Flying in the Millennium, Scotland and England and France OH MY! Part II

Tags

breakfast, Edinburgh, flying, food, hotels, Scotland, travel, writing

Photo courtesy of favim.com

When I was a teenager I used to drive to the Oakland airport with my best friend, Mama Dog. She and I would sit in the hatchback of my Ford Fiesta and watch the planes take-off for hours. It was a great escape, dreaming of all the places we would go and all the wonderful things we would see. To this day I still find it thrilling to go to the airport, even if it’s just to pick-up a friend. Of course the rules have changed considerably over the years. I’m not sure if it’s allowed to watch the planes take off from the airport anymore, with all the added security risks. Prior to this trip three years ago, the last time Tony and I flew the friendly skies was in 1996, pre 9/11/01 (God rest their souls). In ’96, it took less than one hour to board an international flight, and the thought of taking your shoes off at check-in was unconscionable.

To be sure, flying was much more dignified back then. For one thing, it was all about YOUR comfort. I remember after being in France for two weeks we were so excited to be going home, that we arrived at the airport in Paris two hours earlier than expected. We were told the x-ray machines were not yet heated up so…they didn’t bother x-raying our bags. Why make us wait? My husband was especially glad this happened since he secretly stashed a bunch of “novelty” switchblades in my luggage. “After all, they’re less likely to check your bags than mine,” he reasoned.

No wonder. Now it was 2009 and things have changed A LOT. For one thing, I was told to pack all of my toiletries inside of my checked luggage and not my carry-on bag. “But I always wash-up before I land.” I protested. I’ll need my Neutrogena face soap, toner, face cream, eye cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, and then there’s my hair smoothing cream. “Whatever happened to looking glamorous on the plane?” I asked. I was told to forgo all that and to be prepared to strip for security.

The day before we left for Scotland, I nervously perused the TSA website (Transportation Security Administration), and became vaguely familiar with a confusing concept, simply named 3-1-1. In short, every (1) passenger is allowed to bring a (1) quart-size zip-top bag stuffed with containers that hold (3) ounces or less. So really it should be called 1-1-3, but that’s just me. Actually, I was happy to finally use the dozens of adorable little bottles I’d saved over the years.

Still, there were certain aspects of air travel that I was not prepared for in the millennium, namely the smell of fear and foot odor. Not to mention walking though various metal detectors barefoot is just gross. Plus, I’ll admit that I slowed down the line more than a little, when the TSA girl told me I was not allowed to bring my Cal water bottle onboard. And I’ll further admit that I let out a rather audible moan escape my lips when I was told to throw it in the trash. Other than that however, I breezed through the metal detector virtually unscathed.

My husband was another story. The man is a harbinger of metal. After several failed attempts to walk through the metal detector, a serious-looking man in a red suit told him to stand still while he slowly ran a wand all over his body, and finally to his neck, where his Saint Christopher hung. I could see my husband’s hands shaking slightly, as he pulled the chain over his head and placed it into the receptacle provided. My poor honey! I thought, and instinctually wanted to run to his side, but I was being pushed forward by the lady with stinky feet behind me; she could care less about anyone’s feelings.

Surviving check-in was nothing compared to our flight, which lasted roughly 26 hours. Our engine warmer failed, so we were forced to change planes twice in New Jersey. Fine with me I thought, better that than plunging into the sea at 500mph. Walking around the airport at 2am was eerie, with all the concession stands closed and the lights at half power, but it was fun too. As the other passengers walked around each other in circles like zombies, Tony and I explored. We found a nice restroom where we could freshen-up, and then we looked at overpriced sunglasses through brightly lit cases and laughed about our trip thus far. Re-boarding was also comical because everyone was cranky and looked a fright, except the flight attendants. They were very patient and treated us like kind zookeepers, giving us an extra meal and free drink tickets. Hooray! Normally, I’d rather starve than eat airplane food, but on this occasion I found myself willingly eating a curious chicken dish and washing it down with Jameson. Within minutes, I was a happy little monkey.

Photo courtesy of damncoolpictures.com

After the lights dimmed and the same movie came on for the third time, my husband, who’s been trained to sleep standing, was snoring while I gabbed with a lady across the isle. She was on her way home and gladly told me where to go and what to see in Scotland. She even drew me a map! We were to encounter this several times in the Land of Tartan. The Scots are very helpful, friendly people. Later, I was to discover they also had one of the most generous breakfasts in the world: eggs, gigantic pieces of bacon, a variety of freshly made breads to make toast, steel-cut oats, coffees, teas, orange juice and of course haggis – something I had to try but ended up avoiding like the plague. Everywhere we stayed, in both Scotland and England offered an amazing spread. This was especially appreciated by me since I wake up so hungry, I could eat a wagon wheel. When we finally landed in Scotland’s capital, I was aching from head to toe and starving, of course. But as usual, excitement overrode my basis instincts, and I bounded off the plane after giving a hearty “thank you” to our flight attendants.

They say life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. Even thought this trip was to be an unplanned extravaganza, I did plan for our first night in Edinburgh. I really didn’t want to roam around the city looking like Día de los Muertos trying to find a place to rest my frizzy head. I wish I’d planned our first night in Paris too, but that gruesome story comes later. When we arrived in Edinburgh and at the Old Waverley Hotel (great place in the heart of downtown, but not for you light sleepers), I wanted to sleep so badly, but we’d learned our lesson years ago to adapt to the new time zone AT ALL COST. So, after cleaning up we tripped around the Royal Mile, where I saw my very first red telephone booth. Maybe I was delirious from lack of sleep, but it was thrilling.

After eating Italian (odd choice), and a full day exploring Edinburgh on foot, we finally collapsed in our hotel room and slept like babies. Until around midnight. Sometimes jet-lag isn’t all that bad…

A Man of the World and a Woman Who Can Pull Her Own Weight – Scotland and England and France Oh My! Part I

Tags

communication, luggage, marriage, Paris, Preparing for a big trip, relationships, travel

Courtesy of peteswickedtravels.com

Three years ago, my sweet husband and I decided to save our dough and take a big trip. I’m talking huge. Unlike the time we flew out of OAK (Oakland, CA) to Charles de Gaulle (Paris), then CDG back to OAK; I wanted a real planes, trains and automobiles vacation. So, after months of discussion we decided to fly into Edinburgh, Scotland and out of the most romantic city in the world, Paris. Everything in-between would be an adventure, no plans whatsoever. A tall order to be sure, but we had almost three weeks to roam and the money to do it this time.

The last time we vacationed in Europe was in 1996. We were just two crazy kids flitting around France for our 1-year wedding anniversary. And although the exchange rate was 5 francs to the dollar, as newlyweds, we didn’t have two nickels to rub together and ended up running out of money halfway through our trip. Of course a big chunk went towards the Corsair charter, but upon arrival we were shocked to discover that we had roughly 400 francs a day to live on, about 80 bucks American. After finding a cheap hotel at 250f a night we survived solely on crepes, spaghetti Bolognese at Don Vito’s, and love. Luckily Tony’s father, my new father-in-law, was kind enough to pay for our stay at the Hotel Studia, a great find on 51 Boulevard Saint-Germain (it’s still there; a little run-down now). Without his help it would have been another kind of trip indeed. Now we were able to afford the Metro, a day at the Louvre Museum, Monet’s Gardens in Genevieve and the extravagant train ride to Rouen, in northern France, where my husband spent lonely summers as a boy.

