Ineffability and Responsibility, or To Hell and Back with My Sister

Posted on July 23, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

A Note from the Magpie:

Dear Readers,

You are about to be treated to the Mindful Magpie’s very first guest post, penned by none other than Ellen, my marvelously talented sister. Those who have not met her on this blog might like to visit this previous post and this one , oh, and also this one to familiarize themselves with her coolness, or just jump right in! I’ll get out of the way now before she accuses me of being bossy.

I was rocking out to the radio as I pulled up to the little ticket dispenser at the Greensboro International Airport. Yes, you guessed it! I was on my way to visit my sister in Memphis, my hometown. The dispenser buzzed and stuck out its tongue at me. Still impressing all who might be listening with my vocal talent, I blithely yanked on the tongue to dislodge the long term parking ticket from its jaws. Let the games begin! I pulled forward into the lot without rolling up my window, so when I placed the little ticket on my dashboard as I always do, I saw it flutter gracefully out of my line of sight. No bother. I would place the little runaway in its proper spot before moving onto the terminal. Luck, I thought, was surely with me today. No sooner than I had whipped Zula, my little VW Jetta, into a strategic parking spot than the shuttle magically appeared right behind me. I’ll find that pesky parking ticket on the way home, I told myself. Meanwhile, adventure awaited me in the form of my daughter’s purple roll-on suitcase and the shuttle with its patiently purring engine. With no regrets, I nimbly hopped onto the shuttle and into my wild rumpus.

On my last night in Memphis with my sister I penned a list of activities which had filled our all-too-short time together. Yes, the list was longish (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am methodical). Yes, I really did engage in all the activities happily and willingly (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am motivated). Yes, we had used our time wisely (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am organized). Yes, yes, yes; a thousand times yes! This list, which has been displayed in my sister’s earlier post, is simply a litany of activities. It can in no way encompass what we did together in Memphis. What I achieved was the goal of spending as much time with my sister as humanly possible in the short amount of time we had together. Mini-goals included, but were not limited to, laughing uproariously and in a most unladylike manner (sorry, Mother!) on any and all pretexts; discussing issues large and small in no particular order or chronological sequence; eating some foods which either aren’t available at home or which no one else at my house likes but me-or both; and reading and discussing what we’ve read.

Here’s where ineffability comes into play. The time I spend with Mary Beth is akin to how a sunflower tracks the sun as it moves through the sky. It is how Monarch butterflies journey down to Mexico and back each year. It is how the Earth orbits the sun, and the Moon orbits the Earth in its turn. They do it because they must. And I spend time with my sister because I must. Words will not suffice to make my meaning clear, but I will try (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am determined). I have had Mary Beth in my life as long as I can remember. We share the same sense of humor and the same love of reading and other intellectual pursuits. I rarely have to explain myself to her, and I never have to pretend to act or feel any certain way to gain her approval. I extend her this same leeway. Told ya words wouldn’t really get the job done. (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am task-oriented).

Responsibility touched down on my shoulders the minute I re-entered that long term parking lot after getting off the plane from Memphis via Atlanta. Remember that little parking ticket which had fluttered down off the dashboard in the breeze from my open car window? Turns out it is awfully hard to leave the long term parking lot without it. Having never misplaced one before, I was unaware of this fact. I dumped the purple roll-on in the back seat and commenced to search for the little ticket. I looked high and low, but that little ticket just did not want to be found. No bother. I proceeded to the exit gate. There I learned for the first time what hubbub could ensue when the little ticket went AWOL. No, the man could not just take my word for how long Zula had been parked in the lot. No, I did not have my boarding pass from the outbound trip. No, I did not have my itinerary (but you can be sure I will next time! As my sister has pointed out previously, I am a quick learner). Nothing for it but to trudge back to the terminal in the hopes that the desk employees could find some non-incriminating information for me. That bumpy landing in Greensboro had played havoc with other flights, so I had a long wait for my turn at the desk. Papers clutched firmly in my hand, I approached the exit booth for a second time. The fat raindrops dimpling Zula’s black hood convinced the little man that, as I had averred from the beginning, I did not park inside the deck but rather in the vast parking lot surrounding the exclusive parking deck.

When I was a young adult, Mary Beth tried upon many an occasion to share her worldly wisdom with me, often in an unsolicited manner. Unappreciative, I demanded that she quit telling me what to do. Mainly she has complied with this request. I explained to my friends that Mary Beth could call me in the middle of the night, to tell me to do something, and I would do it. Following her lead had been ingrained behavior, even if I did protest every now and then. Some things never change. If Mary Beth said, “Come on, Ellen. We’re going to hell,” I would get my knitting, my book, and my big girl drink and jump into the car. After all, if that’s where Mary Beth is headed, then I want to go there too.* Uh, we did get round trip tickets, right?

*Disclaimer: The author of the post is in no way implying that her sister is going to hell in a hand basket or in any other type of conveyance. Nor should any reader of this post so infer.

Code Orange No Longer In Effect

Posted on July 14, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

My friends, you have all heard the rumors of the Magpie Backyard Code Orange Security Alert we recently faced. It is true that I solved the case in only one day, which means you may now go back to all your normal activities. I am not responsible for rescheduling the Midsummer Fashion Review. But I would not object to chairing a Philosophical Debate Society so that we can mull all the ramifications of this recent event in our community while keeping alive ancient Greek and Roman oral and intellectual traditions. Oh. Just file my report.? Very Well. My confidential account is below.

Respectfully Submitted,

Mr. Biblio Turturis

Head Of Magpie Backyard Security

TOP SECRET First of all, I never expected to be named Head of Security, and I don’t know why I was , except many were tired of the heavy handed tactics of Owlus Rusticus, who served for many years in this post. For years I have volunteered to oversee a debating society, yet the position remains unfilled.

