Category Archives: travel

Sea Turtles and Sunsets

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My intrepid niece, who is an archivist for the National Park system, recently finished up a year-long assignment at Haleakalā National Park. To my great delight, I was able to visit her in Hawaii before she moved on to her next adventure. Originally, I planned to go to Maui, where she lived, but due to the wild fires, we decided to meet on the Garden Island, Kaua’i instead. We coordinated our travel plans to arrive at Lihue Airport at the same time. In fact, her plane landed immediately after mine. After a joyous reunion in the terminal, we rented a car and drove to the condo we had reserved in Koloa. All week, we had a grand time exploring the island. Every evening we would end our day by strolling from our condo to Poʻipū Beach to watch the glorious sunset. My memories of our week on Kaua’i have inspired the photo essay below.

“This is amazing,” Elizabeth Ann sighed.

Grace smiled at her daughter and agreed, “Indeed it is.”

They were standing knee-deep in the Pacific Ocean at Poʻipū Beach. The clear, warm water lapped gently against Grace’s shins. A soft breeze ruffled the edges of her new sarong cover up. On their afternoon shopping excursion in Old Koloa town, both Grace and Elizabeth Ann had gone a little wild in a fun and colorful store called Aloha from Koloa.

When they finally managed to tear themselves away from the racks of beachwear and souvenir displays, they stepped out of the shop into the bright sunshine, each with an overflowing shopping bag dangling from her wrist. Along with the floral sarong, Grace had bought a wide-brimmed straw hat, a pair of sandals and a set of hand-woven place mats.

Hands on hips, both women turned toward the horizon where the sun floated above the ocean on a bed of golden clouds. Everyone at the beach, both in the water and on the shore, had paused to face west and take in the sunset.

“It’s time,” Grace said, glancing at the waterproof watch on her slim wrist. “7:52.”

Slowly, the sun slipped through the clouds illuminating the sky in shades of lilac, tangerine and coral, before sinking silently into the sea.

“Look at all the people who are here.” Elizabeth Ann gestured back toward the lines of spectators standing on the sand and up on the bluff. “Is it always like this?”

“It’s a nightly event,” Grace explained. “Every evening, the sun sets one minute later than the day before. We’ll all be here tomorrow at 7:53.”

“Can’t wait,” Elizabeth Ann said. She bent forward to dip her hands in the ocean water and then ran her dripping fingers through her thick, dark hair, smoothing it back away from her face. “The girls would love this beach,” she said. “Angela would spend all day snorkeling and Victoria would have a blast on her boogie board.”

Grace’s sighed happily at the thought of her granddaughters. “You’re right about that. They must get their love of the water from their father. Both you and Edmund would have spent your entire summer down at Mission Beach if we had let you.”

“I loved that beach! Remember the summer Edmund and I took surfing lessons? He was a pro right from the start, naturally. I, on the other hand . . .” Elizabeth Ann let her voice trail off and then, with a bright smile, she went on, “But my favorite beach memories are from when we took that road trip up to Malibu. Remember? We had that little cottage right on the water and we could see dolphins from our front porch.”

“That was one of our best family vacations. Everything went like clockwork,” Grace said. ”I remember picnic suppers at Point Dume and our week-long miniature golf tournament. As I recall, you were the mini golf champion.” She smiled fondly at Elizabeth Ann.

“That was such a long time ago,” Elizabeth Ann remarked.

“And yet, it seems like just yesterday,” Grace said. “Spending time with Angela and Victoria always brings back so many memories of when you and Edmund were small. I hope Edmund and Joy will be able to bring them out here for Christmas. It would be so marvelous to have all of us together for the holidays.”

“Well, I’ll definitely be here. Gerald, my editor, wants me to write a series of articles about Hawaiian restaurants for my column. I’ll start doing some research on Kauai.”

“I’m glad.” Grace reached out to squeeze her daughter’s hand and then looking again at her watch, she said, “Shall we head back?”

“I’m ready.” Elizabeth Ann turned and began to wade to shore. After just a few steps, she stopped. “Look at that, Mom,” she exclaimed clutching Grace’s forearm with one hand and pointing at a shadowy creature swimming just beneath the surface of the water. “Is that a sea turtle?”

Grace nodded and explained, “The sea turtles often come up on this beach to rest. See, it’s crawling out of the water now.”

Mother and daughter waited and watched as the turtle settled comfortably into the sand a few feet from the water’s edge. Then Grace led Elizabeth Ann back onto the beach away from where the turtle had landed.

“We mustn’t disturb the turtle. This is his natural habitat after all and we’re merely his guests.”

“You are so lucky to live in such an amazing and beautiful place, Mom,” said Elizabeth Ann.

“Speaking of beautiful,” Grace replied, “tomorrow, we’ll go to the north side of the island and I’ll take you to the most stunning beach in all the Hawaiian islands at Hanalei Bay.”

Grace and Elizabeth Ann strolled arm in arm at a leisurely pace back home. As they approached the driveway leading into the condo complex, Elizabeth Ann said, “Believe it our not, I am glad you ended up moving here.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it?”