My husband in Rouen, France circa 1987.

What a life changing trip that was for me, not to mention my first experience outside of Les États-Unis. My husband on the other hand is a man of the world. As a young lad he lived with his mother nine months out of the year, and his father during the summer. He was just seven years old when he first took a plane all by himself, to see his dad in Santa Barbara. By the time he was fourteen he was taking trips to Rouen, France, making eyes at the stewardesses, getting free Coca-Colas and peanuts.

Traveling at a young age certainly has lasting effects on a person. One thing I have always admired about my husband is his confidence. He is truly comfortable in his own skin. We can be anywhere, from the shadiest barbecue joint in Oakland to the swankiest restaurant in Paris, and he blends. While I’m awkwardly figuring out which fork to use for my salad, Tony is sitting with his back to the wall, gazing around, taking it all in. Then he’ll flash me a look and say something that melts my backbone, putting me at complete ease.

The ability to enjoy the moment and go with the flow is a wonderful trait to adopt in life, and when traveling it’s a necessity. Three weeks before our daring trip Tony, my girlfriend Evelyn and I went out to dinner at Lanesplitter’s. Over pizza and beer Ev announced that she too was going to be in Paris around the same week as us, and wanted to know if we could meet-up with her before we flew home. She had just ended an eleven-year relationship with a man I never really liked, except he had good taste in music and was a good dancer. Unfortunately, their break-up was more akin to a divorce. When it was officially over Ev was exhausted, emotionally, and wanted to do something spontaneous and fun. I warned her that our plans were not set in stone, but of course we would meet her! It was thrilling to think of the three of us in Paris, even if it was for only one or two nights.

Edinburgh Train Station. Heading to Inverness, Scotland.

Sometimes when you plan a big trip, it all seems so far away and dream-like. With Ev’s announcement things were starting to become exciting, and REAL. Two weeks before leaving, Tony and I had a serious discussion about luggage. In the softest, most democratic way he told me his one fear; that he would be left to carry the bags, or all of MY bags. Normally, I take three: my purse, an extra large duffle bag for my clothes, and a backpack for our arsenal of toiletries. Since we were planning to jump on and off trains, possibly travel by car through England, then take the Eurail from London to Paris, we needed to strategize. He opted for a long, OD green Army duffle bag from the surplus store. I, on the other hand, strategically chose a red roller by Sherpani that had secret zippers on the sides. When unzipped, it resembled a pregnant ladybug. C’est parfait!

The night before we left Alameda, California for Edinburgh (pronounced Ed-in-bur-ah), Scotland I spent two hours packing and unpacking to no avail. I was new at putting everything in one bag! I called Ev, and she came over and showed me how to roll-up everything. By the end, my ladybug looked like she was smuggling colorful tortillas from Ramiro’s, but everything fit. “Won’t the inspection people just undo our rolls and throw everything back?” I was proud of our pack job, and yet resented the amount of time it took. “Who cares.” Ev said, “You’re going to Europe!” “See you in Paris.” I said, then we both screamed like 12-year-old girls.

Sensible shoes and a not so sensible bag. Lesson learned. Inverness, Scotland.

Right before we hit the hay, Tony and I made a practice run – he with his bag and me with mine. I must admit it was difficult. After clumsily rolling my suitcase down 40 stairs, out to the car, then swinging it into the trunk without any assistance from Tony, I was sweating bricks. I decided I needed to lighten the load. So, I went back inside the house and removed 6 sweaters, 5 pairs of pants, 2 jackets, 4 skirts, 9 shirts and one pair of boots.

As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered how I almost froze to death the first time I was in France, in October circa 1996. “Maybe it won’t be so…cold…this time in October.” I yawned. “No matter.” Tony whispered back. “We’re going to have a great adventure…together.” Boy was he right.

Pretty Feet

Tags

beauty, family, feet, marriage, retrospective, writing

As I get older, I’m noticing more and more physical similarities between my immediate family and myself. Our feet for example. We all have almost the exact same feet: Toes evenly proportioned, our second toe is not longer than our big toe, our nails are thin and delicate and perfectly cover the tip of each phalange. Our feet, when properly manicured (which rarely happens) could quite possibly be model feet for a lovely pair of open toe heels, or flip-flops on the beach. There are no webbed toes among us, which is one of the attributes I adore about my husband’s own feet. (I secretly think they have something to do with why he’s such a good swimmer.)

It was my husband who first said I had pretty feet. I was 25 years old, and on the phone with my sister. While jabbering away Tony was playing with my feet and toes. As I playfully kicked him off he said, “You have beautiful feet.” I smiled at him and then intentionally looked at my feet, perhaps for the first time. Hmmm, I shook my head and shrugged. I saw nothing special. So what did he do? He gently placed a match between my toes and lit it. Smilingly, we both watched it burn. As I listened to my sister on the phone, I half-thought, “He’ll blow it out.” But when the flame reached my skin I reflexively flung the phone and kicked up my foot. He jumped in surprise as much as I did. “Why?!” I asked him – half shocked, half laughing. Hot Foot was the term I think he used. He honestly thought I’d shakeout the match before it burned me. Some joke. I was laughing when I told my sister what had happened. She was quiet. Silly newlyweds, she probably thought.

When my sister and I were growing up, our mother always walked around barefoot, she still does. In fact, I remember my mom more out of shoes than in them, and she has a lot of shoes. I think because it was so normal to see our maternal figure walk in and out of the house barefoot, my siblings and I did the same. In fact, our whole clan walks around barefoot. “Bunch of Okies,” my grandma would say, then she’d fling off her own shoes. She was after all, the original Okie who migrated from Chickasaw, Oklahoma to Oakland, California in 1944.

More recently, I was at my brother’s house to meet his new baby – my niece, Julia. While admiring petit Julia’s adorable little smile, she dropped her blanket. Stooping down to pick it up, I saw my brother’s bare feet casually resting on the sandstone of his pool area. As I nonchalantly gazed at his feet and then mine, I realized for the first time that we have the same feet – only his are bigger and male. Where my feet are soft and supple his are a bit rougher, harrier and more tanned. Let me tell you – he has got some handsome feet! I almost laughed out loud, but resumed admiring Julia instead. Right now you’re probably thing, what in the world are you talking about!?

Honestly, I think over the years I have become so different from my family that I am unconsciously looking for similarities. This may sound sad, but it’s not. I love my family, each and every one. They’re a special bunch and I can appreciate all of their peccadilloes. But it seems the more we live our own lives, the less alike we become.