Owlus Rusticus: had he been at his job too long?

At first the season was going well. We had the usual complaints: the slums at the back of garden, vandalism by young figs on the pool deck.

These kids!

Most of the time I could read and keep my eye on things at the same time. But two weeks ago I received a disturbing report of an unauthorized device in the compost heap.

Where the device was found, with the white part protruding like a periscope.

It had a long white sinuous neck which protruded between decomposing issues of The New York Times. It was attached to a purple rectangle which held another rectangle inside it. There was instant unrest in the backyard. Mrs. Squash Blossom and her sisters had to be hospitalized after a bout of hysteria during which they were certain the object had grown up out of the Book Reviews, and posed a danger to their unborn children, for who knew what seditious ideas had seeped into the soil? The one known immature squash is being cared for, along with a young cucumber, by the Okra family. The Blossoms should be back to normal soon after emergency application of electrosunlight. One unripe tomato fled all the way to the end of swimming pool where it was last seen calmly sunning itself on a lawn chair.

A weeping Squash Blossom, as neighbors try to comfort her.

The child seems unharmed.

This tomato removed himself to another clime.

The Red Hat Society, sure the object was a sign of imminent attack from outside the yard, instituted a daily watch along the southern perimeter of the fence, which they faithfully completed whenever they were awake and not playing bridge, whenever inclement weather did not threaten their hairdos, and before cocktail hour. After one day of watching they reported seeing no undesirables.

A member of the Red Hat Society on patrol.

I had to appeal to Owlus Rusticus for help in this matter. He took a break from his new job as Pool Director, where he was busy admonishing youngsters not to congregate in the groundcover. He advised me to interview Grandfather Rosemary. And he complained about some of the skimpy bathing attire being worn this season. I couldn’t advise him on that, as I wear the same shell year after year.

Grandfather Rosemary has been here for at least thirteen yeas and does not scare easily.

This revered gentleman has many years of experience of supervision around the diving board.

But he told me he had never seen such a thing come out of a compost heap in his life. Had it been spying, he wondered? That sent a chill down my shell. If the thing ( which by the way had uttered not one word since its discovery) had been sent by an adversary, I would need to coordinate with the Armed Services Committee Head, Cowboy Bob.

Cowboy Bob was under the influence, as usual. I could tell he’d been trying to lasso the new hanging lightbulbs on the pergola. And the Echinacea Girls were just egging him on, fluttering their petals and admiring his manly talk.

The Echinacea Girls using their feminine wiles.

Mint has become absolutely rich betting him he can’t hit a single bulb.

He’s filthy rich.

And night after night… Bob doesn’t remember that the night before he couldn’t hit a single bulb.

It seemed I was on my own for help. I squirmed that night in my shell, searching for answers. What was this ungodly object, and did it mean us harm? How would Brother Cadfael proceed in such a situation? Or Aristotle? I awoke early as is my routine, and made a sweep around the yard. All too aware of the need for speed, I made the circuit in just under four hours.

The Lantanan Ladies were entertaining insects, seemingly undisturbed by the Code Orange.

But I noticed that some of our expected summer citizens were not making much of an appearance this year. There were very few nasturtiums, for example, and the sweet potato vines I saw were certainly not as robust as in years past. Had the purple and white creature already begun to harm our ecosystem?

Upon inspection and interviews I found that the Celosians had become more bellicose than I had ever seen them. Instead of letting their fringy fur grow in unmanageable tufts, they were forming themselves into missile shapes in order to attack if needed.

A Celosian in a warlike pose.

And if not needed, I was told, they would try to enter the Midsummer Fashion Review in the Fake Christmas Tree category. When I told them there was no such category, I heard distinctly unhappy mutterings from the crowd. But they had given me an idea: what about newcomers in our midst?

I got ahold of these new flowers as the breeze blew them past me.

Should new citizens automatically be suspected of ill intent?

Where were they from? I yelled from the deck stairs. Lichterman Nature Center! they yelled as they blew in the other direction. A Nature Center, I mused. That seemed innocent enough. And they were scared, too. I could tell. Their posture was appalling. I think the rumors were getting to them.

Some in the community I didn’t even want to approach. Hettie Hydrangea, for example.

Hettie prefers the shade.

She’s so delicate her little blue hair just wobbles on her stalk. She couldn’t be involved in this, so why bother her? To be polite I did stop by and check on her. She seemed happily oblivious to the dangers in our community, and was happy to tell me again how she, Grandfather Rosemary , and the Figs had colonized this area thirteen years ago. And her mulch tea was refreshing.

Corrie Opsis, as one might have expected, approached me, wanting to know why the Midsummer Fashion Review could not go ahead as planned, since my investigations weren’t turning anything up.

Corrie with an unnamed relative.

Didn’t she know I would not be pressured? I felt for her though. With so many deadhead relatives that followed her everywhere. I’m sure she counted on the distraction.

I did hear some moaning and wailing over by where the Nolias live. And God help me, I didn’t go over there. I knew they’d be no help. Maggie and her sisters had been nothing but a hot mess ever since this Paula Deen thing came out. With Paula’s fall off the pedestal, they were sadder than a burnt fried chicken leg or a scalded chess pie.

The Nolias fell apart when they lost their role model.

Don’t base your self esteem on others’ lives, I always say. Reflected glory isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Most of us thought privately that those Nolias needed to come down a peg anyway.

Finally I made my way over to Vlad. It’s short for Vladimir I think, but no one ever asks him.

Vlad thinking deep thoughts.

He’s kind of the Zen Master of the Backyard. He gazes for hours at shapes, never moving except to grab a fly with his tongue and slide it in his mouth in one masterful movement.

He can contemplate something like this for hours.