“Because I was such a brat when you told me you wanted to move. Remember how freaked out I was? But, I have to admit, you were right. I can’t wait for the whole family to be here at Christmas.”

Grace nodded as they climbed the steps onto her front stoop. She fished in her bag for her house key and softly began to hum “Mele Kalikimaka” under her breath.

She pushed open the door and said, “I’m looking forward to making new holiday memories here in Hawaii with all of you.”

Remembering Rome

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In 2014, my niece studied abroad in Rome. Of course, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to plan a visit while she was there. During my February break, I boarded a plane with my husband, excited to see my niece and explore a new destination. A few of my most treasured memories of that trip include saying a prayer in the Pantheon, spending a delightful afternoon at the zoo (Bioparco di Roma) and whizzing through the city streets on a double-decker tour bus. In the photo essay below, my character, Maisie, looks back on her own memories of Rome.

Nearly thirty years ago, Maisie Brennan fell in love. During her junior year at Connecticut College, she had opted to study abroad in Rome. Within a week of her arrival, Maisie was in love with the Eternal City. The ancient monuments existing within the hustle and bustle of the modern metropolis captured her imagination. In particular, the Pantheon. The first time she stood beneath the dome in the 2000 year old basilica and gazed up at the bright autumn sky through its miraculous oculus, Maisie knew she somehow belonged there.

Now, at age 49, Maisie is finishing her breakfast in the kitchen of her tiny one-bedroom bungalow in Massachusetts. She had woken up thinking about Rome. In her dreams, she had been back in the Pantheon and it was snowing. A gentle cascade of snow flakes drifted through the oculus like a glittering, frozen veil as Maisie walked slowly across the rotunda. Catching sight of her high school Latin teacher, she hurried over to the tomb of Raphael where a small choir was singing “Ave Maria.”

When she opened her eyes, Maisie was humming the final bars of the iconic hymn. Pondering the meaning of her odd dream, Maisie climbed out of bed and went down to the kitchen. While her tea steeped and she waited for her two slices of rye to pop out of the toaster, she had retrieved her college photo album from the bottom shelf of the floor to ceiling book case in her living room.

On the pine farmhouse table in front of her sits an unopened copy of The Cape Cod Chronicle and the battered photo album. Between taking sips of Earl Grey and bites of buttery toast, she turns the pages of the album. Every snapshot prompts a nostalgic memory. The colosseum at night. Playful lemurs at the zoo. The magnificent tapestries in the Vatican Museum. Michelangelo’s Pieta. A picture of a bright red tour bus makes her stop and smile. She hums softly as she thinks back to the day she had taken that picture.

On the first Saturday of the semester, Maisie had decided to explore her new city, tourist style. First thing in the morning, she and her roommate bought tickets for one of the open air, double decker buses that rolled through the city streets informing visitors about the grand and glorious history of Rome. Eagerly the girls climbed aboard at the train station in the Piazza de Cinquecento and headed for the top deck. Plugging in the headphones provided by the driver, Maisie settled back to enjoy the ride.

Along the route, they rode by the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Vatican, the Spanish Steps and the Villa Borghese Gardens. Between the prerecorded commentary about each sight, passengers listened to classical music recordings. As the bus rumbled away from the PIazza Venezia toward the Vatican the thundering chords of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” made Maisie’s heart speed up. She laughed out loud, appreciating the moment as she rode through the streets of Rome with the wind in her hair and the thrilling music spurring them on.

Closing the album and finishing her tea, Maisie wonders where her spirit of adventure has gone. Every time she watches Rick Steves or Samantha Brown on PBS, she dreams of jetting off to Europe, the Far East or the Caribbean. In reality, she hasn’t used her passport in years. Maisie props her chin in her hands and sighs. At least she hasn’t let it expire.

For too long, she has made seemingly valid excuses for putting off travel. Mortgage payments. Too busy at work. Family obligations. Well, not anymore, Maisie tells herself. Her dream about the Pantheon is a sign, she decides. The gods are telling her to venture forth. Her fiftieth birthday is coming up. She will splurge and book a tour of Italy. It is time to make new memories.

A Sunny Morning in Giverny

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My fondest travel memory is of the day my husband and I visited Claude Monet’s house in Giverny. We were spending a week in Paris and took a day trip to the artist’s home. Strolling through his beautifully cultivated gardens was like a dream. We were surrounded by vibrant colors, exotic blossoms and enchanting birdsong. In the water garden, we paused to marvel at the famous Japanese bridge that we had seen depicted in one of Monet’s paintings the day before at the Musee d’Orsay. The house was just as inspiring as the gardens. My favorite room was the blue-tiled kitchen with its copper pots and old-fashioned iron stove. Upstairs in the bedroom, I was able to gaze out the window down onto the garden and imagined the artist himself standing there each morning drinking in the view before beginning his day. In the photo essay below, my character, Cerise, makes a fresh start, beginning a new chapter of her life on her first day on the job at Fondation Claude Monet.

