Wilkommen Im Munchen

Stepping out the front door of the Belle Blue, I thought for a minute I was in downtown New York City, in Times Square before it was sanitized, except that the cobbled side street was narrower. A Babel of international languages- Dutch, Deutsch, Spanish, French, Polish, Italian, Middle Eastern dialects, everything, it seemed, but English. To my left, a marigold-yellow sign jutted over the sidewalk, shouting in red letters "Kebab! Felafel! Doner!" in front of an open stand. A swarthy man in a grungy once-white cook's jacket presided over a smeared glass counter cluttered with half-pans of wilted lettuce, pale sliced tomatoes, shredded red and white cabbage that had seen better days, dessicated felafel, and an upright pyramid of gray-brown meat purporting to be pressed lamb. Diagonally across the street: its mirror image. Above, painted on the wall in faded blue and red, next to a picture window: Table Dance! To my right, at the next intersection, a restaurant advertised pizza, more kebabs, felafel, and pasta. Next door: Cocktails! Bar! I turned left and walked to the end of the street, crossing to a "Conditorei," a bakery/cafe. It was closed.

I was starving. Approaching the second sidewalk take-out spot, I saw a Middle Eastern woman in a beige trenchcoat over a black dress, in black pumps, glossy black hair pulled back in a chignon, discreet makeup, ordering a "fleish doner", a pressed meat sandwich. The counterman wore a fairly fresh jacket. With his long, narrow sharp knife, he shaved pink meat off the rack, sauteed it quickly on the hot countertop, and piled it onto a pita round. The woman selected trimmings- shredded green iceberg lettuce, white cabbage, tomato, and yoghurt sauce. Hold the onions. The cook turned to me and I ordered the same, smiling: ein fleish doner, bitte. I embellished it with chili sauce and thinly sliced white onion, as well as the traditional toppings.

Two young guys were hanging out at an inside table. When they heard me speaking English, the one in the black leather jacket asked, in excellent English, where I was from. He was very excited to hear "New York." He'd never been there. I asked where he was from, since it was obious he wasn't a native German. "Iraq," he said, "We're all from Iraq. Many of us here from Iraq and Iran. "

"Are you by yourself?" he asked.

Hello? "Yes," I answered; and could have bitten my tongue! I turned quickly to the cook, a fifty-ish heavyset man who needed a shave, and was suddenly looking very unfriendly. In fact, if looks could kill.... I don't know if he thought Iwas being too bold, or if he'd seen my silver Wiccan star on its chain around my neck and thought it was a Star of David; or maybe I was being over-sensitive, but his black eyes glittered with hot malice and a glare that could have decimated an Israeli tank. He finished wrapping my sandwich, I paid my four Euros, tossed an "Auf Wiedersehn" over my shoulder and marched back to the hotel.

The sandwich smelled wonderful. But it wasn't the same meat I'd seen the counterman heap on the previous customer's pita. I took one bite and tried to chew the pink, grisly, fatty mystery meat. It went down hard. Three bites later, I'd decided the meat was goat, not lamb. Not that I have anything against eating goat. But this "fleisch" wasn't even edible. I settled for some crackers from my emergency stash, and tossed the sandwich into the wastebasket. Tomorrow I'd find a Gasthaus and dig into a Wienerschnitzel.

In Europe, you don't flag down cabs on the street. You can go to a taxi stand, or your hotel calls for one. It takes about three minutes for the radio cab to arrive. I'd decided to head straight for Marienplatz, the center-city no-vehicle zone historical district. It made no sense to take the car: parking in the immediate area costs the earth. A taxi both ways would actually be more economical. Despite the rain, I intended to prowl Munich's greenmarket.

First, though, coffee! Still sleep-deprived, I'd missed breakfast at the hotel. I had the cab let me out at a corner cafe, across from the market. The display cases were full of baked goodies. Predisposed for a bagel and cream cheese, I ordered a Philadelphiaring, the German equivalent of a toothsome pumpernickle bagel with toasted sesame seeds, stuffed with cream cheese. I had my choice of a table and chair, or a rectangular seat bolted to the wall. The high perch gave me a better angle for pictures. When an older woman, whose eyes, hands, and bearing looked like she had an interesting history, brought her carafe of tea and plate of cake to the table next to me, I asked if I could photograph her. If she was thinking "crazy tourist," at least it didn't show on her 'I've seen everything' face! By then, I'd shot a myriad of cherry and strawberry tortes and apple kuchen, strudel, crumbcakes, muffins, rolls, bread and croissants, and the efficient saleswomen serving sodden customers with dripping folding umbrellas who'd come in for takeout or just to escape the rain. One of them was kind enough to take a picture of me enjoying my Philadelphiaring and steaming crema-topped cappuccino.

I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head and gained the semi-shelter of the market stalls. The place was minimally active, most of the proprietors standing around trying to stay dry. The few patrons clustered around favored booths made their meat and produce selections quickly, tucking packages of sausage links, thick cylindrical stalks of Bodensee white asparagus, Bodensee strawberries, and other local delicacies into their shopping carts, and hurried away home. It was too chilly and unpleasant outside to linger. Seeing the huge variety of sausages reminded me what I wanted for lunch.

