Tea with T.

Tea in Various Time Zones

My Tea with T. page is going to be relatively silent for a couple of weeks as I am off and running again, doing more travel and having more adventures this summer than ever before in my life.  No, seriously!  50 years of inertia and I now have a suitcase and carry-on bag that suffer from road-rash.  And a bit of international road-rash, at that.  I’ve just returned from the unbelievable gift of a birthday trip to Vancouver, B.C. and various points in Alaska and I’m now on my way to San Diego for Comic-Con… which, I believe should be equivalent to intergalactic travel (for which I’d like a stamp in my new passport, thank you) what with all of the Stormtroopers, Superheroes and alien attendees.  And next week?  I will be in Spain. 

 

[Gah.  Forgive me.  I had to pause myself and re-read what I just typed.  I will be in Spain.  Still, not real.]

 

For years, my most exiting travel took place only in my mind.  A lot of it fueled by the books I was reading.  When I was 12 years old,

Tea in Various Time Zones

My Tea with T. page is going to be relatively silent for a couple of weeks as I am off and running again, doing more travel and having more adventures this summer than ever before in my life.  No, seriously!  50 years of inertia and I now have a suitcase and carry-on bag that suffer from road-rash.  And a bit of international road-rash, at that.  I’ve just returned from the unbelievable gift of a birthday trip to Vancouver, B.C. and various points in Alaska and I’m now on my way to San Diego for Comic-Con… which, I believe should be equivalent to intergalactic travel (for which I’d like a stamp in my new passport, thank you) what with all of the Stormtroopers, Superheroes and alien attendees.  And next week?  I will be in Spain. 

[Gah.  Forgive me.  I had to pause myself and re-read what I just typed.  I will be in Spain.  Still, not real.]

For years, my most exiting travel took place only in my mind.  A lot of it fueled by the books I was reading.  When I was 12 years old,

 I went to New York to visit Francie Nolan and her brother Neeley in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  Immediately after, courtesy of the same author, Betty Smith, I went to Ireland in her book Maggie Now.  Around the same time, I toured Holland in The Dutch Boy and the Dike and experienced my first snow, thanks to Zlateh the Goat, in some unnamed land (which prepared me for REAL snow in Sequim, Washington many years later), as laid out by Isaac Bashevis Singer.  To truly head out and travel now, after decades of only doing so by fingertip-to-pages, is to finally see, hear, smell, touch and taste the places I’ve only visited in my imagination.  It blows my mind that about this time next week, I am going to be sitting on a stool in Ernest Hemmingway’s beloved Cerveceria Alemana in Madrid then take myself for a leisurely stroll around the Plaza Mayor.  My heart can hardly stand it.

Back in 1996 my mother-in-law came to live with us, having been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  I’d watch her spend hours upon days upon weeks sitting in the corner of the living room sofa reading paperback novels.  As soon as one was finished, she’d grab another and start all over again, sometimes reading favorites multiple times.  I begged her to get off of the couch and go somewhere, anywhere, before the pages on the calendar could not be retrieved.  She insisted it was not necessary, because everywhere she’d ever want to go she’d already been… in a book.

Last year, I was given a passport application as a gift from my Viking Beau – who decided I needed to see the world (or, perhaps, just get out of my head) and he saw to it that my first two passport stamps were London and Paris.  These past 18 months, I feel as though I’ve been living somebody else’s life, out of my suitcase.  It has been busy, but it has also been incredible.

So, my sweet friends -- for a couple of weeks my Tea with T. page will be quiet.  But, when I get back?  I hope to be able to quote Oscar Wilde when he said, “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”  Or ship.  Or plane.  Or automobile.  I promise to share, when I return.

“I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” – Susan Sontag

Tea in Various Time Zones

My Tea with T. page is going to be relatively silent for a couple of weeks as I am off and running again, doing more travel and having more adventures this summer than ever before in my life.  No, seriously!  50 years of inertia and I now have a suitcase and carry-on bag that suffer from road-rash.  And a bit of international road-rash, at that.  I’ve just returned from the unbelievable gift of a birthday trip to Vancouver, B.C. and various points in Alaska and I’m now on my way to San Diego for Comic-Con… which, I believe should be equivalent to intergalactic travel (for which I’d like a stamp in my new passport, thank you) what with all of the Stormtroopers, Superheroes and alien attendees.  And next week?  I will be in Spain. 

