A Weekend in Tuscany

I have no further updates on the chalet hunt. We are still researching exactly which little village we want to land in and so have not looked at any other specific houses. I am determined to at least lay eyeballs on each and every ski village in the French-speaking part of Switzerland as well as right over the border in France. I’ve been scoring each village on a scale of 1 to 10 for access to the slopes, price of housing, how many famous people live there, etc. So far, Gstaad wins in the famous residents category but do we really want to live near Roman Polanski? No, we do not. Grand One is nine and she will soon be right in Roman’s wheelhouse. No need to go inviting trouble, I say.

By the way, Avoriaz in France is the most horrible place I’ve ever seen. It’s one of those “site-built” ski resorts with no actual town. Just high rise after high rise after high rise, with ski rental shops and pizza joints on the street level. Oh, it was so bad, Mr. Big and I were in shock. We thought that that level of tackiness was confined only to the US. No, someone allowed it to sneak across the Atlantic and climb up an Alp. Don’t go there unless you are a twenty-something hard core snowboarder who is not in the least bit interested in ambience and only care what time the bars close. Hmmmm. Small Son would probably love it.

Since I can’t show you any houses, I will tell you about Tuscany. Y’all. I am so sorry, and I am probably going to start a war, but Tuscany cannot hold a candle to Provence. (OK, all of you Europeans are going to get a little chuckle out of this, but I need to explain to all of the Americans who read this blog and who have never been to Europe, that Tuscany is in Italy and Provence is in France.) Right. Move on. Let’s begin by explaining that the whole region of Tuscany is huge. You could fit 10 Provences inside of Tuscany. Not all of Tuscany is what Americans think of when they picture “Tuscany”.

There is only one part of Tuscany that contains the gentle, rolling hills covered with vines and olives that we have come to know as “Tuscany”.

Consequently, because the area is so large, you find yourself driving miles and miles and miles between the villages and the sights you want to see. It’s a lot of driving, I’m just warning you. I am going to begin by talking about things in Tuscany that you probably didn’t even know were in Tuscany.

1. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. Allow yourself approximately 1.5 hours in the town of Pisa. This includes parking, walking to the tower, having your picture taken in front of the tower, sitting at a wine bar across the street from the tower and having a drink whilst staring at it and then leaving. That is all there is to do in Pisa. Really.

2. Carrera. This is the town near the coast where they mine carrera marble. We didn’t even get out of the car, but we did drive through and ogle the mountains looming over the town that look snow-covered. It is not snow. It is the blindingly white marble that they have been mining for over a hundred years from the tops of the mountains and selling to Americans to cover the walls of their bathrooms and their fireplace surrounds.

3. The city of Florence. We did not go there because we have friends coming to visit next summer and this city is on their itinerary so we didn’t want to spoil the surprise. I understand it is lovely and I am excited to visit.

Now, into the countryside that resembles what we think of as “the real Tuscany”. First, San Gimignano. Yes, it is really, really quaint. Yes, it is really, really crowded. Luckily, we arrived first thing in the morning, in the rain, so we were able to actually see the village. By the time we had walked all through the town and were on our way out, it had stopped raining.

People were, literally, POURING into the main arrival gate. It was crazy! Mr. Big and I were like, thank God we got here early! It was like Moses parting the Red Sea trying to fight our way out of the village but it was worth seeing. If you must stay in San Gimignano because you are the kind of person who wants to be right in the thick of things, stay in the hotel called Leon Bianco (White Lion) right in the city center. Great location and it looked very, very nice. Of course, you will probably have to bribe somebody to get a reservation at this place before 2015, but you can always live in hope.

We, however, did not stay in San Gimignano. The first night, on the way down the coast from Switzerland, we stayed in Rapallo, near Portofino. (This is not even in Tuscany, so I’m not going to talk about how fabulous it is in this blog entry. It is in the area directly north along the Mediterranean called Liguria.) The second night, after reaching Tuscany, we cruised into Castelfiorentino really late. As we usually do, we just started looking for a hotel that looked acceptable. We find one called Hotel Des Amis that had easy parking out front and Mr. Big makes me go inside to inquire about rooms. Does Mr. Big think that I know how to speak Italian? No. He knows that I do not speak Italian. But, as often happens in a long-term marriage, certain things become the domain of each partner. In our marriage, if the task involves interacting with actual live people, it is my job. If it involves the internet, it is Mr. Big’s job. You see how that works? If the task may possibly involve embarrassment and stumbling over language issues, it is my job. I do not know why this has become my job over the years. I just go ahead and do it. Sometimes, I think to myself, “Dude, why don’t I stay here in the car and YOU go make an ass of yourself?” But I have learned that it is not worth the argument and off I trudge.

OK. So, here I am in the Hotel Des Amis , which looks promising from the outside. Mr. Big is out in the car “saving” the primo-bitchin’ parking space that he has acquired. Once I stepped inside the foyer, I knew there may be some issues regarding this hotel. First, there was no one at the front desk, but that was not too weird, so I go searching for the desk clerk, or whomever. I haven’t even made into the room beyond the reception area when I am practically overrun by a dozen rugrats who are all about 7 years old. Well. This is unnerving because I am used to Swiss children who don’t make a peep, ever, even if being set on fire, and here were a dozen yelling, running, screaming Italian bambinis climbing in, on and over the reception desk, hanging from the draperies, you name it and they were attempting to scale it.

