OFF TO TURKEY -- PART TWO

The first informational meeting for the May trip to Turkey went well. There are about 18 people in the group, some of whom had traveled together on other UVM-sponsored trips. Nobody is a kid. There are three people, counting me, over 75. My concern about being too old is resolved.

The long agenda was covered cheerfully and confidently by the two trip organizers. I like the relaxed atmosphere and the enthusiasm. Everyone seems prepared to be flexible and once details about a Turkish visa and various phone and currency items, websites for hotels, health, etc., were covered, the ambitious itinerary begins to look exciting and doable. It turns out there is a woman from Turkey going along and she is helpful about what to expect.

Luggage: one carry-on bag plus a rucksack or tote. Packing for this trip will be fun. I am a minimalist packer anyway. Worries right now? Not so many and I take back what I said about being wrong to want to be part of a local local group. That was right thinking and I see it will be very good to be with people from close to home. We all start from the same place and somehow, we'll go to and from Boston and Istanbul together. 

More later about the Turkey trip  -- probably in February, 2015.

OFF TO TURKEY -- Part One

November 06, 2014

My husband died four months ago and as a challenge to my
newfound independence and a means of getting off the end of the couch, I signed up for a trip to Turkey sponsored by our local university.

I didn't especially want to go to Turkey. I'd rather be off to Spain
or Scotland or on a trip to Holland in tulip time. But this trip is
local and I thought I'd rather be with a group of Vermonters than
with alumni from, say, my Ivy League university. This thinking was
so wrong. The Vermonters, though neighbors, will also be strangers. I'll be just as much an outsider with them as I'd be
in any other travel group.

I've looked at maps and weather charts and researched a phone call app for my iphone. On line, I look at Today's Zaman, the English-language newspaper published in Istanbul. I read about the Kurds. I'll read Orhan Pamuk.

As suggested by the tour planners at UVM, I ordered plane tickets
via a local travel agent. There is a direct flight to Istanbul from Boston and group transportation will be arranged from here to there.

All of this sounds easy and for a day or so, I felt better about the trip. Then I got email from one of the planners strongly suggesting I get travel insurance which I always do anyway. I called the agent and she made me understand that because I am so old, the insurance is going to cost a lot. No pre-existing conditions, she stressed.

Then there came another email from a planner saying I definitely should have medical evacuation insurance. OK. The travel agent will take care of it. "Just do what you need to do, you've got my credit card," I told her. OK. All this insurance will cost just about what the air ticket costs.

I slowly understood what was going on. By May, when the trip
happens, I will be 81. There is nothing, nothing that can slow
down an ambitious trip more than having to wait for some
geriatric crock to catch up. These people must be having fits
about me being with them. What if she can't do stairs?  What if she can't deal with her own luggage, can't walk a block, can't, can't, can't? The poor things. I understand their concerns and I begin to
feel defensive and unsettled.  

Of course, nobody has actually said anything. They'll get a chance to meet me next Wednesday at our first group meeting when we
hand over our passports for Turkish visas to be arranged. What if the Turks won't give me a visa because I am so old?

AIN'T NO GRAPES AND AIN'T NO NUTS

A friend talked wistfully about Grape-Nuts (notice the hyphen?) Pudding, made via a recipe on the Post cereal box. I haven't had Grape-Nuts in the house for a while so I'll get some and make a batch of pudding for his birthday.

I can't think where I've seen this custard-like dessert on a menu.  Diners sometimes have it but it is rare to come across and is mostly a New England comfort food.  Grape-Nuts, developed in 1897 by C. W. Post, then marketed as a kind of health food, isn't always on today's cereal shelves and may be headed the way of Maypo -- "I want my Maypo!"and Maltex.

Here is a Grape-Nuts Pudding recipe from an old Yankee magazine:

Ingredients:

• 1 quart milk, scalded
• 1 cup Grape-Nuts cereal
• 4 large eggs
• scant 1/2 cup sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla
• Pinch of salt
• 1 tablespoon unsalted butter (approx.)
• Whole nutmeg
• Water

Instructions:

Heat oven to 350°. In a medium-size bowl, pour scalded milk over Grape-Nuts and let sit 5 minutes. In a second medium-size bowl, beat eggs, sugar, vanilla, and salt. Add egg mixture to milk and Grape-Nuts and stir well. Pour into a buttered 2-quart casserole dish. Generously grate nutmeg over the top. Place the casserole into a deep roasting pan. Place in the oven and pour water into the roasting pan, enough to reach halfway up the side of the casserole. Bake 45 to 60 minutes, until almost set in the center (very slight jiggle).