After working in a Paris advertising office for twelve years, Cerise Dior was ready to return home to Giverny. Commuting on the crowded Métro had become tiresome and navigating office politics a headache. During her Christmas holidays, while sipping coffee and flipping through the local newspaper in her older sister Esmé’s sunny, yellow kitchen she had spotted a job notice for Assistant Director of Marketing at the Fondation Claude Monet. Expecting nothing to come of her inquiry, she applied for the position and now to her surprised delight, she was here in the village where she grew up ready to begin a new chapter of her career.

Carefully pulling into the employee parking lot, she parked her sporty blue Peugeot. Beside her on the passenger seat was a crisp white bakery bag holding flaky almond croissants and pain au chocolat. Enough to share with everyone in the office. Esmé had baked the pastries first thing in the morning. Their buttery aroma filled the little car.

The clock on her dashboard reported that it was only 7:20. Cerise sighed. She couldn’t show up 40 minutes before they were expecting her, but she didn’t want to sit in the car. Maybe she could do a bit of exploring.

After a moment, she climbed out of the car, remembering to grab the bakery bag and retrieved her shoulder bag from the back seat. She paused, gazed around the deserted parking lot and then set off for Monet’s gardens. She strolled past the shuttered gift shop and café, which inevitably would be bustling with tourists and local visitors in just a few hours. Crossing the road, she walked briskly along the sidewalk that ran behind the artist’s home. The April sunshine winked against the upstairs windows and warmed the rose-colored facade.

As she turned the corner, she held her breath in anticipation of her first glimpse of Monet’s spectacular garden. Stepping out of the shadow of the house into the front courtyard, Cerise clasped her hands to her chest, still clutching the white bakery bag and let out a delighted sigh. A kaleidoscope of colors and scents invited her forward. Rows of well-tended flowerbeds lined the wide gravel walkways

Slowly, she circled a garden of tulips. The pink and white blooms danced in the gentle spring breeze on gracefully tall stems. On the opposite side of the garden, cherry blossoms shaded plantings of forget-me-nots, lilies of the valley and jonquils.

“C’est splendide!” she murmured dreamily. Her mind raced with ideas for how she could promote this lovely place.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle!”

A cheery voice pulled her back into the present moment. Cerise smiled hesitantly at the rosy cheeked woman who seemed to be about her own age hurrying toward her from one of the walkways.

“Hello,” Cerise said. “I was a little early for my first day of work and decided to do some exploring,” she explained in a sheepish tone.

The woman waved her hand dismissively and shrugged. “Don’t worry. I often start my day with a walk in M. Monet’s garden. My name is Suzette. I’m in charge of social media for the Fondation. Are you Cerise Dior?”

“I am,” Cerise confirmed. “I suppose we will be working together.”

“Yes, yes. Welcome!” Suzette looked at the silver watch that adorned her narrow wrist. “We still have a few minutes. Let me show you the garden.”

Together, they strolled up and down the garden paths while Suzette pointed out some of the more unusual blooms. Finally, they headed back across the street to the offices.

“Whatever you have in that little white bag smells heavenly,” Suzette remarked as they walked past the restaurant.

“I brought some croissants from my family’s bakery. Enough for everyone,” Cerise said.

“Ooh! Tres bien,” Suzette crowed. “I think we will be great office mates. Tomorrow morning, I will show you the water gardens.”

As they approached the wooden door leading into the administrative offices, Cerise quickened her pace and smiled up at the sunny, blue sky. Her new chapter outside the city was off to a promising start.

The Loveliest Place in the World

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Ever since reading about Agatha Christie’s holiday home in Devon, I have wanted to add Greenway House to my list of literary homes I have visited. In June, my wish came true. My husband and I traveled to London at the beginning of the summer to attend a Billie Eilish concert at the O2 Centre. To complement our musical experience, I fashioned an impromptu literary tour for the remainder of our week in England. On the itinerary were Poets Corner at Westminster Abbey, the Jane Austen Centre in Bath and Greenway House. The photo essay below was inspired by the idyllic afternoon we spent at “the loveliest place in the world.”

Greenway summer garden
River Dart
So many captivating flowers

Clio gazed down at the Georgian House admiring its white facade and stately pillars. From her vantage point on the hilltop garden path, the holiday home shone in the shimmering afternoon sunshine. Agatha Christie, the home’s famous resident, often referred to Greenway House as the loveliest place in the world. Clio had to agree with her. Lifting her camera to her eye, she snapped photos of the house, a herd of cows grazing in a neighboring pasture and the sparkling river estuary below.

The countryside views in Devon were softer than in Cornwall. Clio had just spent two days exploring the area around Fowey, home to Daphne du Maurier, another of her beloved British writers. With her rugged ocean cliffs, wild surf, and prehistoric standing stones, Cornwall was like a grand and imposing dowager dressed in black, Clio thought with a small grin. Devon, on the other hand was a warm-hearted favorite aunt who was partial to floral print dresses and sun hats.

Daphne du Maurier and Agatha Christie had lived and written in southwest England at the same time. Clio wondered if they had ever met each other or traded correspondence. Had they read each other’s novels?

With a sigh of satisfaction, Clio reached into her quilted shoulder bag for the tourist map she had received from the National Trust tour guide who had showed her around the house. From where she stood in the top garden, it looked like she could follow a winding path down to the famed boathouse where the innocent Girl Guide named Marlene meets a dreadful end in her favorite Christie novel, Deadman’s Folly.