What did he make of all this, I asked him. I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. But what is an answer, actually ? I think I am developing some Zen-like qualities myself.

Defeated, I returned to my home perch in a potted plant. No one had seen the object since it had been removed by the Magpie the previous day. It upset us all to see the Magpie screaming like that as she tried to remove the maggots off the object which was still and silent as death. What a brave human she was for removing the device from our midst! As I reflected on this I heard a human enter the yard. It was the Magpie again. WITH THE DEVICE!!!!!

She threw it carelessly onto the patio behind me. Maybe its bones were broken now. Luckily my neck can go in all directions so I was able to observe her getting the hose and spraying off the purple part. I held my breath in fear that the object would detonate or release poisonous toxins. I heard her take a picture of the hideous thing with her phone. Then she called someone and said, “Do you remember when I lost my Kindle? You’ll never believe where I found it!”

The creature that had secreted itself in the compost heap.

And just like that, I solved the case. Code Orange Averted!

She Who Restores Me To Myself

Posted on June 18, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Magpies, in their love of shininess, have an especial need to experience scintillating moments with glittery people. By glittery I do not mean shallow, brittle, self absorbed, or vain. I am talking about an honest shine that comes from the inside all the way out, an unconditional shine that radiates warmth over others, a brightly colored shine that pulsates with willingness to pursue novel endeavors. I am of course describing my sister Ellen.

I promised in my last post to write about our latest adventures. But first a little background. Last summer I wrote a post about my sister in which I referred to her as L.G., or Little General. Ellen did not appreciate that appellation, so I have withdrawn that name from our lexicon. Last week, in a blaze of dervish like activity prior to boarding a plane, I referred to my sister as a hurricane, knowing that should she read the post I would be in big trouble, my kind intentions notwithstanding.

I am now on record to say that Ellen gets things done, but she is NOT a general. She is a force of nature, but she is NOT a hurricane. What then, can I call her? She is a person of great intellect, wit, and charm. Her droll humor and clever imagination cannot be matched. Her no nonsense work ethic and organizational skills are an inspiration to others. Her zest for life is unparalleled, her enjoyment of it a sight to behold. Her authenticity is a beacon to my soul. AND she loves me!

I had not seen my sister since December 2012, when I spent one night with her en route to a friend’s cabin. Little did we know that six long months would pass before we could see one another again. Somehow, with our various travel and work schedules along with family commitments, the weeks elapsed with no firm visiting plans.

We don’t talk on the phone much. We write letters by hand, on paper, to one another, and have for years. But this past semester many weeks separated our letters. I was beginning to feel like an American colonist awaiting word from the continent. Had my letter been lost at sea, dashed on a rocky promontory after a shipwreck? Would I hear that she and her family had perished in a smallpox epidemic? Finally my impatience got the better of me. I left her the following cryptic voice mail,”The jig is up!”

That, ladies and gentlemen, got a response, and at last we were able to plan for her to come see me in my town. She flew in on a Friday night just as my husband was flying out on a business trip, making the timing just right for an All Girls’ Extravaganza. I picked up the Hurric. picked her up at the airport and took her straight to my new midtown condo to spend the night. She admired the condo, and we both exclaimed over the sweet note my husband had left for us. Then she unpacked a few of her things. As I watched her familiar movements and listened to her long accustomed voice, I had this exact thought: I am restored to myself.

Our plan for the week was to have no plan. That way our plans couldn’t possibly go wrong. That evening, we wanted to eat dinner someplace where we could hear ourselves talk. I recommended a place where we chose a secluded table. No sooner had we sat down than a large group of ladies, some under the influence of more than two martinis with more in the offing, began screaming raucously, in a way that truly rattles the eardrums.

What do you suppose Ellen did? She approached those ladies, put her arm around one, leaned in and had a little ole talk with them. And they lowered the volume! When we left the restaurant a waitress followed us out to thank her for helping with the situation!!! How do you describe someone like this?

I told you she’s a force of nature!

The next day Ellen accompanied me to a Knit In Public Day at the zoo. She joined right in with these knitters, sharing knitting anecdotes from her own experiences.. And yes, she had brought her own knitting, self sufficient as always. She patiently allowed me to show her off to these folks who may never see her again,with nary a complaint about the heat or crowds. What would you call someone like that?

After knitting we stopped in a consignment store to look for midcentury modern furniture pieces for my largely unfurnished condo. She said she did not know what midcentury modern was, but she found me two tables, and rearranged my car so that they would both fit. But that is not all! She went all the way back down to the condo with me and helped me schlep them up there in grocery carts! Impressive, right?

And wait! There’s more! She moves furniture!

On Sunday Ellen gamely accompanied me to the Book Club Brunch where she knew barely a soul. I had actually not read the book to be discussed but by chance she had and was able to make salient comments while I nodded sagely. Though we were at a lovely function in a lovely home, Ellen murmured not when I announced we must be moving on to the theater to see Death Trap. This allowed me to use my last two remaining season tickets and also take advantage of the special that day for extending my subscription. All because of Ellen.

On Sunday night we dropped in to Tug’s at Mud Island to be waited upon by my son. While enjoying our meal there we proofread a paper my son was writing for a summer school class. I am fairly sure we were the only two customers there discussing poetry. After dinner we took a leisurely stroll by the banks of the Mississippi River, remarking on the environs and how many pieces of driftwood resembled dinosaurs. Thus ended another cultural evening.

After a discussion of poetry over dinner.

Ellen did not flinch the next evening when it was time for Iyengar Yoga. Her graduate school schedule had prevented her from going to her own class all winter, but she knew enough to know not to push herself. She has “subbed” in my class before, so many members were of course glad to see her. After yoga we spent some quality time outside on my pergola ( which her husband was instrumental in building) before eating a lovely dinner of grilled vegetables and chicken. Prepared by Ellen.