                                  ______________

The Post cereal company has a website https://www.postfoods.com with lore about Grape-Nuts. The copy is straight from the 1950s:

 In 1933, Post Grape-Nuts sponsored Sir Admiral Byrd’s expedition to Antarctica, where the first two-way radio transmission occurred. At the time, maps of the expedition even appeared on Grape-Nuts boxes. This was a huge milestone in the scientific community, and Grape-Nuts helped make it possible!

• During World War II operations before 1944, Grape-Nuts was part of the Jungle rations that helped fuel US and Allied forces on extended missions to Panama and other tropical parts of the world. (To Panama? WHAT are they talking about?)
• In 1953, New Zealand explorer Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay took Grape-Nuts with them for efficient, nutritious energy as they trekked to the top of Mount Everest, becoming the first climbers in history to reach the summit. It is the ultimate example of man’s persistence in the face of the seemingly impossible feat, and Grape-Nuts was there for every high-altitude step along the way.
•  
•                             
  
  
  

What's in this cereal that has no grapes and no nuts? (Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut) Mainly wheat and barley with some yeast, salt and malt. Straight from the box, Grape-nuts is bizarrely crunchy, so unchewable, in fact, I let it soak in milk a few minutes before I go near it.

Should the above be enticing, you will be so delighted when I tell you there is Grape-Nuts ice cream.
                                         + + +

ON THE ROAD

Yesterday was a long day. Here is what I can remember of it:

Arose at the Delta hotel in downtown St. John NB. Downtown
isn't much, a few busy streets and a deep harbor plus outlying
neighborhoods and vast ship repair and heavy works. A recent
blog mentions the refinery on the hill.

Getting on the road to Fredericton was easy and the way
quickly turned into a long stretch bordered by pine woods
and moose warnings. The road was high and surprisingly
hilly above the woods and swampy patches. Vistas opened,
some for miles. It was a gray day and that made driving a
little easier. 90K with me gawking.

Just before Fredericton, I took an interstate West. This is
the trans-Canada and I could stay on it all the way to
Vancouver. Again, a high road with evergreen woods.
West, OK, but too far North and I wanted to cross into
Maine. I stopped for directions at a gas station off the
highway. This would be the way it would go for the next
14 hours.

A couple of things here: my cell phone GPS doesn't work
in Canada. There is no cell phone service in remote areas,
anyway. I thought I had a map of NB but it is only a map of St. John area. Try reading a map when you're doing 65. I have
a good map of Maine but I could barely read it and it didn't spill over much into Canada. Advice for next time: map out the route carefully. Do not think dead reckoning will get me there.
Do not try to be such a smarty pants.

The gas station ladies between them decided how I should
go. I got off the Trans Canada and headed roughly southwest
toward Harvey, a town on a blue highway. This rough road,
not nearly as bad as the ladies said, goes through miles of
evergreen and through tiny settlements of mobile homes
and ruined houses with little sign of human activity. At Harvey,
I thought I was near the border, but no. I went on to MacAdam
and then to the crossing at St. Croix.

No problem with US customs. The officer asked questions
about how long, any live plants, liquor, purpose of trip,
where I live, etc. and looked in the trunk. Then I was on
my way, surprisingly happy to be back in the US and on
Route 6, all the way to Bangor, 193 miles from Fredericton.
I like the back roads. I enjoy being the only car in sight although
this can change at night as I was to discover.

I cancelled hotel reservations in Bangor because it was only
11 AM. NB time is an hour ahead, so this was a travel bonus.
It had started to rain and I wondered if I could possibly make it
all the way home to Burlington. Give it a try? I pulled out of
the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. I tried to stop every two hours
and never let the gas tank get below half.

I wanted Route 2 West which I would take forever, all the
way to Montpelier. I plugged in the GPS lady and she sent
me onto I95 where I absolutely did not want to be. I finally
overrode her, got off at Route 69W, again going by my
own GPS which had failed completely more than once.

Route 2 winds up and down through sleepy towns speed
limit 35. Rain hard at times. I stopped at a little gas
station -- two pumps: one diesel, one regular ($3.09) where
hunters were gathered after coming out of the woods. It is moose season but I didn't notice they had any luck. Got a coke for the caffeine and a delicious sandwich for the road. I went along
enjoying the scenery and the varying road conditions. Still
raining although not too hard.

