The Crillion

I strolled through the Hôtel Crillon’s sumptuous lobby and turned right, pulled into the elegant Winter Garden by the dulcet tones of the harpist I enjoy so much. I am a creature of habit: I stay here on each and every visit to Paris, and I take an espresso here every afternoon, enjoying the harp and the fine beverage and snack menu. But today, my habit faced a roadblock: A lovely woman, her back to me, showing off a narrow waist, was in my regular seat. I walked by her, discreetly glancing to glimpse her face. She didn’t see this, concentrating as she was on finding the largest of the crude lumps of dark sugar for her café au lait. I took a step to move past her but decided, at the last minute, to turn and face her, hoping I could summon a remark witty and charming enough to solicit an invitation to join her—or at least yield a “yes” when I asked to sit with her.

I did, and she did, and we passed the afternoon laughing and drinking—quickly moving on to champagne—before heading down the street to the Arc de Triomphe. We took pictures of each other up top, the Eiffel Tower looming gray in the background, then more photos trying on sunglasses at Chanel. We ambled and strolled, finding ourselves in the 16^th district near a lovely family bistro, where we dined. Her room at the Crillion, she sighed just the right amount, wasn’t her usual room, and she didn’t love it. More champagne caused me to invite her back to stay with me in my room, and she did.

I cancelled my meetings for Friday, and after the hotel delivered her favorite breakfast of strawberries, fresh cream, and their buttery croissants, we continued to explore the city. We lunched at the Gare de Lyon’s elegant Le Train Bleu, marveled at the Arab Institute’s innovative automated window sun shades, and sat outside the Louvre, admiring art through the windows but never going in. That evening, after champagne at the Pavillon Elysée Lenôtre, we shared hot frites and a croque monsieur at Pasteur Café on the Left Bank, then strolled by the Sorbonne, the Panthéon, and the many cafes which grew literary geniuses like moss. 

The next day brought more of the same: more champagne, the richest desserts, the most stunning art and architecture, and the most beautiful Hermès scarf I couldn't resist buying her after hearing the squeal its silkiness on her neck elicited. I blush now thinking how pleased I was to please her.

The third morning, I found her gone upon awakening, the remains of her beloved croissants littering a plate on a cart I had not heard enter the chamber. Noticing her small bag was missing, I was mildly concerned and inquired with the efficient front desk clerk, who had no record of a guest named Olive Snell.

Part of a day in Bellagio, and views of Lake Como

Bellagio inspires chivalry in men and adoration of their men in women. It moves couples to hold hands. There are no singles here. Even on motorcycles, there are pairs. The riders walk the esplanade, helmet in one hand, lover in the other.

Big honeybees are an orangey yellow which match the pollen weighing down their interflower flights. I amble back from a walk through Villa Melzi’s gardens, sit under a nearby magnolia tree set back from the path, and inhale. As always, I have a book. My brother always chides me for reading whist surrounded by natural beauty—“you’ll surely miss something extraordinary with your nose buried in the pages.” I lift my head from time to time, always lucky enough to see a small sailboat pass picturesquely or a mother kiss the top of her child’s head.

A bench opens up on the water’s edge, and I scurry to claim it and its unfettered views.

They take off awkwardly, as expected—ducks seem to do nothing, save float, with grace. As they turn away from Bellagio, their underwings flash white as the sun I seek comes out. A small sigh escapes me, a rare acknowledgement my brother was right. I read on, distracted only by a gelato craving and a rotund brown Dachshund fascinated with my feet.

Swallows undulate above and below the alley’s plane trees with increasing frequency as dusk approaches. Some would say I’ve once again wasted the day.

What's different on weekends

Steps away from my hotel is tiny Menaggio’s Piazza Garibaldi, or what we’d call the town’s main hub, though there are villas here on Lake Como with larger terraces. It’s been the place this and last week where I’ve had more than my fair share of red wine, sitting outside with a book (several books, at this point) to take in the scenery and overhear as much Italian as possible in my attempt to improve my language skills with minimal work. During the week, the scene is tourists and any locals who happen to take an espresso next to you at the bar, though you probably don’t choose the bar over a table unless you’re running late, but it’s vacation, so you’re not.