Post yoga quality time.

Our chef having some well deserved relaxation.

Tuesday was my hair day but we made it Ellen’s hair day too. I told her I liked her hair better red than blonde highlighted, so she obligingly had it redone. I watched to see how the stylist blew it dry so I could show her later. We were too hungry to take pictures, so just believe me that we were two groovy red haired old ladies when we left that shop.

And Wednesday. By Wednesday I had to face a deadline - Mary Hannah’s portrait. For months I had been working on the portrait my niece had asked me to paint. I had decided that I would have it finished as best I could by the time Ellen departed on Thursday so she could deliver it for me. This meant that after helping me with some yardwork early in the day, Ellen would be stuck watching me paint. Ellen had, however, bought some teeny tiny canvases, and tried her hand at them while I labored repeatedly to get M. H.’s skin color to a reasonable tone. Or tint. Or something. Eventually, though her skin looked like combinations of calamine lotion and badly applied makeup, I could do no more. Ellen was suitably soothing and optimistic that the portrait would pass muster with her daughter.

One of Ellen’s tiny canvases.

That night we again spent the night at the condo in order to be closer to the airport in the morning. We wanted to have a nice evening so I made us a reservation a place close by where I did not think there would be gaggles of loud ladies. Ellen acquiesced when I suggested she change out of those crummy shorts, and together we walked in the blazing heat to the restaurant. She changed into a skirt of mine that was too long, while I was wearing a skirt I considered a little dowdy. As we walked I saw how easy it could be for the two of us to become peculiar old ladies together, going to the Early Bird Specials and matinees, careful to be home by dark.

It was a bittersweet evening. As I doodled on my side of the tablecloth, Ellen was compiling a list of all we had done.

Now with red hair.

The list was long, but not nearly long enough. Oh, the things we would do if we had more time! Oh, how empty indeed would even the mundane events be without her! We decided once again that there was no help for it but to retire together in the same place, on the same property if possible. We’ll tell our husbands it’s the only way.

Ellen has gone home now. The portrait is delivered. I am trying to recalibrate myself after almost a week with this adorable creature who knows my thoughts, who finishes my sentences, who always finds something to celebrate. Now that you have read my post I must ask: what you would call my sister? How can she even be described? If you can think of anything - not L.G. or Hurricane of course- I’d be glad to know. For now, I’m just going to call her She Who Restores Me To Myself.

Hurricane Ellen

Posted on June 13, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

I know you wonder why you haven’t heard from me. I know you’ve been worried about me. So let me assure you that I have lost neither life nor limb. But I have experienced a powerful natural phenomenon that one doesn’t encounter every day : Hurricane Ellen.

I volunteered to experience the effects of this powerful little swirling force. I invited her. I flew her here in fact! You may have heard of her last year if you read my post Extra Extra, Read All About It, which details my lovely girls getaway with Hurricane Ellen. I referred to her in that post as The Little General, but I have been informed NOT to call her that any more. So for now it is Hurricane Ellen. She’s not going to like that either, but my brain is in too much of a whirl to come up with a title that describes her in more superlative terms.

I do owe Hurricane Ellen a better moniker, and the flattering description she so richly deserves. In print right here I promise to do it. But not right now. I am packing to go out of town for the weekend, and my force of nature house guest just left this morning. For now I just want to tell you I am still here, not harmed, but actually much improved from having my wonderful sister here for almost a week.

In parting I will say that if you know someone you long to spend the week with, go ahead and make it happen. Don’t wait to have the time of your life. You may not experience it as a Hurricane, but any force of nature brings its own rewards. I must stop here because my husband is clearing his throat and giving me those “hurry up” looks. I will give the full Hurricane report when I return!

Magnificent Obsession

Posted on May 12, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

169

It was Friday. I’d been looking forward to it, dreaming of it, actually, for days. I knew what I was going to do. No need to announce my intentions to others. I had an itch of a kind that must be scratched.

Let’s just say I was looking for a companion with certain attributes. I wanted a solid, steadfast presence with some nurturing aspects. I tended to favor the company of a more mature companion, but I wouldn’t discriminate based on age. Nor would I turn down an adventurous or mysterious spirit. In my mind’s eye I had seen myself, breathless and enthralled, hanging on to every word and moment with my future friend, marveling at his (or her) genius. And ah, our imagined parting! What sorrow! I wanted to weep in advance, for as surely as I would cleave to the charms of my companion, so I would also seek to avoid our inevitable parting.

This insatiable need I am describing is not new. I don’t mean to be such a user, but if I am anywhere close to my type of friend I can’t pay attention to anything else. In the end I will take everything the friend has to offer, turn away from it and seek a replacement. Friday was no exception. I was on the prowl.

But I couldn’t go just yet. I had to prepare. I showered, dressed, and fortified myself with a light lunch. I would need my wits about me for my journey. I didn’t bring my camera; I didn’t know if this kind of intimacy was something best recorded on film. You know, the capturing of souls and all that.

In due time, I left the house. My heart was eager, and urged me to travel swiftly toward my rendezvous. I reminded myself I need not be desperate, that the right companion, or companions, would await me. This was not a time to dwell on imaginary scarcities. There will be an ample supply, I murmured to myself to slow my heart’s acceleration.

When I arrived, I was welcomed into a pleasant chamber to view my prospects. Others were there, no doubt to choose according to their desired types, but I barely registered them as I reconnoitered the room. Perhaps to prevent frenzied behaviors on the part of the lookers, our hosts had piped in some smooth jazz recordings which sent an unspoken message,”This is a classy type of meat market.”

Music helped to manage our obsessive tendencies.