Went through Skowhegan, Rumford and Bethel and finally
entered New Hampshire. Maine is a fat state and Route 2
went on and on. Rain. Now I was in the White Mountain National Park and the afternoon was getting on. Thank goodness I could
see the most spectacular scenery of the entire trip, except for Acadia National Park. I was deep in the mountains and the road wound through river valleys and on up and over. There is still a little fall color to add to the bliss.

As I entered Vermont, the light was failing but there was
still enough to see where I was going and to read the signs.
I stopped in St. Johnsbury as it got dark. For years, I have not driven strange roads in the dark and worried I was making a big
mistake. I wasn't tired but I was stiff and going along at about
45 with a string of cars behind me, lighting the way a bit with
and traffic coming toward me, bright lights and all, the road
shining in the wet. I got used to it slowly and was sorry I couldn't see anything out there except the white line along the right side of the road. Rain. Windshield wipers on slow, plus the one on the back window.

Entering Montpelier and finding signs to I89 was a terrific
relief. Even if I had wanted to stop for the night, there was no
way. Now I knew I'd make it home. Piece of cake after
all that. 290+ miles Bangor to Burlington.

OFF TO THE BAY OF FUNDY

Sunday morning in Bar Harbor, Maine, waiting for a B&B breakfast and looking again at the map. This is a kind of staging area before I push off into Canada to see/find/experience the
tides in the Bay of Fundy.

For the first time in more than 50 years, I am footloose. No
ailing parents, no child, no husband, no dog and no reason not to get up from the end of the couch and see something of this
great, amazing country.

The drive from Bar Harbor to St. John via Calais (pronounced
"Callis") ME was longer than I thought, mainly on blue highways.
The land is full of ups and downs and the most glorious Fall
landscapes made firey red by low bush blueberries. Whole
hillsides were aflame with an evergreen backdrop.

It is still hilly across the border. I was not sent right through
by Canadian immigration and they opened my car and looked
inside while I waited in a small building. I crossed at a backroad
and was scolded by the (gorgeous) officer because I had gone through a stop sign. Canadian stop signs are smaller than ours.

It is a little unnerving to drive where the miles are in kilometers
and the signs are all bi-lingual. Everything seems to be just
slightly different and I find that adds to the uneasiness. My
usual stellar sense of direction failed me more than once and
I backtracked, turned, caused hazard to other drivers, etc.

This is an industrial city although the scale is small. It is on
a deep harbor and the port activities (containers, a gigantic
cruise ship, derricks, cranes, all kinds of shipping) are
right down town. From my hotel window I see the ship and I
can see the containers piled up on the other side of the harbor.

A major refinery is on the outskirts with a tank farm flanking
the hills. Ships were built here although probably not much any
more. Plenty of wood not far away. There has been
a recent renaissance in the city center or downtown. A food
hall seems to attract crowds but it is not at all comparable
to our farmers' markets or the big food halls elsewhere.

The population is mixed with plenty of recent immigrants.
Public housing is evident as is everything else. There are
lots of blue collar jobs and many "For Sale" signs on
houses, whatever that signifies. Oh, and don't confuse St. John
New Brunswick with St. John's Nova Scotia. They are about
120 miles apart.

This hotel adjoins a large indoor shopping center with the
Canadian version of various store chains we know. There is
a MacDonald's. The main atrium and all available seating are
taken up with young people, mostly black, using free internet
access, hanging out in the late afternoon. This is mall
activity new to me. 

This morning I went to see the "Reversing Rapids" and had an
awful time finding the spot. Driving in fast moving city
traffic to places I've never been is hair raising. The tide
(High: 10:45 am) flows up over the falls and rapids and
then during the ebb, flows back out to the sea. It is interesting
but not especially thrilling.  A bridge for trains and autos
goes over the rapids.

I drove about 60km east to St. Martin's, another tide spot
where there are caves that fill and empty with the enormous
tide changes. When I arrived (sunny and not so windy) the
caves were about half full of water. When the tide is low,
you can walk into them. The area around St. Martin's
is poor and trailers are the thing. It is pretty but the road
is bad  and the poverty obvious. Nothing exotic or
fascinating about that. The gift shop dealers were expecting
3 busloads of tourists from the cruise ship.

Then I came back to St. John on a byway and ran into
detours due to road repair. Once again, I just kept trying
until streets looked familiar. I put the car in the hotel
garage ($20 per day, not so bad) and went for a walk.