As she traipsed along the well-tended, downhill path, Clio shivered in delight. She was walking in the footsteps of the renowned Queen of Crime. With each step, she imagined the writer rambling through the grounds while mulling over the details of her latest mystery novel. Actually though, in this neighborhood, Christie was simply known as Mrs. Mallowan. Agatha and her archaeologist husband, Max, would come to Greenway to escape the hustle and bustle of their public lives.

View from the upper gardens.
Greenway House Collage

Clio nodded and smiled at other walkers, many of whom were accompanied by panting, tail-wagging dogs tugging at their leashes. The woodland gardens were a marvelous spot for a Sunday stroll. At the bottom of the hill, she paused to catch her breath and bundle her chestnut hair into a long ponytail. A sudden gust of wind cooled the back of her neck and set swaths of verdant foliage dancing. The rustling of leaves blended harmoniously with the soothing sound of lapping water. The river was just ahead.

As she approached the boathouse, Clio caught a glimpse of a person standing by the shingled wooden structure.The elderly woman had her neatly coiffed silver hair covered with a plaid scarf. She wore a demure wool suit and sturdy walking shoes. A white and tan wire-haired terrier sat at her feet.

With a friendly smile on her face, Clio hurried forward. For a quick second, she let her gaze wander to the eye-catching river view. When she looked again at the boathouse, the woman and her dog had vanished. Perhaps they had slipped inside. Clio stepped through the open door. The cavernous room was empty, but the faint echo of a dog’s bark and a woman laughingly hushing him filled the air.

Saints, Stained Glass and the Sé

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Thrilled to be traveling in Europe again, my husband and I thoroughly enjoyed a trip to Lisbon in April. What a warm and friendly city! Everyone we met from the hotel staff and restaurant servers to taxi drivers and local shopkeepers made us feel welcome. Our hotel, Memmo Alfama, was located in the medieval district of the city, just steps away from the national cathedral (the Sé).

The cathedral is officially called Igreja de Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa. It is the bishop’s seat or Sedes Episcopalis. Construction began in 1147 on the ruins of a Moorish mosque. Part of the site today is an archaeological excavation of the mosque.

While exploring the historic place of worship, the brilliant rose window caught my eye. The Romanesque window, which depicts the twelve apostles encircling Jesus, bedazzles the stone floor of the choir loft with jewel colored sequins of light. My vacation photos of the cathedral inspired the following photo essay.

Climbing the stairs to the choir loft, Anabela drew in a deep breath, trying to quiet the insistent thoughts whirling through her mind. She had so much to get done by Sunday, just two days away. For the first time, she would be hosting her family’s Festa de Santo Antonio celebration. Everyone would come back to her house after marching in the parade down the Avenida da Liberdade.

At the top of the stairs, Anabela glanced up at the gleaming rose window. Jesus and his twelve apostles depicted in the stained glass had an overarching view of the shadowy nave down below. Last summer, she had married Silverio in this church on a hot July morning. Anabela had walked up the aisle, escorted by her proud papa, while her cousin, Mariela, who was the choir organist, played the processional. Mariela was now teaching Anabela to play the organ and had insisted that she was ready to play at Mass on Sunday.

Taking a seat at the organ and closing her eyes, Anabela allowed herself a moment to daydream about her wedding day. She remembered the flowers, hydrangeas and lavender decorating the altar. She recalled the smiles and waves from her friends and relatives who filled the pews. But most of all, she thought of Silverio standing calmly at the front of the church, waiting.

Speaking of Silverio, she couldn’t keep him waiting today. She was supposed to meet him at Mercado da Baixa as soon as she finished her organ practice. They were going to buy the food for the festa. Sardines (of course), fresh kale for the caldo verde, fruit and vinho tinto for pitchers of sangria, and loaves of bread and pasteis de nata from their favorite bakery. Anabela had a shopping list tucked safely away in her purse.

Hurriedly, she opened her folder of music. She spread out the pages, placed her hands on the organ keys, and began to play. As the chords and melody of her favorite hymn filled the church, outside the sun broke through a layer of clouds and streamed through the rose window. Swirls of kaleidoscopic color danced across the floor of the choir loft, seemingly in time with the music. Anabela watched the sequins of light and played on.

She felt as though Santo Antonio had sent her a sign. Sunday would be a beautiful day.

Twenty-one again

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Ah Firenze! In 2017, I spent five delightful days in this lovely city, staying at a great hotel located at the foot of the Ponte Vecchio. My niece was studying in Florence for a semester. She lived in an apartment across the Arno just around the corner from the Uffizi Gallery. Each day, we would meet up in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio. One afternoon, we popped into one of the jewelry shops on the bridge and my niece helped me select my beautiful peacock brooch. The photos below have inspired some details in a short story I am currently working on. Here is an excerpt of that story.

From the second floor lounge of the Hotel Firenze Pitti Palace, I watched the street below.  Tourists and Italian locals were striding up and down the narrow sidewalks, most headed in the direction of  the Ponte Vecchio.  Briefly, I wondered how many of them would be lured into one of the glittering  jewelry shops lining the bridge before they made it safely to the other side of the Arno.

