Category Archives: travel

Home Away From Home

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There are so many lovely places to visit in the world. My husband and I love traveling to Europe. Edinburgh in Scotland is our most loved city. In the past few years, we have also discovered some great North American destinations. While on vacation, we often enjoy popping into iconic hotels for lunch or a drink, which is a wonderful way to experience the property. Some of the outstanding hotels we have explored include the Algonquin in St. Andrew’s by-the-Sea, NB, the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego, and Dalvay by the Sea on Prince Edward Island. The pictures that have inspired this photo essay are from Dalvay by the Sea, which was built as a summer home in 1895 by Alexander MacDonald, a Scottish-American businessman. The hotel offers 25 guest rooms and 8 cottages, and is known for its European charm and excellent service. Please enjoy a brief visit to this luxurious home away from home through my words and photos.

After an invigorating and scenic bike ride around the north shore of Prince Edward Island, Cecelia Hart mounted the front stairs of Dalvay by the Sea, her home away from home on this autumn getaway. Feeling a bit wind-blown and quite hungry, she headed to the cozy bar off the lobby. She pulled off her hand-knit hat letting her wavy chestnut hair fall around her shoulders and unbuttoned her LL Bean barn coat.

The bartender greeted her by name. “What can I get you this afternoon?” she asked.

“I’d love a cup of hot coffee. Hazelnut if you have it. And how about the charcuterie board, please?”

“Very good.”

“Would it be alright if I sat in there by the fireplace?” Cecelia asked, waving toward the spacious, sunlit living room furnished with friendly groupings of plush armchairs and couches.

“Of course. Make yourself at home,” the bartender said with a smile.

Once she settled herself in one of the wingback chairs in front of the crackling fire, Cecelia didn’t have to wait long for the bartender to deliver a steaming cup of fragrant coffee and a plate of artfully arranged cured meats and cheeses accompanied by bread and crackers.

As she thanked the bartender, another guest wandered into the room and stood in front of the stone fireplace, warming her hands. Cecelia took a swallow of her coffee and watched the other woman with friendly curiosity. She was thin and wiry with a cap of silvery bobbed hair. She looked like she spent her free time on the tennis court.

“Hello, there” Cecelia said.

The woman turned, her blue eyes lighting up as she returned Cecelia’s greeting. “Do you mind if I sit here by the fire too?” she asked.

“I’d be glad for the company,” Cecelia said, introducing herself. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Alicia Peabody.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the bar and said, “Let me just order a drink. I’ll be right back.”

While she waited, Cecelia pulled her knitting from the depths of her Italian leather backpack. She was making a sweater for her 3-year-old granddaughter. When Alicia returned carrying a tall coupe of sparkling wine, Cecelia set aside her knitting. She nodded toward the matching armchair beside her own. “Please join me.” She gestured to her overflowing plate. “If you’re hungry, feel free to help me with this amazing charcuterie plate.” 

“How kind. That does look tempting.” Alicia reached for a wheat cracker and a slice of Havarti cheese.

The two women chatted amicably and discovered that they shared a love for writing. Alicia recently had a book of poetry published.

“That’s wonderful!” Cecelia exclaimed. “I wish I could write poetry.”

“What do you like to write?” 

“I’ve written too many book reviews to count, and quite a few articles for a librarian’s professional journal. Now that I’m retired, I want to try my hand at fiction. Maybe a historical novel.”

“Marvelous! As a librarian I’m sure whatever you turn out will be impeccably researched. Any ideas what you would focus on?”

“I want to find out more about PEI, actually. I adore L. M. Montgomery, but I’m sure there is more to this lovely island than just Anne of Green Gables. I’d love to find a forgotten story from the past.”

“This hotel has quite a fascinating history. The concierge told me it originally was built as a summer home for a wealthy family from Ohio and the granddaughters ended up marrying into European royalty. Can you imagine what it must have been like in its heyday?” Alicia gestured enthusiastically encompassing the fireplace, the gleaming woodwork, and the sweeping staircase leading up to the guest rooms.

Cecelia nodded thoughtfully. “Imagine the stories that have taken place here. I wonder if the hotel has maintained any historical archives . . .”

She raised her coffee cup to Alicia. “Thanks to your intriguing idea, I have a feeling I may be coming back to the Dalvay before long.”

Campus Life

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One of my preferred travel destinations is Washington, DC. For many years, my husband and I enjoyed a family tradition of spending Columbus Day Weekend in the national capital. Each trip was unique. Some of our favorite sights in DC include the National Zoo, the Phillips Collection museum, the National Mall Carousel and Ford’s Theatre. On our last trip to Washington in 2021, we spent a delightful afternoon exploring the Georgetown neighborhood and college campus. My photos from that day have inspired the photo essay below.