It took just a few minutes to find a sausage stand with Weisswurst on the menu. I've never understood why we can't get this delicious veal, sweetbreads and parsley sausage in the States. The texture, light and silky, is unlike any other sausage, its flavor sweetly veal, subtly distinctive. Two six-inch-long links are generally served with a soft pretzel and sharp, coarse honey mustard. Weisswurst is generally considered a breakfast sausage, but it's also a timely lunch or afternoon snack. I savored not just the sausage, but the thought, which was all I could carry back to America with me.

Enough cold, wet feet! When I'd entered the Marienplatz, I'd seen a sign near the Ratskeller that said "Bernstein." That's the German word for amber, and it's how my family got its name. My great-grandfather ostensibly worked with amber in Germany, near the Baltic Sea. I love this fossilized resin, and have a small collection of rings and necklaces. Amber jewelry had jumped in cost over the past few years, but maybe I could find something unusual, reasonably priced.

I know I looked like a drowned rat when I walked into the elegant store, but was surprised when the saleswoman said "Are you here to look, or to buy? Well, that was right to the point! "To buy," I said. Nothing like making a commitment before I'd even glanced at the merchandise!

This wasn't going to be easy. I needed a new Baltic amber ring, since I'd shattered an old favorite last winter. Unfortunately, most of the rings I loved didn't fit: I have big hands. Eventually I found a large rectangular stone in a free-form setting that slipped on beautifully. The saleswoman was pleased, and so was I. I felt at ease asking her to take a picture of me in front of the store!

The rain had stopped, and the square was suddenly a mob scene. School groups were pouring up the stairs from the underground station in the middle of Marienplatz like yellowjackets buzzing from their earthy nests. Get in the way and you got 'stung': pushed, shoved, or stepped on. People scattered as teachers herded boisterous, roughousing, noisy adolescents towards historical destinations. Tourists pointed, cameras clicked. Where did all these people materialize from? I hung on to my pocketbook and camera and worked my way to the Ratskeller entrance, under the Glockenspiel, Munich's famous mechanical marionette clock. One look at the menu revised my plan to eat dinner here: the prices were astronomical! It was just another tourist trap. Enough already, anyhow. I d had it. Back to the hotel for a rest, and then I'd decide what do do about something to eat.

I spent some time online, trying to find Munich American Army Hospital, where my daughters, Donna and Lisa, were born. Donna wanted a picture. No luck. In the market, I'd talked to an older woman who'd told me the "kasernes," the Army bases where my daughters' father had been stationed, had been shut down in the early Nineties. Perlacher Forst, the apartment complex where we'd lived, was now student housing and private apartments. The kaserne buildings had been turned into shops and a college. She had no idea where the hospital was located, or even if it still existed. I tried every approach I could think of, but finally gave it up as a lost cause.

It looked like my wiener schnitzel was a lost cause, too. The hotel owner, who couldn't do enough to accomodate me, had no inkling where I could find a Gasthaus that served the inch-thick, juicy breaded and fried veal chop I remembered. She suggested an Italian place a couple streets away, but my legs weren't up for it. I decided to try the pizza place at the nearby intersection.

It was a far better choice than the night before. For E6.50. I got a large personal-size fresh garlic, basil and tomato pizza with Parmesan cheese. It smelled so good, I ate the whole thing.

drove out of the city the next morning, disappointed with its new character. I hadn't expected Munich to stay the same, but what one of my cab drivers said struck me as too true. Munich is a city of diverse ethnic groups that will never come together, never agree on anything. It has lost its soul, the human warmth-"gemuchlicheit"- that made it so special fifty years ago. Now it's just another city.I couldn't be sad to leave it behind.

Off to Munich!

Monika and I slept in Wednesday morning, she on the futon in her living room where she says she always sleeps, me in the bedroom. By the time I'd performed my ablutions, Monika had gone to the bakery for fresh sweet rolls, and had coffee ready. Strong coffee! Then Monika shuffled some cats around so Boyo could go into the "attic" room off the living room and get acquainted with Monika's cats through the mesh door. Boyo was his usual exuberant self, leaping on the cat tree to look out the dormer window, delighted with his new surroundings- and the view, outside over red-tiled roofs to the busy suburban street below, buzzing with cars and motorbikes; and darting to the door, where he could see and sniff his potential "brides." Monika's lovely tortie Burm introduced herself first. Nobody hissed or spit, which was a good sign for the future!

The garden below Monika's deep-set wire-screened cat-proof windows is lushly green, spiked with lavender remnants of tulips, promising perennials now in bud. Branches of blue-purple wisteria in full bloom that Monika planted ten years ago drape on wire across the side of the house, supported by its thick, twisted brown trunk. More evidence of Monika's green thumb.

We walk around to the guest parking area, and exchange a European farewell: three air kisses, one side, the other, and back again; and I belt myself into the Renault. Monika shows me how to set up the Garmin, typing in the name and address of my Munich hotel. We'll keep in touch via e-mail. And off I go!

The navigator is startling at first, as the narrator guides me out of Buchs and towards the Autobahn. It takes me awhile to realize I can watch it channel my route, while the disembodied female discourse tells me exactly where to go. At the first wrong turn, she says "Recalculating!" then determines where I went wrong, adjusts for the discrepancy, and sends me in the right direction. I'm gobsmacked!