[Gah.  Forgive me.  I had to pause myself and re-read what I just typed.  I will be in Spain.  Still, not real.]

For years, my most exiting travel took place only in my mind.  A lot of it fueled by the books I was reading.  When I was 12 years old,

 I went to New York to visit Francie Nolan and her brother Neeley in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  Immediately after, courtesy of the same author, Betty Smith, I went to Ireland in her book Maggie Now.  Around the same time, I toured Holland in The Dutch Boy and the Dike and experienced my first snow, thanks to Zlateh the Goat, in some unnamed land (which prepared me for REAL snow in Sequim, Washington many years later), as laid out by Isaac Bashevis Singer.  To truly head out and travel now, after decades of only doing so by fingertip-to-pages, is to finally see, hear, smell, touch and taste the places I’ve only visited in my imagination.  It blows my mind that about this time next week, I am going to be sitting on a stool in Ernest Hemmingway’s beloved Cerveceria Alemana in Madrid then take myself for a leisurely stroll around the Plaza Mayor.  My heart can hardly stand it.

Back in 1996 my mother-in-law came to live with us, having been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  I’d watch her spend hours upon days upon weeks sitting in the corner of the living room sofa reading paperback novels.  As soon as one was finished, she’d grab another and start all over again, sometimes reading favorites multiple times.  I begged her to get off of the couch and go somewhere, anywhere, before the pages on the calendar could not be retrieved.  She insisted it was not necessary, because everywhere she’d ever want to go she’d already been… in a book.

Last year, I was given a passport application as a gift from my Viking Beau – who decided I needed to see the world (or, perhaps, just get out of my head) and he saw to it that my first two passport stamps were London and Paris.  These past 18 months, I feel as though I’ve been living somebody else’s life, out of my suitcase.  It has been busy, but it has also been incredible.

So, my sweet friends -- for a couple of weeks my Tea with T. page will be quiet.  But, when I get back?  I hope to be able to quote Oscar Wilde when he said, “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”  Or ship.  Or plane.  Or automobile.  I promise to share, when I return.

“I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” – Susan Sontag

In Case of Emergency

Today I dropped my teenaged daughter off at the international airport to wing her way to another continent with a different language and currency system.  Trying my darnedest not to cry on the hour drive, it was all I could do to make small talk and not fill her head with a 1,001 safety tips.  Biting my lip, I made sure that the bulk of my crying was going to be after I dropped her off.  In the spirit of full disclosure, you should know that I did cry and hug her until she was appropriately mortified and I issued only one warning about keeping an eye on her passport.  And purse.  And that she should buy antihistamines as soon as she hit the concourse.

 

It isn’t as though she hasn’t heard it all.  When she was little, she stared up at me with adorable absorbent wonder when I’d speak, until one day she turned her head in youthful laissez faire, with jaded eyes that silently screamed “What more can you possibly teach me?!”  She’d had a lifetime of “What IF!?...” horror stories as I tried to prepare her for the Worst Case Scenarios Known to Young Woman (which is considerably longer than the abridged version of the Worst Case Scenarios Known to Young Man – I know, I know.  Comment away and send me your emails of complaint).  But all of the well-meaning “Never leave your drink unattended in any social situation” advice doesn’t feel like it amounts to a hill of beans now that I’ve sent her across the world on a foreign adventure (where I hear the food is divine, the temperature hot and the men terribly handsome). 

Fish Who Answer the Telephone…

Little bookshops make my heart skip a beat, in a really good, romantic and goose-bumpy way.  The problem is there aren’t that many mom & pop bookshops around anymore.  Between the big box stores, internet mail order and eBooks, commerce and technology have done away with the dusty shelves and lovely scent of musty “vanilla-ish” paper in the air.  By the way, this distinct aged paper smell was actually analyzed by scientists and found to be the result of hundreds of “volatile organic compounds” (aka VOCs) sent into the air from the paper.  Knowing there is a scientific explanation takes away from some of the romance of it all, I realize, but it’s still pretty cool.

