Autumn Leaves

I realize it's been a perhaps unforgivable lapse in time since my last post, but things have been crazy around here -- we are officially an overprogrammed yuppie family. And loving it.

The biggest change around here is that Josie started a new school - she's going every morning to the Royal High School for Girls' nursery. She wears a uniform, has different activities every day – cookery, French, music, art, gym and ballet – and absolutely loves it. I felt a bit guilty when I realized most girls are only going 2-3 mornings a week, but her teachers assure me she has the energy for everyday learning and is benefiting greatly from the variety in activities (and playmates!).

Hey world, check me out.

So every morning, she dons the uniform, picks up her "soupcase," and trots off with Daddy to "little girls' school." She eats lunch in the lunchroom every day with her friends and is generally getting more grown-up every day. This school is amazing; I wish I could have gone when I were three... or four... or twenty. It runs through high school and is completely focused on leadership, independent thinking, and well-roundedness (yes, even in the nursery!). Josie can already identify every number and letter, and is learning to put small words together with help. She can print her name (kind of) and loves painting, drawing, and of course putting on princess dresses (oy, vey!). I am certainly getting my exercise, as the school sits atop a mile-long steep and steady hill (of course I couldn't keep her in the preschool next DOOR, not when there's a 45-degree hill to be scaled daily!)

Parisian Third Birthday Gown

Of course, school has not been all sunshine and song – I was pulled aside a couple of weeks ago, and asked if Josie had had an unfortunate experience with clowns. Seems that during a clown story with accompanying clown puppet, Josie had become "quite upset" and tried to rip the clown off the bewildered teacher's hand. (thinking back, thinking back...Josie: I don't like clowns. Mommy: Neither do I! Clowns are damn scary in my opinion. Ooooops). Josie and I spent the weekend designing and coloring "Cute Clowns," and discussing how clowns are funny and nice and are never waiting under your bed to strangle you or living in sewers from which they snatch unsuspecting children with sharp-clawed lizard hands to devour with slimy, razor-fangs.

Josie turned three October 5 and we celebrated in grand fashion - no clowns – Popa and Hanna flew over for the occasion, which was very lucky and special. We took Josie to see her first real play, called "Room on the Broom," and based on a kids' book by Julia Donaldson, a British author we've come to adore, followed by a lovely lunch at our favorite cafe on the river. Dinner was meatloaf and noodles, as requested, followed once again by - yup, you guessed it - Elmo cake.


I was pretty psyched about her "big gift," which was this fabulous Melissa and Doug puppet theater. She was pretty surprised (she would have been far more surprised if she had seen us struggling to put it together at midnight the night before), and once she got over her fear of the mustachioed policeman puppet, she was ready to jump in and puppeteer!


We've had a busy fall otherwise - we celebrated Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at our new synagogue in Bristol - a really welcome discovery for these wandering Jews! The congregation is filled with young families, some of whom live in Bath, and a few children Josie's age! We were invited to a lovely Sukkot tea at one of the member's houses and have gotten together on the weekend with a different family. We had felt a bit isolated Jewishly (our love of the Marais, our own Jewish friends, and L'As du Falafel aside!) in Paris, so this is a real positive development for us! Shana Tovah!

We've also made it out to the countryside a couple of times; Jeff took his parents to the lovely Cotswolds to Lacock Abbey, and last weekend we headed out to my favorite place in the area thus far, the Court Gardens, in a futile search for pumpkins. None o' those big orange squashes, but about fifty different kinds of apples, which they let us take home and eat!

Crazy 'bout dem apples

So, this wouldn't be a wacky Rothvidson update without some kind of video tribute, and today's post is no different. Today we bring you Josie's very First School Recital Performance, staged as part of the Royal High Junior School's Autumn Festival. Josie (front and center, in stripes) won raves for her performance of "Autumn Leaves," but halfway through Old MacDonald she fell prey to a Lady Gaga-esque accessory snafu and broke the fourth wall a bit. Take it away, Josie!