It doesn't take long to get onto the Autobahn. The voice says go straight, then bear left, then right, then straight, etcetera, for the four hour trip. Every now and then the monitor beeps and a strange symbol pops up on the screen. I haven't yet figured out yet that this means there's radar ahead, but it doesn't really matter: I'm maintaining my speed in the right lane with other cars, monster eighteen wheelers and their double-length haulers, horse trailers and small box trucks. Until I get a feel for the traffic, the fast cars can have the outside lane to themselves, except when I have to pass a heavy duty tour bus or a cement truck that's straining up an incline. I don't yet know the capability of the Renault, though I'm happy to discover it has a quick overdrive, for passing. I'm fascinated by the trucks, their billboard sides blandished with languages from multiple countries, touting manufacturers and brands in German, Italian, Bulgarian, Romanian, some in Cyrillic text meaningless to me, but as natural as breathing to the people who live in those countries.

Between the road construction, the tunnels, and the everlasting drizzle, I'm perservering with a stiff neck and sore spine. This is a short trip, so it's a good test run. Nobody is paying attention to the red-circled speed limit signs but me- at first- not even when the lanes narrow, swerve, and dip through the "men working" zones. Except for the eternal, infernal tunnels bored through the mountainsides like dark gullets, the road and the flow of traffic are much like the interstate highways at home. The views across the valleys are stupendous. I want to take pictures of the snow-streaked mountaintops, wreathed in black and white churning roils of windswept vapor, but there's no place to pull over except at designated pinched parking areas that are there and gone before I can reduce my speed, with one exception, when I shoot across the highway to snag a shot of the Bodensee; or gas and restaurant areas that are walled with high solid fences or newly leafed-out deciduous trees and tenacious conifers blocking the eye and the lens. There is only one stop that provides an overlook where there's a bird's eye view of a silvery-blue lake and a towering granite cliffside hovering above like a standing stone that no man put there. Otherwise, big yellow phones signify emergency cutouts,the only other places to pull over. One may stop on the shoulder at risk of a major fine. I'm not chancing it. The vista from the legitimate overlook will have to do.

The navigator puts me on the ring around Munich, then the offramp- the "ausfahrt"- and winds me through narrow "strasses" to my hotel. But the Belle Blue (the hotel I chose because my Mom's name was Belle) wasn't there. I circled endlessly, trying to catch a glimpse of my invisible destination, finally pulling over to use my cell. The receptionist told me the Belle Blue was attached to the Italia, which I'd driven by several times going around and around the block. Once I had my bearings, it was simple to locate. The navigator had it on the right: it was on the left, a discreet door identified in small blueprint blue letters on the side of the building. I parked briefly in an illegal space while the receptionist came down to open the garage door, then squeezed the car into a tiny two-vehicle parking area. The receptionist greeted me in perfect, if accented English, grabbed my suitcase, escorted me through the side door, and I checked in.

From the front, one would never guess a hotel was hidden behind a locked door and up a flight of stairs. A miniscule elevator later lofted me up and down. My aptly appointed single room was on the "first" - our second- floor, my window above the parking area. The inevitable white duvet covered a comfortable bed, a desk appropriated one wall, and the bathroom was big enough to turn around in. A password connected me to the internet, and I headed out to see what I could see.

Sightseeing

I'd been to Lake Geneva many years before, but had never visited Lake Lucerne. It took close to an hour from Aarau. We parked in a multi-level garage, fairly near the center of the city and the no-vehicles zone.Most European cities don't permit cars in the historical areas. Public transportation is a way of life here.

It had been cold and rainy since I'd arrived. Today was no different. Before I left home, instead of buying a slicker, I'd purchased a fairly warm, if lightweight, black jacket (with purple welting!) that promised to be relatively weatherproof: probably the smartest acquision I'd made. Cobblestones are probably the most dangerous surfaces underfoot, and the most common paving in Europe. I was glad I'd worn my comfortable old Docksider boat shoes. No blisters, no cobbleskating!

Monika and I headed straight for the market, since the farmers would be packing it in by one o'clock; earlier, in this miserable weather. Only the ducks and swans on the inlet from the lake were oblivious. As long as people tossed them scraps of fruit and vegetables, they were happy.

We walked across the bridge to the market. Ordinarily, tents and stalls would line the path from the entrance to the exit. Today there were more gaps than canopies, and farmers were already loading their vans. Waterbirds pecked wildly at discarded produce in the clear green-tinted water.The city of Lucerne has done such a good job of cleaning up pollution, people can swim in the lake- if they can stand the cold. I think it would be like swimming in melted glacial runoff!

Almost every stand was featuring asparagus, of course. Driving to Lucerne, Monika had pointed out fields of rape, the source of rapeseed oil, but asparagus is Spring's earliest edible hardy crop in Switzerland. Every restaurant highlights it on their May menu, and shopkeepers were weighing it out by the pound for eager customers, who gently piled it into their wheeled canvas shopping carts.

The weather made it too nasty to linger long on the muddy track. We headed back across the traffic bridge to the square. The art and craft of medieval stonecutters and sculptors captured the eye in every direction. It's easy to imagine white-faced jesters in colorful motley juggling for attention, troubadors strumming gourd-shaped instruments accompanying the latest newsy ditties, and travelling players trouping through the square acting out preview vignettes of the evening's play, while peddlars hawked their wares at the fringes of a bustling, bawdy mob of humanity going about their daily business.