 

Last spring, I had the tremendous pleasure of popping into a book shop called Jarndyce Booksellers, located at No. 46 Great Russell Street, in London.  Already a bit swoon-y from the company I was keeping and the idea of the incredible gift I’d been given (passport and transport across the pond, for goodness sake), I opened the narrow door to this beautiful postcard-worthy, picture-perfect hunter green book shop and willingly filled my lungs with volatile organic compounds.  It was a magnificent collection, with books and pamphlets in every nook and cranny and just enough dusty spots to feel antiquated, but not dirty (an art I am still trying to perfect in my own home).  According to their website, the building was constructed in the 1730s and given a facelift by the Duke of Bedford in the 1850s. Randolph Caldecott, the 19th century illustrator, lived and worked on this very spot (if you didn’t know, the Caldecott Medal is the annual award given to the most distinguished American picture book for children).  The building is also reported to be haunted, but having just arrived from Los Angeles that very afternoon, I believe I was too tired to give a hoot and aboot, even if a vaporous Scotsman in a diaphanous kilt had been leaning over my shoulder.

 

Zero to Snark in 3.5 Seconds

If you ever doubt that people are snarky by nature, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you don’t live near a freeway, highway, expressway or close to any pavement where the speed limit is over 35mph.  Here in Southern California, those electronic road signs that blare “Click it or Ticket” on a holiday weekend should occasionally be changed to include warnings about the dangers of driving under the influence of snark (possibly highly caffeinated or turbo-sugared snark) going on behind the wheel or handlebars on our roads.

 

A while back, there was quite a bit of buzz about Road Rage and how drivers were brandishing weapons while driving along the 110 here.  But, those people either found a new zip code or the benefits of valium, because I haven’t heard as many rumblings as of late.  Across the country, there aren’t as many headlines about it either.  Although, there is still the errant Defensive Tackle whose daily levels of testosterone should probably prevent him from sitting behind any steering wheel because I believe those guys can go from fume-to-fury with very little provocation (but, hello?  What part of your $21 million signing bonus didn’t scream CHAUFFER to you?!).

 

It’s not a snark free world I’m looking to live in.  Just the one I drive in.  See, it’s not the snarkiness I have a problem with.  Snarky is often our first go-to defense when we are unhappy, hurt, embarrassed, angry and/or confused.  My snarkiness pops up more times than I care to admit (I’m not proud.  I’m just sayin’) – but it has never served me well while driving.  Never ever.  Nor does it seem to be in the best interest of the other drivers I see tooling around town.  If people would just stop being so stinking cranky on the highways and byways of life, I bet fender bender incidents would likely drop in numbers.  That and stop insisting on being “that guy/gal” who must block every driveway or intersection, refusing to wave another car into traffic, you’ll likely reduce your snark levels along with ours.  Get over yourself needing to speed ahead of the van full of preschool kids trying to yield their way on to or off of that entrance/exit.  Be willing to let go of the need to bob and weave your Civic (oh, so ironic – one thin letter short of Civil…) through traffic like that video game you couldn’t stop playing before you left the house which is now making you late to your crappy minimum wage retail position that you feel is sucking the lifeblood out of you (ok, on second thought – you get a pass to be snarky.  But slow down, fool.  Why hurry?).

 

There are some people, I suppose, who should be given a pass to be all snarkified on the roads.  For example, driving an injured loved one (pet or person) to the hospital should probably give you full license to engage your inner snarkboat captain.  Matter of fact, sitting alongside a particularly prickly sideseat driver should also be permission enough to snark away (albeit silently) behind the wheel.  But, for the most part – lighten up, people before you situate yourself behind that airbag.  Less sass, save gas!  Fire up your engines, not your anger!  No ire in your tires!  Ooh!  Think about it -- the bumper sticker possibilities are endless.  But irritating.  And we could all do without more things to snark about on the road.

 

“The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above average drivers.”  -- Dave Barry

How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm?

After they’ve seen Paree.  So asks the question in the post World War I song and while I wasn’t around at the turn of the last century (though jetlag leaves me feeling as though I might have been) I understand the sentiment.  Paris is pretty darn incredible and the French Roast at my local Starbucks will pale in comparison once I return home.