Avon Calling! Our first UK summer's Top Ten

Ahoy, mateys. Now that our (largely pirate-themed, as you'll read, to the delight of our little Peter Pan devotee) summer is over, I thought I'd provide a summary of our first few months in Britain's bucolic Avon Valley. At various moments, 'twas nostalgic, academic, neolithic, soporific, sophomoric – but generally fantastic. Without further adieu, the...

Summer 2010: The Best of Bath

1) Althorp. Need I say more? Okay, fine, I will. Althorp is the childhood home of the late HRH Diana, Princess of Wales. The stately family home, now overseen by Diana's brother Charles, the current Earl Spencer, is located about three hours northwest of Bath, so I dragged DH and daughter on my lifelong-awaited pilgrimage. Both were terrific sports. The house is undergoing renovations and should be even lovelier when complete. The grounds now contain a small exhibit to Diana's life - notes she wrote in her youth, lots of family photos, jewelry, which Josie loved, the condolence books sent from around the world after her death (which means E and I are in there, somewhere) and DRESSES. When I saw the wedding dress in its full splendor, I confess I teared up a bit.


The People's Princess is buried at Althorp, in an island in the middle of a lake on the property. I spent a few moments walking around the island. The house itself was pretty amazing as well. I spent the most precious moments, of course, in the much-maligned Althorp gift shop buying up everything that wasn't nailed down.


Of course, the wedding at the B and B where we stayed, which went until 1 a.m., with a DJ blasting peaceful, dream-inducing ditties like "Brick House" and "Mambo #9", would be in the top ten worst moments in our English summer... but that, as they say in "Tales from the Riverbank," Hammy, is another story.

We should have seen the Sleepless Night from Hell coming
when I caught the bridesmaids practicing their breakin' moves

2) Salcombe. How lucky to have British chums still living in Paris, who a) still want to be friends though I've left France, b) vacation in the U.K., and c) invite us to vacation with them in the U.K.! My dear friend C, in inviting Josie and me to join their last bank holiday weekend in Salcombe, Devon, promised me the "Martha's Vineyard of England." She's not yet been to the Vineyard, but never mind, she was partly right, partly off – but in all the right ways. Salcombe is much smaller than the Vineyard, more like I picture Nantucket to be. Charming, narrow streets, cute, preppy shops, lots of fish-and-chip shacks. It was the perfect way to end the summer: crabbing, shopping, cooking lovely meals and drinking wine over delicious views of the harbor, taking the "ferry" (a 7-8 person dinghy) to the huge, sandy beaches to build sand castles and – if you are completely insane like Josie Diana – even swim!

Fifty-degree water? Practically a hot tub!

3) Sudeley Castle. Second only to my obsession with Princess Diana is my obsession with the Tudor family history. The Other Boleyn Girl, Elizabeth, The Tudors, I read and watch them all religiously. So, as my sister-in-law J and I pored over the National Trust guidebook for a fun castle to visit with the kids, I leapt upon Sudeley Castle, where Katherine Parr, Henry VIII's last bride (Joely Richardson, for fans of The Tudors) lived, with Elizabeth I and Lady Jane Grey as her wards, after the death of the old tyrant. We packed into 2 cars and set off for an afternoon of history and beauty - and Sudeley did not disappoint. The castle was actually built in medieval times, destroyed after Katherine Parr's death by Oliver Cromwell's armies, and rebuilt in Georgian times. You can still see parts of the original castle, its crumbling walls rising over breathtaking gardens:


And, of course, the Chapel where Katherine Parr lies in rest:


Rounding out the Sudeley afternoon was a fascinating tour of the house and grounds, chock-full of Elizabethan history, as well as the background of the quirky gentry currently residing there, and a fabulous playground complete with wooden castle and tower, giant slides and ice-cream truck! A "highly recommend" on the English castle circuit.