Huddled in our jackets, Monika and I headed for the underground shops. I'd seen a store with a Victorinex sign in the window. First a coffee at one of the convenient cafes; then on to choose a Swiss Army knife. Nothing fancy: the basic model with two blades, a corkscrew and bottle cap opener for nineteen Swiss francs, and I was set. I couldn't think of any personal use for the Hunter, Forestry, Camouflage, or Army models, with their saws, screwdrivers, rasps, and scissors. I'd probably injure myself trying to use the rasp like an emery board. Naturally I chose bright red to match my new cell phone!

While Monika went to figure out where we'd left the car, I strolled the aisles of a small grocery store, marvelling at the similarities to American products. It was strange to see familiar boxes labelled in a language foreign to me, but taken for granted here. Cellophane bags of Gummy Bears bearing colorful German descriptions were stacked next to chewing gum wearing wrappers pitching their merits in German. Why did even the red, green, blue, orange and gold bars of Lindt and Toblerone chocolate jar my senses? I don't think of them as American, I'm perfectly aware they're manufactured in Switzerland! I could read a few words here and there, but had the strangest sensation of disassociation: I was the "stranger in a strange land," and I'd better get used to it!

By the time Monika found the car and hailed me, I decided the floating feeling was jetlag. After all, I was still on New York time. The evening before, Monika had been so excited to find a superb restaurant close to home, I'd invited her to repeat dinner at the Aarau West's restaurant. She'd already offered to provide me with a bed- as long as I didn't mind some cats sharing the room- so I didn't have to worry about accomodations. And why would a cat person be concerned about sharing a bed with three cats? At home I sleep under a nice warm tan, beige and white blanket of ten felines. I'd left my rental car at the hotel. We'd have dinner and I'd follow Monika home.

Once again, the restaurant did not disappoint. This time Monika had the wild garlic and asparagus soup and both of us enjoyed a fabulous asparagus-stuffed gnocchi in herbed cream sauce, with gusto. I've already described this dish. Last night I'd actually had a marvelous risotto with asparagus and morels! The menu offered the option of giant grilled prawns, but I'd opted out. I'd better start making notes about what I'm eating where and when, or I'm going to find myself writing about wienerschnitzel in Munich and weisswurst in Vienna! Not cool, Joan!

Once we were back at Monika's, it was time to play with Boyo. He was still on New York time, too, since I found him nestled in a cat post bed sound asleep. Being a cat, though, he was faster to get his legs under him than I was. He'd made himself right at home. When Monika brought in his dinner, he was quick to clean up his plate. We decided to see what would happen if we let him out to meet Monika's girls. Bad move! While two of the ladies just sat and stared from cat tree perches, a Blue made the mistake of hissing at him. His tail puffed like a porcupine, he went "Ridgeback," stood up on his tippy-toes, and informed her with one sharp shriek that ladies didn't use those words.She took off, with a furious Boyo on her tail. I snatched him up and put him back in his space.

Monika and I chatted for a bit, then I took my bottle of seltzer into the bedroom and crashed. Tomorrow would be a long day on the Autobahn to Munich. I needed to have my wits about me to deal with the Mercedes, BMWs and Audis I knew would challenge the Renault. And I hate driving on unfamiliar wet roads. Would the rain ever stop?

Christian is animated, has a delicious sense of humor, and speaks perfect idiomatic English. He works in Air Berlin's administrative offices at the Zurich airport, but when everyone else is busy, he fills in as a handicap escort. We were having so much fun getting acquainted, I forgot we still had to pass Swiss Customs. When we came through the doors, the Customs agent must have thought we were nuts, we were laughing so hard over the misunderstanding with Boyo's "waterproof box." Then Boyo added his three cents and the agent said "Is that a cat?"

I handed over Boyo's paperwork. Monika's name and address were down as the cat's owner, so there was a little confusion over my status. I explained that I'd bred the cat, that he was a gift to Monika, and that while I was just visiting Switzerland, Boyo would be staying. The agent asked if Boyo was neutered, and I said no, he was a stud cat. I further described Boyo's duties: he would be "marrying" Monika's ladies. I hoped he would prove to be an excellent groom and that he and the "girls" would make fine babies. Behind me, I heard Christian snickering, while the Customs agent blanched- but he was trying to keep a straight face. He checked the rabies and health certificates, then asked me to take Boyo out of his carrier. Since the room was enclosed and empty but for us, I didn't hesitate, so the agent could scan Boyo for his universal microchip. (If I haven't mentioned it before, my vet only had the USA Home Again microchip, so I'd had to make special arrangements for the universal version used in Europe, necessitating a trip to another vet. This chip also comes from Home Again, but is without asterisks or letters, and is acceptable in Europe.) Once he was scanned, we determined the cat's value for the VAT- the import tax- and I maneuvered the still howling Tonk back into his carrier.