Asked to describe my experience in Paris in one word, I chose the word surreal, as it all feels a bit dreamlike.  Everything about the last few days has been delightful.  Well, except for the whole Eiffel Tower thing.  People’s eyes glaze over in the oddest way when they talk about it.  They babble on about the romance associated with the looming black structure smack dab in the center of the Parisien landscape.  Great feat of engineering and all that and it certainly is a mighty thing to behold when you stand underneath it, but romantic?  Nope.  Not getting it, people.  It’s a big hunk of metal teeming with people elbow-to-backside standing around for hours trying to get to the top of it.  Gorgeous, yes.  But, romantic?  I suppose this is a case of eye of the ticket holder and all that.  Of course, I’m not a complete cynic.  I could see where dining in the Jules Verne restaurant after sunset with a nice magnum of bubbly miiiight change my mind.  Note for future visit).

As for the REST of Paris and the notion of romance?  Well, my advice is to consider bringing someone you don’t mind sharing your toothpaste with, as mouth-to-mouth resuscitation just might be in order.  I’m just sayin’.  The Louvre and the Musee de’ Orsay alone will leave you clutching your heart, with a weak-in-the knees, breathless state of being from the sheer beauty and passion you encounter with each step you take (oh, and you and your friend should pack good walking shoes, too).  I found myself crying on at least two occasions while in Paris, one while standing in the courtyard in the shadow of the spectacular buildings of the Louvre and while viewing Eugene Carriere’s painting titled “Intimite” – the emotions were that overwhelming (so bring good toothpaste, walking shoes and handkerchiefs).

Paris is a densely populated city with beauty everywhere you look: Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame Cathedral, Place de la Concorde, Arc du Carrousel, even the cafes and boulangeries along the Seine are a treat for sore eyes (okay, I do have to mention the pollution – it is the only bad thing I did see, especially from the top of the Eiffel Tower).  We barely made a dent in our sightseeing, but I know now that I want to return as I want to see the Pantheon, Versailles, Moulin Rouge, Catacombes and so much more.

Watching Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliette” (as choreographed by Rudolf Nuryev in 1984) from the balcony of the Opera Bastille Theatre last night was a magical moment.  Even if you don’t care for ballet or classical music, I would encourage you to look up the Dance of the Knights from Act I, Scene II on YouTube.  Close your eyes.  It is hard to not be moved by its haunting beauty.

To tell you more about Paris would be to tell you about the mouth-watering, delicious food consumed (like the heavenly experience at the restaurant in the Musee de Orsay surrounded by elaborate frescoes and carvings) and the company I kept while wandering the streets of Paris in springtime, but I believe I shall leave some of it to your imagination.  It has been said that “Romance is the glamour which turns to the dust of everyday life into a golden haze” and as I return to sunny Southern California tomorrow, I intend to bring a bit of Paris home in my heart.  And having learned to make a proper cup of British tea during this journey to Europe, I’m more than happy to share a pot of tea and relegate you with more stories – you need only ask.

Billy, Gordon, Nick & The Hens

In addition to popping in and out of taxi cabs to see all of the beauty that London has to offer, like the stunning Carrara Marble Arch on Edgeware Road, Big Ben or the London Eye/Millennium Wheel (casting a gorgeous blue glow at night) I have also had the tremendous pleasure of being situated in Covent Garden, which is London’s theatre district, so the theme of this “gift” trip could informally be known as the Theatre/Feed Her Tour.  I like the theatre and I like to eat.  Equally.  And not always in that order.  Best to feed me before you seat me, as a rule.

On my second day of the Theatre/Feed Her Tour, I had to great pleasure to dine at the Savoy Grill, a restaurant housed in the city’s famous Savoy Hotel.  The hotel is famous partly because of the luminous icons that have graced its lobby over the years – Sir Winston Churchill, Oscar Wilde, Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor – but also because it was the first hotel to be lit by electricity, have electric lifts, bathrooms in the suites and cascading showerheads.  Say what you will about lesser accommodations of the world, but I think they just might owe a debt of gratitude to the fancy shmancy Savoy for setting a standard we’ve all grown accustomed to (talkin’ to you Motel 6).  Potties in your room and not down the hall?  Well, la-di-da.  Fancy, that.

