some cavernous, country pile.”
I had to admit, though, the ‘unprepared’ bit began to make me a little nervous. At home in California I had a garage full of warm blankets, tents, gas stoves, a year’s supply of bottled water and enough canned goods to feed the entire neighbourhood. After all, we lived in earthquake country. Not to mention El Niño and fire country. Of course, we had a few cans of tuna and soup in the cupboard; but I knew that I had committed the ultimate emergency faux-pas: our can opener was electric. That alone was enough to guarantee death by starvation for my entire family.
Speaking of starvation, I needed to make an executive decision about what to do with the organic milk and chicken I had bought at Waitrose earlier that afternoon. I knew the whole lot would spoil in a couple of hours after the fridge started to warm. But if I opened the refrigerator, the last few cubic feet of cold air would escape, thereby banishing the contents to the bin by the next morning. I calculated the outside air temperature to be close to freezing, cold enough to preserve the freshness of the food. Should I risk the veggies to save the meat, dairy and poultry? A no-brainer. I swiftly opened the fridge and removed in one swipe an armload of perishables and placed them on the windowsill.
Mission accomplished in the kitchen, I called out for Lindsay. It was nearly 9:00 and far past her bedtime. I held her little hand and guided her down to our bedroom. After stumbling around in the dark, I tucked her in, lit my other Dyptique candle on the bedside table, and crawled into bed with my daughter. She fell asleep peacefully, and I nearly did too, until I heard my husband shout down the stairs.
“Make sure to shut all the windows,” he barked. “The heat’s been cut off and the outside temperature is dropping two degrees an hour.”
“Thank god,” I thought. Normally he likes our flat hot enough to roast a turkey in the reception room. At least we’ll all cool down a bit.
Somehow, only armed with a few fragrant candles and one pitcher of Brita-filtered water, from 8:15 p.m. until 4:30 the next morning, we managed to survive the Courtfield Road blackout of December 2003. Okay, so I slacked off a bit when it came to preparing my family for an emergency. But as my precious daughter slept soundly, cradled in my arms, I knew I had everything.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Cast of Characters
The Adventures of The Wetherby Hillbillies
Please let me introduce the main characters:
My husband, Grover, the ring-leader.
Grover’s a mad genius and about as eccentric as one can get. With his wild, thick grey hair, he’s been described as a cross between a disheveled English professor and a mad scientist. But because he’s intelligent, kind and generous he somehow gets away with his outlandish behavior. He works from home managing a small hedge-fund, keeps around-the-clock hours, and sleeps when he can. His microscopic home office is covered with yellowing Barons newspapers, Doom and Gloom reports, reams of performance reports that he prints out on a weekly basis (and then leaves all over the house), faxes sent from his office in Palo Alto, old magazines etc. He refuses to let any of this rubbish get thrown away. His office is overflowing with so much paper you can’t see his desk or the floor, so he now he has taken over our daughter Lindsay’s playroom. Mostly you’ll find him in his white bath robe hunched over the computer. When he’s not doing that, he’s on the treadmill, walking in his white robe and leather loafers, yes loafers! He wears large headphones and watches Bloomberg on the television or most recently, episodes of 24 or the Sopranos on DVD. He’ll occasionally take a break to walk up the stairs to our kitchen and open a fabulous bottle of Bordeaux (sometimes a magnum depending on how rough the day was) to let it breathe in time for dinner. He somehow squeezes in a shower before we all have dinner as a family at 6:30 with candles, wine, the works…
Grover and I couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. For some strange reason he doesn’t like fresh air and never opens a window. At one point, while we were living in Portola Valley, after years of listening to high-decibel snoring and suffocating in our bedroom which had forced-air heating blasting out from overhead vents, I stomped out of bed, found an old sleeping bag and yelled: "I'm outta here!" I slept outside on our deck and even though it was nearly freezing I had never slept better in my life. Knowing that it was supposed to rain (or possibly snow) the next night, I dug out a tent from storage and pitched that. I forgot about the rain fly, so when it did indeed rain, I got soaked. The next night I made sure I secured the rain fly and slept happily ever after for the next 4 months, where at that time we all uprooted and went to our home in Canada for the summer. When I returned back to California, I discovered that my tent had disintegrated from the harsh UV rays. I never bothered getting a new one so ended up sleeping under the stars for the next year and loving it. The major problem occurred when it rained: I had to move my makeshift camp (feather bed and down comforter) back inside and return to suffering in the heat. And it wasn’t just the sleepless nights that were awful—the flaky skin and nose bleeds weren’t so great either. If I could, I’d still be outside, except Central London isn’t the best place to live out my fantasy of sleeping with the moon and stars every night.
