Turn Myself Around Again

01 Aug 2025 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s a song, Fall Down as the Rain, that my daughter, Jessa, sang at my father’s funeral with Dan, her partner, who was also the guitarist. It’s about the seasons of life and the inevitable beauty of death. Today, that song has been playing in my head. I’ve turned myself around yet again.

………………………….

I wanted to write. I needed to write. But I was hopelessly uninspired until I started reading Unreasonable Hospitality. 

The book tells the story of a restaurateur in New York City who wanted his restaurant to be extraordinary; the best in the world. The first year, at the annual awards ceremony for the fifty best restaurants, his was number 50. He agonized over how he could improve his game. The chef was exceptional, and the food was already exquisitely gourmet. He decided he would focus on the guest experience, upping the ante to provide unreasonable hospitality to his patrons. And if they were to be treated to the ultimate in service and graciousness, the staff would also deserve to be deeply respected and appreciated. 

He devised a plan and implemented it. The following year, his restaurant was voted number one.

Reading his story made me aware that the events of the past few weeks have jettisoned my life into the realm of the extraordinary once again. Suddenly, I wanted to write about it, to tell anyone who would listen about this sudden, wild, and spontaneous adventure that came out of nowhere.

Take right now, for instance. I’m sitting in a 4th-floor, luxury apartment overlooking the coastal lowlands of South Carolina. At high tide, the view from my balcony looks like this.

Low tide drains those sparkling pools.

This is a trial run, a test to see if a permanent move here is viable for me. I’ve been three winters and almost four summers in the remote northland of Minnesota, where my neighbors are my sister, brother-in-law, and an old friend of the family who moved there shortly after I did. Acres of field and forest stretch between our little community and the next house.

I fell asleep to the lonely wailing of coyotes and woke up in an alternate universe – turned myself around again.

When I landed in Charleston, my daughter whisked me across two bridges into the town of Mt. Pleasant and this complex of 224 units. I instantly had new neighbors. From the balcony, I could watch bikinis worn by tanned, toned, young bodies strolling to the pool, and slow-shuffling gray heads walking their shihtzus and corgies. Instead of the mile-long, dead-end dirt road to my little cottage on the farm, Ben Sawyer Boulevard, with its non-stop beach traffic, hummed day and night. 

I’m revisiting old prejudices. Whatever I had against air-conditioning in the past is passé. With the heat and humidity hovering in the nineties 24/7, AC moves from nice to necessary! I’ll acclimate. It just takes time. But I will say this: it beats nine months of Minnesota winter any way you slice it! 

Despite sucking soupy salt air into my lungs with each breath, I love it here! Everything is easy and accessible. The Publix grocery store is a few blocks away. There’s a Mexican restaurant even closer with superb spicy margaritas! And the amenities available to residents are unreal. There’s a pool, a fitness gym, a yoga studio, a conference area, work stations, a lounge, and a whole corral of bicycles to use whenever the spirit moves. A beautiful courtyard on the 2nd floor of my building screams PARTY TIME!!!

Valet trash pickup comes to my door, and a package delivery service, FETCH, does too. There’s a free shuttle to the beach… I don’t know… does it sound a little too good to be true?

But here I am, and it IS true. All of it. 

The apartment doubles as my daughter’s office. I’ll have the added benefit of seeing her and my granddaughters regularly. That’s what kicks this into the ultra-extraordinary category. If I make this permanent, I’ll get to be here. With them. 

None of it was planned. I didn’t see it coming. But Uranus moved into Gemini on July 7th, where it will remain until November 7th, and as the renowned astrologer, Steven Forrest says, The shock of the unexpected will be everywhere, in the headlines and in your own life.

It’s only August 1st. There are three more months of potential shocking unexpectedness. One could get dizzy with all this turning around!

I Did Not Need ChatGPT To Write This

05 Jul 2025 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

20250701_150646(1)_portrait7845869736713181846

Too Much Truth

Age gives rise to strange thoughts…

I blinked, and youth became yesterday

My children approach fifty

My grandchildren are the singularity

The great parody of life

That we become humorously exaggerated imitations

of our former selves

An excess of saggy skin over stringy muscle

Deeply etched lines that trace smiles and frowns

long gone

Oversized joints that prefer the part of Newton’s

Law that states:

Objects at rest prefer to remain at rest

Inertia hurts less

Vision that tends to look inward more clearly than

outward

Ears that grow large but hear little

Hair once raven, or red, or flaxen

Now gray

Only gray, like the ash of a burned-out fire

But we are not burned out!