4) Stonehenge and Avebury. We've all heard the disses on Stonehenge. "It's too commercialized." "Tourist trap." "Once you get there it's just a bunch of rocks." But you know what, it's great to visit a place like Stonehenge with the low expectations borne of someone else's hardened cynicism. The place is freaking cool. I was only able to sporadically listen to the audioguide (someone had to keep an eager two-year-old away from the stones) but what I heard was anthropologically interesting, physically baffling (how did they move the stones so far?) and not just a bit creepy. Plus, archaeologists are constantly making new discoveries in the surrounding countryside to add to the story!

As far as visual wonders go, I would rate it up there with Pisa. You think, "ahhh, what's another prehistoric site, druids or no druids..." and then, wham! You see the stones, you feel the chill of the early morning air, and it all feels so...mystical.



Avebury is a lesser-known, lightly-patrolled (no audioguides, no ticket-takers, stone-hugging COMPLETELY allowed) group of stones a short distance from Stonehenge. We were instructed to walk through on our own and see if we felt drawn to a particular stone. I'll spare you the shot of the anatomically-shaped stone Jeff was "drawn to." But it was fun being able to pose the kids precariously on 5000-year-old neolithic monuments.



5) Bowood Manor. A stately home. Meticulously groomed gardens. A pirate ship playscape for kids. Trampolines for the under-5s. In other words, literally something to please everyone. Bowood is typical of the hundreds of historic estates around the U.K. – many of which were seized by the British Army during World War II and damaged beyond the family's ability to repair and retain them – transformed into family funlands. I only picked Bowood for our first Sunday out as a family by closing my eyes, flipping through a guidebook and choosing at random. It was a great day, and – as we watched Josie bounce joyfully on a trampoline, order around other sailors, clamber through a soft-play obstacle course, and inhale a three-course lunch in the sunshine – made us extremely happy to have moved to such a family-friendly country.

Lichen-y Lions...

...and Pirate Playscapes. Love the English countryside!

6) Bath Food and Wine Festival. An enthusiastic and repeated attendee of the "Salon Saveurs" in Paris, I had low expectations for Southwest England's gastronomic exposition. But, like most assumptions about British cuisine, that was wrong! It was certainly small (about 1/5 the size of Paris' fancy food show) and highly focused (cheddar, sausages, tandoori, ale) but it was great being able to take Jeff for once – and we had fun trying all the regional specialties. We even stocked up on fancy olive oil, chutneys, and cheeses. It was a beautiful afternoon, and sans Josie we were able to relax, enjoy a lamb burger with pear cider, and listen to live music.

7) Longleat Manor. How can any red-blooded family looking for a Sunday outing refuse a "Medieval Wonderland and Safari Park?" And so we found ourselves trucking one morning toward Longleat Manor. Owned by the aging "Lord Bath," who is apparently "barking mad," Longleat is a onetime family estate, now completely renovated and Disneyized, complete with maze, bounce house, miniature railroad, and - yes - two prides of lions which have lived and bred successfully here in the Avon valley since 1966. This was my second "drive-through safari" (we'll also leave the famous Davidson African Lion Safari-Toronto story for another time) and, I have to say, scenes like this are pretty cool!

Hey, could I trouble you for a...Camel Lite?

After visiting giraffes, rare birds, zebras, and the famous Lions, we barely completed Longleat's extremely difficult, completely traumatizing maze. But we can't wait to go back (we bought the complete package ticket, of course!) for the Adventure Castle, Teacup Ride, and "Old Joe's Mine," a fun-filled adventure starring a colony of free flying Egyptian fruit bats. Boy, these Brits know how to show the kids a good time!