Last year at this time, Sasha was sitting on the lumpy couch in her high school Guidance Counselor’s office. While she waited for Ms. Burns to get off the phone, she flipped through an outdated issue of Campus Life magazine. The glossy pages were filled with photos of smiling students lounging on sunny lawns, laughing in Harry Potteresque dining halls, or listening attentively in high-tech classrooms. She and Ms. B were meeting to finalize Sasha’s college list with Georgetown University right at the top.

Now, here she was on her first Saturday as a college girl, walking across the Georgetown campus. So far, her campus life was nothing like the one enjoyed by the students in the magazine.  Instead of bonding with her roommate, Jessica, and making friends with the girls in her dorm, Sasha was spending most of her free time alone. 

Jessica was nice enough. They just had nothing in common with each other. Jessica was a soccer player and a physical therapy major. When she wasn’t in class, she was either on the soccer pitch, in the gym or in the common room with her PT study group. Most of the other girls on her floor were sporty like Jessica. Somehow, dreamy Sasha who majored in art history had ended up in a jock dorm.

This morning, Sasha had gotten up early, determined to go out and find her people. She would start by visiting the De La Cruz Gallery. She remembered the guide pointing out the art gallery on her campus tour last fall. Maybe she could apply for a work study job or at least a volunteer position there.

Sasha strolled along admiring the spires and arches that adorned the college buildings around her. The campus was quiet. The early morning sun shone down on the grassy quad in front of the library. A woman and her poodle were playing a game of fetch across the lawn. The clock atop the Gothic tower of Healy Hall struck the hour, the clear tones of the bells blending with the dog’s excited barking.

As Sasha wandered past the college’s honorary statue of Jan Karski (another highlight of her college tour), she noticed a girl sitting on the bench beside the bronze figure of the chess playing government and international affairs professor. She was dressed in a calf-length crinkle skirt topped with an over-sized college hoodie. An open sketch pad lay in the grass at her feet. She held her cell phone at an odd angle out in front of her.

“Do you want me to take your picture for you?” Sasha called out.

The girl lowered the phone and smiled at Sasha. “That would be great, yeah. I want to send this photo to my dad. This statue is of one of his professors, who was also a World War II resistance fighter.”

“That’s cool,” Sasha said, accepting the phone and snapping a few shots of the girl. “My name is Sasha, by the way,” she added. “I’m a freshman.”

“Me too. I’m Beatrice.” The girl took her phone from Sasha’s outstretched hand and nodded her head as she swiped through the new photos. “Thanks.”

Sasha started to walk away, but then turned back. “Hey, Beatrice. I’m going over to the art gallery, do you want to come with?”

Beatrice scooped up her sketch pad and pocketed her cell phone. “Sure, why not.”

The two girls chatted companionably as they walked together across the quad, and Sasha’s heart lifted with the hope that her real campus life was about to begin.

Montreal

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Montreal is a destination that offers plenty of culture, delicious food and eye-catching landmarks. My husband and I took a summer trip to this cosmopolitan city in 2015. We stayed in the historic neighborhood, Old Montreal. During our week-long sojourn, we made every effort to see as many sights as possible. Some highlights of our trip included visiting Notre-Dame Basilica, Place Jacques Cartier, the Museum of Fine Arts, and the botanical gardens, as well as two scrumptious meals at a charming restaurant called Jardin Nelson.

After nearly ten years, I still have fond memories of our trip to Montreal. Perhaps, it is time for a return visit. In the meantime, the photo essay below is inspired by the pictures I took in 2015.

“What a wonderful meal in such a lovely setting,” Camille remarked, gazing around the flower-filled terrace and taking a final sip of her crisp white Bordeaux.  She clinked glasses with  her niece, Florette.  

They had just enjoyed a filling lunch of seafood crêpes at Jardin Nelson, a popular establishment in the heart of Montreal’s historic district.  Across the sunlit cobbled square  a cello player serenaded the passing tourists  with a soulful version of  Leonard Cohen’s  “Hallelujah.”

“I’m so glad you liked it,” said Florette.  She folded her cloth napkin and set it beside her plate.  “I’m happy you’ve come to visit too.  I wish I didn’t have to go to classes, so I could show you more of my favorite things in Montreal.”