The lead in the supporting role is Paul F, our assistant from California who is currently living with his family at our home in Portola Valley. He claimed to have moved from his house two hours north of San Francisco into ours in order “spend more time at the office” in Palo Alto. As outrageous as this sounds, it has worked well for both of us because while we are in London he looks after our beloved dog Rusty, who we got from the pound nearly 14 years ago. In addition to not paying rent, property taxes, or any utility bills his children get to attend the local PV schools which are considered some of the finest in California. But somehow all this is justified because he and his wife also look after Lindsay’s best friend Stevie and her Taiwanese mother who have been living in our guest house for several years. They have been staying with us until Vickie’s legal affairs (citizenship, probate issues) get in order. Her husband and Stevie’s father, an American, died without providing them with an adequate income or a Green Card. Grover has spent countless hours advising her legal team, but it has paid off. We just got word that she received her Green Card and she can legally stay in the US as long as she wants. We love Stevie like our own daughter and are thrilled to help her.
When I return to California I don’t even think of staying at my home in Portola Valley. There’s no room for me! Luckily I have a great flat in Pacific Heights in San Francisco, so I’m happy to spend all my time there. Of course, I miss Rusty but I know he’s happy because he plays and sleeps with Paul’s 6 year-old son.
This odd living situation may soon change because Grover has been trying for the past three years to buy his Grandfather’s ranch in Central California. The trustee (his sister) wanted to sell it to sell it to a man from LA, but Grover has been fighting hard to keep it in the family. If everything goes as planned, it looks like Paul and his family may move Fresno in order to be closer to the ranch. In fact he’s planning on getting his Master’s Degree in Soil Sciences. We’re all hoping this huge investment will pay off!
Paul has also just requested that we hire him a personal assistant. It sounds crazy, but after I listened to just a small percentage of the things he needs to accomplish over the next two years, I also agree that he needs one. So, yes, our PA, now has a PA!
Jenny Mickel: our Scottish nanny who’s been with us over three years. She’s a cute, sporty brunette whom we met through another friend of ours from Canada. Since Lindsay is in school eight hours a day, Jenny has plenty of personal time. She goes to the gym in the morning, and since she’s a devout Jehovah Witness she spends her days studying The Truth and doing ministry work. If anyone’s perfect to “spread the word” it’s Jenny. She’s very friendly and chatty, and is an excellent listener. When we met Jenny she wasn’t involved with the Witnesses at all, but after she met her boyfriend (a personal trainer at her gym) he introduced her to The Truth. Since her involvement with their local congregation, I’ve seen many positive changes in Jenny’s personality. She’s much happier, has a great attitude and is very well-grounded.
Jenny has become much more than a nanny to us: she graciously runs our errands, grocery shops and cooks dinner when Janet (who changed her name to Janelle), our part-time cook, isn’t working. She lives at our Courtfield Road flat, two blocks away from our flat on Wetherby Gardens, and keeps it in tip-top shape. We have a revolving door of guests so this isn’t always easy.
Jenny’s first week of work didn’t start off that well: on her second day, I heard moaning coming from her bedroom on Courtfield Road (where we all lived previous to Wetherby Gardens). I went downstairs and found her clutching her stomach. She kept saying that she really isn’t a complainer, but something is seriously causing her pain. She mentioned that she had taken an extra dose of Senacot (a mild laxative), so at first we thought it was just her digestive system acting up. But after an hour of the pain getting increasing, I took her to our private doctor down the road. From there things only got worse. We had to call an ambulance, which showed up nearly an hour later as it had been dispatched from Surrey (50 miles away). The ambulance took us to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital where we both in the emergency room for 6 hours. She had every intern in London checking on her. Some had manuals, others had medical dictionaries. Not very reassuring…. Finally she was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst, was wheeled upstairs and operated on the next day. She remained in the hospital for 5 days and was more worried about the fact that she had just started her job than her operation. She’s totally fine and still with us. Her first encounter with Grover’s personality can be read on my posting “Blackout”.
