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?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
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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