But we weren't done yet. Let's not forget I'm a chain smoker, and I'd been warned about the price of cigarettes in Europe. Besides, I'm addicted to my own brand. The agent asked me how many cigarettes I had, and I told him four cartons. "Four packages?" he asked. "No," I said, "Four cartons." "Four boxes, " he said, using his hands to demonstrate. "Yes," I said, and totally cracked up at his use of the word "box," since all I could picture was Boyo in a box cushioned with cigarette packs! Of course he didn't understand why I was laughing, and I couldn't let him in on the joke, but Christian was almost doubled over. Then, when the agent opened my suitcase and cigarette packs started tumbling out onto the counter as he was trying to count them, he asked me how long I planned to stay in Switzerland! I didn't realize why he was asking, so it's a good thing I said "I'll just be here two days, then I'm going on to Germany, Austria, Italy, France, Belgium, and the UK, a month in all." "Oh," he said, as he tried to stuff the cigarettes back into my bag. "You're only allowed to bring two hundred cigarettes into Switzerland, but since you're just travelling through, it's okay." Uh-oh, I thought to myself. It's a good thing we didn't have a language barrier here! My Green Smoke electronic cigarette is fine for brief non-smoking-area stints, but it's not the same as the real thing.

The VAT went on my credit card, and we were finally released. Christian wheeled us through the exit, where Monika was anxiously waiting. She'd caught a glimpse of us in the Customs room, and we were taking so long she'd begun to worry. Between giggles, Christian and I related the cigarette story. I hated to say goodbye to him.

It took forever for us to find the rental car agency, especially since I had to stop for a cigarette break, but we finally checked out a snazzy silver Renault Modus. The first thing I noticed after I belted in was the "no smoking" sticker on the dashboard. The second thing I did was roll down the window and light up. I was paying a hundred bucks a day for this vehicle. I wouldn't abuse it, but as long as it was costing me the equivalent of a down payment on a new car, I'd treat it as if it were my own. Before I turn it in, I'll spritz the interior with deodorizer. Meanwhile, I'm going to enjoy my trip. As my younger daughter says, I'm "spoiled and stubborn." To some degree, she's right. But I've also worked hard all my life, so I've earned the right to be myself. At seventy-one, I'm not worried about projecting an image. One of my favorite Broadway plays, "La Cages Au Folles," features the song "I Am Who I Am." I cried the first time I heard the words.

Monika navigated me to her home so we could unload Boyo before we went to my hotel. I'm very glad this wasn't the UK, and I was driving on the right side of the road. As it was, I was so tired my vision was blurring and I know I frightened Monika a couple of times as I got used to driving an unfamiliar vehicle, drifting through the roundabouts and braking too hard at nonexistent lights and stop signs. But we made it to Buchs, and I even managed to climb the three flights of stairs to Monika's apartment without falling back down them from fatigue. Thank goodness Monika was carrying the cat carrier, since Boyo's antics would have had me on my ass.

We ultimately made it up the beautiful polished oak stairs, with me gaining altitude by hauling myself up with the graceful, gleaming Old World oak bannister. Monika has lined the broad honey-hued steps with myriad healthy, huge tropical plants that I kept stopping to admire. She has a green thumb.

It was clear to me from the moment she opened the door that she also loves to read in English. Her apartment is wall-to-wall books, dominated by many of my own favorite American romantic suspense authors. I could have moved in without a qualm, surrounded by Nora Roberts, Linda Howard, Catherine Coulter, Elizabeth Lowell, just for starters. Having also lived in California and England, no wonder Monika's lilting English is so good!

Monika had set up her large bathroom, with its adjoining dressing area, for Boyo. When I let him out of the carrier, he began purring like a well-tuned diesel engine, interspersed with operatic scales al la Pavarotti, head-butting both Monika and me like a small ship eagerly bumping at long last into its home slip after a perilous odyssey. Then he leaped to the sink and gave himself a bath. Monika and I left him to it.

I followed Monika's Volvo to the Aarau West hotel and sports complex. By the time I parked and turned off the ignition, I knew there was no way I was leaving to drive to Munich the next day. Unfortunately, I was booked for just one night, and the hotel was full for the rest of the week. I'd deal with that tomorrow. Right now, I needed the nearest mattress.

The hotel room, bright with yellow and white sheer drapes over broad windows, a cumulous cloud duvet on the king size bed, and a pristine white tiled bathroom, was near perfect. It lacked only the balcony I'd requested- and confirmed- where I could smoke. Switzerland's new law, effective May first, prohibits smoking in hotels. I called the receptionist. She regretted that they had no other accomodations. I said "Then I can't stay." She said she'd call me back. A room with a balcony suddenly became available. Monika said she'd call me around six. I crawled into my nighshirt and when the phone rang, what seemed like moments later, I answered it in my sleep.

Confused and disoriented, I agreed with Monika's plans to meet her and Christine, an acquaintance from the Cat Fanciers' Association list, at Monika's for dinner. I even wrote down the directions back to her house. As I surfaced, however, I realized there was no way I was going to get dressed, get in the car, and try to navigate back to Buchs. I needed to beg off. How about tomorrow night, instead? Would dinner keep? Yes, it would. Could Monika please call Christine and arrange for a change of plans? Yes. Okay.

When the phone rang again, Monika was calling back to tell me Christine had just arrived at her house. We had to eat. How about if Monika and Christine came to the hotel and we went to the restaurant for a drink. I said, how about dinner. Yes? I just had time to get dressed when they knocked on my door.