We may appear grotesque and vacant behind

rheumy eyes

Our warped forms serve to disguise the sizzle and

spit within

The knowing that comes from decades lived

And the rage that flares when we are

Overlooked, or coddled, or condescended to

We are not invisible, incapable,

Or insignificant

And yes, we are closer to death than 97.2% of the

world’s population

So listen up!

When we die, our wisdom dies with us

The last generation to grow old naturally,

Passes away

And so does this world as we know it.

Author’s Page

17 Jun 2025 1 Comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

I’ve published Nettle Creek!

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is screenshot_20250426_124408_photo-editor.jpg

About the book:

Her mother died in a car crash when Stella was an infant, at least that’s the story she’s been told. Raised by her wealthy, charismatic father in the financial district of Manhattan, Stella Tarner matures tucked away in the actuarial department of John Tarner’s insurance empire. Socially awkward, she calculates risk for the company and remains invisible in her father’s shadow.

When her John Tarner suffers a fatal heart attack, Stella is catapulted to the position of CEO of Tarner Enterprises, and her life abruptly changes. A letter from the corporate attorneys advises her that Ryebrook Psychiatric Institution has received an inquiry. Hazel Bestcomb of Nettle Creek, Minnesota, is looking for the daughter of Gelda Essling Tarner.

None of it makes sense, unless.…

Is her mother alive? That’s not possible. Her father wouldn’t have lied to her, would he?

Stella hurries to Nettle Creek to investigate. Her interactions with the locals in that small midwestern community affect Stella deeply. Hazel, a transplant from rural Tennessee, becomes Stella’s quirky confidant.

While there, Stella visits Al, her father’s best friend from college. She stays at Judd Swanson’s B&B and meets Judd’s cousin, Tilly, The deeper she delves into the intrigue of her mother’s life, or death, the more tangled the web of lies and deception becomes.

Unaccustomed to the friendly openness of the women of Nettle Creek, and thrown off balance by the men, Stella slowly awakens to unexplored parts of herself, some uncomfortable, some thrilling. Unexpected feelings emerge and jolt her psyche. She flees back to the familiar anonymity of New York to sort herself out.

The twists and turns of this fast-paced mystery romance create a riveting page-turner.

Order the print paperback ($15.99) from Barnes and Noble at the link below: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nettle-creek-sherry-bronson/1147435725?ean=9798231205721

Order the E-book ($9.99) here: https://books2read.com/u/3LQ091

Please leave a review when you have finished reading.

It’s a Long Long Way to Ferragudo!

13 Feb 2025 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in food, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

I didn’t know what to expect, but Portugal is beyond. Way beyond.

I’ll start from the beginning…

After the 3-hour drive from my home in the frigid deep north (my sister informed me that it was -35°F yesterday morning), I spent the night in Minneapolis. The next day, my daughter took me to the airport to catch my 1:15 p.m. flight to Philadelphia.

I cleared the checkpoints and was at my gate. It was a smaller plane for the domestic flight and definitely no frills. But we landed in Philadelphia safely and on time.

I was in terminal F and my next flight left from Terminal A. Meanwhile, I had a 4 1/2-hour layover, so I asked at the information desk which way to Terminal A. She pointed then said, “It’s a 25-minute walk.”

“Twenty-five?” I repeated.

She nodded. “But, there’s a shuttle right through those doors.”

I thanked her and took the shuttle.

Somehow, my flights always seem to be at the farthest gate possible. I found it, bought a roasted turkey wrap and bottled water, and settled in to wait.

They started the boarding process an hour before departure, which was a good thing because this dreamliner plane has the capacity for 240 passengers. Boarding that many takes a while. 

Once on the plane, we taxied for about 5 minutes, then sat for another hour on the tarmac while the plane was de-iced.

I had a window seat with a perfect view of the left wing.

At last, all traces of ice and snow removed, we were off to Lisbon.