But a meat market it was! Our hosts had scoured far and wide to provide us with a startling array of companions- new, old. short, substantial, local. practical, exotic. cultured, unrefined, alluring, erudite, nondescript. Helpers circulated among the lookers, encouraging them in their choices. No one would have to leave empty handed.

These autographed options stood on a bookcase by themselves.

You can’t judge them by their covers.

I saw many familiar friends from the past, ones whose beauty and truth I would never forget. I ran my hands over them, willing the fond memories of our times together. I was glad they were available for others. I browsed. I took my time, moving aside patiently for others, as they in turn did for me. The atmosphere was so civilized that I risked taking a few discreet pictures with my phone.

So I can soothe my savage beast at home.

Hello, handsome!

More eye candy.

I selected carefully, opting in the end for an eclectic mix of potential friends, returning to the fold those which did not strike my fancy, just as I hoped others would do for me. I had no idea how long I had been in there, oblivious to hunger, thirst, or any other human need. A glance around the area showed I was not the only one in an endorphin filled haze. Gladly I gave the nominal fee to take my choices home for further inspection.

To each his own.

This kind lady and other volunteers helped me replenish my supplies for the nonce.

It has been two days. and we are settling in together nicely. I need not hurry to choose a favorite; each one will share its treasures with me at my pleasure, as many times as I want. There will be other selections in the future, but these are fine for today. My itch has subsided for the time being, happy with the anticipation of the thrills to come. How about you? Met any fascinating new friends lately?

The Warmth of Another Sun

Posted on May 5, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

I couldn’t get warm at all yesterday. In the South may the fourth should conjure pictures of sunny sidewalks and folks out in shorts and flip flops, but this year we were subjected to torrential rains and temperatures in the 40s. 40s!!!! I spent most of the day doing what I do in February - huddling under a blanket with the space heater on. As I occasionally covered my icy nose with my sleeve, I asked myself if it were true that just one week ago I had been basking in the sun in the Napa Valley?

Why yes, I promptly answered myself, because talking to myself helped my blood circulate to my extremities. Just last Saturday, I told myself, you were luxuriating in golden sunshine at the Fremont Diner. And I reassured myself by looking at the pictures I had of that very day. One can’t be too careful; frozen people have been known to hallucinate.

A little background: I accompanied my husband on a business trip to the Bay area. We were fortunate that our daughter could fly up from Pasadena and spend the week with us. Maybe I should be writing my first post about the trip on how wonderful it was to get to see her for the first time since Christmas and how she warms my heart, but I’m just too cold. So let’s move on to the Fremont Diner. And by the way, all those corny expressions about being kissed by the sun, soaking up the sun’s rays, the sky washed clean? Those are all true.

On Saturday we drove to the Napa Valley. We had big plans for the night, but we’ll discuss those later. I sat in the passenger seat of the rental car, reading on my Ipad ,while my daughter and husband discussed the logistics of the trip. I was free to gaze upon some of the sights I had missed so much: the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County, and the surrounding countryside. Thanks to the GPS we were guided in due time to the Fremont Diner, where my daughter’s dear friend Steve had advised us to eat lunch.

We clambered out of the car in our short sleeves, sunglasses and cameras and found our way to the hostess stand. There would be a 45 minute wait but we were in no hurry. And we would be in good company, with the other 50 or so folks waiting for tables on the …… not a patio really, more of a gravel yard.

You could set a spell in the sun.

We got ourselves some drinks and sat under umbrellas. For me there was a somewhat surreal feeling. We were in California but I could have sworn I was in Alabama. The restaurant appeared to be in an old gas station. Drinks were served in mason jars. Fried chicken was on the menu. And the place had a friendly Southern vibe.

We passed our forty five minutes visiting the chickens and watching the other waiting folks. Women in heels walked hesitantly across the gravel to picnic tables where chickens darted and scratched at the dirt. I suppose high heels on gravel could be considered an indication that one was not in fact in Alabama. Mothers attempted in vain to keep their children from chasing the chickens. Some waited in the grass rather then on the gravel.

A little privacy with her lemonade.

This little Missy was determined to catch a chicken. Her Mother thought otherwise.

But her brother did score a reasonable rock collection. He presented one to my daughter as a gift.

Hmph. Humans everywhere!

Finally a brilliant turquoise picnic table opened up for us. And oh yes. The three of us knew this food: Southern, fresh, down home, plentiful. Who knew we would come all the way from California to eat good ( and in the South we don’t use that term lightly) barbecue! Of course the trouble with this food is that one cannot stop eating until every last glorious bite is gone. My daughter and I had the barbecued chicken sandwich with a delectable side of fresh green beans, black eyed peas and tarragon. My husband had the same, only with pork. My husband was thoroughly pleased but my daughter and I had pushed beyond the boundaries of our appetites. What had Steve been thinking, sending us to a meat restaurant?? No dessert, please!

We paused for a few more pictures before we resumed our journey. I think we were all just too full to get back in the car.

Whatever killed the skeleton inside the truck…. it wasn’t the cold!

The sun and sky were endless that day.

The next stop was, unbelievably to our stomachs, a wine tasting. There was no room for wine. but we would cross that bridge when we came to it. For now we had full stomachs, endless sunshine and no humidity. Aah! Memories really can keep you warm!

A Reliable Tour Guide

Posted on April 8, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Don’t expect a slick sophisticated travel review today. I’m returning to my recent trip to Istanbul to tell you about some of my adventures. Many times when I travel it is because I am tagging along with my husband while he works. We have our methods down pat. We arrive a day or so early and do things together. Then he works for two and a half days while I amuse myself, and then we have a little more time together after his work is concluded.