Weekends have regular rhythms too, but these involve the town residents. On Saturday evenings, very close to seven, tiny Italian women fill the piazza, grasping each others’ arms in what seems both a greeting and a way to steady themselves. Their husbands trail behind, shuffling with what is neither delight or sadness. There is a buzz in the piazza missing from weekday evenings, when tourists, happy but tired, talk low. Saturday night brings meetings and greetings and a cheerful excitement, and then without a rush but not slowly, they move toward restaurants.

I follow, momentarily forgetting that my two weeks here has meant I’ve now eaten at every establishment in town, even with day trips to Bellagio, Varenna, Lecco, and even Lugano. Recalling this as I pass one of the town’s many gelaterias, convinced I can smell the dark chocolate flavor I crave, I step inside and remind myself my trip is about to end, so dessert for dinner is wholly acceptable. My friend behind the counter agrees and greets me, for we are not strangers at this point.

Scene: Dining room, Grand Hotel Victoria, Menaggio, Lake Como

I'm upstairs and have just transcribed what transpired at dinner earlier this evening...no drama, yet full of sounds, smells, and moments which lent lovely texture to my experience.

The old but gorgeous and very grand hotel, with walls over two feet thick, is currently host to a small but loud wedding, which I find odd since this is a Wednesday. The wedding vehicle is, surprisingly, a tiny Ford Fiesta, adorned with nothing but a small white bouquet on its modest nose. I follow the hostess through the elegant bar—it really should be featured in a movie—back to the far dining room, hoping the quality of the karaoke emanating from the adjoining terrace quickly improves.

I barely sit before I am brought a piece of bread—not a basket but a single roll, so as not to spoil my dinner—and sweet butter. I summon my most polite and proper tables manners and look around discreetly as I break open my bread and ready it for butter. To my left, there’s a squat, silent couple in their 50s who throughout their meal fail to say even ten words to one another; I eventually discern they are British country folk, she desperate for them to fit into the posh scene. Their discomfort, especially his, seems to cause physical pain, and their silence contrasts sharply with the two German couples to my right, running through bottles of rosé.

Ahead are an Italian threesome who seem to be having a business meeting, though there seems to be too little talking for much to be accomplished. Behind me is a table with an unknown number of people of unknown origin—so softly do they speak I’m barely conscious of their presence, though my dinner is delicious enough to distract me from many things. A young, gorgeous, monied couple fight in the corner: She is sleek and angry and silent, and he in his mustard-colored linen suit is doing his best to make her laugh.

In the corner, nearest the terrace and dreadful singing, is an old man, probably 85, slowly making his way, alone, through a three-course meal. After dessert, he begins to check his watch every thirty seconds or so, compulsively. His bright pumpkin sweater contrasts with the lemony yellow dining room walls. He finally arises. He wears a thin gold band, and I wonder about his wife as he walks, not as steady as I sense he used to but with the same air of confidence, past me and out with the server, who banters with him in playful familiarity.

At this point, I've run out of excuses to stay and watch the German couples and the fighting young couple and rise, reminding myself to move quickly before the nearly gelato stand, serving a dark chocolate flavor so creamy a cone cannot contain it, closes for the evening. That texture is a fine one on which to end my evening. I fear my hotel room upstairs will seem dull and flat when I return.

Just A House: A Short Story

     Even my cousin merely floating the idea the beach house might someday be sold outside the family caused the donut to get stuck in my throat. I knew full well no one in my extended family made enough money to purchase what had been a savvy and fortunate purchase by my grandmother back in the 1940s of a tiny beige house two lots from a beautiful section prime Jersey Shore boardwalk. The fact my cousin was even verbalizing this potential scenario was cause for significant alarm, for it was his mother who now owned the house after my uncle, who grew up in that house with my dad, passed away. My dad’s claim to it was limited to its role as family portrait background and time capsule for rare days with his father.