The Savoy Grill is a sumptuous feast for the eyes, since it has been fully restored to its original 1889 glory, but also the tastebuds because it is now part of the Gordon Ramsey restaurant empire.  The guy may not be known for his delicate savoir faire in some matters, but his Savoy fare delicacies were to die for.  The warm beetroot tart shall linger in my dreams for years to come.  There was also a delightful dish of purple sprouting broccoli with toasted garlic and braised halibut with curly kale and charlotte potatoes and by the time the meal was over I was slightly dizzy from the hypnotic paneling on the walls (which they tell me are covered in “gold leaf backed tortoise shell acrylic marble”) and the multiple sparkling Swarovski crystal chandeliers.  It was like dining in the jewelry box of an angel.  An angel with really good taste and a rocking kitchen.

“We have theatre tickets” is one of my favorite phrases to utter in a restaurant, so that the service will be swift.  The superb staff at the Savoy Grill was right on cue, never letting an empty plate linger or water glass drop too low.  Apparently, not their first barbecue.  We were out the door and in a black London taxi lickety-split, on our way to the Victoria Palace Theatre for the 7:30pm curtain of “Billy Elliot” in the domed building that opened in 1911.  The 12 year old boy in the title role was breathtaking, but I knew he would be since his profile said he’d trained for 23 months for the part.  Wow.  Talk about developing a great work ethic at a young age.  I don’t know what YOU were doing when you were 10, but I wasn’t anywhere close to having that kind of discipline.

Jet lag has left me numb, but this is what I seem to remember about London so far: 

• Tooling around the city on a double-decker bus tour
• Purchasing tea towels and over-priced trinkets commemorating the upcoming nuptials of Prince William and Kate
• Superb seafood dining at J. Sheeky (where the staff was NOT so keen on speed and service)
• Seeing the play “War Horse” at New London Theatre (it was at this theatre that Andrew Lloyd Weber opened “Cats” -- the longest running musical to run in the West End, some 20+ years)
• Viewing Prokoviev’s ballet “Cinderella” at the Royal Opera House
• Watching “Love Never Dies” (the Andrew Lloyd Webers sequel to “Phantom of the Opera” at the zen-like, modern Adelphi Theatre
• Seeing my friend Nick Reeve perform at Piano Soho (where I got to be an interloper in a real, live Hen Party) then joining him after hours in some delightful duets at the microphone with his friend Mark from the UK’s hottest new vocal harmony group The Overtones [http://www.theovertones.tv/]
• Taking the Underground to Picadilly Circus to the Jermyn Street Theatre to watch the Off West End production of “The Kissing Dance” the musical adaptation of Oscar Goldsmith’s “She Stoops to Conquer”

 

I’m exhausted typing this, much less doing it.  But, the smile on my face and the happiness in my heart leads me on to cross each new intersection toward the next adventure (but looking left instead of right to avoid being hit by the crazy, yet polite, lunatics driving the taxis around here).  Good thing these people make a strong cup of tea, everywhere I go.

Tomorrow?  The adventure continues, in Paris.  To forge on, I believe I will switch to café au lait, to keep fatigue at bay.

Tea in London.

Arriving at London’s Heathrow Airport I was asked, “So?  Whaddya think?”  Hmmm.  It looks an awful lot like Sacramento.  But, hey!  An airport’s an airport.  You see one flat, gray tarmac you’ve seen ‘em all.  Nothing to write home about.  Yet… here I am, doing just that.

Once OUT of the airport it was a concourse of a different color.  It was green and lush with streets dotted by trees with large pink or white blossoms everywhere we went.  We whizzed through Hyde Park and past Royal Albert Hall, zipping through London’s streets like a whirling dervish on wheels.  And I'm not exaggerating just for kicks and grins.  Best. Taxi Ride. Ever.  Though I was holding my breath most of the way, mostly hoping we'd arrive at the Cheshire Hotel alive or, at the very least, in respectably large pieces.  See, it seems as though the British laws of the road, including the whole driving on the left-hand side of the street, are more “suggestions” than laws.  Our taxi driver would often cross around medians -- into oncoming traffic -- to avoid, what he felt, were unnecessary delays.  It was just like being in New York, except our driver was kind, courteous and chipper instead of screaming, cursing and honking his horn.  He was the most gracious, polite maniac I’ve ever had the pleasure to be driven by.