Before I moved to the Pacific Northwest, and when I was making good money at UC Berkeley, I often treated my mother and myself to a day at the spa. Casa Madrona in Sausalito, O-Spa in Alameda. Once, we both got pedicures – a first for both of us, and we just so happened to choose the same color nail polish for our toes. When we were outside we both stopped to admire each other’s freshly polished tootsies, and then we laughed. “To think, some people do this all the time.” My mother mused. “Man it tickles!” I said, shivering. Then we walked together arm-in-arm, in matching flip-flops, with matching feet, wearing almost-matching black outfits.

For fun, I’m thinking the next time we’re all together, I’d like for us to strip off our footwear and pose our feet for a photo-op. I’m sure they’ll think it’s a bizarre request, but they’ll acquiesce. After all, we’re family.

Something Borrowed

Tags

april fools, family, marriage, wedding dress, writing

I’ve mentioned my favorite cousin Vanessa before in one of my posts. Well, she’s getting married this year on April Fools’ Day. She swears it’s no joke, but something deep inside me thinks she’s secretly planning her revenge on the world. It may sound crazy, but she has just the temperament to pull it off. Is this really going to be her blessed wedding day? Or the best western-themed party of the century. We shall see.

One inducement that makes me believe she may be telling the truth about her coming nuptial is the fact that she’s going to wear my wedding dress and veil. Yes, the very dress I wore on the happiest day of my life, sixteen years ago to the sweetest, sexiest man alive. How did this come about?

We would need to go way back to 1987, when I was a sixteen-year-old New Waver and she a wicked slip of a girl nine years my junior. I can still see her on a particular New Year’s Eve at Aunt Pam’s house on Baker Street in San Francisco. She was wearing an oversized men’s t-shirt with a wide belt, slightly pushed down and to the right, no shoes and wild hair; her eyes were everywhere. I thought she was the closest thing to an elf or an Irish fairy. Elusive, laughing all the time, surviving her childhood best she could. I used to try to hold her, like I did all my cousins, nieces and nephews, but she’d always squirm her way out of my arms, and run away screaming and laughing.

Little did I know, as the years passed she sort of looked up to me. She would secretly go into my bedroom, look through my things, put on my perfume and steal my favorite sweater. All without a trace that she’d ever been there. At one point she lived with us and I had the little sister I’d always wanted, but she remained elusive.

It was years – a near death car accident, the birth of her son and believe-it-or-not Facebook, before Vanessa and I became friends. I’d just been laid-off from UC Berkeley due to budget cuts, when she invited me to the premier of New Moon and on a road trip to Forks, WA right after the movie. A real bona fide “TwiHard” adventure. How could I resist?

On that trip, while her buddy slept in the backseat, Vanessa and I talked about our lives and how we’d got to the point where we could forgive our pasts, and more importantly, how our faith in God has been our saving grace. It was so nice to catch up with her after years of brief encounters at baby showers, bridal showers, birthdays and weddings. As I listened to her talk about her mother and being a mom herself, I realized that she was all grown up, and more. I was the one who admired her now.

Not only has she survived her childhood, but she is the most amazing mother I’ve ever known. I remember as a girl she loved babies. She always wanted to hold them, feed them, speak tenderly to them – she was a real natural. Her son Joshua Tiger has very special needs, and yet he’s the happiest boy in the world. A big part of that is because of Vanessa’s love. She’s amazing with him, and works very hard to make sure he feels secure and loved. Her energy is effortless and her selfless dedication, well, she inspires me to be a better person. I’m always singing her praises to my friends and family.

Then, when Vanessa was here with her fiancé for Christmas, I had an epiphany. She still didn’t have a wedding dress, barely four months before her wedding, so why not offer mine? It took her a long time to believe I really meant it. But as she stood in my bedroom with the entire ensemble on, she positively glowed. It was one of the most precious moments of my life.

The day I married my sweet husband, my cousin was only sixteen years old. It has always been a point of sadness for me that she and her mom and our grandma couldn’t attend. Now Vanessa is thirty-two and she’s getting married. Sadly, her mother and our grandma have since passed away, but I’ll be there. I am a part of Vanessa and she is a part of me. Our bond started long ago. I can’t wait to watch her sweep down the isle on my husband’s arm, towards her future life. That is if this isn’t all an elaborate hoax. April Fools!

While the Husbands Away the Wife Will Play

Tags

baking, baking with confidence, cooking catastrophe, farmer's market, Julia Child, Julie and Julia the movie, Masting the Art of French Cooking, pie crust, writing

It’s not what you think. I haven’t been out drinking at the Pine Cone with the locals until 2am. Instead, while my husband has been on a much needed two-day motorcycle ride, I’ve been staying up until the wee hours of the morning widening my culinary horizons, or facing my fears if you like. You see, for many years I’ve had this terrible anxiety of making piecrust, of all things. Believe it or not, I’m not alone. I know many people intimidated by the thought of making their own pie dough from scratch, but I think my own insecurity stems from way back when I was newly married and learning how to cook, before my sweet sister Lisa gifted me with The Joy of Cooking, for my one year wedding anniversary.

photo courtesy of mirandafern.com

My first attempt at making a pie from scratch was for work. It was Thanksgiving season and my office was having a potluck – I was to make the pumpkin pie. As a kid, I grew up watching my mom make pumpkin and cherry pie from scratch with confident ease. Watch mind you, which is not the same as doing. Now I was 25 years old and I’d never even attempted piecrust. So, after obtaining her award-winning pumpkin pie recipe, I got to work with borrowed confidence. Of course everything went wrong. The dough refused to form into a ball, therefore I simply added more water, but when I rolled it out the dough stuck to the counter, so I added more flour, then rolled it out again and again until it was a perfect 9″ round.

As many of you know, all this water and flour and manhandling merely made the crust as hard as cement, which I discovered at the potluck. When I ate my first bite I nearly cracked a tooth. Plus, the pumpkin filling was a bit runny. Sigh. It was not my finest culinary moment. To their credit, my bosses and colleagues never complained, but I noticed many of them had left uneaten pie on their paper plates. All except Dr. Watanabe, who sweetly ate two pieces when he saw my face, as I tossed the plates into the trash. “No! It’s very good.” He said, smiling in that kind way that always made me feel special.

Ever since that one failed attempt and all these years I have been skirting around making piecrusts, sneakily purchasing them in the freezer section at the local supermarket and filling them with my own concoctions. When I began to notice many store-bought pie crusts are made with the dreaded partially-hydrogenated oil, something my husband and I have vowed to cut from our diets, I switched to phyllo dough, but phyllo can’t compare to a tender, crunchy, buttery pie crust.

In truth, it was Julia Child who changed my opinion of making piecrust from scratch. I’m fortunate to have grown up watching J.C. on TV – her curly red bob, happy eyes and big teeth – and that voice! I remember feeling sad when she passed away in 2004 at 91 years of age, but I’d honestly never fully understood how important she was to American cooking, nor did I realize how COOL she was, until I saw the film Julie and Julia. Something about that movie brought back fond childhood memories for me, and filled my heart with a desire to make Sole Dore, much to my husband’s delight, Gruyere cheese puffs for my fellow UCB workers, French chocolate mouse (made with Scharffen Berger chocolate of course), and comforting potato-leek soup.