8) Notting Hill. Everyone blames Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts for turning this charming corner of London into yet another mecca for camera-wielding tourists. It's also a bit far from the center of town, so we skipped it on our last London trip. However, this time I was sure to book ample time on Saturday, so that we could hit the famed Portobello Road Antique Market and have a fab gastropub lunch. With our trusty Swedish babysitter Josefin was at the ready, Jeff and I set off. When you first climb out of the Notting Hill Gate tube station, you might think "so, what's the big deal?" I mean, sure, you can see a house where George Orwell once lived:


And I, ever the rom-com geek, was busily snapping away at every blue door in the nabe, in case it were Hugh the Bumbling Travel Bookshop Owner's (when I got back to Bath I learned via IMDB that the door has long since been painted a different color in order to deter dorks like me from staring in their windows looking for Spike in his wetsuit). But I digress... the market. Well, when you finally wind around that last corner onto Portobello Road, you see what all the fuss is about. Within ten minutes I had bought a 1952 Coronation Tobacco Tin with a terrific, kitschy colorized image of QE2, new ceramic knobs for our desk, a porcelain jug spotted with English roses, and various bizarre tchotchkes for family. The place is mind-blowing. There have to be hundreds of stalls selling antique silver, Persian rugs, old prints, vintage clothing – it would take you ten Saturdays to see them all.

Look at that awesome door!

Of course, 75% of what we actually bought was totally sham-tique. But it all looks terrific in our apartment! Then, starved from all the ducking, poking and bargaining, we collapsed in a lovely gastropub recommended by Frommer's (that guy never steers me wrong when it comes to restuarants) called Bumpkin. I only made one Crude American Faux-Pas, asking our server if they sold the adorable "Country" tee-shirt she was wearing (I mean, come on – every New York joint from Zabar's to Tortilla Flats sells tee-shirts) . Flustered, she stammered that I could probably buy hers, as her shift was ending in an hour, but...

Hugh, you were not here... except in my dreams. Got the latest Grisham?

9) Bath Fringe Festival, notably "Treasure Island." The Bath Fringe Festival provides an "alternative" celebration to the mainstream Bath International Music Festival. "The Fringe," as those-in-the-know call it, includes Funky Puppet Shows, drumming workshops, independent film screenings, and, apparently, homegrown theater productions like "Treasure Island," a moving production staged at various locations in nearby Sydney Gardens.

We started in one of the Garden's belvederes (look that up), watching Young Jim and Mrs. Hawkins suffer at the hands of Billy Bones the Pirate. Then the presumptive Captain, who wishes to hire a ship and look for the treasure, entered stage left and delivered his lines in a BOOMING VOICE. Well, in such an uncontrolled environment (kids and parents scrunched together on stinky cushions on a concrete floor), you can't, well, control the environment. One four-year-old finally shouted, "Stop yelling!" And OMG, it clearly took every acting chop the poor blowhard Captain had to keep from cracking up. I actually thought the acting was excellent, and tried to picture where and how these fringey people rehearsed a two-hour play! After the third act, held in a clearing about 20 yards away, the Captain called intermission and opened the treasure chest, which was actually a fully-stocked bar, with various ales and soft drinks. We looked at the pirates and sailors sharing a brew with Stroller Dads and said to each other, "This is Bath."

Let's find the bloody treasure so we can all have a pint!

10) The Lions of Bath. Like the cows of Chicago, the police dogs of Boston, and the bulls of New York, Bath has its own – now annual – public street art festival. This year, various businesses sponsored "Lions of Bath," which were scattered all over the city. Thus, every tromp through town running errands with Josie turned into a journey of thrilling discovery. My friend C will love the Cath Kidston lion, while I loved the jewelry-store-sponsored "Lion, Witch and Wardrobe."

Kath Kidston Lion

Floral Lion in Parade Gardens -- how cool is that?

Alas, summer is over, but as few parents admit, in the end that's a good thing. The kids are back in school – Josie started nursery at a fabulous all-girls' school, but that's for the next post – and we have a bit of sanity back. But as our first summer in England proved, sanity is highly overrated.

Why couldn't the pirate graduate from first grade? Because he only knew one letter... "ARRRRRRR!"

Crazy Signs

Ahhh.... we're back from our long-anticipated week at Club Med Beldi in Antalya, Turkey. Yes, Turkey and yes, Club Med. Our transformation to European Yuppies is complete. See, we had decided some time ago – really, after last summer's Italian adventure during which we realized that without child care, trekking through endless churches, baptisteries, and cobbled squares wasn't a vacation, it was just a trip – that this summer we would finally splurge on an all-inclusive, warm, beachy vacation. Between Jeff starting his new job, the move, the endless shopping and furnishing, the entertaining, we all needed one.