Apparently, the Hotel Des Amis was a family-run hotel and there was a birthday party of one of the children going on. Since the Mom and Dad of the Birthday Kid were busy corralling the ferrets, er, children, it was left to the Grandma and Grandpa to check us in, a service which they had not performed since the Second World War. BTW, if you are trying to Google this hotel, you will not find it on the internet. It does not exist in cyberspace. But, trust me, it is there. Anyway, via sign language and a little bit of Spanish (which is very close to Italian, thank God!), I tell Grandma that we need a room for one night. I point out to Grandpa Mr. Big’s strategic location across the plaza. Gramps insists on doddering out across the plaza to help Mr. Big with the luggage.

Meanwhile, Grandma is showing me up two flights of stairs to our room. WHOA! Lady, the 1940’s called and they want their room back! Y’all. There was a TV in this room from somebody’s garage sale. I took a picture of it. I haven’t seen one of these in forever. I asked about the internet and Grandma looked at me like I had 5 heads. Literally, I felt exactly like I was spending the night in my own Grandma’s house. If any of my Grandmas were still alive (which they aren’t), they would have felt right at home.

So, Mr. Big comes up the stairs with Grandpa and the luggage. I’m like, Mr. Big! Why are you letting Grandpa carry my bag up two flights of stairs? That nice little Italian man is going to need oxygen! Mr. Big gives me the look which means that I am really pushing my luck and his limits to their outer extremities. So, I shut up. I am not stupid.


Grandma pulls me aside, now that we are all one big happy family inside this bedroom!, into the bathroom. She tries to communicate to me in our Spanglish-Sign Language, that the plumbing is not so good. Don’t put anything in the toilet except those things which should normally go in a toilet. Got it, Granny. I will not try to flush Mr. Big’s head down there at any time during the ensuing evening. Finally, after Granny and Gramps depart, we, of course, crack up and fall back upon the bed in relief.

Ouch! Big mistake! The mattress, it would appear, had also not been replaced since 1946. It was so hard that we were getting bruised just laying on it. It was like reclining on a slab of concrete, except the concrete would have been just a hair more comfortable.

Next time I will tell you about our favorite village in Tuscany, Greve in Chianti. We did not stay there, either, but that is a story for another day.

Chalet Shopping

 Alright, everyone is dying to know what is going on with the Chalet Hunt.  This will be just like an episode of House Hunters International!  I will show you pictures of our top three choices and you help me decide which one to pick!  Where is our narrator, Suzanne Whang?  We need Suzanne Whang!  “Mr. Big and Trailing Spouse, a charming American ex-pat couple from Lausanne, Switzerland, have decided to purchase a chalet in the Swiss Alps because Mr. Big hates being a renter and being forced into complete silence every night after 10:30.  With the help of THREE DIFFERENT realtors, due to some arcane realty law in Switzerland that I don’t understand, this lovely duo will attempt to find the perfect mountaintop get-away.  Stay tuned!  We’ll be right back after this short break from our sponsors.

OK, obviously, I watch way too much HGTV.  Sorry.  Back on track.  The first place we looked at was in Champex Lac which is a teensy weensy village near Verbier.  The draw in Champex, (pronounced Shahn-pey), in my opinion, is that it sits on a little lake which freezes like a rock every winter, but then provides fishing/swimming/boating in the summer months.  Or, should I say summer DAYS, or, possibly, summer HOURS.  The village sits at 1465 meters which is about a mile high.  This summer the lake thawed on August 18th between the hours of noon and two.  That was a crowded day in Champex, let me tell you what.   The paddle boats were nut to butt.

Seriously, the locals do swim in the lakes here in Switzerland.  They even swim in the rivers.  Those would be the rivers that are full of snow melt and glacier water.  These are hearty, hearty people.  I got in Lac Leman three times this summer up to my rib cage.  Each time, I just kept hoping that my body was turning Swiss and that all of a sudden I wouldn’t think it was cold anymore.  Um, no.  My body was like, “Lady!  What is it that you are not getting about 45 degrees, eh?  You are old and you are now blue!  A blue, old woman in a bikini is just wrong, wrong, wrong.  Get the heck outta this ice bath and put some clothes back on, for the love of God!”

The chalet we looked at in Champex showed promise from the outside.  Here is the link on the internet:  http://www.valimmobilier.ch/objets/show/94-champex-maison-villa-chalet-vente.  (As with all other websites in Switzerland, the “English” option in the upper right is just a teaser.  Nothing is in English.  You can click “English” all you want, but it is not going to make one whit of difference.  Just deal with it.)

This charming abode was right on the lake and it had the “look” of the typical chalet that I was going for.  You know, like Heidi could come skipping across the lawn any moment, holding a small wheel of cheese whilst leading a goat pack.  In addition to the listing agent, the owner of the home was also on hand to show us around her Grand-Pere’s home.  Yes, the chalet had only ever been in one family since Grand-Pere built it in 1935.  And, no her name was not Heidi.  Durn.  I might have bought it on the spot.  The Swiss never sell anything.  Boat slips, chalets, land, nothing.  Once they can finally afford to actually own something here, they hang onto it, baby.  99 year mortgages are the norm.  Not kidding.  99 years.  In America, we own houses about as long as they own a pair of socks.

So, nothing had been touched in this chalet since 1935.  They did put a new roof on in the 1970’s which the Owner Who Was Not Named Heidi kept referring to proudly as if it were put on yesterday.  I’m like, hey, Not Heidi, you might want to find another selling point besides your 40-year-old roof.  Whatever.