Years ago, my husband gave me Julia Child’s cookbook – Mastering the Art of French Cooking for my birthday, but it’s not until this past Spring, when I started selling my organic baked goods at the farmer’s market, that I really began using her recipes: Pate Sablee (Sugar Crust) for my lemony Pots of Gold, Pate Brisee (Pie Crust) for my Apple Pie and Pate Brise Sucree (Sweet Short Paste) for my English Tea Cookies. It was her technique for blending the butter and flour with my fingers, NOT my $40 pastry blending tool from Williams-Sonoma, that enlightened me. This hands-on approach, along with the fraisage – or final blending of the butter and flour – has made my piecrust ventures a complete joy. After chilling the dough overnight in the refrigerator, and then allowing it to sit at room temperature for a bit, I pound it with my rolling pin then roll, spin – roll, spin (which eliminates sticking). Then I gently fold and lay the pie dough into the lovely, blue Le Creuset pie dish my mother-in-love gave me. Et voila!

I am so grateful to Julia for her advice: “A pastry blender may be used if you wish, but a necessary part of learning how to cook is to get the feel of the dough in your fingers. Il faut mettre la main a la pate!” Thanks to J.C. I swiftly make piecrusts with genuine confidence and ease, leaving time to do other things…

Getting Fired Can Be…A Good Thing, Part III

Tags

food, La Farine Bakery, life, writing, Zachary's Pizza

It’s surprising, this happened so very long ago but writing about it – I still tear up. It’s not me I’m crying for but a 15 year-old girl, who was fired from a job she really loved. Of course she learned a valuable lesson that day: Never assume anything. She also discovered something else, which would change her culinary pallet forever.

Sprinting to the bus stop, tears flying, I had to call my sister and tell her what happened. So, I found a payphone, which was only ten blocks away (pre cell phones) and I told her the entire story, while people looked at me either worriedly or greatly annoyed. I asked if she could please pick me up, but she was watching the owner’s little boy, Henry. This meant I had to take the long humiliating bus ride home alone. After I hung up the telephone I blew my nose in my bandana, turned around and saw a pizza joint that I’d never noticed before. Pizza! That will make me feel better. I walked up to the counter with red eyes and a blotchy face and ordered a small pepperoni and olive. “Thick or thin?” The young man asked with a kind smile. “Ummmm…I don’t care.” I told him, unable to make any life-altering decisions at the moment. “Well, we’re known for our thick Chicago style pizza, so maybe you should try that.” I appreciated his sweet tone of voice as much as his patience with me, since there was a giant bustling line of people, all waiting for me to make up my gosh darn mind.

Sitting, waiting for my pizza, I took a moment and began to look around at all the people packed into that place. UC Berkeley college students, city workers, families and children, all thoroughly enjoying the messiest pizza I’d ever seen. “What is this place?” I asked myself. The sign said Zachary’s Pizza Est. 1983. I remember thinking, “That’s odd, putting the year you were established when you were only established two years ago.” When my name was called, I quickly got up and paid for my pizza. “Nineteen dollars?! This better be good.” I said to myself as I scraped together the dough and handed it over; I barely had enough for the bus.

After I got on the 51 and took a seat close to the front, fresh tears began to flow from my eyes and plop on top of the pizza box. For a moment I actually forgot I’d bought a pizza. I was so used to carrying some kind of box home on the bus, only with pastries inside. A few older women smiled at me with concern in their eyes, so I opened my pizza box, took a piece out and stuffed my face with it. As my eyes widened, I must have made a muffled, “Mmmfmygommm!” Because people leaned up to look. I ate a second piece, shocked that a pizza could taste this good. My family was a big supporter of Round Table Pizza, which was cardboard and cheese compared to this concoction. It had a deep crust, but it wasn’t oily like other deep-crust pizzas. Instead it had a flaky, buttery, yet chewy crust that held its shape. Upon further inspection, I noticed there was a bottom crust per usual followed by mozzarella cheese, then there was another thin almost doughy layer with more mozzarella on that, pepperoni, a final thin layer of dough, then what I can only describe as chunky stewed tomatoes with lots of Italian seasoning on top, finished with a sprinkling of sliced black olives. It was sheer heaven.

After I ate my second piece I noticed there was a small boy sitting next to me. Oops again. I offered him a piece and to my surprise his mother said, “Sure,” after her son looked on pleadingly. So, I put a napkin in his lap and laid a piece on it, then he and I made smiley faces and nodded at each other while we ate. Life wasn’t so bad after all. When I got home I had four pieces left, which I graciously gave to my family. As they ate I could see their faces light up. “I accidentally poisoned a girl and got fired today.” I blurted out, but I couldn’t fool my mom, she knew I was devastated. As I told my family the whole story again, only slower this time, the moral was sealed in my heart and I was not to set foot in La Farine Bakery for almost ten years.

It’s not that I harbored hard feelings towards the manager or anyone there. La Farine simply no longer held the magic it once had for me. The family feeling was gone, because it wasn’t my family, it was a business that couldn’t just forgive me for making a customer ill. Therefore, my own personal penance was to abstain from eating their delicacies forever (or until I met my husband).

That night my mom and I discussed the importance of trials and tribulations in our lives and how they can build character. I hugged her for being so sweet and for not judging me, and then I asked her if we could go to Zachary’s for my 16th birthday. Absolutely we would go – my family, my friends and me; it was to become a birthday tradition. Collectively, we’ve had at least thirty of the happiest birthday parties at Zachary’s Pizza on College Avenue, and it’s still the best pizza in the world. It’s also where I first saw the man of my dreams at the age of 21, the man I was to marry five years later.

To think, I might never have stumbled upon Zachary’s if I hadn’t been fired from the bakery. I might have weighed a hundred pounds more today if I had continued working there. Or perhaps I wouldn’t have become the hard-working Girl Friday I became if I had not experienced being fired.

In any case, being fired wasn’t great, but it makes for a good story.

Getting Fired Can Be…A Good Thing, Part II

Tags

cake, French pastries, getting fired, La Farine Bakery, writing

By my eighth week of working at La Farine the bakers were gifting me with a gigantic box of breads and pastries, to take home at the end of my shift. They wanted me and everyone I knew to experience their freshly baked Challah or egg bread, French baguettes, and my favorite – Irish soda bread. This bread had a hard crust and was bursting with apricot pieces, yet it was soft and creamy in the middle. I used to eat it for breakfast – toasted with butter, and enjoy its savory sweetness with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. My sister Lisa loved their sourdough baguette. I remember watching her eat an entire crusty flute with butter, in one sitting. Mom enjoyed the sourdough round, which had less crust and more of a chewy center, while my brother Peter liked the pastries, God bless him, the Morning Bun in particular. He would put the entire thing into his mouth and slowly chew with eyes closed, then he’d reach for another.