Italy, Schmitaly - watch Rome fall for a second time, moohahaha....

I spent April and May poring over the various family vacation websites – Thomson and Mark Warner here in the UK, the not-at-all-poop-suggestive babyfriendlyboltholes.com, etc. My SIL had always raved about Club Med –they go to the Dominican Republic every year, so I called to see if they had anything available with child care for the under-3 set. As it was late May, the only one with any space left was Turkey. Watching helplessly as Josie "painted" the new coffee table with strawberry milk before decoupaging it with Disney Princess stickers, I ponied up our Amex number toute de suite.

We knew it would be "hot," but having spent most of the summer in England I think our bodies all forgot what really HOOOOTTTT is. We stepped off the plane in Antalya in our long pants and fleeces and were nearly knocked out by the fiery, humid air – and that was at 9:30 p.m.! We woke up the next morning in our spartan, but serviceable, suite, walked outside, and WHAM. Yup, still hot. Still sweaty-in-your-shorts, every-hair-frizzing, Mr.-Heat-Miser HOT. Our dreams of sprinting around the tennis courts like Connor and Evert? Poof. The schedule of aerobic and "body conditioning" classes? Disintegrated. Bathing suits on, pretty much never came off the whole week.

Our vision of the truly relaxing vacation did, surprisingly (given how many of my visions/delusions are completely off-track) come to pass. Josie sprinted off to Petit Club Med "camp" every morning around 9:30. Jeff and I would swim, read until our tailbones ached, and swim some more. We took a remedial sailing lesson (mostly in French) and then added a morning sail to our repertoire. Aha, but that brings me to... the French issue. We told everyone we were going to "Turkey" for vacation, but where we landed was a tiny, purely French oasis on the Mediterranean. This, apparently, is standard for Club Med in Europe. 95% of the guests are French. 98% of the general announcements and conversations are French. And the ambiance and daily (and nightly!) entertainment? Oh, strictly French! It all comes down to a little something called "Crazy Signs."

What, you ask, are "Crazy Signs?" Likely you are picturing something like this:

Seen somewhere in Canada - don't mess with our badass meese!

And while that sign is indeed crazy, and not beyond the farcical French sense of humor – many of those Canooks are French after all – it is a mere shadow of the freak show that is Club Med Crazy Signs. It took us a few days to catch on, but as Jeff and I lounged in the shady chairs we had woken up at 5:30 a.m. to mark with various scents and personal items, we began to notice a strange occurence every day around 11:30.

Gawky 12-16 year old boys and the cooler, 12-16 year old girls gathered at the edges of the pool and on the pool's island. The smooth-jazz music that had provided such nice background to Mikail Blomkvist's endless consumption of coffee and sandwiches suddenly turned into booming French house music. And the hunky six-pack kids' sports counselor (they were all called G.O.s, while we guests were called G.M.s, boy was Jeff crushed not to have found himself in some Lost-type wish-fulfillment fantasy, somehow magically managing the Yankees from a Turkish fishing village) appeared with a LOUD microphone yakking some kind of Frenchy rap jibberjabber, inciting the teens to synchronized arm-waving and terrible-relegated-to-off-camera-Soul Train dancing. But why even try to describe this debauchery when I can show you? Check it out.

Everyone seemed to know the crazy signs, and accompanying nonsensical rap – something about let's go, let's go! I am tired, and so I will sleep, sha-ma sha-ma! [My favorite is the little kid just to the left of Monsieur Six-Pack – gazing up at him, thinking, "Eef I can do ze Crazy Signs, I too weel haf beeg muscles and win all zee chicks."] It was like a classic 50s musical – or that Oprah where the Black-Eyed Peas got 5,000 people to do the same dance. We sat, mouths agape. We had lived peacefully among these stoic, immaculately groomed and always-appropriate people for 18 months – and yet, clearly we really didn't know them. The drycleaning lady, the Cranky Potato Pancake Man, the Snippy Top-Floor neighbor, doing Crazy Signs? Ce n'est pas possible! OK, Mr. Dried Fruit Man, I can totally see doing Crazy Signs. But he's a special kind of mensch.