Six plus hours later, the coast of Portugal came into view, a sight for tired eyes.

My friend, who has been here 5 times, had sent explicit instructions. Before leaving the airport, go to Vodaphone for an eSim.

I found the Vodaphone booth and got in line behind 8 others. I stood there…and stood there…while each person’s process took at least 20 minutes. At that rate, I’d miss the bus to Ferragudo. I connected to the airport internet and put in a quick WhatsApp call to my friend. Her advice: Forget the eSim, just get to the bus.

OK, will do. So, I pulled up my Uber app.

Where are you going?

Bus Station.

Now or later?

Now.

Your visa is being charged. Your driver, Lucido, is 4 minutes away. White Nissan, license plate….

He arrived. He spoke no English, and my Potuguese contains approximately four words. I was whisked to the bus station and dropped at the curb. Obrigado, thank you, that’s one of the 4.

I asked a woman lined up in a queue for one of the 20 or so buses where the ticket office was. Found it. Went to the wrong window. A woman asked me where I was going.

“Portimao.”

“Follow me.” I followed her and discovered that she was the ticket agent. “Your bus leaves in 5 minutes,” she said.  She printed the ticket then, again, “Follow me.” She led me to the bus.

From that bus window, I photographed the ever-changing Portuguese countryside.

Lisbon

I don’t know the names or the history of what I saw through that window leaving Lisbon, but it was magical.

Then we were in the country.

Cranes in their nests.

What a tour! Olive orchards, sheep, cork trees, figs, I had planned to sleep on the bus. Who can sleep in Wonderland?

My friend was waiting when we pulled into the station at Portimao. Twenty minutes later, we were at her house. She gave me a quick tour, then showed me my private suite (bedroom, bath, and balcony). By then, I’d had 2 hours of sleep in the past 40 hours.

“We’ll go out to dinner,” she said.

“If I’m awake,” I replied.

In a heartbeat, I was dead to the world. At around 5 p.m. she knocked.

Who? What? Where am I?

“Come downstairs when you’re ready. There’s wine and cheese. Then we’ll go to dinner.”

If you aren’t familiar with Portuguese wines, you should be. She had a bottle of red and a white, mixed cheeses, a baguette… Who needs dinner? I thought.

But an hour later, we were out the door and on our way to Restaurant Aria for A) more wine, B) an appetizer of marinated olives, and then…

Baked Octopus.

It was DIVINE.

When our engaging, single, middle-aged waiter with two cats told us there was one slice of raspberry cheesecake left, we decided dessert was essential. My friend had the cheesecake. I ordered a carob, fig, almond cake that was…well…you remember the scene with Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally? It was THAT good.

We got back to the house – a very short walk – and I slept so well…!

I can not tell you how happy I am to be far, far away from ice and snow exploring this Portuguese fishing village. The journey was so worth it! I sunned stretched out in a lounge chair on the upper terrace amid cacti and palms today. Ahhhh…bliss!

Whoops! Finding My Face – Completed Version!

10 Jul 2024 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized

I’ve been journaling almost daily for 25 years.

My bookcase is littered with binders full of lined notebook paper, covered with scribblings. There are beautifully bound journals, gifted to me, that contain periods of my life, cover to cover. A disintegrating, plastic pouch overflows with more pages…

Gwen and I were setting out on our usual walk this morning, Shall we go to the corn or the mailbox? The large corn fields are to the west, not planted this year. Too wet. But we still refer to that direction as the corn. To the east, the mailbox sits on the other side of the Great River Road at the end of what I consider the driveway, but it’s an actual numbered lane maintained by the township.

We agreed on the mailbox and headed into the sun which was already midheaven and ferocious. Did you hear from anybody? That’s the question that brings us to a recounting of anything that’s happened since our five o’clock social hour the night before. No detail is too boring or mundane to be shared. It’s all of interest.

This morning my sister mentioned an article she’d read in the New York Times, about a woman who had a dream and then wrote it as a children’s story. As it goes, a little girl is fascinated by everyone’s face but can’t find her own. She experiences triumphs and tragedies in her search which, to my recollection, ends successfully. But I was deep into processing by then – relating it to my life, my writing for self-discovery, a search for my face.