On rare occasions the bakers would include slices of their specialty cakes, which had become too dry to sell to the public, but seemed perfectly fresh to us. In truth, these were the pastries that I could not afford to try. Even their names, which were mostly in French, seemed off limits to me as I hadn’t a clue what they meant. Like the Gateau du Printemps, a rich coconut cake layered with tangy lime mousse and delicately finished with a thin layer of white chocolate buttercream frosting. Le Sicilian, a light chocolate genoise (or sponge cake) soaked with Frangelico liqueur, filled with creamy pistachio mousse and chocolate ganache, then coated with the perfect amount of white chocolate buttercream. Chamonix, which was a moist devil’s food cake, layered with creamy white chocolate raspberry mousse and fresh raspberries, frosted ever so slightly with yet again, white chocolate buttercream frosting. Suffice to say, after tasting cakes like these I was ruined, forever. Never again could I appreciate a German Chocolate cake from Safeway; they had become overly sweet and flavorless compared to La Farine’s exquisite French desserts.

Then one day it happened. After bussing it home from work, I opened my goody box and found a slice of the Reine de Saba inside. It was a cake I’d always wanted to try because it was simply chocolate on chocolate, which was my favorite confection. No fruit, no “bitter” liqueur, just pure chocolate. As I washed down each bite with a sip of cold milk, I felt my body lift into a realm I’d never know before. It was pure bliss, utter pleasure, but it was followed by guilt as I realized I hadn’t saved even one bite for my Mother, who had taught me the value of chocolate. Oops. When I went to work the next day, I thanked the bakers for their generosity, and for including a piece of their special chocolate cake. They just smiled at me, vaguely understanding the effect the Reine de Saba had on me.

From that day forward, whenever anyone called or asked me for a cake recommendation, I would youthfully tout the praises of the Reine de Saba. “It’s the best chocolate cake in the world! If you like chocolate, it’s like you’ve died and gone to heaven! I don’t know what they put into this cake, but it’s beyond amazing!” My customers would either laugh or look at me like I was on drugs, however they always left with a Reine de Saba under their arm. One day a woman came in and asked for a cake recommendation for her daughter’s 13th birthday. “We’re having a big party at the Palace of Fine Arts in the City with all of her friends, and she’s wanting something chocolaty, what do you recommend?” Easy answer. “She’s allergic to nuts, are there nuts in that cake?” “Nope.” I told her, “Just chocolate cake with chocolate ganache frosting and whole raspberries on top.” “Perfect.” She said, with a glimmer of doubt on her face. What I didn’t know was, what gives the Reine de Saba its unique characteristic is the fact that there are pureed almonds in the cake. So finely pureed, that unless you had a distinguished pallet, you would never know they’re in there. Hence, the cake is so smooth and the bakers so amazing at their craft, that there isn’t a hint of granulated almond to its texture.

The following day I worked the afternoon shift. When I walked in the door all eyes were on me and the owner was there, which was rare. I immediately started to worry, but said nothing. I just put on my apron, washed my hands and began freshening the display cases. Then the owner asked to speak with me. I saw in her eyes scornful disappointment, so I looked at the bakers for some explanation. Their faces were filled with wincing sympathy. I thought I was going to faint. My arms felt like lead and I started to shake. “What did I do?” I asked, my eyes welling up with tears. “Yesterday, you sold an almond filled cake to a woman whose daughter is allergic to nuts.” The owner said matter of factly. I looked around, my eyes searching for something, then I remembered the woman who mentioned her daughter’s allergy, and I was flooded with relief. “No, I sold her the Reine de Saba, the chocolate ganache cake with raspberries on top. There are no nuts in that cake? She must have eaten something else with nuts that day.” Her birthday, I thought, her 13th, she was a teenager now. I vaguely recalled my own 13th birthday and the big deal my Mom made about it, because I was no longer “Baby Cat” but “Teen Cat.”

The owner told me that the young girl had an allergic reaction to the almonds in the cake, and had to be taken to the hospital. The mother wanted me fired or she was going to sue the bakery. As tears streamed silently down my face, the owner explained that when I was trained I was told the ingredients of everything sold at La Farine, and I must have forgotten about the almonds in the Reine de Saba. The truth is, I wasn’t told the ingredients of everything we sold, but I was still at fault. I should have asked the bakers if there were nuts in the Reine de Saba. I was flooded with guilt, shame and sadness. When the owner handed me my final check, she looked sympathetic for the first time. I thanked her, apologized for everything then quickly walked towards the front door. As I was leaving I heard my name being called softly en español, “Raquel!” When I turned around I saw all of the bakers standing at their stations with their hats off, and their hands on their hearts. I nodded my head a few times, attempted a smile, then left.

Part III tomorrow…It gets better, I promise.

Getting Fired Can Be…a Good Thing, Part I

Tags

first job, food, French pastries, La Farine Bakery, new experiences, writing

I believe I mentioned La Farine Bakery and their infamous Morning Bun in one of my last posts. What I didn’t tell you is that I used to work for La Farine. It was my first job. Yes, even at the tender age of fifteen I had a true appreciation for pastries. My sister worked for the owner – babysitting her kid while she cared for her own toddler. It was quick, words were exchanged and I was hired. I still remember the thrill of using my Social Security card for the first time, and then getting my first paycheck (I still have the stub). My sweet mom would drive me to work at 4:30 in the morning, three days a week. I’d arrive at the bakery around 5am sleepy and a bit cranky, but the moment I opened the front door I awoke to the heat of the ovens and a smell that was enough to make you cry, “Uncle!”

My job was to stock the lovely wood and glass display cases with the most beautiful, delectable delights I had ever seen. I would sprinkle powered sugar on the apple croissants, place pristine fruit and custard tarts on ornate paper doilies, dust the Morning Buns with extra fine sugar before tenderly dumping them into their giant woven basket, and carry expensive cakes to their specific glass cases, all under the watchful eyes of the bakers. After stocking, I set-up our regular customer’s breakfasts, then I would open the doors at 6am sharp. When my regulars were taken care of, I got to work washing the pans which was hard, hot work. The morning bun pans were as big as my upper body and made of sturdy material, so they were very heavy. Plus, if you didn’t wash these right away, the sticky substance that oozed from the buns turned to cement. If this happened, heaven help you. Whenever a new customer walked in the door, the bakers would “Psst” me and I would push back my hair with the back of my hand, now frizzy from all the steam, and pop out with a greeting and a smile.

After a couple of weeks on the job customers wanted to give me tips, but I shyly refused their money since management never mentioned tipping, and there was no container. Besides, putting money in my pocket while working felt like stealing (“Honest as the day is long!”). Then one morning, a regular brought me a homemade tip jar with colorful flowers finely painted on the glass. It was lovely. “You’re such a great girl, you should get a little something extra from us.” She said with her chin out, smiling. She was a beautiful lady and not just because of her gift. She had a refined quality, a gracefulness, like a retired ballerina. She was tall with long slender arms, a neck like a swan and long grey hair that she twisted into two tight buns at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were like two wild sapphires behind soft folds of ivory skin. I thanked her and then asked the owner what she thought about the tip jar. She had never considered the idea of her counter personnel receiving tips, and had no problem with it, as long as I remembered to take my tips at the end of my shift. As if a teenager would forget something like that.