There's only one answer we could think of – it must be incredibly difficult to live 350-odd days a year as a French person, dressing just so, tolerating the strikes and Sunday closures, conjugating all those verbs, holding your face as though you'd just smelled something really foul (of course we are not referring to the completely laid-back French we hold as dear friends - and you know who you are). The yearly antidote? Crazy Signs! I can see some medicin writing it up now: "Fifteen minutes/day of semi-nude, quasi-epileptic wriggling, two weeks per annum."

Not even by going on a terrible, sick-making "sunset cruise" could we escape the insanity. As we clung, green and trembling, to the boat's rails, whispering quiet thanks that the familiar chairs and umbrellas were coming into sight, the skipper and accompanying GOs summoned us to the upper deck for a Very Special Throwdown. The network has issued the following warning: the footage you are about to see is extremely disturbing, and probably should not be viewed by anyone over the age of three.

How classic is that dad working the camera? I dare you to picture Martin Scorsese getting that level of freak on behind the lens. All this joking about the wacky Frenchies aside, I have to say it was really nice to be among our "other peeps" again. I realized how much I had missed being able to tune out inane conversations thanks to utter lack of comprehension. And honestly, we ended up chatting (with great effort) with more French families than the 2-3 British families there. I felt quite nostalgic making French small talk, eating Pains au Chocolat, and yes, even feeling like a schlub aside the impeccably-dressed French mothers. It didn't help that I was reading We'll always have Paris (and Provence) by Patricia Wells, and remembering with fondness our move to the City of Lights.

We even got caught up in the craziness – I was recruited, along with some other (French, of course) parents to do Crazy Signs onstage (oh, the humanity!) as part of the "Movie Marathon" show one afternoon, dressed in a red fright wig and sparkly toga (what the French think constitutes a "Saturday Night Fever" ensemble), and Josie, of course, appeared in the Petit Club show. Not sure why our daughter is the only one not wearing actual clothing, but she had a blast.

A star is born

All in all, it was a wonderful vacation and one I would highly recommend. The beach, as you'll see in the photos posted, was beautiful – not only much cooler and breezier than the pool, but incredibly peaceful with rolling mountains rising behind it. The food was incredible - each evening's meal was more creatively executed than the last, with huge, fresh fishes filleted and grilled before your eyes, piles of salads in every combination of fresh vegetables imaginable, yogurts, baklava... I think the intense sweating was the only thing that prevented us from gaining twenty pounds. I never worried for a second about Josie in the care of fun and completely attentive Petit Club workers. I read three books! Josie threw rocks (see right) And Jeff and I got some much-needed alone time. Everyone had fun - now that's a vacation! CRA-ZY!

I haven't even had time to blog about our wonderful visit with the Roger Rothman family, during which we saw the sights of Bath, the Cotswolds, and a nice chunk of the beautiful English countryside that surrounds our humble abode on Pulteney Street. I'll post the pics with descriptive captions, anyway.

Tomorrow Josie and I are joining my Parisian pal C and her children for one last hurrah at the beach in Devon. Sadly, the forecast is 50-60 degrees and cloudy/rainy. Still, I'm thrilled to see her and the British coast. It's our last "Bank Holiday" weekend of the summer, before school starts next week. Our summer started out a bit slow, in a new country with no friends, but now I feel as though it's really flown.

Makes me want to savor that last bit of summertime - crank some Bananarama, watch Kelly and Dylan fall in sweet, illicit love, sip a gin and tonic. I'm sure C will be up for at least 2 out of 3!

Sha-ma, sha-ma mes copains!