Yesterday, after emailing  my final restaurant review to Gerald, my editor back in San Diego, I visited one of the shops that had an eye-catching display of gold and enamel brooches in its front window.  I had examined bejeweled cats, butterflies, and flamingoes, holding each one up to the lapel of my jacket.  Finally, I decided on a resplendent peacock that made me think of my morning stroll through the gardens at  the actual Pitti Palace.  I glanced down at the delicate pin now fastened to my  lime green sweater set and smiled.

Behind me the marble mantle clock struck three times.  Maude had said she should make it to the hotel by 3:15 or so.  She was notoriously prompt.  She would be here soon, unless of course her plane from Edinburgh was delayed.  

Maude and I met  in a public speaking course at Regent’s College back in 1998.  The two of us hit it off right away and she welcomed me into her London circle of friends. When my semester abroad ended, we vowed to always be friends and to really stay in touch instead of just saying we would and then not keeping our promise. Thank goodness we did. Maude was a dear and true friend.

As I peered out the window, scanning the sidewalk for Maude’s tall frame and long blonde braid, the  hotel’s resident gatto, Bella, jumped up onto the window seat and butted her head against my hand, demanding attention.  She was a dignified black and white tuxedo cat with a long plume of a tail.  

“Hello, pretty girl,” I said, reaching down to stroke her velvety head. “I wish my kitty Cinnamon could meet you.”  My fluffy orange cat was on vacation at my brother’s house back in San Diego.  Victoria and Angela, my nieces, I was sure, were taking excellent  care of her.

Bella leapt from her perch and sauntered out of the lounge, tail in the air.  I watched her go and then stood up as the doors to the elevator slid open.  An elderly couple stepped into the corridor. They turned to the right toward the guest rooms and I sat down on one of the plush armchairs facing the elevator.

Glancing at my watch, I crossed my legs and tried to relax. I couldn’t wait to spend a few days exploring Florence with Maude. She was a great traveling companion.  Over the years, we had taken a few trips together, beginning with a weekend in Paris at the end of my semester in London.  Maude and I had ridden on  the Eurostar train from Paddington through the Chunnel to the Gare du Nord along with our friend, Sebastian.

I cringed as memories of that mini vacation filled my mind.  Sebastian, who was kind, smart, funny . . . and yes, good-looking had been my first love.  Maude had introduced us at the beginning of the semester and Sebastian and I quickly became a couple.  Sadly, our romance came to a crashing halt during that weekend in Paris.

The clank of the arriving elevator pulled me away from my memories and seconds later, Maude bounded into the room.  Dressed in skinny jeans and a sleeveless, polka dot tunic top, with tendrils of long blonde hair escaping from her characteristic French braid, Maude looked more like a carefree college girl than a 34-year old wife and mother. Her sea green eyes lit up as she caught sight of me.

“Elizabeth Ann!” she cried, and tossed her overstuffed duffel onto the leather  couch so she could throw her arms around me.

“It’s so great to see you,” we said in unison and shared an ecstatic smile. 

All of the sudden, I felt 21 again.

En Famille

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In 2008, my husband and I visited Paris for one sunny week in April. One of the highlights of our trip was spending an afternoon in Luxembourg Garden where we saw children sailing toy boats on the man-made pond and Ed sat down to play chess with an accommodating French gentleman. These memories have inspired the following photo essay.

“How is our friend Maude?” Edmund asked, stretching out his denim-clad legs and crossing them at the ankle. “Still driving Duncan crazy?”

Elizabeth Ann looked at her twin brother with a bemused smile. They sat together on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg. The clouds drifted across a watercolor blue sky, but the warm sun shone down dappling the pool of shallow water in front of them with spangles of light.

Edmund’s wife, Joy, stood at the edge of the expansive granite basin with their daughters, Angela and Victoria. At the far end of the man-made pond, the Palais du Luxembourg rose like a fairy tale vision.

“Maude is great and so are Duncan and the twins,” Elizabeth Ann replied, as she watched her nieces.

The girls each clutched a wooden pole. They leaned carefully over the rippling water, using the poles to steer two toy sailboats.

“Marjorie and Dylan are four now,” Elizabeth Ann went on. “They are so curious and observant about everything. Maude says they come up with some pretty hilarious questions sometimes.”

Edmund chuckled. “Too bad they all couldn’t make the trip with you.” He had met Maude and Duncan on several occasions over the years. All three worked as academic historians and Edmund often joked that he had more in common with his sister’s best friend than she did.

Early that morning, Elizabeth Ann had flown to Paris from Edinburgh, where she had been visiting her old school friend. She had met Maude while studying abroad in London.

“I know,” Elizabeth Ann agreed. “But they had scheduled a trip to visit Duncan’s parents this weekend.”

As he nodded in understanding, Edmund lifted a hand in greeting to a stocky, dark-haired man who returned the wave with a grin as he strode past.

“Who was that?” Elizabeth Ann wondered.

“Before you got here, I challenged him to a game of chess,” Edmund said. He gestured with his chin at a gathering of tables shaded by a grove of lime trees. At each game table, competitors stared intently at the black and white pieces arranged around the tabletop.