 I am going to attach a picture of the stove.  I’m sure it is worth some money.  Not to ME, but to some dealer in obscure wood-burning appliances, perhaps.  The doorways were tiny, the ceilings were only 8 ft. high.  It was a complete gut-and-redo.  I don’t mind renovation, but we were talking about serious, serious deconstruction and reconstruction as in turning a three-story Habitrail into a two-story house.

The Owner Who Was Not Named Heidi kept pointing out the paneling on all of the walls, floors, ceilings, etc.  She was quite proud of her paneling.  It was tres original, it was tout en bois, (all solid wood).  In my head, I’m thinking, it is tout en ugly and it will soon be firewood if I buy this place, You Who Are Not Heidi.

The views were awesome, though.  And the location was excellent.  I mean, it was right smack dab in the center of the village.  The ski bus from Verbier stopped right out front.  My drunken, skiing, partying twentysomething-year-old children would never have to drive anywhere, everything was available right in the village or in the larger resort of Verbier via the bus system.  Our family had already stayed in Champex one Christmas and skied for a week and our kids had had no problem making friends in just the short time that we were there with some other kids from Wales.  In short, the question became, will Mr. Big spring for three quarters of a mill for basically a plot of land and a cute village?

Well, we don’t know, do we, until we see the other two choices?  Ha.  I am evil, I know.

Doing Business in Europe is Hilarious

Before I get into the chalet-hunting and the Tuscany trip, I have to pass these two little tidbits along before I forget.  I have written very little about the reason we were sent over here in the first place:  Mr. Big’s job.    There is a reason I don’t write about Mr. Big’s job very much.  A) because he gets pissed when I write about it and B) because it is kind of boring.  Well, not kind of boring, MAJORLY boring.  However, just recently two things happened that made me chuckle.

Mr. Big works for an American company that had a small to medium-sized global presence.  Well, his company bought a ginormous German company and now their presence in Europe is really, really big.  All good.  Mr. Big was sent to Switzerland to try and make all of the employees of the former-German company come together with their new American friends and be one big happy family.  It is no secret that Europeans and Americans conduct business differently.  Americans live to work and Europeans work to live.   So, Mr. Big has his work cut out for him.  Americans might think that they are culturally very close to Europeans, but that is not true.  There are huge differences.

Take, for example, The Whorehouse Controversy.   In a beautiful, historic town in Germany along the Rhein river, Mr. Big’s company has one of their factories.  It is a lovely, old, brick factory and it’s been there forever.  It reminds me of those old cotton mills up in New England that developers convert into trendy loft apartments.  Anyway, this factory is situated rather close to the red light district in this particular town.  As a matter of fact, for as long as anyone can remember, there has been a whorehouse located directly behind the factory.  Note that keyword, behind.  In other words, the “girls” did not bother the people in the factory and vice versa (or so they swear).  Actually, the folks who work at the plant know that if they ever need a cab, they just run half way round the block to the whorehouse and they can always find an empty taxi that has just dropped off a customer.  As far as whorehouses go, Mr. Big tells me, as I have not seen it firsthand, this one is rather discrete.  The only advertisement of its’ services is a big, red, neon heart over the door.  Swear to God.

Anyway, fast forward to two months ago when the city council of this town decides that the red light district is getting out of control.  Now, remember, prostitution is legal in Europe.  Apparently, their red light district was experiencing urban sprawl and encroaching on other neighborhoods.  To rein in this rampant growth, (at least one industry is experiencing rampant growth!), the city council decides that they will build, at their expense, a new, improved No-Tell Motel DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE FRONT DOOR OF MR. BIG’S FACTORY.  And, get this.  It is not actually going to be a house, as it were.  The plans call for a series of modified shipping containers stacked four across and three high with individual entrances, furnished inside with a mattress, a lamp, and, one would hope, a sink and a toilet.  Not unlike those FEMA trailers they handed out in New Orleans after Katrina.

Mr. Big, of course, goes apoplectic.  The Europeans are like, what?  What is the matter, Mr. Big?  It is right there in the existing parking lot, convenient for the men to get in and out, no?  The girls, we think, will stay mostly inside and only come out for cigarette breaks, no?  What is the problem, Mr. American Uptight Puritanical Corporate Person?

Mr. Big’s company did protest, but they lost and the whorehouse is a-comin’, (no pun intended).  I cannot tell you the number of jokes that are going around the water cooler at the company headquarters in the US about their factory in Germany that comes equipped with its’ own special stress-relief and wellness program.  I’m sure they are all talking about Mr. Big’s crème de la crème expat assignment.  Not only does he get to live on Lac Leman and buy a ski chalet in the Alps, but he also has Happy Hooker Availability approximately 18 feet from one of his desks.

Another thing that Mr. Big inherited when his company bought the big German company was a sponsorship to a professional ice hockey team in the Czech Republic.  This is a VERY BIG DEAL.  This team plays in the Czech Republic for the equivalent of the National Hockey League in America.  As a matter of fact, Dominic Hasek was on this team last year.  Even I, who couldn’t care less about ice hockey, have a signed jersey from Dominic Hasek.  I have never worn it because it is not really fashion forward, but I do own it.

Representing the Czech Republic and Russia and Poland and other countries that Americans have never heard of like Moldova is Mr. Big’s Eastern Europe Guy, Vladimir.   Vladimir is a hoot.  First of all, English is, I think, his 7th language.  He does not have a great grasp on the parsing of verbs in English, therefore, Vladimir only speaks in the third person.  A conversation with Vladimir goes something like this:

Vlad:  Oh, lovely wife of Boss, Vladimir is so happy to see you!

Me:  Well, thanks, Vlad, it is good to see you too.  And how is Mrs. Vladimir and the boys?