When people I know found out I was going to Istanbul, a majority of them advised me not to go anywhere alone. Many of them said this not based on any of their own experiences, but because an American woman had recently been murdered there. Personally I was not afraid. For one thing I already live in a very violent town, and could hardly imagine Istanbul being worse. Second, I am careful when I travel. I don’t venture into “iffy” areas. The places I want to go are distinctly undangerous - museums, for example. What are the statistics on murders inside museums and museum bookstores? Finally, I trust my own instincts. If I even think I might start to feel uncomfortable in a place, I leave.

Despite my own opinions, the pleas not to go out alone continued. Even my daughter who had recently been to Istanbul asked me not to go out alone. She had not gone out by herself while in Istanbul, but she had had no reason to; her husband was not working. To appease my daughter, I said that while her Dad was working I would get a Turkish bath at the hotel and go on a tour. That seemed to assuage her fears.

As planned. my husband and I had a day to orient ourselves to the town before he started work. The first day he worked I booked myself for a Turkish bath at our hotel. I knew this was probably not going to be the most authentic experience, but having had no Turkish bath at all, ever, I thought I could start here. In fact I wasn’t even sure what a Turkish bath was. When I checked in at the spa desk, I was led to a ladies’ dressing room and shown where to put my clothes. and what towel to wrap myself in.

I complied with these directions, and sat down on a bench in the dressing room wondering what I was supposed to do next. After a few minutes I went out to the front, draped in my towel, causing a maintenance man to jump ten feet,( They’re very modest over there) and asked the receptionist if I was supposed to come back to the front. All she said to me was “No.” “OK, no,” I muttered to myself and went back to the dressing room. It sure was getting hot and humid in there! I sat and sat. In a few minutes a woman clad in a bikini like outfit came in from a back door in the dressing room and addressed me in Turkish. When I couldn’t understand her she left. Since I have such trusty instincts I realized, in my sweaty humid state that unless I approached someone I would probably spend my entire day sweating in a towel in a dressing room! I knew not to go to the front desk so I opened the back door, where I saw the Turkish speaking woman. Gulping in the fresh air of the corridor I ventured,” Turkish bath?” She responded again in Turkish, but this time I heard the word“hamam” (Turkish bath) so I vigorously nodded yes.

We needed no language for the bath. I stretched out on a warm slab of marble, listening to some soft music as the attendant scrubbed, lathered and rinsed me. Heavenly! After her ministrations she led me, freshly toweled, to a dark room with chaise longues, and brought me a tray of tea and fruit. And left me.

I nibbled my fruit and drank my tea, resting on the lounge which also seemed heated. After a few minutes it seemed a little…hot. What was I supposed to do now? I peered into the hallway. I saw no one. Once again I decided I’d better take matters into my own hands. Since no one was apparently ever going to come back for me again, I decided I could sneak back into the dressing room for my phone and take a few stealth pictures. Then I let myself out. No one seemed to notice.

This was where I had my Turkish bath. The same little maintenance man was cleaning the room,so I didn’t take a full shot. I figured I had frightened him enough for one day.

The next day, Sunday, I was booked on an all day tour which was to include being picked up at the hotel and returned to the Asian side at the end of the day. I arrived in the lobby at the appointed time. After fifteen minutes of waiting, caffeine deprived I spoke to the desk clerk who stated my car was outside. Sure enough, a young man in a business suit was waiting for me in a four door sedan. He ushered me into the back seat and in silence drove me from the Asian to the European side. We pulled into the parking lot of the HIlton, beside a couple of vans, where several Turkish men were conferring. It seemed to me that Turkish men seemed to do quite a bit of conferring.

Someone opened the car door for me and I got out and stood there. One of the Turkish men approached me and asked if I wanted to go on Tour One or Tour Two. I stated I was booked for Tour Two, because I had already done most of the things on Tour One. His face fell.”Alright,” he informed me,”You are the only one on your tour then.”

Gulp! How does one go about being the only one on a tour? I didn’t know how to get myself back to the ferry to the Asian side so I decided I had best just go ahead with it. I was returned to the sedan, with my original driver, whom I thought resembled Balthazaar Getty, plus Aran, my very own tour guide.

I’m not really sure where all we went. I was just the Queen in the back seat.

After riding through several neighborhoods, with Aran narrating and Balthazaar silent except when the two men needed to confer in Turkish, Aran announced it was almost time for our break, during which I might like a coffee. Aah, a stop in a darling Turkish coffee shop sounded just right to me. As I daydreamed of aromatic coffee in the back seat, our driver pulled right into McDonald’s. Yes, I did say McDonald’s.

One of the McDonald’s cats.

While my driver and tourist guide bought coffee upstairs, I went downstairs to the ladies restroom. I had bought a bottle of water ( You can’t drink the tap water there) so I could take my vitamins and such. I was the only one down there, so while I was in the stall I went ahead and dug out my gallon sized ziplock bag which was filled with individual baggies of all my daily medicines.

My water bottle was in one hand and a baggie of vitamins was in the other, when the lights suddenly went out. I dropped the vitamins and they scattered all over the floor. Here I am. I said to myself. In this moment. On a toilet. In a bathroom. In the dark. In a McDonald’s. In Istanbul. With two men I don’t know. Taking a tour all by myself. Well, what is travel for if not for new experiences?

I managed to get my pants up without flushing my medicines down the toilet and exited the dark room without further mishap. My two Turkish friends were still enjoying their coffee and cigarettes.

You can have your Big Macs delivered in Istanbul. Good to know.

Next we went to a scenic overlook. I am afraid I can’t remember the name. It was too hazy for good pictures, but I enjoyed people watching while I tasted a selap, a local drink made of dried orchid roots. Aran and Balthazaar were standing by, respectfully keeping an eye on me. I was beginning to feel the way Sasha and Malia Obama might feel, precious and well cared for. And deserving it too.