The timing had particular significance. Yesterday, going through old photos triggered questions about what else I’d been doing at those times. I found journal entries that corresponded with the pictures and…I shouldn’t have gone there.

Good grief! Was that me? Was my life that dismal? I mean, I didn’t write it as dismal. I wrote it as fact, this is what’s going on. But, OMG! The pain it brings me now, remembering. I didn’t know how to be a wife. I didn’t know what I needed in a partner. Ever. That didn’t stop me from marrying, though. Five times.

I’ve realized that childhood trauma, my mother’s long illness, and near death, left me damaged. Unwilling, perhaps unable, to trust anyone but myself.

That revelation was just one of many that became clear as I journaled over the years. Self-discovery isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s easy to accept the gallant side, the brilliant decisions, the selfless gestures. Chuckle. But when dredging up the subconscious, when shadows loom large revealing jealousy, pettiness, ego, and various and sundry fears growl from the gloom, do I really want to see that reflected in my face?

The better we know ourselves, inside-out, the better equipped we are to manifest our genius and manage the darkness. Awareness is key, and willingness is essential. We’re programmed to default to our faults. They’re the comfortable familiar. Effortless. The high road requires intention and energy.

Perhaps faults is the wrong word. Proclivities, maybe? An inherent inclination toward something objectionable…it looks good on the surface. Your intentions are honorable. But it’s a habitual reaction that, at its core isn’t healthy for you. Unless you look for those goblins and annihilate them, they will run your life.

For example, from my own hidden closet, leaving was my default. I had no capacity for persevering in a relationship to work things out. My intention was never to hurt people, but the by-product of unawareness often harms more than just ourselves. Once I recognized the pattern and was determined to fix it, I’d divorced my fifth husband. There’s no going back, of course, and I sensed the damages from my past that informed the urge to leave were irreparable. My solution, then, was the only humane choice: remain alone.

Etched into my aging face are the successes and failures of a fully lived life. Smile lines far outnumber the frown furrows.

It isn’t finished though. The longer I live, the more grizzled and real (like The Velveteen Rabbit) I become. I find I don’t dread the image in the mirror. The changes fascinate me. There’s a story for every wrinkle, a rich history that’s every bit as epic as War and Peace.

I’ll Make This Quick

04 Sep 2023 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in grannys landing, Mexico, Poetry, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

I’m dumbfounded.

Why has moving here, thirty miles from the nearest grocery store, nearest hardware store, nearest fast food restaurant, or Dairy Queen, made my life busier and more social than ever before?

I’m not complaining, but this isn’t exactly what I’d planned. I expected vast quantities of downtime to write, reflect, and daydream. I imagined isolation and a touch of loneliness now and then, solitary walks, and, okay, I’ll admit it, boredom.

How much wronger could I have been?! I think I’ve maxed out the wrongness scale.

So here’s the latest from Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay.

Let’s start with mornings. They’re glorious.  So stunning, in fact, that after taking this shot through my kitchen window, I ran outside in bare feet and jammies, climbed the ladder to my under-construction loft, and took another.

In jaw-dropping awe, I stood for many minutes, transfixed as the sun cleared the horizon.

Thirty minutes later, I was in Bear’s barn renovation, insullating the walls.

Construction is an ongoing theme. My garage/entryway/deck/loft addition is progressing.

Today, I sat under open rafters, imagining stairs, windows, a rug, as a lone cloud sprinkled a few cooling drops on my sweaty-hot head.

Did I say hot? Yesterday, it hit 103 degrees! The only thing hotter than the sun was the inside of my house. Even the sunflowers were wilting.

But that’s Minnesota. Extremes. It suits me.

On the social front, we have our community ‘meeting’ every evening at five o’clock. Whoever hosts provides appetizers. We plan our work for the coming day, moan, and groan over the latest political outrages, share poetry we’ve written, or ponder the meaning of life. Sometimes, someone has a deep, philosophical question, like, If time is a construct of man, is reality a neverending now? We keep ourselves entertained.

Then there was the garden. I planted one row of beans last spring. Gwen and W did the rest. All summer, they tended to weeds and watering while I went to South Carolina to visit granddaughters, then to Minneapolis to tend my grandsons. I showed up again just in time for harvest and the canning, freezing, and pickling processes.