Vlad:  Mrs. Vladimir fine.  Boys fine.  Vladimir also fine.  You would like a Vodka?

Me:  No, thanks, Vlad, I’m good with this wine.

Vlad:  Vladimir is having a Vodka.  Vladimir would like to get you a shot, or, uh, what is the word?  A shooter.  Vladimir would like to get you a shooter of Becherovka.  This is national drink in Czech.  You try it.

Me:  Thanks anyway, Vlad.  This is a business dinner and I’m trying to be a good Corporate Wife.  Puking is not on my agenda this evening.

Vlad:  WAITER!  TWO BECHEROVKAS!

I’m telling you, if I brought Vladimir back to America, he would have his own reality TV show inside of a week.  He’s like Borat except not as creepy.  So, back to hockey.  Vladimir is upset because The Company always plans their meetings/planning sessions/etc. in WESTERN European cities.  He wants The Company to come to the Czech Republic for once.  Vladimir thinks his district is like the red-haired stepchild of Europe.  He has these big plans to do their giant yearly get-together next year (140+ people) in Prague.

Mr. Big is OK with that, I mean, Prague is fabulous.  Then, Vladimir has another brainstorm.  Vladimir will combine a trip to one of the hockey games that The Company sponsors for all 140 people in the meetings!  Vladimir is so excited!  Until Vladimir looks at the hockey schedule and realizes that the dates of the games and the dates of the meetings do not coincide.  Not even close.  Oh, well, there’s always 2012, Vlad.

Y’all.  Last Friday evening, when Mr. Big and I are driving through Italy, Mr. Big’s cell phone rings.  It is Vladimir.

Vlad:  Boss man!

Mr. Big:  Well, hello Vladimir, what’s up?

Vlad:  Boss man, Vladimir has solved problem with hockey game.  Vladimir is here in meeting right now with owner of hockey team in Praha!

Mr. Big:  Um, OK, Vladimir, that’s great.  What have you done?

Vlad:  We change schedule of hockey league to provide game for The Company!  Here, here is Mr. Owner Boss of Hockey Team to speak with you!

Y’all.  He CHANGED the league schedule in all of the Czech Republic so that everyone from The Company would come to his hometown for their meeting.  Picture for a moment, if you will, if some sales guy in America called up the owner of the New Jersey Devils and said “Hi, would it be possible for you to switch your schedule around to accommodate my strategic planning session of 140 people?”  For the love of God, Vladimir, you are a crazy person!!  Next time I see you, I WILL have that Becherovka!

A Chalet?

Wow.  I am getting really slack with this blog.  It’s not that I have stopped doing stuff, I have just stopped doing funny stuff.  I’ve been here in Switzerland so long that everything just seems normal, unremarkable and certainly not blog-worthy.

Hopefully, after 14:00 today, that will all change.  We are meeting a realtor this afternoon to go look at a chalet.  I am incredibly excited about this.   The chalet is a WRECK, but a hot mess is the only kind of chalet we can afford in Switzerland.  For those of you who know me personally, you will know that buying a wreck doesn’t scare me one bit.  I love me some renovation.  Renovating a house while speaking French, however, is another matter entirely.

So, to that end, I have enrolled in yet another French course which starts a week from Monday.  This is an intensive course.  3.5 hours per day, five days a week, until the instructor gives you the greenlight to cut back to only 2 days per week.  The teacher at this institute swears that she will have me speaking understandable French in just two weeks.  We shall see.  I believe she has her work cut out for her.  I still sound like I am chewing on a bag of rocks when I speak French.  But, it is essential that I learn how to say things like “I want to buy a pressure washer, a pry bar and 82 liters of paint” in French.  Also, I will need to brush up on my swear words if I’m going to pass myself off as a contractor.  The only one I know now is “merde” and that is just not going to cover every situation.

Mr. Big and I discovered the chalet when we were looking for another one that we had seen on the internet.  I am deliberately withholding the name of the village because there are a number of Swiss people who read this blog and the competition for housing being what it is, I am just hedging my bets.  Although the Swiss probably aren’t interested in buying a wreck.  They are all rich and can buy one that’s properly renovated, so I’ve got that going for me.

This particular chalet is three floors high and, I fear, having only seen it from the outside, cut up into 3 separate apartments.  It looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1960’s but it has great views and sits right on a high, alpine lake.  Of course, we will only be looking at the one house this afternoon, because the realtor for this house cannot show us any other houses, even if they are just down the road.

No lock-box system, remember?  So, for every chalet that you even want to look at, you must make an individual appointment with the proper listing agent to see each and every house.  Do you think that this highly inefficient system drives Mr. Big crazy?  Of course it does.  I have a sneaking suspicion that this entire buying process is going to be one giant gripe-fest for Mr. Big but at least it will give him something to talk about besides Swiss driving habits and the procurement of speeding tickets.

After we look at our wreck-of-a-chalet, we are driving directly across the Saint Bernard pass, (yes, where the monks train the dogs), into Italy.  We have a long weekend here in Switzerland.  It is some kind of holiday.  I have no idea what holiday.  I have stopped asking.  It seems that every other Monday or Friday is some kind of holiday.  As a matter of fact, if Mr. Big actually has to get up and go to work on a Monday, it is noteworthy.

ME:  What the hell is that sound?

MR. BIG:  It’s just the alarm.  Go back to sleep, Spouse.

ME:  Dude, it’s Monday.  Why are you going to work?

MR. BIG:  Today is not a holiday.  Europe has decided to work on this particular Monday.