“You did?” Elizabeth Ann raised her eyebrows. “Does that guy speak English?”

“Nope.”

Elizabeth Ann laughed. Only her brother would have the confidence to challenge a stranger in a foreign country to a chess match.

“Who won?”

“Oh, he did. But I gave him a run for his money.”

“Très bien,” Elizabeth Ann praised and then stood up to welcome Angela and Victoria as they made their way back to join their dad at the park bench. Joy followed, smiling fondly at Elizabeth Ann.

“Auntie!” the little girls cried, laughing and skipping in their rush to give Elizabeth Ann exuberant hugs.

“Did you watch us sailing the boats?” six-year-old Victoria asked.

“Sure did,” Elizabeth Ann said.

“It was so fun!” Victoria slipped her hand into her aunt’s.

Elizabeth Ann squeezed her niece’s small, warm hand and bent down to kiss the top of her head.

“Hey, Dad,” Angela said. “You promised us ice cream. Can we get some now? I’m starving.”

“I did, didn’t I?” said Edmund. “Let’s see . . .” His voice trailed off as he pulled a guidebook from his back pocket. “I think there is an ice cream shop not too far from here.”

“Do you want ice cream?” Angela asked Elizabeth Ann.

“Always. I hope they have cinnamon ice cream,” she said.

“I never heard of cinnamon ice cream.” Victoria wrinkled her nose.

“It’s really good,” Elizabeth Ann insisted.

“My favorite is peanut butter cup. I hope they have that,” Victoria informed everyone at the same time that Edmund said, “Here we go. There’s a café on Rue Soufflot where we can have some Berthillon ice cream.”

He turned to Joy. “That’s the brand the travel agent recommended, right?”

“Definitely. He said it’s out of this world.”

“Sailboats, chess, and ice cream . . . could this day get any better?” Edmund joked. “Life is good.”

As the family set off, Victoria walked between her parents. But Angela followed behind with Elizabeth Ann. “I think I’ll get cinnamon ice cream like you,” she confided.

Elizabeth Ann put her arm around her older niece’s shoulder, her heart warmed by Angela’s earnest tone.

Edmund and Joy were so fortunate to have two sweet little daughters. Maude and Duncan were blessed with their children too. Walking along the leafy Parisian street with Edmund, Joy and the girls, Elizabeth Ann considered her brother’s words with bittersweet emotion.

Life was good, but she wondered when she would have a family of her own and hoped she would not have to wait too long.

Holiday Friendships

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In December 2019, I sailed away on a Star Clipper cruise with my extended family. We spent a glorious week beach hopping on a number of idyllic Caribbean islands. Early in our voyage, we visited Jost van Dyke, the smallest of the British Virgin Islands. Nicknamed “the barefoot island,” Jost van Dyke is renowned for its casual beach bars including the legendary home of the original Painkiller rum drink, the Soggy Dollar Bar on White Bay.

The photo essay below captures a typical moment at this and other tropical shoreline destinations.

Star Clipper vacation photos, 2019

Clio glanced up from her paperback copy of Jamaica Inn. Her mind swirled with images of a rocky coastline, crashing waves and lonely moorlands. She blinked and Daphne du Maurier’s Gothic setting melted away.

“Clio Penrose, is that you?”

Closing her book, Clio straightened in her cushioned rattan chair and looked around the sun-drenched beach bar. A tall, dark-haired woman wearing an aquamarine sarong and jeweled flip-flops edged by a group of tanned girls who were draped languidly in a semi-circle of pastel-colored beach chairs watching the world go by from behind their oversized designer sunglasses.

“Clio Penrose,” the approaching woman repeated with a familiar smile. “It’s Lila Bellamy from Connecticut.”

“Oh my gosh, Lila! I can’t believe it.” Clio gestured toward the seat across from her. “Sit down . . . join me.”

Lila set the brimming plastic cup she had carried from the bar on the table beside Clio’s paperback and settled into her seat. “Wow! It’s so good to see you. Sophie will never believe I ran into you.”

Once upon a time, Clio and Lila’s younger sister, Sophie, had been inseparable holiday friends. From age seven to fourteen, Clio had spent her summer on the Connecticut shoreline. Each year, her parents rented the same seasonal cottage right next door to the Bellamy family.

“How is Sophie?” Clio asked. “Is she here with you?”

Lila shook her head. “I’m here with my husband and our son, Kyle. They’re out kayaking,” she explained, waving a hand toward the turquoise water where children splashed in the gentle waves and farther out sailboats dotted the horizon. “What about you? You’re not here by yourself, are you?”

“I’m staying at the Sand Castle Hotel with two college friends. They took the ferry over to Anegada this morning.”

The two women shared a companionable smile and after a moment, Lila said, “Do you remember Jack Bishop, who lived at the end of our street in the house with the apple orchard?”

“Sure. Sophie and I loved buying those apple pies for one from his family’s farm stand.” Memories of riding bikes down a sun-dappled country road with her long ago friend filled Clio’s heart with nostalgia.

“He’s my husband,” Lila said with a grin. “I bake those pies now. I’ve become the keeper of the secret family recipe.”