In the food court again, I bought two corn muffins and
an inferior ice cream cone. We are spoiled by our local
stuff which costs the same as this. I think everything is
so expensive but I'm behind the times.  

I'm not sorry I made the trip although am pleased to be
leaving tomorrow. Rain is on the way and I see how this
tide thing works. It is not as fascinating as the Panama
Canal, but it is the kind of ebb and flow you see there.

I think there may be such a thing as the Fundy of the Mind.

COOKING FOR ONE

Greetings, friends, from the Widow Standard.

I am alone now, trying to make the best of it

and experiencing unexpected blows at every turn.

When I'm not looking, a memory will jump out and
bite me.

Today, I went through a transfile of Michael's papers. It put me in touch with the vigorous younger Michael, the man I met when he was 29. So now I have this revised image and the memories that flow from it. Instead of the dependent, disabled, somewhat demented old man, the one who made messes and couldn't initiate anything, I see the man who traveled the world, who argued before many courts, including the Supreme, who had friends who adored him in all those unreachable places: Cuba, Angola, Nicaragua, and in the jails of our own great country.

Now I am thinking about him the way he was. The charmer, the totally generous and impossible Jew. The echt New Yorker.  I miss all the signs and symbols of that old fashioned New Yorker in my life. And who, in this age of homogenized culture, intersperses conversation with Yiddishisms?

He and I had the same take on people. Even recently, he recognized a jerk when he saw one. He'd look at me and we'd know. We thought the same things were funny. Even diminished, he sometimes could make a joke.  Nobody, ever, is going to tell me I look pretty.

Now that I'm cooking for one, I make all the stuff he didn't prefer: string beans and zucchini given to me by friends. Veal chop (cost a fortune) more zucchini with tomato and onion. Sea scallops with more string beans and zuccs. The refrigerator is quite empty and when I open the door it seems too bright in there. Tomorrow night: short ribs plus more string beans. I throw capers in everything. I spread the most bitter orange marmalade I can find. I eat fig paste or guava paste off a knife. Eggplant becomes a staple. Oatmeal with raisins.

I could go out to eat but not for a while. For now, I'm

sticking close to home, a place that had been a refuge and

a cage until July 02, exactly one month ago.

ART IN THE HOME

I was just reading a piece about art critic Kenneth Clark in the August
14 edition of the "New York Review of Books." The reviewer of two books about Clark mentions that Clark came from an affluent Scottish
family that had a lot of art in the house.

This made me think about the art we had in our house on Spruce
Street when I was growing up, although there certainly wasn't much
of it. I'm thinking back 75 years here, and wrack my brain though I might, I can only come up with several disappointing images.

One was an elevation of a cathedral (Chartres? Winchester? Notre Dame?) done in some kind of waxy stuff so it was layered and you could feel the arches with your finger. It looked carved in ivory but it wasn't. This small work was hung too high and now that I'm thinking about it,
I cannot possibly imagine what it was doing there. Someone must have given it to my parents.

Over the couch, there were copies of Redoute roses in two Victorian
walnut frames, hung one higher than the other. In two arched niches
flanking the entrance (also arched) to the dining room, was an
encyclopedia taking up most of the space. On the top shelves were
two bisque figures of ladies in flowing gowns and they must have
belonged to my father's mother.

There were a few other books jammed in with the encyclopedia. I
know there was a slim volume by the American poet Eugene Field.
"The Yellow Cur: A Story of Love and Life Before the World's War"
by Clarence Holton Poage (1932) is even more a mystery. Heaven knows
what that was doing along with "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1858).

This was early on in my childhood. Later, when my parents subscribed
to The Book of the Month Club, a bookshelf was created on the landing
leading upstairs. When they forgot to send selections back,
I had a lot of adult reading to myself. completely unsupervised.
I read "The Carpetbaggers," and "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," both
books with unsuitable material for a pre-teen. I read "A Bell for Adano"
and I can recite the captions for Bill Malden's Willy and Joe World War II
cartoons. I read "Hiroshima" and "Cluny Brown" by Margery Sharp and
many other bestselling novels of the immediate post-war era. I got myself
a good introduction to popular literature although there was a some of it
I didn't understand.

I realize this: aside from the above, when I was growing up there was not one single picture or anything that could be described as "art" in the entire house. There were empty walls but nobody put anything on them. The dining room wallpaper was huge cabbage roses so maybe nothing possible there. But really, there had to be total disinterest by two adults.

Years later, when Aunt Dot took up oil painting, there were a couple of
her works, one a nice green landscape above the table just inside the front door.