Janet ‘Janelle’ Langford: We met Janelle on Salt Spring Island. She's an attractive blue-eyed blonde who speaks four languages. Her passion is cooking and she seems to enjoy all that goes along with her job, including grocery shopping at the world-famous Harrods Food Halls and walking up to the markets along Portobello Road to by fresh produce and spices. She lives with Jenny at our Courtfield Road flat. She has an easy-going attitude that is necessary when working for a man like my husband. He’ll often call her at 4pm telling her we have five more people showing up for dinner and he’d like osso bucco, (which takes at least 4 hours to prepare). She does a lot of meditation and boundary work which I think is the only way she manages to stay sane while working for us. She also blesses the fruit and vegetables and claims she’s able to pick up sonic vibrations from the produce: the ones emitting the strongest force end up in our dinner.
It’s not unusual for us to have to have between 6-10 people for dinner 3 times a week. Our kitchen in London is very small (by American standards) and I honestly don’t know how Janelle manages all the courses and the dishes that pile up. More than once the sink has backed up and the dishwasher has stopped working several times. This is a disaster because Janelle ends up having to hand-wash the dishes in the guest bathtub downstairs. Of course this always happens on a Friday or Saturday which means we can’t get a plumber in until Monday. Let me tell you, when this happens, you don’t want to come anywhere near the kitchen the following morning.
We’re even busier in Canada. Again, not unusual to have lunch for 12-14 people and then dinner for 8--on the same day! But at least we have a bigger kitchen and the appliances and plumbing seem to work okay. My mom loves it because when she comes to visit, usually for a week, she gains at least 10 pounds. She’s one of those rare people who actually need to gain weight. It’s a miracle I’m not 500 pounds, but I guess with my rowing, kayaking and swimming I manage to burn enough calories to get through the summer without having to buy an extra seat on the plane.
Richard R: Richard is Grover’s research assistant and analyst. He has a first-class degree from University of London and then went on to win a scholarship to Oxford where he majored in Anthropology. He is an author of seven books which have been translated into 12 languages and has presented four history documentaries for Channel 4. Richard spends a lot of time at my little flat on garden flat in Pacific Heights, San Francisco. In between working 14 hours a day, he waters my plants which have somehow survived for over ten years with absolutely no TLC.
Richard’s wife, Robin, helps us out too. She is the most organized and methodical person I know. When she went to visit her husband in San Francisco she got more done for me (organizing a move from one house to another) in one week than most people could do in a month. Robin’s a Native American Cree Indian from Vancouver who speaks with a posh English accent. And luckily for me she has OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). She’s a neat freak and likes everything to have its place. This is a huge advantage for us because she is currently sorting out Grover’s small home office in London as well as Lindsay’s play room. Hopefully when she’s finished we can actually see the floors! Robin also sadly suffers from bi-polar disease. But fortunately things have leveled off for her and she’s doing really well. As long as she keeps busy there’s nothing stopping her.
Katie and Stacy Burke: Sisters Stacy and Katie are originally from Montreal, Quebec. They spent their childhood traveling throughout Canada, living in a van while their musician father looked for gigs and their mother looked after them. They’re very proud of their free-spirited upbringing and are currently both pursuing careers as musicians. They are extremely talented singer-songwriters and have each cut recorded a CD. We met Katie on Salt Spring Island seven years ago. She started working for us as a nanny when Lindsay was just a year-and-a-half and has been with us in some capacity ever since. She has lived with us in London, San Francisco, Portola Valley and Canada, and has traveled with us on many vacations. Stacy has been there for us too, helping out in Canada and traveling with us when Lindsay was little, and most recently to St Barth’s. Even though Katie and Stacy have been working as musicians they still continue to work for us in the summers. They mostly fill in as baby-sitters when Jenny isn’t available, which is critical when we have loads of children at our house. Our home in Canada is like a summer camp for all the little girls (and a few boys) on the island. Some days there will be as many as 20 kids at the pool and at least ten nannies sunbathing in bikinis. Of course my husband loves it! He’ll fire up the barbeque and crank up the granita machine which churns out the most sickly-sweet slushies. The little girls can get enough of them. I try not to think of their glycemic indices shooting into the stratosphere, but since it’s a holiday I look the other way. Half the time the slushies end up spilling all over the deck which attracts swarms of bees. The girls love this too because they get to play with the “bug whacker” which looks like a tennis racket with electrically charged strings. They then run around screaming and zapping the bees before they get stung themselves.