ME:  You better recheck that.  Something doesn’t sound right.  You are going to look like a real tool if you are the only one in the office.

Since we have this nice, long weekend and since it happily coincides with our 24-year wedding anniversary, we are going to the famed Tuscany area of Italy.  It seems everyone on the planet has already been there, is there right now or is making plans to go to Tuscany and I want to go see what all the fuss is about.  We are doing our normal thing, i.e. no reservations, no plans, etc.  Wherever we find ourselves at dinner time, that is where we stay.  This modus operandi has never failed us and by that I mean, that we have never had to sleep in the car.  We have slept in some rather sketchy places but that is all part of the fun.  One night in the UK about ten years ago, the only room we could find was directly above a pub.  Unfortunately for us, it happened to be July 4th.  Mr. Big had to buy rounds all night for the Brits because his ancestors had the gall to declare independence over them some 200+ years earlier.

Anyway, subsequent blogs will have many pictures of chalets and Tuscany.  Since I haven’t shot these pictures yet, for today’s blog, you will just have to be satisfied with some that I have taken in the last couple of weeks. 

Most of them are of an antique fair that we went to in L’Isle Sur Morges in Switzerland. 

The ones of the valley are from a mountain excursion up to Veysonnaz and Nendaz.  The town you see down below is Sion.  The Alps you see on the other side of the valley are where you find the ski resort Crans-Montana.

Ciao, friends.

You Don’t Bring Sand When You’re Going to the Beach

Well, The Great Wedding went off without a hitch and Domestic Son is now married.  Ms. Fiancee is now Mrs. Domestic Son and the Instant Grands are now officially Grand One and Grand Two.  While we were back in the US for the spectacle that is a typical Southern wedding, I pulled Charming Daughter and Small Son aside for a little tete-a-tete.

Please reassure me, my two remaining single children, that neither of you have any nuptials in the works in the near future, because I need at least five years to recuperate.  Mom is exhausted and Dad’s wallet is empty.  Small Son’s answer was immediate and affirmative and music to my ears.  He looked horrified that I had even asked.  Oh, good boy, Small Son.

Charming Daughter was a little more hesitant.  Oh, oh.  I suspect I may not have five years with that one.  Need to begin immediately on replenishing the coffers and by that I mean Mr. Big needs to begin immediately on replenishing the coffers.  Mr. Big, put that beer down and get back to work.  I don’t care if it is Sunday.  No rest for the weary for our Mr. Big.  Bless his heart.

The cheese was a big hit, y’all, as were the roofing tiles filled with sunflowers and lavender.  It was quite a feat, arranging seating for 120 inside our home, but we did it.  We really didn’t have a choice, because INSIDE is where the air conditioning is located. 

That would have been cruel and unusual punishment to make the guests eat a 2-hour multi-course meal outside on a Saturday in August in South Carolina.  I would have had to had the ambulances idling in the driveway on stand-by for all the heatstroke victims.

So, we cleared out four of the rooms and hid all of the furniture upstairs.  The dining chairs spent the weekend in Small Son’s bedroom.  You do what you must do.  Domestic Son’s twelve, yes, that is correct, twelve, groomsmen really threw me a lifeline.  I had arranged 15 round tables with no problem.  It was the 16th table that was giving me fits. 

There was, literally, no room left and no matter where I tried to squish that last table, it was messing up all of the other seating arrangements.  Like trying to squeeze a size 12 body into a size 4 dress, you know?  No matter where you suck it in and tuck it in, the extra bits have to pop out somewhere.

I sat Domestic Son down three days before the wedding and told him we were going to go over the guest list person by person and see if he knew of anybody who was NOT coming.  When we got to the list of his groomsmen, I hit the jackpot.  Turns out 8 out of 12 of those boys were not bringing their dates.  Really?  So sorry to hear that, not!  Goodbye, table number 16.  Quick, somebody roll it on out of here and stick it in the garage.

The next day after the rehearsal dinner when all of the groomsmen were gathering on our porch in their tuxedos getting ready to go to the ceremony, I asked Groomsman Number Nine why none of them brought dates.  “Why, Mizz Trailing Spouse,” he drawls, “you don’t bring sand when you’re going to the beach.”

Ah, I get it.  Apparently, in the Land of Twenty-Somethings, weddings are the hottest pick-up scenes going and the rumor mill had it that Domestic Son’s wedding was shaping up to be Malibu, Venice Beach and Miami combined.  These boys had their buckets and shovels at the ready.  Don’t know how it worked out for them, but I do know that all 12 of the bridesmaids had come with husbands or boyfriends so not too much opportunity for building sandcastles there.

One last thing and then I’ll shut up about the wedding.  Grand Two is only four years old.  He was not real clear on exactly who was getting married to whom.  He thought it was his wedding and that he was getting married to his sister, Grand One.  He even asked me if I was coming to his wedding.  I told him it was looking pretty good for my attendance.

All he knew for sure was that he was going to get to wear his Handsome Suit.  He was highly indignant that he had to leave his Handsome Suit behind at the tuxedo store after his last fitting.  Why can’t I take my Handsome Suit?  Finally, the official weekend arrived and he was now in possession of the HS.  Of course, he wanted to put it on on Thursday night and wear it continuously through until it had to be returned on Monday.  His mother was sick of hearing about the Handsome Suit.