I loved everything about working for La Farine: the French pastries, the breads, the bakers, the customers. It was all very special to me. There was something unique about La Farine then, and the customers too, which made me feel like I was part of an extended family. Even though we were located on busy College Avenue near the Oakland/Berkeley boarder, when you walked in you could just as well be in a quaint patisserie off an obscure street in Paris’ Latin Quarter. I think what may have attributed to this feeling were the old wood and glass display cases, along with a large family-style table – made of oak, which sat in the corner near the windows. It felt homey and welcoming in there. Customers would sit at the table with their daily pastry, coffee or tea, papers and books, and quietly converse with each other.

After about a month, I became quite proficient at my duties and to their surprise, I started asking the bakers questions: “Where did you learn to bake?” “How do you make the infamous Morning Bun?” “How is it the Swiss Twinkie is so crunchy yet it looks just like a small butter croissant?” Many of them only spoke Spanish, and I cursed my stepfather for not teaching me when he spoke it perfectly. Instead of telling me their secrets, the bakers would smile and show and me how everything was made. As I watched them, I had the feeling that what they were doing was art. I’d never been to a museum or an art exhibit before, and I’d only seen Bob Ross paint pictures on TV (The Joy of Painting).  Still, as I concentrated on how they would kneed the different doughs, cut up green apple for my favorite croissant, and slice and ice a beautiful dark chocolate cake called the Reien de Saba, the cake that would get me fired, I knew this was an art I wanted to learn….

Our Chetco River Adventure, Part II

Tags

Adventure, Chetco River, Kayaking

If I could name one aspect of my personality that my husband truly admires, I think it would be my adventurous spirit. He knows that I love a challenge and can rarely back down on a dare. Whenever we watch female action flicks, most recently – Salt with Angelina Jolie, my husband has the habit of saying, rather boastfully, “I bet you could do that,” at a time when the heroine is either rolling on the floor evading bullets from her assailants, or kicking in the face of a villain, then gracefully jumping out of a window – only to land safely on top of a moving truck. Of course I wouldn’t dare dream of shattering the man’s fantasy. However, there is some truth to the man’s assertion about his wife.

When I was younger my adventurous tendencies didn’t always earn the admiration of friends and family. Too often did I ‘jump’ my car over California Street in San Francisco with a carload of screaming girlfriends, and climb the outer walls of the Palace of Fine Arts merely to sit on the rooftop and gaze at the stars. Most certainly, riding a motorcycle ranked low on my families list of accomplishments. So, I was labeled a loose canon, a wild child. Even my older sister called me Reb – short for rebel – she still does, although now it’s more out of habit than anything else. Perhaps being brought up in the 70’s taught me to take chances, or following around my older brother to no end made me tough. Whatever the case may be, if I were not the type of woman who thrives on adventure, I probably would’ve thrown in the towel the moment we curved around the last mountain – to a widening river that seemed bent on consuming us. Instead, I tucked in my chin, swallowed what little saliva I had in my mouth and paddled harder. Like the apostle Paul said, ‘I tell my body to do what I want it to do.’ Despite my exhaustion, I told myself we would parish on that river – food for the vultures, if I didn’t try my hardest. “We can do it buddy!” I yelled to my longsuffering husband, digging into the water with as much oomph as I could muster.

Hours on the Chetco River had taught me two types of paddling. There’s the shallow paddle, which is what you do when you want your partner to think you’re pulling your own weight, but really you’re only skimming the surface of the water. Then there’s the deep paddle, which is what you do when you want to show off your beautiful arm and back muscles. Shallow paddling is all right if the water is moving with you or if the water is, well, shallow. Deep paddling is required when you realize you’re not going anywhere. Due to the fact that the river current was now moving against us, we could no longer waste time with anything but the strongest paddling. The only downside to digging in deep is that you get tired very, very fast unless you’re in Crew or workout on Nautilus everyday, which we don’t.

When Tony noticed that my deep paddling wasn’t getting us anywhere, he stopped his respite, dutifully picked up his paddle and got to work. Together, we were able to move our kayak about an inch every two strokes – slow going, but it was better than moving backwards! As the mountains began to disappear behind us, all which lay ahead was the river. In the sky, balancing on both sides of the embankment was the slender, cement bridge that my husband crosses everyday to work. Beyond the bridge: the Pacific Ocean, Brookings Harbor, and my Ford Escape, which was waiting to take our weary bodies home. “I bet it’s nice and warm inside my car.” I thought, shivering uncontrollably from the cold. It was those darn holes at the bottom of the kayak. They once cooled us from the heat of the day, now they were mercilessly introducing ocean water to our shriveled little behinds.

It’s interesting, despite the fact that we were in more than a bit of trouble, I was still in awe of the beauty that surrounded us, and my trembling hands managed to take two more pictures, much to my husband’s chagrin. I couldn’t help it! I felt like a war correspondent, and we were two insignificant humans in some sort of nature battle with the mighty Checto – her beautiful, rolling current in cahoots with the bracing wind, both trying to keep us from our land goal. Paddling with all our might, we painfully drew closer and closer to the bridge. Suddenly, my husband exclaimed, “Look! There’s an abandoned boat up ahead!” Then panting for breath, “If we can’t make it….to the harbor…let’s go aboard her… and rest a little…or until…we can get help.” Thank God for my husband I thought to myself; he has the ability to make me laugh even in the direst circumstances. “No way!” I said, laughing. I could hear him laughing too, which somehow gave me the strength to keep paddling like a 20 year-old, my neck and shoulder muscles constricting painfully. “Let’s paddle closer to the shoreline.” He said next. “Alright.” I answered, not sure about his reasons, but humbled enough by my past actions not to argue.

When we finally reached the shoreline, I felt the force of the river pushing us back even more, so I attempted to paddle harder, but was seizing by a cramp in my shoulder and lost the paddle. Luckily, I was able to grab it before it got too far. As I turned my body around to reclaim it from the river, I spied Tony trying to grab for a large tree trunk that stuck out of the embankment. “What are you doing?” I yelled surprisedly. “Maybe we can find a place along the shoreline to pull up next to, and climb up the side of the mountain!” He said half laughing, half serious. “Honey!” I said, “It’s straight up all along the river! We won’t be able to climb up….with the kayak!” I couldn’t believe it. He was giving up!

The Great Depression in American history has always fascinated me, I’m constantly researching it: The Stock Market Crash of 1929, The Dust Bowl of 1930, FDR, and Eleanor Roosevelt’s “It’s Up to the Women” speech of 1933 in which she exhorted American women to help pull our country through the gravest economic crisis we’d ever known:

“The women know that life must go on and that the needs of life must be met and it is their courage and determination which, time and again, have pulled us through worse crises than the present one.”