Stacy and Katie also fly with several little girls in our De Havilland Beaver (an extremely safe, low-flying float plane) once a summer to the infamous PNE (Pacific Northwest Exhibition) in Vancouver. I didn’t exactly know how to describe the PNE so I asked Lindsay and she said it’s “the funnest carnival in the world”. I choose to pass on this action-packed day as I’m not fond of crowds, excessive heat rising from the acres of pavement, stomach-hurling rides or greasy corn dogs and mini donuts. The girls have a ball and come back exhausted. I, on the other hand, know that this is the one day I can enjoy my beautiful home on the harbor all by myself. Bliss.
Please let me introduce the main characters:
My husband, Grover, the ring-leader.
Grover’s a mad genius and about as eccentric as one can get. With his wild, thick grey hair, he’s been described as a cross between a disheveled English professor and a mad scientist. But because he’s intelligent, kind and generous he somehow gets away with his outlandish behavior. He works from home managing a small hedge-fund, keeps around-the-clock hours, and sleeps when he can. His microscopic home office is covered with yellowing Barons newspapers, Doom and Gloom reports, reams of performance reports that he prints out on a weekly basis (and then leaves all over the house), faxes sent from his office in Palo Alto, old magazines etc. He refuses to let any of this rubbish get thrown away. His office is overflowing with so much paper you can’t see his desk or the floor, so he now he has taken over our daughter Lindsay’s playroom. Mostly you’ll find him in his white bath robe hunched over the computer. When he’s not doing that, he’s on the treadmill, walking in his white robe and leather loafers, yes loafers! He wears large headphones and watches Bloomberg on the television or most recently, episodes of 24 or the Sopranos on DVD. He’ll occasionally take a break to walk up the stairs to our kitchen and open a fabulous bottle of Bordeaux (sometimes a magnum depending on how rough the day was) to let it breathe in time for dinner. He somehow squeezes in a shower before we all have dinner as a family at 6:30 with candles, wine, the works…
Grover and I couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. For some strange reason he doesn’t like fresh air and never opens a window. At one point, while we were living in Portola Valley, after years of listening to high-decibel snoring and suffocating in our bedroom which had forced-air heating blasting out from overhead vents, I stomped out of bed, found an old sleeping bag and yelled: "I'm outta here!" I slept outside on our deck and even though it was nearly freezing I had never slept better in my life. Knowing that it was supposed to rain (or possibly snow) the next night, I dug out a tent from storage and pitched that. I forgot about the rain fly, so when it did indeed rain, I got soaked. The next night I made sure I secured the rain fly and slept happily ever after for the next 4 months, where at that time we all uprooted and went to our home in Canada for the summer. When I returned back to California, I discovered that my tent had disintegrated from the harsh UV rays. I never bothered getting a new one so ended up sleeping under the stars for the next year and loving it. The major problem occurred when it rained: I had to move my makeshift camp (feather bed and down comforter) back inside and return to suffering in the heat. And it wasn’t just the sleepless nights that were awful—the flaky skin and nose bleeds weren’t so great either. If I could, I’d still be outside, except Central London isn’t the best place to live out my fantasy of sleeping with the moon and stars every night.
The lead in the supporting role is Paul F, our assistant from California who is currently living with his family at our home in Portola Valley. He claimed to have moved from his house two hours north of San Francisco into ours in order “spend more time at the office” in Palo Alto. As outrageous as this sounds, it has worked well for both of us because while we are in London he looks after our beloved dog Rusty, who we got from the pound nearly 14 years ago. In addition to not paying rent, property taxes, or any utility bills his children get to attend the local PV schools which are considered some of the finest in California. But somehow all this is justified because he and his wife also look after Lindsay’s best friend Stevie and her Taiwanese mother who have been living in our guest house for several years. They have been staying with us until Vickie’s legal affairs (citizenship, probate issues) get in order. Her husband and Stevie’s father, an American, died without providing them with an adequate income or a Green Card. Grover has spent countless hours advising her legal team, but it has paid off. We just got word that she received her Green Card and she can legally stay in the US as long as she wants. We love Stevie like our own daughter and are thrilled to help her.