Soon we departed to the Beylerbeyi, a summer palace of the sultans. Baltahzaar let us out and we entered the palace grounds. Aran told me that visitors must be accompanied by a guide, So he gave me a lovely tour of the palace. Unfortunately photography was not allowed, so I can only tell you it was sumptuous inside.

The tunnel to the Palace.

The palace grounds.

We journeyed on to the Serkeci train station, to the site of the original Orient Express route. A complimentary lunch in the train station restaurant, also named the Orient Express, was included on my tour. Aran ushered me to a table with a gentlemanly flourish. Before I knew it a mustachioed waiter appeared for my drink order. Since I was the only person in the restaurant, I was in fact attended by several mustachioed waiters. In regal solitude I sipped my tea, ate my lunch, admired the Agatha Christie posters, and read my Kindle.

After lunch I had time to take a few pictures and pretend I awaited an appointment with Hercule Poirot. Aran seemed to have vanished but I eventually saw him conferring with a few other Turkish men and drinking tea at a small corner table. I think my darting in and out of the train station alarmed him; whenever he couldn’t see me he rushed outside to find me. In fact there seemed to be an abundance of time to wait after lunch.

Train station cat.

Because guess what? We were waiting for Baltahazaar to bring Other People, would be joining us for the second half of the tour!! Was I ever glad to see them! Now I no longer had the crushing burden of being the only person to tip Aran this day! This dilemma had been buzzing around my brain like an aggressive bazaar merchant all morning!

When the others joined us we piled into a van and went for a brief turn at the Spice Market. I was surprised to find myself a little unwilling to share “my” guide with these interlopers. I winced when I heard these Americans asking questions such as ,”Are you a Muslim?’ And, “Why do I see so many covered women?” But I remained gracious, as always.

Can you guess which one of these men is NOT an American?

Our last stop was a cruise on the Bosphorus. As we made our way there Aran asked the others what hotels they came from. I was the only one on the Asian side. “What will happen to me when the tour is over?” I asked Aran. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I have to take all the others back to their hotel. But I’ll show you how to ride the ferry back; it’s easy!” he reassured me. Hmmm. Suddenly I was no longer such precious cargo.

People watching on the Bosphorus cruise.

It was such a glorious, sunny day for a boat ride that we had a huge crowd. It was difficult to take pictures, so after a while I just listened to Aran’s narration and wondered how I would return to the Asian side. In due time the cruise was over. Aran was in a big hurry to get the other tour members back in the van. I can only assume there was some deadline for returning either the van or its passengers. I barely had time to press some lira into my guide’s hand before he pointed where I should get the ferry to the Asian side, and turned in the opposite direction.

I approached the pier as Aran had directed but the sign did not say Kadiköy which was my destination. No one was on duty in the ticket booth. I needed to buy a ticket from someone. Since I did not know I would need my Istanbulkart, I had left it at the hotel. I saw someone talking to a man in a reflective vest, so I decided I too would approach him. He informed me that this was the correct ferry. The destination was the Princes’ Islands, but Kadiköy was the first stop. And he was glad to sell me a ticket.When the gangplank was lowered I crowded aboard with all the others.

When the tea man came around, I treated myself. Sipping the sweet hot liquid, I concluded that when I travel there is no such thing as “going out alone”, because I always take me with me. In all of the activities I had undertaken in part to keep my promise not to go out alone I had had to rely upon my own judgement. Heck, if I’d not taken action the day before I’d still be wrapped in a towel in the basement of my hotel! Who had helped me in the dark McDonald’s bathroom? ME!! And right now, after being treated like a hothouse flower most of the day by my tour guide, I was left to my own devices to get back to where I’d come from. From now on, I told myself, whenever someone says don’t go out alone, I’ll say, “Don’t worry; I never go out alone!” I am the most reliable tour guide of all.

Come On Over!

Posted on March 22, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Hey! I’m having a party and YOU”RE INVITED!!! We are somewhat limited in that this is a ladies’ dinner party on a Monday night, but if you’ll join me while I get everything out for tonight you will FEEL the excitement!!! Come on; I’ll show you!

Since I’ve recently returned from Istanbul. we’re having a simple Turkish theme. The menu is Turkish red lentil soup, homemade bread, salad with a Turkish lemon dressing, and Turkish delight for dessert. The soup recipe is from Bimur’s Turkish Cookbook. I was able to use my dried mint and pul biber (red pepper). They were some of my treats from the Istanbul Spice Bazaar.

I’ve already cooked our food so it’s time to set the table. This is a no-fuss party, so we’re using our clear dishes which can go in the dishwasher. I’m putting some fresh mint on every plate; later we will use it in our soup. Our dinner napkins, which had to be pressed but thankfully not starched, have a simple but timeless design. Timeless design is also Turkish! Spices from the Istanbul Spice Bazaar will be part of the table decor, as well as party favors for the guests. They’re even shaped like dolmas, don’t you think?

Now let’s get out a few pretties. It is nothing but pure Magpie Fun to get pretties out for a party. We have fancier things, but tonight is more casual. Here are the wine glasses I painted a few years back. Which one will you choose?

And look at these cocktail napkins. They are an estate sale find. The package said they are paper but are supposed to look like silk. I don’t know if I will serve any chai, as many ladies don’t want caffeine at night, but I’m ready with my Turkish tea set if there are any takers.

Here is a cute little guy I’ve had for a while. I bought him somewhere and then rudely shoved him into the back of a kitchen cabinet where he languished for years. If I hadn’t had to clean out my cabinets to be painted he might still be there. He will be on hand tonight to help the ladies with their olives.

I will serve the dessert on this lovely torte plate given to me by a very special lady in my yoga class. It may be a little large for the occasion, but the lady who gave it to me is so peaceful and generous I would like for her spirit to be a part of the gathering.