“Awesome. How cool is that?” Pushing her chair back, Clio looked over at the bar. “Remembering those pies makes me hungry. I’m going to order some conch fritters. Can I get you anything?”

“That’s so sweet, but I’m good,” Lila said. “Jack, Kyle and I are going to have lunch back at our hotel.”

“I’ll be right back.” Clio crossed the soft, white sand and caught the bartender’s attention. While he put in her order for the fritters and then made her a rum drink called the Painkiller, she watched a couple of sun-burned tourists trying to master the ring game.

She held her breath as the metal ring tossed by the guy clinked against the hook he was aiming for but then fell away, swinging back on its dangling cord.

“So close!” his blonde partner squealed. “This game is impossible!”

Clio tended to agree with her. “Does anyone ever win the ring game?” she asked the bartender.

He shrugged his shoulders and grinned at Clio as he grated fresh nutmeg over her drink. “If they do, they receive a free drink.”

“Ah,” she said and added, “Thanks,” as he handed her the white plastic cup imprinted with the bar’s logo.

When Clio returned to the table, she found Lila flipping through her book. “I’m a huge Daphne du Maurier fan,” she explained.

“Did you know this is my sister’s favorite book? She’d be impressed that you’re reading it.” Lila put down the book and took a sip of her drink.

“Actually, I think I did know that.” Clio recalled a letter teenage Sophie had written detailing the travails of the heroine, Mary Yellan, and complaining that Hitchcock’s film adaptation didn’t do the novel justice.

“Sophie’s a high school librarian now. She works at an all girls private school outside DC.”

“I’m not surprised. I don’t think I ever met anyone who loves books and reading more than Sophie. What a perfect career for her.”

Lila’s phone pinged and she looked briefly at the display. “Jack and Kyle are back, I’ve got to run.” She held up her phone, “Before I go, will you pose for a quick selfie? I’ll send it to Sophie. She’ll really get a kick out of it.”

“Of course.” Clio scooted her chair closer to Lila’s. She held up the paperback displaying the melodramatic cover and smiled for the camera.

Lila snapped the photo and then handed her phone to Clio. “Type in your cell number so I can send you the pic too.”

One of my favorite shots from the cruise.

A moment after the women bid each other goodbye with a warm hug, a waiter arrived with Clio’s conch fritters. She drew the plate toward her, ready to enjoy her snack, and opened the text message from Lila. She downloaded the selfie, adding it to her camera roll and then scrolled through the vacation pictures she had taken during the past week, but remembering another beach on Long Island Sound and the friend who had meant so much to her.

Connecticut shoreline, 1984

Her phone chirped and she saw that she had received another text. Thinking Lila had followed up on her first message, Clio clicked the link and to her delight, she read:

Clio! It’s me, Sophie. You’re reading Jamaica Inn? What do you think? Isn’t it just so deliciously dark and romantic?

And just as if no time at all had passed, Clio picked up the threads of their friendship and began to type.

Lily-of-the-Valley: a token of happiness and good luck

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Wherever I travel, my itinerary includes a visit to the local botanical gardens whenever possible.  Through the years, I have wandered down so many garden paths, snapping photos of eye-catching blooms and breathing in the heavenly perfume of the flowers.  Some lovely gardens that are well-worth a visit include Monet’s water garden in Giverny, France, the Huntington Botanical Gardens in San Marino, CA, and the Halifax Public Gardens in Nova Scotia.

 In June 2019, my family and I spent a sunny afternoon roaming a botanical garden that is a bit closer to home: the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens.  At the time, a fragrant patch of lily-of-the-valley was in bloom.  The delicate scent of these tiny bell-shaped flowers, calls to mind memories of my mother getting ready for an evening out with my father.  Beautifully dressed and made-up, she always completed her ensemble with a spritz of Muguet perfume from the elegant glass bottle on her dresser.

My childhood memories and the pictures I took in Maine have inspired the following photo essay.

lily of the valley

Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens (photo by L. Walkins 2018)

Anneliese Twigg sits at her French grandmother’s round kitchen table swinging her legs and tapping her heels against the wooden chair as she finishes her lunch.  Across from her, Mémé is knitting. She knows how to make hats and mittens and even stuffed animals with her needles and colorful yarn.  Anneliese hopes her grandmother will teach her how to knit someday.

In the center of the table, an old jelly jar filled with water holds a bouquet of lily-of-the-valley.  Anneliese reaches out a pudgy hand to pull the sparkling glass closer.  She studies the quilted pattern adorning the sides of the vase, and traces her finger over each square.  The tiny white flowers sway like silent bells.

Breathing in the lovely fragrance of the lilies, Anneliese remarks, “They smell like Mama’s perfume.”

Mémé looks up.  “In France they are called muguet.”  She sets down her knitting and catches the ball of yarn in her gnarled hand as it rolls off the edge of the table.  “I am going to tell you a story about why these flowers are so special.”

Sitting a little straighter and flipping her long blonde braid over her shoulder, Anneliese smiles.  “Okay.”

“Hundreds of years ago in France, there was a girl named Elisabeth.  She grew up in a royal chateau outside Paris with her brothers and sisters.”