2 weeks in MI, and all we did was beach, beach, beach

Wow, sorry for that long bloggatical, but Josie and I just spent a steamy, sunny two weeks in the Moustachigan (so-named by my pal Jeff Hannah) and were just too busy, and sweaty, to blog (seriously - I tried but my fingers kept slipping off the keys, and my laptop's "condensation alert" light kept blinking). We had a wonderful time; Josie was reunited with Nom, Bee-pa and Unca Andy, and we saw bazillions of friends, played with puppies and explored most of Southeastern Michigan's finer cuisine. I'll try to hit the high - and low - points.


Boy did we pick the right time to go – total Americana week. It all kicked off with the newly re-branded "Boat Week" parade (now centered around the annual Port Huron to Mackinac Sailboat Race) in Port Huron, which was a bit different than I recall from my childhood (the Crossbow Float? the Walking Organ non-float? what happened to Girl Scouts and Shriners riding around in those little cars?) but jolly fun anyway. The next day, four generations of Davidson women met at the Golf Club pool for some swimming and lunch (thanks Gramma and Aunt Peggy!). Then my dad and I hit two Boat Night parties, seeing lots of friends old and new, high school, college and beyond. Boat Night is good, clean American fun...mostly. There was that priceless moment whilst waiting outside the Yacht Club for my friend M's husband to fetch the car and pick her up.

M: This was fun, I wish I didn't have to go so soon!
Me: Me too!
(six feet away, man is wrestled to the ground by two officers, tasered & cuffed for public urinating).
Man: Let go of me man, it was just a piss!
M: Yeah, maybe it is time for me to go.
Me: Yeah, I hear that.

Don't get me wrong, it was a terrific time. I only had to use the Port-a-John once, and now they provide hand sanitizer! And thankfully, Dad and I were home before midnight so that we could bounce up early with Miz Jo for my favorite Race Weekend activity, the Pancake Breakfast and Boat Parade. Wolfing pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausages, we would always watch the boats go out of the marina, under the bridge and down the river to the lake. I had not been in fifteen years (at least!) but it was great. Something about those big boats, festooned with flags and hunky, hungover deckhands really melts my butter.

Watchin' the boats go by

Race Day itself – everyone gathers on various beaches to "watch the race," usually a bit difficult as the sailboats are miles out, so it's really to swim, drink beer and eat fried food – was terrific, spent on the same beach with the same friends who've hosted us since I was four. Fried chicken, potato salad, seven-layer dip, even cookies shaped like sailboats. Unca Andy continued Josie's 2-week private swim tutelage and MAN is that girl a mermaid-in-training. She loves, loves, loves the water –lake and pools equally– and reaaally loved her first powerboat ride in a 1927 somefin-fancy-wooden-schmiffen-wiffen cruiser. We all loved that, actually. Thanks Mr. S.

The next week was a whirl of friends and children and beaches and pools. My friend A and I (one of the infamous Lemon Sisters) trucked to Ann Arbor for a very mini college reunion. It was the perfect 24 hours: late lunch at Dominick's (they no longer sell Amaretto Sours by the pitcher, we were both disappointed and relieved to discover, but they do still have the peel-and-eat shrimp Bethie!), stroll through campus, bit o'shopping, massage, used-book shopping (it is still us bookworm-nerds), and gorgeous dinner at Eve, a new restaurant opened by a former Top Chef contestant. Dinner was followed by a Nostalgia Pub Crawl, from Ashley's (so crowded we couldn't get in the door), to Cottage Inn, to Rick's (we may have been the sole patrons that evening), to Goodtime Charleys, where we made a BadIdeaJeans decision to order crazy college drinks in big Ball Jars, filled with all kinda crazy alkools like Maliblue Rum, Mocha-Chocalua, and possibly every ingredient contained in both the Slippery Nipple and Cement Mixer. Still, after stumbling back to the Campus Inn, we were able to stay up and chat until the wee hours. After a gorgeously greasy breakfast at the Broken Egg, we traipsed through the Art Fair, visited our respective sorority houses and our senior year group house, lazed on the grass eating Stucchi's, and finally headed back to reality –and our children– for a splashy play-date at the Troy Aquatic Center (SO fun! Those are tax dollars well-spent!).