When I return to California I don’t even think of staying at my home in Portola Valley. There’s no room for me! Luckily I have a great flat in Pacific Heights in San Francisco, so I’m happy to spend all my time there. Of course, I miss Rusty but I know he’s happy because he plays and sleeps with Paul’s 6 year-old son.
This odd living situation may soon change because Grover has been trying for the past three years to buy his Grandfather’s ranch in Central California. The trustee (his sister) wanted to sell it to sell it to a man from LA, but Grover has been fighting hard to keep it in the family. If everything goes as planned, it looks like Paul and his family may move Fresno in order to be closer to the ranch. In fact he’s planning on getting his Master’s Degree in Soil Sciences. We’re all hoping this huge investment will pay off!
Paul has also just requested that we hire him a personal assistant. It sounds crazy, but after I listened to just a small percentage of the things he needs to accomplish over the next two years, I also agree that he needs one. So, yes, our PA, now has a PA!
Jenny Mickel: our Scottish nanny who’s been with us over three years. She’s a cute, sporty brunette whom we met through another friend of ours from Canada. Since Lindsay is in school eight hours a day, Jenny has plenty of personal time. She goes to the gym in the morning, and since she’s a devout Jehovah Witness she spends her days studying The Truth and doing ministry work. If anyone’s perfect to “spread the word” it’s Jenny. She’s very friendly and chatty, and is an excellent listener. When we met Jenny she wasn’t involved with the Witnesses at all, but after she met her boyfriend (a personal trainer at her gym) he introduced her to The Truth. Since her involvement with their local congregation, I’ve seen many positive changes in Jenny’s personality. She’s much happier, has a great attitude and is very well-grounded.
Jenny has become much more than a nanny to us: she graciously runs our errands, grocery shops and cooks dinner when Janet (who changed her name to Janelle), our part-time cook, isn’t working. She lives at our Courtfield Road flat, two blocks away from our flat on Wetherby Gardens, and keeps it in tip-top shape. We have a revolving door of guests so this isn’t always easy.
Jenny’s first week of work didn’t start off that well: on her second day, I heard moaning coming from her bedroom on Courtfield Road (where we all lived previous to Wetherby Gardens). I went downstairs and found her clutching her stomach. She kept saying that she really isn’t a complainer, but something is seriously causing her pain. She mentioned that she had taken an extra dose of Senacot (a mild laxative), so at first we thought it was just her digestive system acting up. But after an hour of the pain getting increasing, I took her to our private doctor down the road. From there things only got worse. We had to call an ambulance, which showed up nearly an hour later as it had been dispatched from Surrey (50 miles away). The ambulance took us to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital where we both in the emergency room for 6 hours. She had every intern in London checking on her. Some had manuals, others had medical dictionaries. Not very reassuring…. Finally she was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst, was wheeled upstairs and operated on the next day. She remained in the hospital for 5 days and was more worried about the fact that she had just started her job than her operation. She’s totally fine and still with us. Her first encounter with Grover’s personality can be read on my posting “Blackout”.
Janet ‘Janelle’ Langford: We met Janelle on Salt Spring Island. She's an attractive blue-eyed blonde who speaks four languages. Her passion is cooking and she seems to enjoy all that goes along with her job, including grocery shopping at the world-famous Harrods Food Halls and walking up to the markets along Portobello Road to by fresh produce and spices. She lives with Jenny at our Courtfield Road flat. She has an easy-going attitude that is necessary when working for a man like my husband. He’ll often call her at 4pm telling her we have five more people showing up for dinner and he’d like osso bucco, (which takes at least 4 hours to prepare). She does a lot of meditation and boundary work which I think is the only way she manages to stay sane while working for us. She also blesses the fruit and vegetables and claims she’s able to pick up sonic vibrations from the produce: the ones emitting the strongest force end up in our dinner.