Anneliese’s grey eyes widen in delight.

“And do you know what else?” Mémé asks.

“What?”

“Elisabeth was your eleventh great grandmother, so this story is part of our family history.”

“Really, truly?”

Mémé nods and gives a little laugh.  “Elisabeth had three brothers.  The oldest boy, Francis, became King of France when their father died.  He and his wife, Mary, who was Queen of Scotland, ruled for just one year, and then Elisabeth’s younger brother, Charles Maximilien became King when he was just ten years old.”

Anneliese, who had turned ten just two weeks ago, gives her grandmother a skeptical look. “How can a little boy be a king?”

“That is how things were done then,” Mémé says with a shrug.

“But what about the flowers?”

“I am coming to that.  Just listen, ma petite.”  She folds her hands on the edge of the table and goes on with the story.  “At a royal May Day celebration, someone gave Charles a sprig of muguet to wish him good luck.  He was so charmed by the kind gesture, he decided to create a new holiday.  He called it the Fête du Muguet and from that day on, he gave bouquets of lily-of-the-valley to his sisters and all of the ladies of the court on May 1.”

“For good luck?” Anneliese guesses.

muguet

Lily-of-the-Valley (photo by L. Walkins 2018)

“But of course,” Mémé says gently.  “This tradition has lived on even until today.  When I was a girl in France, my sisters and I would go into the little forest behind our farm to gather the muguet that grew wild underneath the trees every year on May 1, which also happened to be my birthday.”

Leaning forward to once again smell the flowers in the pretty little jar, Anneliese says, “I wish I was born on May Day like you, Mémé.”

 

 

 

Friendship: a lifelong gift

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Ten years ago, my husband and I traveled to San Diego for a family wedding.  We also spent a few days sightseeing.  One afternoon, we rented a tandem bicycle to ride along the waterfront.  Our memorable experience has inspired the photo essay below, which features characters from my novel Sandra Cahill’s Best Friend.

Tandem Bike

 

“Come on, Emma!  It will be a blast,” Sam insisted.

Emma looked at the silver blue bicycle and then at her three friends.  Rachel and Sarah each gripped the handle bars of a cruiser bicycle.  Sarah’s bike was sea green, while Rachel had opted for flamingo pink.  Both cruisers were equipped with a wicker basket on the front.

Emma tucked her shoulder-length dark hair behind her ears and glanced again at the bike Sam had chosen, a tandem bike.  Finally, she nodded and said, “Okay.  But I call the front seat.”

“This will be awesome,” Sam said as they wheeled the rented bicycles out to the Mission Bay bike path.

“There’s supposed to be a great seafood place a few miles down the beach,” Rachel said.  “We could ride out there and have a nice lunch.”

“Allegedly, their fish tacos are award-winning,” Sarah added.

“Allegedly?” Sam said, winking at Sarah.  “What evidence do you have to support this claim, counselor?”

Sarah, who had just opened her own law practice in La Jolla, pulled out her iPhone and tapped on the screen.  “Rachel’s cousin gave it five stars on TripAdvisor.”

“My cousin, the personal chef,” Rachel said.

“Sounds good to me,” Emma said, putting on her bicycle helmet.

“Me too,” Sam agreed.  “Lead the way.”

Emma pushed off, steering the tandem bike as Sam pedaled behind her.  The front tire wobbled but a moment later, the friends fell in sync and they coasted smoothly along the path, following Rachel and Sarah on their brightly colored bikes.

san diego1Feeling like a kid again, Emma grinned as she breathed in the salt-scented air.  She pedaled harder, enjoying the stretch of her muscles and the afternoon sun on her shoulders.  She and her friends had spent many childhood summers riding bikes together along the Connecticut shoreline.

“Hey, Sam.  I can’t believe these views,” she called.  To the left of the palm-lined roadway, the tranquil bay sparkled.  The white sails of a trio of catamarans stood out against the bright blue horizon.

“I know.  I love it here,” Sam agreed.  “I miss California.”  After college, Sam had lived in Los Angeles but then moved to Boston.

They rode happily around the scenic bay until at last they reached the small fish restaurant.  On the covered deck overlooking the beach, they settled around an acacia wood table and ordered a pitcher of sangria.

“This place is cute,” Rachel remarked, unfolding her napkin and looking around.

san diego2Hanging baskets overflowing with geraniums and impatiens swayed in the ocean breeze.  A mural depicting Andean musicians surrounded by swirls of musical notes decorated the back wall.

The waitress delivered their drinks.  Sam picked up the pitcher and poured four glasses of the fruity red wine.  Sarah lifted her glass and said, “Thank you so much for coming out to visit me this week.  I’m so happy to have all four of us together!  Just like the good old days.  Here’s to lifelong friends.”

They all clinked glasses and Emma said, “Do you remember that song we used to sing in Girl Scouts?  The round, “Make New Friends?”

Rachel started to sing softly, “Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver and the other gold.”

One by one, Sam, Sarah and then Emma joined in the round.  As they sang, Emma looked around the table at her oldest and dearest friends.  The memories they shared and would continue to make in the future were as valuable as gold.

 

 

 

 

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