Thursday my mom and I headed back to Ann Arbor for une vrai Art Fair promenade (hitting every booth, including the State Democrats and the Lemon Slushies), and Friday night began my 20-year high school class reunion weekend. It having been so hot, I'd had no time for shopping, and of course my husband was back in England, so I was dateless and had nothing to wear – just like high school! Thankfully, my friend E was at the ready as my escort (E and I have known each other since we were four and fought over her Hollie Hobbie colorforms, but really became friends at our 10-year reunion –proof there is value in going to these things) for both Friday night's "meet and greet" and Saturday night's main event. I had volunteered to help with the "class trivia" speech, and E valiantly offered to co-pilot; while giving Josie a bath earlier in the week I had decided it should be a song (in true Fanny Brice fashion, hoping if they laugh with you, they're not laughing at you). So E and I cooked up new lyrics to our class song, "I get by with a little help from my friends," full of references to stonewashed jeans, Motley Crue, and a bizarre Port Huron tradition called "Funeral," in which, before the football game with our crosstown rivals, we would construct fake corpses (of said crosstown players) and tie them onto the fronts of our cars and cruise around town. Aaahhhh, the good old days, before morbid pastimes like gang-violence video games and Facebook bullying took over kids' free time.

I had actually been dreading the reunion a bit... meant to lose ten pounds but in some strange fit of psychological subterfuge had actually gained ten (probably all the seven-layer dip and lemon slushies). Again, no time to shop so only had the probably too-dressy Parisian frock from last summer in my suitcase. But in the end it was quite fun – got to catch up with friends from early childhood through high school, even spending the afternoon prior on my friend A's beach with all her children (mine had refused to leave her new Beauty and the Beast dress). The white zinfandel was probably flowing a bit too freely, but hey – every 20 years or so is that really a crime? And the trivia song performance wasn't too much of a train wreck, thanks to the recruiting of our friends E, an Episcopalian priest, H, a vocal coach, and D and J, who were part of the original 1990 rendition.


The 2-week sojourn closed with more family fun, including a bbq styled by Unca Andy and a superfun trip on the Huron Lady, Port Huron's very own Bateau-Mouche (Josie called it a "Pirate Boat," of course, her obsession with Captain Hook remaining strong in our nautical village). I recommend this Lady to everyone living in or visiting the Port -- I learned some fun facts about ancient Native American lore, the production of fake rubber in Sarnia's Chemical Valley (yeah, thanks for all the cancer, eh?) and of course, hometown genius Thomas Alva Edison. Perfect way to round out the trip.

I should probably save the painful deets of our trip home for another post, save perhaps to reminisce wistfully about the good points – how one Continental staffer repeatedly paged me as "the lady flying to Brussels, with the small child, who was just here;" how yet another, when I dared ask about partner carriers that might carry flights later than the Bristol leg I would surely miss, directed me to go find out where Lufthansa flies and come back; how yet a third told me in response to my sweaty and exuberant thanks they didn't hold the Bristol flight for me, they never wait for passengers (um, thanks). Oh, and let's not forget the woman posted at the inter-terminal shuttle who told me to relax, and take my time, because the Bristol flight was delayed an hour (it wasn't). Good times. Can't imagine why this route has been canceled effective November '10.

We're back, safe and sound, but there's nooo rest for the wicked as Jeff's bro Roger and family arrived yesterday for lots o' gobsmacking fun. With the cheesetastic Bath Bus Tour and fascinating Roman Baths themselves under our belts, we've got 4 days left to cram in Cotswolds beauty, ale tasting, bike rides on the Avon, and lots of curry.

We'll close with Josie's latest favorite song, a ditty sure to battle Katy Perry and Snoop for the summer's top hit. It's "Wind the Bobbin Up," here on BATH 23FM, signing out.