Saturday comes and we tell Grand Two that the glorious day has finally arrived to wear the Handsome Suit.  You all know where this is going, don’t you?   First of all, the only person at our house who was dressed and ready to go ahead of time was our own ever-punctual Mr. Big.  Therefore, it fell to Pops to put the child in his Handsome Suit because all of the rest of us were still getting in our own Handsome Attire.  Now, Pops has long forgotten what it is like to dress a small, fidgety person.  The actual donning of the Handsome Suit and all its’ inherent pieces and parts took soooo long that the novelty had long worn off by the time it came to the Handsome Jacket.  By jacket time, Grand Two had figured out a few things.

Hey, this Handsome Suit is hot.  These shiny shoes are pinching me.  This vest thing is poking me right in the back.  I can’t breathe.   Why isn’t anybody listening to me?

The bride’s mother and I spent a good portion of the reception following Grand Two around picking up pieces of the Handsome Suit that he was discarding hither and yon.  Do you have the bow tie?  No, I have the vest and one shoe.  Do you see his cuff links?  I found one in the pocket with the hankie.  Does he still have the pants on at least?  I don’t know.  Go pull him out from under the cake table and check.

I haven’t broken the news to the newlyweds that their son thinks he is now married to their daughter.  That is something that they can work out with his therapist at a much later date.

She is Still Fresh

As you know from the previous blog post, I recently spent 5 days in Istanbul with Mr. Big and Charming Daughter.  Here’s one thing I loved about the city.  It feels foreign.  Really foreign.  If I’m going to take the time to go all the way to Asia, I don’t want to feel like I’m in New York.  I want to feel like I’m in Asia.  And I want it to be authentically foreign, not Disneyfied foreign.  For example, for the first three days, we stayed in a modern hotel in the business district.  It was a Marriott.  (I know I said it was a Sheraton in the earlier blog but now that I’m thinking about this story, I realize it was a Marriott.)  Anyway, in the minibar in the room was a “Survival Kit”.  In the Survival Kit were bandaids, Tylenol and condoms.  You just don’t get condoms in the minibars back home in the Marriotts.  Marriott is a MORMON company.  You see?  Foreign.

Directly outside the window of the hotel was the wholesale fruit and veg market where all the restauranteurs came early in the morning to pick up their foodstuffs. 

Some came by pickup and some came by donkey.  Yes.  By donkey.  Pulling carts.  Fabulously foreign.

After Mr. Big was finished with all of his meetings, 6 people in our group moved across the continent into Europe to a more centrally located hotel in the old town.  Sooo weird that you have to show your passport between countries, but not between continents.  Crazy!  This was a typical European boutique hotel and by that I mean the room was approximately 8 feet x 10 feet, no iron, no coffeemaker, etc.  You know the drill by now.  A hand-held shower, no internet, sketchy air conditioning, yadda, yadda, yadda.  BUT!!  The windows along the back and the rooftop bar overlooked a neighborhood mosque.  We had been fascinated by the five-times-daily wailing of the Call to Prayer coming out of the minarets over loud speakers for the past three days over on the Asian side but this was up close and personal!  Have you ever heard the Call to Prayer?  It sounds just like a cat in heat.  Anyway, Charming Daughter was so excited by this bird’s eye view inside the forbidden walls THAT SHE STOOD ON THE DESK IN HER ROOM AND MADE A VIDEO of all of the men praying to Mecca.  I hope I am not targeted now by a Jihad or something for saying that.  If any of you find me beheaded, you will all know what happened.

Of course, we had to take Mr. Big back to the Grand Bazaar (refer to previous post).  And, yes, we made him ride the Metro in all of its’ odiferous glory (refer to previous post).  Due to our prior reconnaissance mission, Charming Daughter and I already had a pretty good idea of what we wanted to buy.  Chandeliers.  Mosaic glass tile chandeliers, to be exact.  (I had to wait until now to put this on the blog because one of the chandeliers was meant to be a wedding gift for my niece back in America.  I gave it to her last weekend, so I can now write about it without spoiling the surprise.)

The young man who made the chandeliers was quite pleasant and his English was nearly perfect.  His younger brother was also there working in his booth.  Neither boy could take their eyes off of Charming Daughter.  Let me just reassure you the rest of what I’m about to tell you took place AFTER our purchase.  There was no further monetary incentive involved at this point.  Our lights were wrapped, packed and paid for.





Older brother:                  You are not the Mama of this Angel.  You are the sister.

Me:                                        No, I am the Mama.

Younger brother:             But you are only 35.

Me:                                        No, I am considerably older than 35.

Older brother:                   That is not possible.  You are married, no?

Me:                                        Yes, I am married.  That is my husband right over there looking at those rugs.

Older brother:                   He is American Sheik, no?

Me:                                        I wish.

Older brother:                   Your daughter, the Angel.  She is married or has boyfriend?

Me:                                        No, but I know that she is worth 39 camels, 8 goats and 9 sheep.

Older brother:                   Ah, the men in America must be blind that she is not married.

Me:                                        What is your best offer?

Older brother:                   How old is she?

Me:                                        22.

Older brother:                   Ah, she is still fresh.

 OK, that observation right there was worth the price of the plane tickets.  What mother does not want to be reassured that her daughter has not gone past her sell-by date?  Priceless stuff.

Fast forward to that evening.  One of the people in our group of 6 who were extending our little business trip into a mini-vacation was Mr. Big’s Irreplaceable Right Hand Woman.  Thank God she was there.  She saved us from certain death, or, if not death, at least a large amount of intestinal discomfort.