Somewhere along the way, I decided to brew kombucha. Random? Not really. It’s a healthy alternative to my Spicy Tamarind Vodka fixation, a drink I was introduced to in Mexico.

Amazon had everything I needed. The brewing jar came from CraftaBrew.com with instructions and a cloth cover. An amber-colored, live scoby starter from poseymom.com and cardamom-flavored Ahmad black tea arrived, and I was in business.

Now I wait.

Isn’t it gorgeous? I can start tasting it after seven days. If I like the flavor, I’ll bottle it then, or l can let it ferment longer for a tangier version.

It’s getting late. I’ll wrap this up. But just now, the moon…

And a sky full of stars…

Good night, my friends. Sleep well.

The Minor Frustrations of Everyday Life in a Third-World Country

30 Mar 2021 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Sometimes so much happens it’s hard to know which story to tell. I realized as I wrote that sentence that most of the events of the past two weeks can be filed under one heading: Frustration. Does that give me permission to tell all of them? Sure. Why not.

Ketut has been cutting the garden grass on hands and knees with his curved knife for years. The neighbor next door has a weed-whacker. She uses it far too often for about four hours at a crack. During that time you’d swear you were living next to a runway at JFK International.

The noise is the only reason I’ve resisted buying that tool of convenience for Ketut. But lately his back has been bothering him. The last flare-up was three weeks ago. I decided it was time to bite the bullet.

Lazada is Indonesia’s version of Amazon. I searched through pages of weed-whackers, some had murdurously heavy-looking packpacks that feed gas to the machine. Some were electric with long cables. Others ran on batteries, and a scant few were rechargeable.

The rechargable battery-operated ones appealed to me. I compared differing volts, wattages, blades, and reviews in an attempt to educate myself. I finally chose a brand from China that checked all the boxes. I was delighted to see that Lazada would accept my U.S. debit card. I entered it and clicked the BUY button. An email popped up:

WOW! Thank you for your order. Please use the number below for tracking.

I chuckled. Only in Indonesia would they exude such enthusiasm over an online order. It would be delivered within four days. Perfect.

The next morning I found another message from the company.

OH NO! Your order was cancelled because no payment.

Huh? Really? Maybe they wouldn’t accept my card after all. I returned to the Lazada site to re-order the machine with a different method of payment. The process was not user-friendly and after trying for half-an-hour I sent a message to my neighbor:

“If I pay half of whatever your grass cutter cost, and share expenses for maintenance, can Ketut borrow it twice a month?”

The answer was immediate:

“It’s old! You don’t have to pay. Just borrow it when you need it.”

I love my neighbor.

Two days later there was a message from Lazada in my inbox:

HURRAY! Your order has been shipped!

What? Huh! My cancelled order has been shipped? What if I’d reordered…

It arrived on scedule. Of course, it required assembly and of course, the instructions were in Chinese. But Ketut worked his magic and the thing was operational in no time. The big payoff…it whispers!

Fast-forward another week. I ordered a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Cheesecake for my son-in-law’s birthday from a company called GiftBlooms that I found online. It’s located in a town near their home. I checked my email inbox for confirmation.

Thank you for your order. You will be advised when it goes out for delivery.

Relief washed over me. I’d found a gift I knew he’d enjoy and it was ordered. Check.

The next moring’s inbox showed a message from GiftBlooms.

Your order is on hold. Please click on the link below for more information.

I clicked. In a nutshell, they were concerned that my credit card address (U.S.) didn’t match the location of my order (Indonesia) and they wanted a photo of my credit card. They told me to obscure the last 4 digits and send it in a reply email.

This was a new wrinkle. I’d never had issues with ordering anything in the U.S. But I complied. Within fifteen minutes, GiftBlooms sent another message:

Your order is on hold.

This time they wanted me to take a selfie of me holding the credit card along with a photo I.D. A low simmer started at the base of my skull. I pulled out my driver’s license and…what?! My license expired on my birthday two months ago? I had no idea! The simmer cranked to a low boil. My passport was handy. Holding it and the card next to my face, I tried not to growl as I took the shot.

Ten minutes later the inbox had another message from GiftBlooms.

Your order is on hold.

By now I was chewing tacks and spitting nails.