Christine and I took a few minutes to become acquainted, before we walked over to the dining room. The hotel is actually a sports complex, with tennis courts and a golf course. I think we all expected the restaurant to be very casual, perhaps even a sports bar. Imagine our surprise when we entered through heavy antique double doors, passed through a contemporary lobby with a glass-enclosed smokers' lounge, were greeted by a stunning bi-lingual brunette hostess, and seated at a Hunter-green draped table set with heavy utensils, crystal glassware, and fresh flowers. Low conversation hummed in soft Swiss German, interspersed with other languages, as well-dressed patrons enjoyed thir meals.

The capacious leather-backed menu opened first to a "Spring Menu" that promised good eating for locavores, followed by creative, complex dishes that indicated there was an experienced, innovative chef in the kitchen who understood the value of farm-fresh produce. All of us decided quickly to order from the selections featuring field-grown delicacies.

May is the Swiss month for slender stalks of tender green asparagus. My wild garlic and asparagus cream soup, garnished with herb butter, was silky-smooth, the color of new green peas, and I passed it around our table. None of us had ever heard of wild garlic. Its delicate, slightly sweet flavor brought nods of approval. Monika and Christine had ordered wild garlic-stuffed homemade ravioli with an herbed white sauce. I thoroughly enjoyed asparagus-stuffed gnocchi, also with a rich white sauce, topped with tangy sliced oranges. None of us had room for dessert. Our food reminded me of a cookbook I'd once owned, stained and tattered from wear, that had disappeared somewhere in multiple moves. The book, "Cook Like A Peasant, Eat Like A King," emphasized simple ingredients, exquisitely prepared. I'll have to search ABEBooks.com to see if I can reclaim it. We left the restaurant not only satisfied, but replete.

Adjourning to my room, we exhausted multiple subjects, and ended up sharing cat stories until one in the morning. The three of us "clicked." Monika and I planned to leave early in the morning for Lucerne, to go sightseeing and visit the Tuesday Farmers' Market. We invited Christine, but she had business committments that couldn't be altered. So I had to say goodbye to another new friend.

Monika said she'd pick me up at ten the next day. I could hardly wait!

Jet Lagged!

Laptops are amazing. Wireless is even more amazing. The user has to be amazing,too. I don't know what made me think I could buy a netbook, ask my savvy nephew, Jason, to program it and teach me how to use it all in one afternoon. Brion, who has been doing the work on my house and is now cat-sitting, managed to complete enough of the process so I can follow through. But it hasn't been easy. It takes me an hour to do what anyone else manages in minutes. Just figuring out how to interface with the hotel's system and switching from German to English drove me batsh.t. But I'm here, and for the moment, at least, I'm connected.
(Nobody'd better tell me how simple it really is or I'm liable to fling something at them through cyberspace- and it won't be a Swiss chocolate bar!)

Can you tell I'm a wee bit spacey? I am still so jet-lagged I'm not sure what day it is. In fact, I can barely keep my eyes open. But I have to tell you about the trip from NY to Switzerland, and if I can stay awake long enough, maybe I'll make it to Munich, which is where I am now.

Brion drove Boyo and me to JFK. We were so early, I checked in and then stood outside smoking for an hour- with a wailing, flailing Tonkinese carrying on as if he were being led to slaughter. I heard "Is that a cat?" from arriving and departing passengers so many times I was running out of facetious answers. My favorite was "No, it's a Banshee; I'm taking him back to Ireland."

I finally went in and got a coffee, then tried to relax in the handicapped waiting area. Air Berlin is well hidden at the back of the American Airlines terminal, but the wheelchairs are stacked right next to the entrance to all the gates. Boyo's vocals were lost in the uproar, so nobody noticed him until we got to Security.

My escort was a pleasant African woman named Camille, now living in the Bronx with her husband and twenty-year-old son. She helped me sort all my electronics into bins and started to put Boyo's carrier on the belt. I said "No, wait! That's my cat! He gets handed through."

I truly wasn't looking for trouble, but I know the routine. The Security guy said "Take him out of the bag." And I said "No" again, adding "The cat gets walked through."

I was getting a little agitated, with good reason. My bag, purse, Nikon with its new $771.00 lens and expensive ultra-memory card, passport, cruise ticket, cash, credit cards, netbook, translator et.al. were on the other side of the security checkin. I was stuck outside the gate with a screaming somersaulting cat carrier and a flabbergasted security agent, and I hadn't had a cigarette in an hour. I yelled "Hey! All my stuff is over there..." and Camille yelled back "It's okay, I've got it!" while the guard was also yelling "Take the cat out of the bag!" and I shouted "NO!" You can't imagine the ruckus. (Well, if you've ever flown with a upset cat and run into security guards who behave like Gestapo, maybe you can.) The SG finally decided he needed help and snapped "I'll get a supervisor." "Please do!" I replied. Since it took the supervisor about thirty seconds to get there, I figured he'd heard the clamor and was already on his way. As soon as I saw him, I started talking- staccato! "I can't take him out of the bag unless you want to chase him all over the airport- he's already berserk. We're surrounded by screaming kids, crazed parents, and bedlam. Do you have a little room we can go to where I can take him out safely?" "Right over there," he said, pointing with his baton. Then he waited while I went through the scanner, and another guard did a full electronic body scan- including the bottoms of my feet! Did they think I was using the cat as a distraction for smuggling something on my person? I almost felt as if I should be sorry to disappoint them. NOT!