“Don’t be silly.  I don’t mind exploring the city on my own.  This morning, I visited the basilica where Celine Dion was married.  All of that glowing stained glass took my breath away.”  She put her folded arms on the table and leaned forward.  “Besides, school comes first.”

Florette nodded.  “I know.  That’s what my mom would say too.”

 They shared a laugh.  “Tell me more about your classes at the art school,” Camille said.

Florette sighed and spread her arms in delight. “The Ecole des Beaux Arts is fabulous!  My favorite class is my still life drawing class.  The professor is so talented and inspiring. Last week she said my drawing of a bowl of oranges was nearly perfect.”

As they paid the check and gathered their belongings, Florette chatted on about her other art courses.  In front of the restaurant entrance, she posed so Camille could take a photo.  Glancing at the time on her cell phone, she said, “My next class isn’t until 4:00.  Do you want to come with me to the botanical gardens?  I have to do some sketches and you could take more photos.”

“What a marvelous idea,” said Camille.  They linked arms and made their way down the street looking for a taxi.

Montreal’s botanical gardens were nestled in the city’s Olympic District.  Florette pointed out the Olympic stadium as they rumbled by in their cab.  At the entrance to the park, they hopped out of the car and strolled through the gates.

Florette pulled up a map of the gardens on her phone. “Let’s head over to the alpine garden. I love the flowers there and the rocky landscapes.  All of the flowers are so tiny and sweet.  I’m going to sketch the phlox and the rock roses.”

“Sounds good to me.  I have to warn you though.  I may burst out into an off-key version of Edelweiss.” Camille joked.

“Remember how I made you watch my Sound of Music video every time you came over when I was little?”  Florette said with a giggle.

“It was your favorite.  Mine too.”  Camille said, swinging her arms and glancing up at the brilliant sunlit sky.  After a moment she went on, “When I visited Austria, I went to Leopoldskron Palace, where they filmed some scenes from the movie. The gardens there are stunning.”

“I’m sure.” Florette couldn’t keep a hint of envy from her voice.  “I’d love to go to Austria, or anywhere in Europe.” She gazed admiringly at her aunt.  

“You’ll have your chance to travel,” Camille assured her. “You’re just twenty-one. There’s plenty of time!” 

As they followed the brick paved pathways, Camille read the signs pointing out the locations of  the different gardens.  “Japanese garden, Chinese garden, alpine garden,” she said.  “It looks like you can travel around the horticultural world in one day here.”

“Did you know there are more than 20,000 types of plants here from all over the planet,” Florette said.

“Amazing!”

They fell into a comfortable silence, walking past the rose garden and the aquatic garden. As they approached the Chinese garden, the carved roof of the pagoda appeared in the distance.  The splash of a waterfall or fountain filled the air along with cheerful birdsong.

Florette said, “When I finish my sketching, we should check out the Chinese garden. The pond in front of the pagoda is filled with lily pads and there’s a gorgeous willow tree.  You’ll get some excellent photos.”

“Speaking of lily pads, I’d like to look at the aquatic garden too, if we have time.”

“Sure.  Of course”

“One of the best gardens I’ve ever been to is Monet’s garden in Giverny.  I was there in April, so the famous water lilies weren’t in bloom, but there were so many other lovely and unusual flowers it didn’t matter,” she said, following her niece into the enchanting alpine garden.

“One of these days, I’ll have to make a summer trip to Giverny.  The water lilies come out in July usually,” Camille went on.

Florette opened her sketchbook and found a shady spot beside a rockery carpeted with a bed of fragrant lavender, pink and white phlox.  She let out a wistful sigh and said, “I want to be a world traveler like you.”

“You know,” Camille said thoughtfully, “next summer after you graduate would be the perfect time for a trip to France . . . we can go to Giverny together to celebrate.  And we can ask your Mom to come along too. ” She beamed at her niece. “A girls’ trip to Europe will be a grand way to kick off your quest to see the world!”

Seashells, Sunshine and Serendipity

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Having family in Maine provides me with several marvelous New England travel destinations. My parents and my sister and brother-in-law live in Brunswick and Harpswell. A trip to both of these towns, along with nearby Freeport or Portland, always promises scenic beach walks, fresh seafood enjoyed with waterfront views, and shopping at farmer’s markets or eclectic shops and galleries. Every August, Brunswick hosts an Outdoor Arts Festival. One summer as I wandered among the booths, I stopped to admire a small watercolor depicting two little girls standing side by side on a quiet beach watching the incoming tide. Although I was tempted to purchase the lovely painting, I left it behind. Later that year, my thoughtful mother surprised me on my birthday. She had bought the painting for me . This charming scene, along with photos I have taken in Maine have inspired this new photo essay.