We have a mirror-image view of your documents. Please lay them flat and take another photo.

What did they expect? Documents will always be a mirror image when photographed beside my face. I’d done what they told me to do and they still weren’t satisfied.

That was the point where I came dangerously close to cancelling the order. Dangerously close. But it was also the point where the whole charade became hilarious. I took the shot, sent it, and held my breath. Ten minutes again and there was GiftBlooms in my inbox.

Order pending.

There were no further instructions. They were probably running my info through the FBI and IRS, just to make sure their cheesecake wasn’t being used to cover up an international money-laundering scheme.

I went to bed. The next morning my stomach did a bit of flamenco when I saw GiftBlooms had reached out to me yet again. I opened the email holding my breath.

Your order will be delivered between 9 a.m. and 7 p.m. on the date you selected. Thank you for your order.

And so it was that my son-in-law got his Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Cheesecake right on time. But what a circus!

And then…

Covid vaccinations are being rolled out in Ubud. The pecking order isn’t clear, but people in health care and tourism workers supposedly come first. Then local residents. There was no mention of ex-pats being eligible, but I felt certain we would be.

Then I heard vaccines were available to foreigners with a KTP – the kind of identification card evey Indonesian and a few ex-pats have. I don’t.

Several days passed and I noticed a post on Facebook. Got my vaccine at the wantilan across from Ubud palace. No KTP needed, just a KITAS or KITAP. Go now!

I grabbed my KITAP and hustled down Monkey Forest Road to the roofed platform where they hold special events in Ubud Center. Not a soul. Two taxi drivers were lounging at the curb. I asked them what they knew about the vaccines.

Yesterday finished.

I’d missed it by a day. I asked if they knew where they were giving them now and was told I could come back tomorrow, maybe they would be there again. Somehow I doubted it.

The next morning Facebook had another lead. They were giving vaccines in the Monkey Forest parking lot a few blocks from home. You guessed it. I grabbed my KITAP and trotted over. The two women attending the entrance were the only humans visible. I asked them about the vaccine.

Oh ya. Yesterday they were here.

So yesterday, while I was huffing and puffing my way north toward the palace, mere steps away from home in Monkey Forest parking lot they were doing vaccinations? The women told me I should check at the local Puskesmas clinic. Maybe I could get the vaccine there. I thanked them, gulped down the lump in my throat, and turned back the way I had come.

As I approached the clinic I saw hoards of motorbikes and heard numbers being called. My heart thumped hopefully. Maybe this would be it. After quick stop at the hand santizer station, I proceeded past curious eyes to an information booth. I explained that I have a KITAP and asked if I could get the vaccine here.

What is your dose? You already have first dose?

I said no, I hadn’t had any dose yet.

I’m sorry. Here we do only second dose.

I plodded home nursing a blue mood. Why did it have to be so hard? Later, sitting on the terrace under the bluest sky with a cool breeze licking my skin, Dad’s words echoed in my head. Don’t push the river.

And there it was. I’d done it again. I know with everything in me that when it’s my turn, it’ll be easy. But I’d gotten swept up in the urgent energy of others and momentarily forgot my truth.

These small things – little frustrations – are part of what I love about my life here. Perhaps not in the exact moment I’m experiencing them, but in retrospect they make great stories, and that’s what life’s about – our stories!

Food Glorious Food Glorious Fooooood!

02 Mar 2020 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Holidays, Poetry, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

I’ve embraced food-love.

Not just the flavors and nutritional value for my body, but the beauty, the colors and textures, the rugged heartiness or delicate elegance of the visuals (and victuals) on my plate.

I still prefer simplicity. One dish well-prepared delights me far more than a variety. I don’t know why that is – maybe I’m too easily stimulated by flavors. Maybe my palette gets confused and goes into overwhelm.

Whatever the reason, I’m much happier going deep into the complexities of a single entrée than sampling many. A table groaning with selections thrills some. Maybe they’re the true foodies. But for me, in quantities of food and friends, less is more.

Speaking of friends, small-talk, the inane chatter between people who don’t know each other well and may not care to, is painful for me. It’s like those all-you-can-eat buffets where you leave grossly stuffed but haven’t really tasted anything. I’ve taken new acquaintances aback when, after a few minutes of chit-chat I say, “So…tell me about your childhood.” The ones who reply, You first, are friends for life.