     Growing up with both my parents working in schools, leaving summers free, that house became our summer ritual—the only Midwesterners in our town to take vacations, basically, and certainly the only ones to travel beyond 200 miles—and the spot for connecting with my dad’s side of the family. The trip out, usually my father driving straight through to avoid a pricey night in a hotel, was filled with more rituals: learning the CB radio codes, prepping ourselves for the lack of radio signal in Pennsylvania, and bonding with my dad as we smugly mocked my mom and sister for their tiny bladders. Pulling onto Hortense Avenue in the summer-swollen town of Ocean Beach, I would simultaneously hold my breath in anticipation of what awaited while trying to breathe in the sand, salt, sun, and ice cream just moments from my grasp. Cousins, too—cool cousins. Cousins I loved, with their hip clothes, perpetual tans, and easygoing confidence—relatives I wanted to be like, unlike the cousins in Missouri, who smelled of farm. 

     Back in Ohio, there were no beaches, or ice cream trucks, or outdoor showers. The typical evening in my little town was homework after dinner and Lawrence Welk, waving my dad out the door as he returned to school to oversee an evening function. But in New Jersey, we sat outside around a fire, or curled up in a corner of the sofa reading a book, or watched the adults play cards. Dad was relaxed and in his element, Mom was Mom but just a shade more outgoing, flirty even, loving the hostess role but hating to admit it. Hearing the surf after settling into bed on that magical first night reminded us the coming weeks would not be—not at all—like Ohio.

     The house was built when my father was around age ten—old enough to know you laid down your palms in wet cement to make your mark on the world when given the chance. Memories paired with my five senses spring to mind whenever I approach the squat, sickly-tan house: scents of suntan lotion and sea spray, the feel of hot sand under my feet and waves slapping my face, the faint clanging of the ice cream truck bell meshing with screams of happy children, salty mouthfuls of ocean water and roadside sweet corn, and squinty views of wide blue horizons dotted with clouds, far-off freighters, and sailboats.

     And now, in this diner, across from me and my donut, was one of the cool cousins, telling me the small shelter which symbolized my carefree childhood and my entire relationship with him and his siblings was quite possibly going to be liquidated so his mom could retire.

     It was as if his utterance caused a physical separation from my cousin and his family, so close was the bond that house created—the difficult pulling apart of a grilled cheese sandwich when you wanted to confirm the cheese was truly melted. Unable to speak, I excused myself to the bathroom and stared at my watering eyes under bad fluorescent lighting and mauve wallpaper with a mallard duck border. For the past fourteen years, my parents had been spending the fall at the beach house, which often sat empty after the summer crush. The house once again became the place we reconnected, now with war stories of our own children, work woes, and middle-age pains of the low back variety. That now-sacred six week block of September and October, with days still warm and nights becoming cool, would end. 

     I rejoined my cousin at the table, feeling the unease and lack of understanding in his stare.

     No preamble: “But it’s just a house.”

     Me: “But it isn’t. It isn’t just a house.”

     And my stomach churned at how he didn’t get it, not even a little, this cousin with whom I shared hot, sandy afternoons watching fine salt dry on our shins after swimming and body surfing. How could he not relate to my pain, not see this was the equivalent of a direct attack on our familial attachment? 

     It’s never just your grandmother’s favorite crystal vase, or just the pocketknife your dad used when you went fishing as a child, or just your mom’s high school class ring. Or just a house.