You see, Right Hand Woman is Turkish.  She wanted to stay a few extra days as well so she could visit with all of her relatives before going back to Switzerland.  She was like our own personal Insider’s Guide to Istanbul!  I was like, um, where were you on the day when Charming Daughter and I almost got thrown in jail for beating the bus fare, but I didn’t say that.  I didn’t want to piss her off.  She was a gold mine.  Anyway, one night, we had no dinner reservations.  We were just going to go out walking around and find a restaurant.  Right Hand Woman was down with that.  We started walking and like the clueless tourists that we are, we stop at the first decent place that we see.  Five of us slide our butts into one of the booths out on the patio, but Right Hand Woman says, “Not so fast.  I want to go inside and look at their meat.”

Huh?  We all looked at each other with raised eyebrows.  OK, let’s just assume that she does not mean their penises.  Surely she is not bursting into their kitchen to inspect their lamb, is she?

Well, yes she was and out she came.  She says to Mr. Big, “I am not going to tell you where to eat, but if it was up to me, I would not stay here.”  Hey, RHW, you are the expert, not us.  So, up we pop from the table.  We look at the waiters and RHW says something to them in Turkish and shoos all of us back out into the street.

O Great and Powerful Right Hand Woman!  What did you just do back there?  The meat, she says, was not so fresh.  The fish, she says, was not so fresh.  Apparently, in Turkey, it is perfectly acceptable to go into a restaurant kitchen and ask to look inside their walk-in coolers.  She was not impressed with their hygiene.  Do you think she will ever be downsized by Mr. Big after that performance?  Of course not.  She now has Guaranteed Job Security for life, as well she should.  I’m sure that when we get transferred back to the US, she will be coming right along with us.  I, for one, credit her for saving me from seeing the inside of a Turkish ER and I think they should make her CEO.  I’m just sayin’.

And she was not done!  She was on a roll!  After receiving instructions in Turkish from a random woman walking along some dark side street (who then attached herself to RHW thinking she was due a free meal), Right Hand Woman (after breaking the heart of her new “friend”) then led us to a very happening square packed with at least 30 restaurants and about 2 or 3 THOUSAND partying locals.  Again, she asks to see the fish.  The proprietor brings out a giant, fresh fish hanging on a meat hook.  Right Hand Woman says “Yes.  Very good.   We are eating here.”  Y’all, the fish was delicious.

As I said, this square was packed with locals.  They all seemed to be celebrating a special occasion like a birthday or something because all of the tables were overflowing with at least 10 or 12 people.  This was not a place for a quiet, romantic dinner.  This was Party Central.  There were all kinds of performers and vendors squirreling between the tables.  There were whole 5- or 6-piece bands going from table to table looking for permission to play for money.  There was a belly-dancer 2 tables over that kept Mr. Big’s attention for a great while.  But the best, THE BEST, was the dude selling baby dolls.

Every 20 minutes or so this dude would stroll by with an armload of giant baby dolls.  Sometimes the baby dolls were white.  Sometimes they were brown. Sometimes they were black.  I asked Charming Daughter, “Who goes out to dinner and suddenly feels the urgent need to purchase a baby doll?”  Of course, there is no logical answer to this question.  It was just, um, foreign.

Which brings me to the little boys in the gold and white polyester suits.  On our last afternoon in Istanbul, we parked our butts at a bar that had great street views and just watched the people going by.  Shortly, we began to notice a specific phenomenon.  Various little boys all dressed up in elaborate white and gold suits, complete with capes and hats and walking sticks.

How cute, we said, out loud.  Our very helpful host in our bar then explained to us that these small gentlemen in costume had just UNDERGONE A RITUAL CIRCUMCISION and their families were celebrating by parading up and down the streets of Old Town.






Let’s see that one fly in the good ole US of A.  “Junior, we are now going to chop off part of your penis and stitch it up.  Then, approximately 10 minutes after you stop bleeding profusely, we want you to dress up like the Sultan’s Son and go out in this polyester garb in 110 degree heat and walk around for about 2 miles.”

Right.  Fabulously, fabulously foreign.

How Many Camels Do You Want For Her?

In a perfect case of Serendipity, Charming Daughter’s visit to see us this summer coincided with one of Mr. Big’s work trips to Istanbul.  So, my daughter and I got to experience our first trip to Asia together, plus I had someone just as crazy as I am to hang out with instead of just bumming around by myself like I usually do.

Wow.  Istanbul is really hard to describe.  On the one hand it is much more modern than I had anticipated.  You can really tell that Turkey is seriously trying to identify with their Western cousins to get into the EU.  They have changed their alphabet from Arabic to something Westerners can read and seriously mangle pronunciations.  They knocked off about 6 or 7 zeros from their lira so the tourists can do the math while buying their rugs.  All the signs are in English and Turkish.  Once you venture beyond the “old town” parts into the neighborhoods and over into the Asian side across the Bosphorus, you could be in any large Western city.  Well, except for the minarets sticking up everywhere.

On the other hand, the old, touristy parts of the city near the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar and the Hagia Sophia are still very Middle Eastern and just what I was expecting. 

One side effect of the Europeanization of Istanbul has been a huge influx of traditional Muslims coming there for vacation because it now seems “foreign” to them and the strict standards of their religion have been relaxed to a degree. 

They still have to wear their burqas, and follow their rules but they get to watch us parading around in shorts and drinking wine with dinner.  We are fascinated with them and they are fascinated with us and it’s all happening within a six block area.

We stayed for three days over in a modern Sheraton hotel on the Asian side in the business district while Mr. Big had his meetings.  This meant that the first thing Charming Daughter and I had to do was figure out the public transport system to get us back over to the European side where all the action was happening.  The last thing Mr. Big said to me on our first morning just before he left for work was “Whatever you do, don’t take the buses.  Get a cab.  I don’t know how safe the buses or trains are.”