Food and friends. The two go hand-in-glove, don’t they? I hadn’t intended to write about friends – they just slipped in. But it makes sense. Sharing the daily repast is probably part of our DNA from the beginning. I don’t think Eve ate Adam’s rib. But she did offer him an apple – which didn’t end well. Hmm. Bad analogy. However, I think historically speaking, breaking bread together has been a peaceful endeavor, not an act of war.

But about the photos…

That’s lentil stew ladled atop the brick-hard bread I’ve raved about. I paired it with Sartori Pinot Grigio. A red wine would have been too heavy. Even though the slices of spicy salami I boiled first, created an intensely flavorful stock, and the chunk of bread added heft, the white complemented beautifully without overpowering.

In spite of the stunning meals I’ve had here, I was missing my Bali breakfast of homemade granola and coconut yogurt, topped with tropical fruit. On my next trip to Tutto per Tutti market I scanned the cereals on offer and came home with Kelloggs All Bran, a container of Yomo plain yogurt, bananas and strawberries – not quite dragon fruit and papaya but adequate.

The first day I ate it with yogurt. The following day I ate it without. It was either surprisingly good or I’ve completely forgotten the taste of my other life.

My latest achievement is a stew identical to the first, but this time I added kale and more garlic. Not only that, there are still plenty of bread boulders to submerge in the broth for exciting crunchy mouthfuls. That bread! I wish I could bring a year’s supply back with me – although it wouldn’t be the same in Bali’s climate. A bit heavy perhaps…?

I’m loving this – the prep and eating of food. I wouldn’t want to devote my life to it, but it’s fun for an hour or so during the day.

And in case you’ve forgotten, here are the lyrics to the last stanza of Food Glorious Food from the musical, Oliver:

What wouldn’t we give for
That extra bit more
That’s all we live for
Why should we be fated to do
Nothing but brood on food
Magical food,
Wonderful food
marvelous food,
Beautiful food,
Food, Glorious food glorious fooooooood

Stairway to…I guarantee it wasn’t heaven!

29 Feb 2020 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Holidays, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

I love my sister. We email several times a week. We agree on important things and agree to disagree on everything else. But she owes me now. Bigtime.

Several days ago she wrote complaining that I’d mentioned a beach. She said she’d seen photos of sheer cliffs disappearing into the sea and although the images were beautiful, by her definition that did not qualify as beach.

So, Sherry…is there a beach?

Remember this sign? Alla spiaggia means exactly what the translation immediately below says it means: To the beach. But the day I took this path I was on my way to the church of Saint January. I diverged to the massive square in front of the church and did not continue on.

So Sherry, is there a beach?

According to the sign, yes. Had I seen one in all my meanderings? No. In Paulo Sandulli’s tower studio he had painted people sunbathing on what looked suspiciously like…a beach. Tourists flock here in the summertime to go to…the beach. The map has a location in Praiano called…Lido One Fire Beach. So…

Today for you, sister, I’ll follow those signs. According to the map, Via Rezzola will take me there.

Its entrance was easy to find.

After the little landing at the top it was steps.

At the bottom of this flight, the path turned and there was another flight.

Then it leveled off for a leisurely stroll.

I imagined my trek down to the beach would be like this lovely trail, gently sloping, lined with interesting gates, gardens, flora and fauna.

And it was…for a while.

All good things must end, and so did my walk-in-the-park so to speak. The path turned to steps. Downward.

And down…

and down…

It was a nightmare of steps. Any minute now, I thought…around the next corner…surely I’ll catch a glimpse of…anything but steps.

But that was not to be. Each bend brought another steep descent.

And then there were step switchbacks.

I hadn’t seen a soul. I have to admit it was a bit creepy and I felt extremely alone. No sound of voices, no footsteps, no animals…a twilight zone.

Just endless steps taking me where?

The to the beach signs had disappeared long ago, but there were no other trails, no other options, only this steady march downward.

Buildings – deserted. And more steps.

Where am I?

Sherry, is there a beach?

When I rounded a corner and saw an inlet below me with a flat surface I almost cried. THE BEACH! Then I took a closer look. At the bottom of this cove was a massive, man-made concrete shelf. Holy moly! Was this the beach???