It always comes down to the women, doesn’t it? A man may be physically stronger, get better pay, but it’s the woman who pulls them through hard times. “We can do it Honey!” I yelled, fixing Rosie the Riveter in my mind. “Just keep paddling with me!” As we paddled, I felt my entire body loose all its strength, then regain it supernaturally. It was crazy. All smiles left my face – replaced with wincing pain and determination. I knew we could make it to shore, if we worked together.

After the bridge was behind us I thought we were home free; that the harbor would be an open door us weary travelers could paddle through. Nope. We forgot about the jetty, which went the entire length of the harbor, then opened up to anyone wanting to tie his or her boat up to the dock. The water grew choppy and merciless at this point. I half considered the possibility of clamoring over the jetty rocks, but what good would that do? I’d still have to swim to one of the boat docks. No, just a little farther and we can tie up the kayak and climb onto the dock like respectable folk.

Next thing I knew, Tony was grabbing for the dock, clinging onto an old rusty boat cleat with all his might. “Toss me the rope.” He ordered. We were successfully tied up now. “Get out of the boat.” He said, feigning a smile this time. I tried to get up, but my legs stiffened painfully, refusing to straighten – hours of sitting in the kayak. I tried again, this time using my arms to grab the dock, and then climbed up like a lizard on my belly until my feet were out of the boat and on the dock. I rolled over on my back panting. “Help me.” I heard my husband say, so I rolled back over, got on my knees and helped pull him up onto the dock with an agonizing grunt. For a minute we both laid there panting, then we started laughing uncontrollably and screaming, “We made it! We did it! Thank you God! We’re safe.”

When we finally sat up, Tony reached down and got the backpack, which was strapped tightly to the nose of our kayak. “Honey go. Get the car.” He said exhaustedly, as he threw me the bag. I opened it up and searched for the keys to my Ford Escape. They weren’t in there. I searched my pockets, Tony his pockets. Nada. “Did you leave them in the truck?” He asked me, with a most serious look on his face. “Wha? Uh…no way.” I dumped everything out of the bag, and then I remembered: At the top of the river, after we put the kayak into the water I did a ‘hasty’ checklist of what goes and what stays. I vaguely remember putting my car keys – which Tony kindly put into one of his Ziploc bags – in the glove box. Yikes. I was going to have to find a taxi. “I’ll be right back.” I said hastily. He just lay there on his back, eyes shut.

I should have marked the place where he lay with some sort of landmark, but I was so embarrassed about leaving the keys in his truck, that I went off running like a chicken. Ten minutes later I walked into Zola’s Pizza, our most frequented eatery on the harbor. When I opened the door and the heat from the brick oven hit my face, I closed my eyes and smiled. “Rachel!” Vanessa said, a bit shocked at my appearance. “What’s wrong?” She asked, her kind eyes searching my face. “Kayaking…stuck on dock…no keys…need taxi…may I…restroom?” Was all I could sputter. When I came back there was a taxi waiting outside. I love you Vanessa. I ordered a large pepperoni, mushroom and olive pizza, paid my girl then flew out the door.

The taxi ride was one of the most surreal moments of my life. The driver talked non-stop about his failing health, being homeless, his girlfriend who is addicted to meth, her daughter – who has emotional issues, and how much he hates tourists. He never noticed my withdrawn face, my bloody, blistered hands, my wet clothes or the watermark I was leaving on his velvety seat. I tried to listen sympathetically, and as it turned out we were both from the Bay Area. This switched the conversation to food. “The Bay Area has the best restaurants in the world!” He exclaimed, then he talked about how much he missed the produce, etc.. On and on he went, while I nodded deliriously, shivering.

After driving along the river for what seemed forever, I spotted the turn off and he skidded to a stop. “Can you pull up next to that truck?” I asked, pointing. “Um, it’s a bit rough, I may pop my tires.” He answered. “Oh, ok I’ll get out then.” I gave him a twenty, thanked him and slammed the door, unintentionally of course. As I walked, shaking to the truck, I noticed the sun worshipers were gone, the children too. All was quiet now as the sun slowly set in the horizon and the temperature dropped. There was only one other car parked close to the rocky shoreline, it was a couple making out passionately. I couldn’t help smiling, then I reached into my wet shorts pocket and pulled out the truck keys, which I don’t remember putting in there.

Next thing, I was thundering down the mountain to rescue my man. Driving through the harbor, I was trying to remember where I’d left him. Walking gives one a completely different vantage point. As I drove, I peered through piles upon piles of crab pots and between giant storage hangers, then I pulled into an abandoned lot with mounds of broken cement and gravel. Driving around the un-drivable lot I spied two feet propped up on the tip of a yellow kayak. “Honey!” I yelled out loud to myself. It was my sweet man; my man who would do anything for me, whose love humbles me on a daily basis. “Honey! I’m here!” I squealed, running towards him, and then hugging him tightly as I kissed his salty neck. “Wow, that was fast Darlin’.” He said, getting up slowly with my help. “I ordered you a pizza.” I said, seeing the pleasure in his face. “Yesssss.” He said through his teeth, smiling with his fist in the air. “You won’t believe what I just went through!” I said excitedly, driving towards Zola’s. As I told him all about my most recent adventure, he sat in the passenger seat, grinning, listening admiringly…

Our Chetco River Adventure, Part I

Tags

birthday, Kayaking, river adventure

My husband is incredibly sweet. For example, on our first year of marriage he surprised me with a pearl necklace and earrings for my birthday. I never led on that I even liked pearls, but he confidently told me that, “Every woman should own a set of pearls.” A few years later it was a new motorcycle helmet, followed by diamond earrings. Most recently he got me Bella’s backpack from the movie Twilight. He actually went on-line, found out what kind of bag it was and bought it. Mind you, I did not ask for Bella’s backpack, but he thought I would like it and to my surprise, I do. Then there’s the time I tore out a picture of the boots Keira Knightley wore on a Vogue fashion shoot because I liked them. He secretly found out who made those boots and bought them for me. The man is incorrigible! Well, when we moved to this little seaside town and I happened to say, “How fun would it be to spend the day on a lake?” Guess what he did? He researched and found a place in town that rents boats, well kayaks, so we could spend the day on the lake for my birthday.

The morning of my big day, after dad hit the road, Tony and I excitedly headed for the Escape Hatch to pick-up our very first kayak. As we loaded that sucker into the truck I noticed it was a lot larger and heavier than I’d imagined, but it was a fun, bright yellow with two seats, which eased my mind since I thought we’d be in individual kayaks. Next stop – Lake Earl. My husband was told that Lake Earl was a very serene lake – perfect for beginners. When we got there however, the water level was so low that it looked more like a bog than a lake, and it smelled. After some discussion we turned around and headed for our second choice – the Chetco River.