Alsace, Nancy, and animal heads

Of all the places I’ve traveled in Europe, France’s Alsace and Loire Valley regions tie for the places I’d most like to rent a car and just putter around for weeks on end. The city of Nancy in particular is a great base from which to explore diverse places like festive Strasbourg, Saarbrücken, Luxembourg, and the great champagne town of Epernay. Alsace is a magical place to celebrate Christmas, if that’s your chosen holiday—and even if it isn’t. Small, jolly cabins fill various squares and parks in Strasbourg, where afternoon shopping turns to evening cups of hot, spiced mulled wine (vin chaud) enjoyed whilst watching bad ice skaters near the cathedral. Cross the border into the village of Kehl, Germany, to both say you did and visit the bakery near the bus stop on the main drag for treats to munch as you wander down the avenue toward the town’s park.

But it’s Nancy that’s the crown jewel. Here, finally, is a French city (that is not Paris) with decent Christmas decorations. (Honestly, I have always been pretty underwhelmed, and I’m not alone.) A stroll down the wide boulevards surrounding the stark but beautiful Place Stanislas turns up sheets and halos of white lights draping streets. On nights thick with potential snow, they seem to hover, the cables holding them aloft invisible. You should walk down Rue Saint-Catherine and take in the colorful storefronts. You should stop for a chocolat chaud (hot chocolate) at the art deco Excelsior and sit in the front window near a rickety heater. And you should, without a doubt, eat at the taxidermy-filled, Snow White-meets-TGIFridays-meets-cartoonish saloon Taverne de Maitre Marcel, where you’ll have beer and a tarte flambee and be served by an attentive waitress, to whom you'll be faintly rude since you can’t take your eyes off the stuffed pheasant behind your date’s head.

After dinner, you’ll head down to Place Stanislas again for the evening’s holiday performance, a dreamy affair featuring acrobats floating around on wires and stilts with lights on their tights and wings on their backs. There’ll be fake snow, heckling, cheering, classical music, and fireworks. And then you’ll take your date’s hand, head over to that very hip bar on the corner, notice there’s a white rhinoceros head on the wall for decoration, and wonder what’s in the water here that makes the citizens of Nancy display animals instead of, oh, paintings or non-furry sculpture.

Tanglewood, good smells, and forgetting yourself

In years’ past, I would annually brave the crowds at Tanglewood, Massachusetts’ civilized version of Woodstock, to take in the sublime sounds of John Williams and the Boston Pops or any of the talented musicians who often grace the stage. Nowadays, I’ve no tolerance for the traffic, the bugs, or the lugging of the must-have posh noshes to far-flung corners of meadow. (Candelabra: check.)

But what I *do* miss are the smells. The first time you visit Tanglewood, set in a fairytale woods, you’ll no doubt walk away with the same diverse olfactory catalog I did. Sitting on your low folding chair, blanket at the ready to cover your soon-to-be chilly knees, you’ll experience a medley of scents which at once overpower and gently perfume—harmonizing like the woodwinds but also clashing like angry cymbals.

Cigar. Freshly-cut grass. Buttery popcorn. Beeswax candle. Blue cheese. Perfume with a hint of jasmine. Evergreen trees. The sting of a match’s sulphur.

They wrap around you, their diverseness playing counterpoint to the bucolic surroundings--because even though thousands of people are sitting alongside you, it’s still a grassy field in the woods.

And then the maestro mounts the stage, you peer through the candle and wine glasses on the low table in front of you, and you forget all about the aromas which accompanied you just moments before.

Coffeeshops and getting to know your children

The bell jangled, and not in a charming way, as I entered the cramped coffee shop, but I was enamored just the same. I wouldn't have guessed I'd like salmon pink walls with yellow tables and bright white chairs, and yet, my delighted gaze rested upon them as I walked carefully through the patrons filling them toward the counter. Coffee shops not of the large, zombie-like chain persuasion call to me, whether or not I actually need the coffee. I can walk down a street and find myself standing in front of the best one in town, drawn there like a magnet. It's like I've been blessed with a supernatural gift, were I to believe in the supernatural.