The supervisor and two other security guards (one female) followed me and Boyo to the octagonal portable room. As soon as the door closed, I started unzipping the carrier and Boyo began frantically clambering through the gap. I managed to hang onto him while the Super scanned the carrier inside and out. The other guards were standing well back. What did they think I was going to haul out of there, an exploding python? A pissed off cat is bad enough! Especially one who, now that he's out of that hateful carrier, is damned well going to use every claw on all four feet plus eight pounds of sinuous muscle, to avoid going back in. Luckily, the supervisor was nice enough to help me get Boyo back in the bag. I thanked him profusely. Camille and I then had an uneventful trek down to the gate. She thought it was quite funny that I'd had a "private" security check. It was only funny for me in retrospect.

The plane was one of those huge wide-bodies: two seats on either side and six seats across the center. With only two hundred forty-nine passengers aboard, the double seats becaame "singles" for those of us flying alone. Unfortunately, I couldn't put Boyo in the empty seat. He'd already attracted enough attention. At least Air Berlin doesn't charge by the number of feet for their four-legged passengers. Boyo's fare was only $58.00. Domestic airlines could take a lesson from the International carriers. What's fair is fair.

I can't say enough good things about the flight attendants, either. I no sooner had Boyo settled, than our flight attendant came over to chat for a moment and ask if the cat would like some water. Turned out she's an animal person, of course- she has a little dog :) I declined the water, but asked if I could take Boyo to the restroom to clean up his trashed carrier, since the head was off the opposite aisle, through the galley. She even ran ahead of me to drop the baby changing table over the commode!

Boyo had no trouble ripping open the two cartons of cigarettes I'd duct-taped upright at one end of the carrier to stabilize it. I managed to stuff all the loose packets into my bag. In all the years I've travelled with cats, I've never seen such destruction, or heard such protests. He never stopped. After dinner, I managed to doze for about four hours, but I could hear him in my sleep. He carried on throughout the seven hour flight to Dusseldorf. He ranted as we were wheeled onto the hydraulic deck, dropped to the asphalt, and rolled through the back alleys of the airport to German Customs and through Security. He lamented until we got to the handicapped ladies room. I'd asked my escort for a detour, to clean out his carrier. He'd had an accident around mid-flight, since I couldn't get him to the bathroom for a potty break, and the carrier reeked.The German security people didn't even want to get near us! (I wonder if this would have gotten us through JFK?)

At least I could let him out of the carrier to stretch his legs instead of his lungs for a few minutes. Too late for a litter pan. What a mess. I'd been pushing bits of chicken into the carrier, and he hadn't touched it. I disposed of the entire contents of the carrier, cleaned up the bag with soap and water, popped the prancing cat back inside before he realized we weren't "there yet", and went once more into the fray. Need I say that Boyo took up where he'd left off moments before?

Now please, understand that I was exhausted, hurting beyond Vicodin, and I'd had it with this cat.The stink had dissipated, but he was still singing like a really, really bad tenor. Much as I love him, I was at the end of my tether.So when we got to the door of the plane and I stepped inside and the Captain said "You can't bring the cat on board in that bag," I just looked at him, eyeball to eyeball, and said "Yes. I. Can." He said "No.You.Can't." Another minute and we'd have sounded like Ethel Merman and Howard Keel.Instead, I said "Why not?" He replied "The cat has to be in a waterproof box."

Well, shut my mouth and call me Madam, but if the cat has to be in a waterproof box, what does that mean for the human passengers if we go down in the ocean? Can we have waterproof boxes, too? Do they give us the size used for Great Danes? The cat will float in his waterproof box, but the passengers have to swim among the sharks hanging on to slippery plastic cushions? It just never occurred to me that he meant a carrier that wouldn't leak, and we were actually suffering a German/English language barrier. I was just too far gone. So I informed him that the cat had flown on Air Berlin from New York to Dusseldorf in the carrier, that it was an acceptable mode of transportation for the cat, and I wasn't putting him in a "box." Period.

While the flight attendants all rolled their eyes and looked sheepish, Captain "Napoleon" decided to pass the buck. The flight Agent was perfectly reasonable: what the Captain says goes. The airline makes the rules, but the Captain gets to change them. If the Captain says the carrier is unacceptable, it's unacceptable. I would need to put the cat in a box. "No," I said. "Nuh-uh." End of discussion. At which point- you guessed it- Captain "Napoleon" called for the Supervisor.

By now, I'd gotten to my seat and stowed Boyo where he belonged. Enter the Supervisor. The cat has to go in a box. No he doesn't. He does. Nope. And I totally lost it. "I don't care what Captain "Napoleon" says. This is a regulation carrier, What are you going to do, throw me off the plane? I promise you, Air Berlin isn't going to like being sued. And I'll sue you, the captain, and that's that!" I really hope I didn't call the captain what I was thinking out loud, but I was seeing red. I sat down and fastened my seat belt. The supervisor walked away. The entire human population on the plane, passengers and crew, waited with bated breath for the next act.