The late night storm swept a garden of kelp and sea lettuce across the sandy shore. Hidden among the strands of seaweed is a treasure trove of shells, pebbles and sea glass. Now, the late morning sun shines down from the clear blue sky and the churning waves have calmed. Elizabeth Ann and her daughter walk along the water’s edge where the damp sand remains firm beneath their bare feet.

The little girl skips and dances like a sandpiper, swinging a yellow plastic bucket at her side. She pauses every few minutes to bend down and examine the glittering array of shells scattered across the beach. She picks up a perfectly formed scallop shell and calls back to her mother, “Look at this one, Mommy.”

“That’s a keeper, Eliza,” Elizabeth Ann says, admiring the pristine white shell. She holds up a heart-shaped piece of green sea glass. “What do you think of this?”

“Ooh, it’s so pretty.” As she places the treasures into her bucket, Eliza glances over her shoulder at the friendly sound of a dog barking.

A West Highland Terrier trots down the porch steps of one of the homes lining the beach. The dog runs toward them, followed by a girl who looks to be around 4 or 5 years old like Eliza. Her long dark hair is tied back in two braids and she holds a hand to her head to keep the floppy sun hat that matches her purple sundress from flying off in the ocean breeze.

“Where are you going, Callie?” the girl calls out. “Please come back right this instant.” Her voice has a distinctive British lilt, that makes Elizabeth Ann smile. Memories of her college semester abroad in London and her first love fill her mind, as she watches the girl bend down to hug her dog, who has obediently returned to her side.

“Good girl, Callie. You’re such a good dog.”

Eliza skips over to them. She sets down her pail and asks, “Is it okay if I pet your dog?”

“Of course. She’s quite friendly.” The girl smiles at Eliza and goes on, “My name is Maisie. That’s my dad.” She points to a man standing on the wide front porch of the white clapboard bungalow. “What’s your name?”

Crouching down beside the terrier, Eliza says, “I’m Eliza Grace, but you can call me just Eliza. My mom likes to call me Eliza Grace sometimes, so I’ll have two names like her. She’s Elizabeth Ann.”

“How funny.” Maisie grins up at Elizabeth Ann and gives her a little wave. She takes a tennis ball out of her pocket and hands it to Eliza. “Callie loves to play fetch.”

Eliza tosses the ball and the little girls giggle together when the dog chases after it. Elizabeth Ann watches them play, taking pictures with her cell phone. Through the phone’s video screen, she spots the man descending the stairs of his front porch. He jogs across the sand toward them and as he draws near she recalls a weekend trip to the beach in Devon on the south coast of England. His tall frame and loping stride seem awfully familiar.

“Maisie, it’s almost time for lunch. Come on home,” he calls out and Elizabeth Ann’s heart skips a beat. She knows that voice. She remembers the first time she heard it in that London pub when Sebastian introduced himself. From that moment, they had fallen into a whirlwind romance, but in June had gone their separate ways.

Elizabeth Ann studies him, her heart swelling with bittersweet emotion. She knows that Sebastian recently lost his wife to cancer and hopes that he and Maisie are coping well.

“In a moment, Dad,” Maisie says. “Callie and I are playing with our new friend, Eliza.”

“You’ve met a new friend then,” he says glancing from Maisie to Eliza and then finally Elizabeth Ann.

Standing beside her daughter, Elizabeth Ann slips her phone into her pocket. “Hello,” she says quietly.

Their eyes meet and his spark with surprised recognition. “Elizabeth Ann?” he says. “My God, it is you. It’s been a long time.”

Elizabeth Ann smiles up at him, hardly able to believe that he is standing right in front of her. There are a few lines on his face and his shaggy hair is now neatly cut, but his warm sherry colored eyes and engaging grin are the same.

“And this is your daughter?” he goes on, turning to Eliza. “Pleased to meet you,” he says with a formal bow.

The little girls giggle and Maisie says, “Dad, you’re being silly.” She waves an arm toward the gently rolling waves. “Can we go for a paddle?”

Sebastian glances at Elizabeth Ann. She nods and he says, “No going above your knees.”

The girls wander hand in hand to dip their toes in the water, Callie following at their heels.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Sebastian quips, quoting Casablanca.

Elizabeth Ann draws in a deep breath of salty air and grins at Eliza and Maisie’s shrieks of delight as they run and skip in the shallow water. She laughs and says, “I think so too.”

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.