The Chetco is a pristine, scenic river that runs deep into the mountains and pours out into the Pacific Ocean. “Are you sure?” My husband asked, concernedly. “Kayaking on a lake is a lot different from kayaking down a river.” Was he insinuating that I couldn’t paddle down one little river? I was offended! “Sure I’m sure.” I said confidently. “Besides, this river has a strong current that will lead us down stream and right into the ocean, probably, without much effort on our part.” I pretty much made all that up, but it made sense to me.

Driving up into the mountains, I could see the mighty Chetco sparkle through the trees. “Keep going.” I said excitedly, when he turned on his blinker to pull over. “Alright.” He said uneasily. After two more attempts to pull over and me egging him on, we finally found a place where you can pull your vehicle right onto the river’s edge. On the rocky shore were sun worshipers and families sitting in beach chairs. Some were drinking beer; others were sleepily fishing in inner tubes, while children swam and splashed in the beautiful green water like river otters.

As we started to unload, everyone began to watch. The bright, banana-yellow kayak seemed to clash hideously with our surroundings. After a hasty inventory of what goes and what stays in the truck, I strapped on my puffy life vest and hopped into the kayak, which was much easier on the eyes once it was in the water. When I sat down, it bottomed out. I think I heard some of the river otters laugh. “Oh!” I said surprisedly as the water started pouring into the holes at the bottom of the kayak. This is when I felt the difference between a boat and a kayak.  In a boat we would have been dry. Kayaks are meant to roll, which I didn’t plan on doing since I’m not a very good swimmer. Oh well, who cares if our behinds are going to be wet I thought, we’re on the river and it’s a beautiful day! After we walked our banana slug into deeper water, we got in with as little fuss as possible, which meant almost tipping over several times while I squealed with laughter, holding my “Bella” backpack over my head. When we were finally in, I looked over my shoulder and could tell that our audience was a little sad we were off and running, or glad.

Truth be told, Tony and I are straight City. We both grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and we’ve only gone camping once together, which was an adventurous nightmare to say the least (perhaps another story for another day). That’s why we’re so excited to be living in the county now. We’ve always wanted to get away from the smog and experience nature: fishing, hiking, and kayaking. Sure, we’re new to it all but we want to learn, and Kayaking down the Chetco River was our biggest and newest adventure since we moved here two months prior. So there I was sitting in a giant, yellow river Cadillac, life vest secure (Tony refused to wear his), with a hideous sun hat on my head that I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in (thanks mom), thrilled to be paddling down a river on my own steam. Life couldn’t be better.

My husband thought it best if I sat up front – he being the strongest would act as our rudder. I was quite happy with this arrangement; it gave me an unobstructed view of the river. My job was to report what lay ahead. The first couple hours I was happy as a clam, taking pictures of the incredible scenery, videoing my husband paddling while we sang songs that glorified the Chetco. When we hit a stretch of river that was especially calm, Tony asked me to help paddle. “I’ve been paddling.” I joked. Then I resealed my birthday camera in the Ziploc bag my husband made me promise to use, and threw it into my backpack. As we paddled together we developed a pretty good rhythm. That’s when I spotted my first white water. “Um, honey, I see rapids ahead.” I reported calmly. “Alright, just sit tight and let the water take us!” He yelled, as if we were about to go straight over a waterfall. I nodded, laughing. As we approached the rapidly running water I failed to mention the rather large tree trunk that hung low, directly overhead. As I ducked to let the tree pass, my sweet husband tried blocking it with his arm, and fell overboard. After somehow stopping the kayak and apologizing my head off, he got back in and almost tipped us over. Lucky for us I have cat-like reflexes and shifted my body weight just right. “Well, at least you’re cooler now.” I said, looking on the bright side. He was a champ about it, and it was only four feet deep in the rapids.

For the next two hours the current seemed to move at a snail’s pace, but I didn’t mind one bit. It was so refreshing and beautiful on the river. As I alternated taking pictures with paddling – mind you every time I wanted to use the camera it meant going into the backpack, taking it out of the protective plastic bag, then reversing the process when I finished getting that magical shot – I could see that Tony was beginning to fatigue. “Let’s pull over and eat.” I suggested. “Great idea.” He said happily. When we spied a nice spot to pull over, we paddled hard towards the shore and the nose of our kayak slid up perfectly. Ahoy! We had landed.

As I pulled our lunch out of the backpack I noticed how meager it was. Then I remembered – we had planned on spending a couple of hours on “Lake Placid,” not four hours and counting, paddling, then walking our kayak downstream. Yes, walking. Our kayak was so big and heavy that we had to get out quite often and walk it through the shallows. All this in and out and constant paddling was a real workout, but we became quite good at it – no more nearly tipping over. After inhaling our PB&Js, chips and downing our one Hansen’s soda (How can food taste so good?!), we noticed that it was starting to get late. Neither of us had the time (Who brings their watch on a nature quest?), but the sun wasn’t as warm as when we first began our adventure, and the breeze, which started out balmy and warm, was chilly now and blowing in our faces. “How much further before we make it to the bridge?” I asked rolling down my sleeves. “Well, you see that mountain range up ahead?” My husband said, pointing west. The mountains were all around us, and they stretched and curved as far as the eye could see. “Uh, yeah?” I said doubtfully. “We need to make it all the way through those, then it’s about half a mile to the bridge. That’s where the ocean water meets the river, then it’s another half-mile to the pier.” Wow, that’s far I thought, so I put my camera away for good this time (sort-of) and started to pull my own weight.

We were really sailing for almost an hour, and I loved the way it felt when we synchronized our paddling – the kayak slicing through the sparkling, green water. As we steadily moved along, I noticed the shoreline was changing and the river was getting wider. When we first began, the river was calm; the water was warm and crystal clear with beautiful multi-colored rocks at the bottom, which were covered with a blanket of green moss. Salmon and steelhead, mallards, egrets and a multitude of birds whose names went beyond my knowledge, surrounded us. Now, the current was pushing us back, the water was colder, darker, and much deeper, and the only birds I noticed were carrion and the occasional seagull. Even when my arms began to shake I didn’t stop paddling. Once, Tony took a break from paddling but I kept on going and I realized how difficult it was to paddle by myself. Then I felt bad. Most of the time I was laying back in the sun like a modern day Lady of Shallot, taking pictures of the wildlife that surrounded us. All the while my husband slaved away without complaint. “Badly done Emma,” I thought to myself, feeling the sting of my selfishness.

“Honey, I’m sorry!” I said to the outstretched river in front of me, still paddling as hard as I could. “I shouldn’t have said ‘keep going’ when we were driving up-river. I should have trusted you!” I could hear him laughing behind me, which made me smile. However, when I turned around I saw that his face was badly sun burnt, and although he smiled back at me, his eyes showed his exhaustion, as did his body, which was slumped over the paddle in his lap. “Honey!” I yelled worriedly. “It’s alright darlin’ just keep paddling. We’re almost through the mountains.” He said, sounding drunk with fatigue. As the wind started to blow harder and harder in my face, my paddling wasn’t even noticeable anymore. Up ahead, I could see the mountain curve and the river widen maddeningly before my eyes….