So that’s it - an easy dinner party for a weeknight, combining Turkish and Southern hospitality! The only thing left to do is pop the bread in the oven. Wait a minute! I need to go press my hostess apron!

Yes, waist lines did used to be smaller, but no matter. I can get it around me. Thanks for being here a little early to help me set things out. I get such an adrenaline jolt before a party that I’m always afraid I’ve forgotten something. But of course that’s part of the fun too! Oh! Wasn’t that the doorbell?

An Eye On Design In Istanbul

Posted on March 4, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

When I learned I would be going to Istanbul on fairly short notice, I consulted with my daughter who had recently returned from there. She advised that I read Istanbul: The Collected Traveler, An Inspired Companion Guide edited by Barrie Kerper. I took her advice and read this and other books to learn as much about Istanbul as quickly as I could. The more I read about this fabled city, the more I was overwhelmed with how much I did not know. Because here’s the thing about Istanbul: whatever you know or see or experience, there is always more.

Now that I am back from Istanbul I naturally want to share some of the “more” that I experienced there during my brief visit. I anticipate that this task will be just as easy as pulling individual jewel- colored pieces of glass out of a twirling, revolving kaleidoscope. If such a thing were possible, one piece I would extract would be that of design. I cannot think of a single place I looked in Istanbul where I did not behold the splendor of ancient design. Whenever I am surrounded by works which have survived the centuries, I am humbled by the skills of these long dead artists and craftsmen. How did they live? How did they learn to plan and carry out works in stone, in glass, in paint, in jewels, in fibers?

I could go on and on describing my emotional reactions to these wonders, but you already know my magpie tendencies. So without further ado here are some some designs I admired from just one place: the Hagia Sophia Museum.

I love the painted arch above the screened window.

To the left of the dome is a scaffold; restoration is ongoing in the museum.

View from the balcony.

The chandeliers, an Ottoman addition to the space, seem like floating clouds.

The mosaic tiles.

A view out the window.

This mosaic looks as though it is made out of gold.

Even the broken floors have interesting shapes.

Beautiful shapes everywhere.

A railing.

From Christian era, excavated during renovations.

More excavated stone.

In the courtyard.

In my musings about ancient structures and design, I am always reassured at how similar humans seem to be through the ages. We seem wired to decorate, to embellish, to arrange raw materials around us in order to make statements about ourselves in this world, and about what we believe to be the world to come. In the majestic spaces of the Hagia Sophia I am reminded like untold numbers before me that I am but a miniscule speck beneath the glory of the heavens. Through carvings, paintings, mosaics, and more, artists of the early Christian and Ottoman periods speak to us of intangibles: life, love, eternity, brotherhood. Questions they struggled with then we still struggle with today. I find a pleasing design in that.

Read This When You Get Back

Posted on February 20, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Here’s the deal: I’m off to Istanbul in about twenty minutes. That means I have about four minutes to write this post. But I am going to write this so that I can remember how I was feeling before I left. I feel crazy right now, but wonders await me in Istanbul.

I didn’t mean to be in such a chaotic state this morning. But really and truly it is not all my fault. A few days before Christmas my husband remarked that he had been invited to teach a class in Istanbul in February. I immediately informed him that yes, he did want to accept this offer. He took my advice and accepted. For weeks he emailed through a third party in the United States to whomever made arrangements in Istanbul. Eventually course dates were arranged, but until we knew dates, I could not start my own planning process.

So finally we had dates and a location: Hilton in Istanbul on the European side. I immediately communicated this to my daughter who had recently returned from Istanbul. We looked up the hotel, and I began to orient myself to the locale. Then my husband came home and said that was not the right hotel. It would be at the Doubletree, on the Asian side. I looked up THAT hotel, and began to learn how to get around on that side.

We did not get to make our own airline reservations, which was a little off putting because at first the reservation maker had us changing planes three times. Sigh. I asked my husband if he thought I should even go because it seemed so hard to make the plans. He informed me, as I had him, that yes, I did want to go.

So. Late in January we finally had tickets, which meant I could go ahead and read books about Turkey and try to learn a few words. Every chance I got I was reading about how to get to the Museum of Innocence, the Florence Nightingale Museum, and the more typical “must sees” such as Topkapi Palace and the Aya Sofya. I was starting to feel a little confident about tackling a visit to this magnificent city.

Then my husband came home one night and said, “We’re not staying at the Doubletree; we’re staying at the Parkhouse Hotel.” And so I scratched the Doubletree and began to google the Parkhouse and its environs so that I could navigate the area.

About five days ago my husband began to cough and cough and cough. I suggested he head to the Doctor. He declined. He coughed. I suggested. He declined. He coughed. And yesterday he went to the Doctor. He sounds a little bit less like a recent escapee from a tuberculosis sanitorium, for which I am glad , because he will have to speak for two days straight at the class he is teaching.

I’ve continued to try to learn words and make plans right up to the wire. I didn’t sleep well last night because my poor little patient tossed and turned. I woke later than I wanted to, and I was mighty cranky. Finally I went and showered. As I combed my wet hair my husband stepped in the bathroom and announced, “Oh. I got an email that they changed our hotel reservations back to the Doubletree.” And that’s when I started laughing like a hyena.

Whatever! We’re going to Istanbul and we’ll stay SOMEWHERE. My husband will be able to speak or he won’t. I can always come to his class and read the stuff out loud for him, though I don’t know what any of it means. I’ll refer to my carefully loaded Istanbul Eats apps, and learn from my Turkish language book on Kindle. I’ll take photos, and eat good food. I’ll view as many fabulous sites as I can, and drink in the beauty of the city skyline. The adventures to come will outweigh the craziness of right now. I just know it.

mindfulmagpie

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