After retrieving my coffee from the dull-eyed teen behind the counter, I made my way to the only available table in a corner near what appeared to be a community bulletin board. I settled in and reached for my notebook, only to be startled by an odd question spoken closeby. "What's your favorite family tradition?" says a female voice. At the table beside me sit what must be a mom and her son, a young man in his late teens or early 20s. He looks earnestly at her, buzz cut shining from this morning's shampoo, and ponders her question before giving a thoughtful answer, surprising both me and Mom.

Using my best spy-like sideways glance, I notice they are fingering square cards, and looking to my right, I see I have the same cards. Flipping through them, I see similar questions of the first-date variety: Would you rather live for a week in the past or in the future? Is it more fun to be a parent or a child?

Beside me, Son and Mom are discussing how Son likes Thanksgiving as he has fond memories of cooking with Mom as a boy. Shyly, he notes remembering "opening the oven to look at the turkey with you to see if it was done, and it never was" melting Mom's heart. Their discussion moves on to other topics, and they find themselves having, I believe to their surprise and certainly to mine, a rather grown-up conversation about deeper topics most of us don't get to in ordinary, daily chatter focusing on chores we're putting off, TV we're looking forward to, or general annoyances. Mom seems genuinely surprised at Son's thoughtful answers, and I find myself hoping Son doesn't notice. His skinny frame hunched over the tiny table, empty paper cup in his hand, he glances up and down, up and down as he talks with his mom, gaining confidence with every word.

I hoped, as they pushed yellow chairs away from their table and exited, bell jangling with a bit of charm this time, both found new appreciation for each other as adults. As for the coffeeshop, I reiterate to you my expertise at finding the best in town.

A Sharpie marker changes a New Hampshire town...plus: good pie, and suicide

As of this afternoon around 3pm, the parking sign on Summer Street in Peterborough, New Hampshire, which had been missing the apostrophe indicating a contraction, had been corrected.


It embarrassed my brother, me pulling the Sharpie marker out of my pocket and striding up to the sign. Ours was a family who operated without boldness, and acts which drew attention were frowned upon: looking at a map to find out where you were, or laughing out loud. And it would only get worse for him, as I planned on openly admiring the beautiful architectural details of the buildings on nearby Grove Street after we finished what was turned out to be a delicious lunch of country ham with mashed potatoes followed by apple pie kissed with the perfect amount of cinnamon.


I like flying over New Hampshire. The countryside looks pockmarked with wetness courtesy of glacial action (or so I posit to myself, ever the romantic). Peterborough's small river was no different than the others flowing through any other tiny New England downtown. The river today was just one more spot on the growing list of places soon marked, in my head, as another place where my brother might jump to his death. Like our great-grandmother, my brother was pulled to places where he might jump and end his life...powerlessly drawn like a bee to a succulent honeysuckle flower. Our great-grannie threw herself out the large front window of her farmhouse's third story—I imagine her sprawled, thin-limbed on the dewy grass of the large front lawn and surrounded by the somber, more-grave-than normal faces I've seen in my grandmother's old photos.


With suicide a theme in my family—a gift seemingly intent to keep on giving—is it any wonder I end up with a suicidal mentee? Is this the type of person I should rightly be charged with saving? Time will tell if the answer is unequivocally yes, or unequivocally no.

Rhode Island, wind, & Christmas

I travel quite a bit—most weekends, actually, roaming North America via train and car. Europe calls me at least once a year, and Central America on occasion. But for the holidays, it's off to Rhode Island to visit family.


Rhode Island in the winter is not to be missed. Salty winter air is somehow different than salty summer air—drier with more tang. In the summer, the air is heavy with salt...thick, as if sailing through it might require the use of additional implements. Winter sea air makes the wind's salty edges sharp, cutting your checks as you walk along the water's edge. Few are crazy enough to walk the fort in that wind, so you have it to yourself...just the wind's howl to keep you company. Soon enough, that howl shows up inside your head as a voice you recognize as the voice of reason, and that reasonable voice is saying: You should go have some hot chocolate. 


It's nice to get out of the house, even for just a little while.