It’s not unusual for us to have to have between 6-10 people for dinner 3 times a week. Our kitchen in London is very small (by American standards) and I honestly don’t know how Janelle manages all the courses and the dishes that pile up. More than once the sink has backed up and the dishwasher has stopped working several times. This is a disaster because Janelle ends up having to hand-wash the dishes in the guest bathtub downstairs. Of course this always happens on a Friday or Saturday which means we can’t get a plumber in until Monday. Let me tell you, when this happens, you don’t want to come anywhere near the kitchen the following morning.
We’re even busier in Canada. Again, not unusual to have lunch for 12-14 people and then dinner for 8--on the same day! But at least we have a bigger kitchen and the appliances and plumbing seem to work okay. My mom loves it because when she comes to visit, usually for a week, she gains at least 10 pounds. She’s one of those rare people who actually need to gain weight. It’s a miracle I’m not 500 pounds, but I guess with my rowing, kayaking and swimming I manage to burn enough calories to get through the summer without having to buy an extra seat on the plane.
Richard R: Richard is Grover’s research assistant and analyst. He has a first-class degree from University of London and then went on to win a scholarship to Oxford where he majored in Anthropology. He is an author of seven books which have been translated into 12 languages and has presented four history documentaries for Channel 4. Richard spends a lot of time at my little flat on garden flat in Pacific Heights, San Francisco. In between working 14 hours a day, he waters my plants which have somehow survived for over ten years with absolutely no TLC.
Richard’s wife, Robin, helps us out too. She is the most organized and methodical person I know. When she went to visit her husband in San Francisco she got more done for me (organizing a move from one house to another) in one week than most people could do in a month. Robin’s a Native American Cree Indian from Vancouver who speaks with a posh English accent. And luckily for me she has OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). She’s a neat freak and likes everything to have its place. This is a huge advantage for us because she is currently sorting out Grover’s small home office in London as well as Lindsay’s play room. Hopefully when she’s finished we can actually see the floors! Robin also sadly suffers from bi-polar disease. But fortunately things have leveled off for her and she’s doing really well. As long as she keeps busy there’s nothing stopping her.
Katie and Stacy Burke: Sisters Stacy and Katie are originally from Montreal, Quebec. They spent their childhood traveling throughout Canada, living in a van while their musician father looked for gigs and their mother looked after them. They’re very proud of their free-spirited upbringing and are currently both pursuing careers as musicians. They are extremely talented singer-songwriters and have each cut recorded a CD. We met Katie on Salt Spring Island seven years ago. She started working for us as a nanny when Lindsay was just a year-and-a-half and has been with us in some capacity ever since. She has lived with us in London, San Francisco, Portola Valley and Canada, and has traveled with us on many vacations. Stacy has been there for us too, helping out in Canada and traveling with us when Lindsay was little, and most recently to St Barth’s. Even though Katie and Stacy have been working as musicians they still continue to work for us in the summers. They mostly fill in as baby-sitters when Jenny isn’t available, which is critical when we have loads of children at our house. Our home in Canada is like a summer camp for all the little girls (and a few boys) on the island. Some days there will be as many as 20 kids at the pool and at least ten nannies sunbathing in bikinis. Of course my husband loves it! He’ll fire up the barbeque and crank up the granita machine which churns out the most sickly-sweet slushies. The little girls can get enough of them. I try not to think of their glycemic indices shooting into the stratosphere, but since it’s a holiday I look the other way. Half the time the slushies end up spilling all over the deck which attracts swarms of bees. The girls love this too because they get to play with the “bug whacker” which looks like a tennis racket with electrically charged strings. They then run around screaming and zapping the bees before they get stung themselves.
Stacy and Katie also fly with several little girls in our De Havilland Beaver (an extremely safe, low-flying float plane) once a summer to the infamous PNE (Pacific Northwest Exhibition) in Vancouver. I didn’t exactly know how to describe the PNE so I asked Lindsay and she said it’s “the funnest carnival in the world”. I choose to pass on this action-packed day as I’m not fond of crowds, excessive heat rising from the acres of pavement, stomach-hurling rides or greasy corn dogs and mini donuts. The girls have a ball and come back exhausted. I, on the other hand, know that this is the one day I can enjoy my beautiful home on the harbor all by myself. Bliss.
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