A cab?  Where’s the fun in that?  Cabs are for tourists!  As soon as he shut the hotel room door, I was on the internet googling “Bus System Istanbul”.  It appeared that, in order to get to the Grand Bazaar, we would be required to take a local bus to the ferry, the ferry across the Bosphorus and the above-ground Metro through the old town to the top of the hill.  I called Charming Daughter’s room and told her to be ready in 15 minutes.

It didn’t take us long to screw up.  There are about one hundred and eleven local buses that passed by our bus stop every three minutes.  We were looking for one that said “Harem” on the top.  I watched the locals and tried to copy them.  Apparently, when they spied their correct bus coming they would jump up and wave like calling a taxi.  Then, the bus would screech across three lanes of traffic and pick them up.  Unfortunately for Charming Daughter and I, we spied our “Harem” bus a block away ON ANOTHER ROAD ALTOGETHER.  Incredibly enough, the bus driver saw my arm y’all and stopped while my good-sported daughter and I ran across an 8 lane highway.  So much for trying to blend in with the natives.  Then, to make matters worse, no one got on with us (possibly because we were not even at a bus stop and in the middle of a freeway, but I don’t know) so I didn’t have anyone I could watch to see how they paid for their bus ride.  So, we just sat down.  And did not pay.  At the next legitimate bus stop, I watched the locals and saw that the new passengers each gave the driver a one lira coin.  I didn’t have any lira coins yet and I was pretty sure the guy would not take Swiss francs.  Here we had been in the country only for a few hours and already I was breaking the law.  I had visions of Charming Daughter in a Turkish jail being lashed with a braided leather whip and Wolf Blitzer interviewing Mr. Big via satellite from the Situation Room.

Mr. Big:                I told them not to take the buses.

Wolf:                     Is it normal for your wife to disregard your instructions?

Mr. Big:                Yes, but it usually doesn’t lead to an international incident.  Usually.

After scamming our first bus ride, we got off at “Harem” which is the port where we needed to catch the ferry.  There appeared to be two ferries docked at the port, both unmarked, and I didn’t really want to take a side trip to Syria that morning so we watched for awhile to make sure that these ferries were heading in the right directlon.  Did I mention that the temperature in Istanbul is about 135 degrees F in the shade?  After about 15 minutes standing out in the sun watching random ferries, Charming Daughter and I decided that we would risk going to Syria if it meant that we could get out of the heat.  When I paid the toll booth guy with my paper lira, he gave me a strange little token for boarding.  Ah, I was learning!  Little token with anchor on it for the ferry, real coins for the buses.  That 1 lira ferry ride was awesome.  Best 60 cents I ever spent.  Charming Daughter and I ended up taking the ferry every day for the next three days.  Here’s a hint, if you are sweaty, (and you will be!), the ferry ride give you about 20 minutes of cool breezes if you go way up top and stand near the rail.  Next best thing to a shower, of which you will take many if you visit Istanbul.  Like, three a day.

Onto the Metro where we tried to pay with coins.  No.  To ride the Metro you must buy a special kind of 1.50 lira tokens which are red plastic that you buy from the nearest kebap man to the Metro stop.  Kebaps are fast food.  They are not what we call kebabs in America.  They are pita sandwiches with shaved meat inside.  We did not buy a kebap, but we did get a pocketful of Metro tokens and up the hill we went to the Grand Bazaar. 

Before I describe that shopping Mecca, let me warn you about the Metro.

Istanbul is a city of 17 million people who are all on the Metro and who are all sweating.  After having our faces mashed into a variety of armpits of fellow travelers who are hanging onto the overhead straps, Charming Daughter and I were wishing WE were wearing burqas just to cover our noses.  I was thinking to myself, Mr. Big is never going to do this in a million years.   Foreign sweaty armpits are just a bit toooo local for Mr. Big.

The Grand Bazaar is a rabbit warren of covered shops selling everything from kilim rugs to gold jewelry to Turkish tiles to Ali Baba lamps.  It is overwhelmingly stupendous.  Do not miss it.  The vendors hit just the right note between charming and obnoxious.  They are pushy, but it a cute way, if you know what I mean.  We didn’t buy anything that first day as it was just a reconnaissance mission to get the lay of the land, but we did work up an appetite and began to think about lunch.

Restaurants in Istanbul are thick on the ground and their proprietors call out to the passersby extolling the virtues of their particular establishment.  Again, it is more a fun thing and not an obnoxious thing. 

Now, my daughter is blond and cute.  Blonds are a rare sighting in Istanbul, especially blonds in shorts and tank tops.  One enterprising young man, after Charming Daughter had completely dissed his restaurant and was already half a block away, pulled me aside in the middle of the road in front of his restaurant.  Turns out he was interested in a little bit more than just persuading us to eat in his establishment.

“Lady, hey nice Lady!”

“Yes?”

“How many camels do you want for your daughter?”

Taken aback by this request, I hesitated.  “Well, I don’t know, exactly.  She is worth a lot of camels.  Can I get back to you on that?”

After posting this conversation on Facebook later that night at the hotel, one of my friends told me that there is, indeed, a camel-to-woman conversion chart on the Internet, here: http://camels.evilsun.org/  It would appear that Charming Daughter is worth 38 camels, 8 goats and 9 sheep.  This is good information for a mother to have at her disposal in Istanbul.  If I am ever in need of a herd of livestock, I now know where I can get some.

Y’all this was just the first day.  More later on little boys parading around celebrating their recent circumcisions.