Shortly after hitting Covent Gardens theatre district it was time to seek out my desperately wished for fish & chips and a first official cup of English Tea.  Flying for ten hours, eating tiny tins of airline rations had left me famished and a tad crankier than I had a right to be in jolly old England.  Where the battered fish, French fries and malt vinegar were decent, the pot of tea (with milk) was absolutely delightful. Spot on and the caffeine certainly helped, considering it was four o’clock in the morning, back home, according to my body’s clock.  Yay, me, as it was going to have to keep me vertical until dinner at 6pm.

Despite my best intentions, naptime commenced for 90 minutes in the middle of the surprisingly bright afternoon UK time, which was smack in the middle of the still-dark-night US time.

Well, who knew a nap was needed for the marathon eating that was to commence at Harry’s Bar on South Audley Street?  Harry’s Bar is a  private member’s club where I was fortunate enough to be the guest of one of their members.  The entire experience was a gift to all five senses, as we sat in the beautifully appointed dining room which was surrounded by hundreds of framed Peter Arno cartoons from New Yorker magazine.  From the welcoming Bellini made with fresh peach juice and champagne to the final gelatine di frutta (tiny balls of multi-colored sugar bursting with juicy delciousness when you’d bite down) and traditional colomba, Italian Easter cake…it was a treasured night to remember.  To be treated like a member of an extended family by the staff was an added treat.  What a lovely group of people.

Now, after being awake for the better part of 34 hours, I am hoping to sleep, perchance to dream, of more of the delights that London holds for tomorrow.  This, of course, depends on whether or not the tea keeps me awake.

 

“All true tea lovers not only like their tea strong, but like it a little stronger with each year that passes.”  -- George Orwell

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…

Just to let you know:  I have a passport and I’m not afraid to use it.  Starting tomorrow.  And starting with a cup of tea in (wait for it)… London.  What started with a 30 minute glider ride in Santa Barbara has somehow blossomed into an international flight leaving LAX tomorrow afternoon and arriving at Heathrow, the afternoon after that (oh Time Zone Conversion, you wicked mistress).

 

And you know what?  I’m looking forward to the ten hour plane ride most of all.

 

Lest you think I’m joking, let the lines forming the “11” in the middle of my forehead assure you that I’m not.  Not in the least.  See, the idea of being trapped in a big, metal tube with a most excellent traveling companion with uninterrupted chat-time, punctuated by naps and snacks?  Oh, yeah.  That is SO my cuppa tea.  Earl Grey, Darjeeling or otherwise.

 

Tea with T. Katz was started nearly two years ago with the intention of being a place for a bit of tea and conversation served by me, someone who has been called “an absorbent observer” over the years.  I have collected a lot of stories and experience -- from time spent in the music industry; television production; teaching piano; being a mom; and just being related to some of the wackiest people on the planet – and I allow all of this to brew and steep, until its ready to be served.  These tales, like the multiple varieties of tea are sometimes spicy, sometimes sweet and rarely, if ever, bitter.  You guys get to be the judge of whether what’s poured is hot, cold or downright i.c.y. (I’m a storyteller, not a saint).

 

For the next week or so, I’m taking this show on the road to gather sights and sounds in Europe.  Beginning in Covent Garden and finishing in Paris (the one in France, with the tall tower.  Not the one with the tall Texans).  It will be my tremendous honor and pleasure to share with you what is set before me.

 

About now I’d like to sing another Frank Sinatra song “When I take my sugar to tea” – but truth be told, it is someone as sweet as sugar who is taking T. to Tea…in London.  England.  <exhale/sigh/gasp> Wow.  Such stuff as dreams are made on (and I thank you Billy Shakespeare, for describing that so well for me).

 

“He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.”  Friedrich Nietzsche

 

“I’ve stood my ground long enough.  If nobody minds now, I’d like to fly.” – T. Katz