Couldn’t be. The real one must be on the other side of that rock wall with the industrial looking equipment on top. I proceeded around the rim of the inlet to the other side and walked through the assortment of old boats, steel drums and mysterious odds and ends looking for a way through. But there was nothing else. Dead end.

Nicola had warned me not to go on the beach when the seas were high. Giant waves crashed over the surface. I decided this was definitely one of those days.

I watched for a while, dumbstruck. What a forlorn place.

Sherry, is there a beach?

Well, dear sister, not exactly but sort of. Well, no. Not really. Heck no! Not at all!

Suddenly I wanted distance between me and this desolation. I’d seen a road on the map. Now to find it. There was no way I was going to walk those fifty million steps back to the street.

I hadn’t seen another way out on my way down, but it must be here somewhere…

There was no road. Or if there was, you couldn’t get there from here. I did indeed have to walk back up all those steps.

It was 55°F (12.7°C) and there was a ten mph (16 kph) wind out of the north but I was sweating buckets by the time I reached the street. I thought about you, sister – thought about what I’d been willing to do to satisfy your inquiring mind. Thought how it would have been so much more fun if you’d been with me.

I let my mind wander. If she was with me, what would we do next?

Across the street was a little cafe with drool-worthy scents emanating from its open door. I peeked in and knew immediately what we’d do.

Zeppole di San Guiseppe aka creampuffs.

When I got home I Googled beaches in Praiano and what do you know? Yes, that dreadful Lido One Fire is one of them, but there’s another. I’d passed it on my ‘cute shoes walk’ the other day and took this photo. I didn’t know it was a beach. This is the one Sandulli painted from his tower. You can just barely see it up in the far left corner.

You’d be happy. I can tell from the photos on the internet…there’s real sand.

I’m in Italy — So is COVID-19 — Am I afraid?

28 Feb 2020 14 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Holidays, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

Shall we ignore the elephant in the room?

I think not.

The coronavirus in Italy had a 25% surge in the past 24 hours. The Local it (Italy’s news in English) reports there are now 520 confirmed cases and the infestation has spread to the south with the area of Puglia reporting one and Sicily with three.

According to Sergio Matalucci out of Milan, eleven towns have been quarantined. Schools, universities, cinemas, clubs, and museums are closed. Events have been cancelled. Supermarket shelves stand empty as people panic-buy groceries, unsure of what’s ahead.

He goes on to write that grocery owners say they don’t lack stock in their warehouses. They just need to get it to the stores more quickly – a timing issue, not a supply issue. That’s good news.

It was slim pickings in my fridge. I climbed to Tutto per Tutti market this morning and found that even here in sleepy Praiano, in an area in the south of Italy as yet unaffected, shelves had empty spaces that hadn’t been there on prior visits.

Nicola, my host, told me people who had booked his rental properties for March have cancelled. He’s concerned for himself and his town. The economy of Praiano hinges extensively on tourism. Economic consequences are being experienced worldwide. Some types of businesses will profit. Many more will not.

So what’s actually happening? How much of the reporting can be trusted?

We’ve been bombarded for several years now by cries of ‘fake news’ from the very top of the power pyramid in the United States. Media giants have the ability to sway the thoughts and actions of the entire world population by choosing what to allow on their channels or what to suppress. I highly doubt, highly highly doubt if they even know if their sources are valid.

As I read article after article, these are the thoughts uppermost in my mind. Frankly, I don’t think we have any idea what’s really happening. We have limitless quantities of information at our fingertips. We can click ourselves down rabbit-holes and wind up light-years from where we began. But we have absolutely no way of knowing truth from lies.

Yet I’m addicted to that stream of information. Some part of me still trusts, or desperately wants to.

So I’ll keep reading the news. I’ll take precautions. According to the WHO more than 80 percent of patients infected with the virus have a mild reaction to the disease and recover. I’m here in Praiano until March 6th. Nobody can predict what will happen in the coming eight days but if planes are still flying, and I’m still healthy, I’ll leave Italy from Naples on that day and head back home to Bali.

Meanwhile, I’m grateful that the sun still rises. The sea is still blue. And this town of ancient stairways and kindness is mine to explore.

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