It didn't take long. The fair-haired young male attendant tiptoed to my seat. Very quietly, he said "Would you please put the cat in this box?" I looked at his pleading eyes and at the little black plastic mesh carrier he held out to me, that someone had kindly put a little red blankie in the bottom. It was the carrier every cat, small dog and ferret owner knows to avoid, because it has a double zipper top that doesn't close all the way, and a small snap closure that pops open at the slightest pressure. But I could see the desperation on the guy's face, so I smiled and said "sure!" Then, of course, I had to hold the boxed cat on my lap for the entire flight, since I had to clutch the gap closed. The flight attendant saw the problem, gave me a nod, a sweet smile and a wave of his hand; the door closed; and we were underway at last.

Boyo was no happier, but everyone else was thrilled with the denouement. We landed in Zurich less than an hour later.

Trials and Tribulations

The other night I started writing and realized I'd gotten hung up on my kitchen renovation, which has been frustrating the hell out of me. Most of the house is now painted, except for touchups. But there's still a lot of shelving to go up, plus the wear on the floors from so much traffic while I was producing Paumanok Preserves has to be fixed. Hopefully, Bri will have to all done by the time I get back.

One of the problems with my 13X13 kitchen is that there just is no place to put all my equipment- which I refuse to part with! So what if I have 3 3-qt. pots, 4 20-qt. pots, five frying pans within an inch of each other, four strainers and five colanders? If you love to cook as much as I do, you'll understand perfectly an entire rack of baking and roasting pans and a selection of 12 or 15 pie plates! The only trouble is, there's no place to put it all. So I decided the ceiling had to do its share.

Unfortunately in this old farmhouse, I have 7'6" ceilings. A few months ago I came across a neat solution in designer Ty Pennington's magazine, but couldn't recall which one, or how he'd constructed the fixture. He'd taken an old rung ladder and hung it from the ceiling, to use as a pot rack. Okay. I could do that! I had two antique ladders. After two hours of going through back issues, aggravation mounting, I happened to glance up at the computer in front of me. OMG! GOOGLE! Two minutes later I had the article on the screen to email to Bri. Bri figured out how to attach my ladders close to the ceiling,using chain loops. I couldn't wait to start hanging pots: but every S hook I tried wouldn't go around the fat rungs, and pot hooks hung down so far I was playing a saucepan xylophone symphony every time I walked under them. Suddenly, I had a brainstorm- possibly brought on by banging my head on stainless steel a few times. Stainless steel shower hooks! If I used pliers to open and reshape the tops, the pots could hang from the reversed loops! First I went to Riverhead, to Home Depot. No luck. Then I came back to my town hardware store. Nope. Finally, I braved the potholes, stop and go traffic and construction in the opposite direction, to Kohl's. (I could have flown to Europe in the time I spend on the road.) They had the standard stainless hooks, plus fancy twin hooks I knew would fit over the sides of the ladders. I bumped home with my bounty. Within minutes I had Ty Pennington at home!

I'll be happy to post a picture as soon as I figure out how to get them from my new netbook to my pc. -(

The rest of this week has had me running around like a berserker. Is that a word? I had to pick up my extended prescriptions, miniature versions of makeup, personal hygeine items, candy and other snacks for the plane, go to the post office and the bank (for francs and euros- the exchange rate is horrible!), drop stuff at the Historical Society thrift shop, entertain a kitten buyer (twice), make second and third trips to the vet (of course the kitten I'm selling scratched her eye), return stuff that didn't fit (again) to TJMaxx, pack, try to find comfortable wash and wear bras that fit (no luck), figure out how to set up en email account on the netbook (done, with Bri's help),sort things out with Teri, who will be cleaning right behind Bri; and repack! Naturally I ended up with an extra bag, I hope they'll let me on the plane!

But I am really, truly packed, at last. I even squeezed in six cartons of Eve 120 Extra Lights. Two cartons are holding up Boyo's carrier. I'm using the soft carrier so once Boyo is settled with Monika, his carrier will be my "accessory" bag. But the soft carrier is exactly that: it's soft. And it collapses on the cat. So I jury-rigged it. I stood two cartons of cigarettes on end in the back of the carrier and duct-taped them in place. As long as Boyo doesn't decide to rip off the duct tape and explore the boxes, it should hold up. If he tears them open, he'll be curled up in a bed of cigarette packs. What, then, do I say to the customs inspector? That we stopped at Sleepy's for cat-size box springs?

You'll note that it's now nearly five in the morning. My flight leaves at 5:45 PM. I'm leaving for the airport at 1:30. And yes, I'm getting nervous! I still don't know how to use my new telephone. The GPS unit for Europe arrived yesterday, delivered by a woman FexEx driver. She found my house with no trouble. The male drivers leave my packages at Donna's, or on the stoop of our empty tenant house. Goddess Bless women delivery drivers! I've never used a GPS, and now they tell me I have to program it! At least the instructions are in English. I also got my electronic translator. Once I got the batteries in in the correct direction (only the second try!) I managed to figure it out. But by the time I use it to attempt a conversation, I could probably pass a Berlitz course. I'm also going to learn how to use the netbook "on the job." If you don't hear from me for acouple of days, you'll know I didn't pass basic training.

At least you'll get pictures! I did make that special trip to Cometa Camera in Amityville to buy my new 18-200 lens, which I can't wait to use. Monika and Christine Ruessheim are taking me sightseeing Monday afternoon, if I'm not falling all over myself from jetlag. And so the old broad is "on the road again"!