Thoughts from the Human Outpost

Elsewhere moon-orientated scientists are preparing to blast the lunar top soil in search of evidence of water in view of a possible "human outpost". I, in the meantime from within our own human outpost am tuned into Radio 4 on our computer having just flashed a few pilates moves to counteract a few days worth of indulgence and settling down to ponder our day. Our new friends found us as promised down at the old Billings Forge Farmers market. I had braced myself for a chaotic herd of scrupulous city dwellers frantically stocking up on their organic produce for the week (I am always struck by the mild neurosis in the air of such events back in London, or, for hard core foodie fanatics, its Manhattan counterpart at christmas, as people brush past one another dodging pesticides and GM ingredients whilst plugged into their blue tooth wotsit in their ears and flinching silently at the prices) what I found however was a handful of laid back sellers collected around a community green of a restored red brick forge basking in the warm october sunshine without fuss, or fear or fecklessness. Fabulous. It took us all of 15 minutes to glance over everybody's products. Just enough to smell and touch everything and buy one of most of everything, amongst which were a pumpkin and raisin loaf (inhaled by son) and just the right amount of pumpkin curry to tide us over till dinner (we have been over indulging somewhat, best not send message to brain that this is a daily ritual). Halloween anyone? One lady-shopper we spotted was most prepared for it sporting proudly as she was a rainbow coloured cardigan with all manner of cross stitch style motifs emblazoned. Sam proudly, and loudly, picked out the pumpkin on her left hand pocket but the witch flying across the full moon on her back lost her audience. Monsters are somewhat on the brain I fear. Ones of the green, Frankenstein sort being at the forefront of most conversations. I was explaining that we would be flying to Cleveland Ohio on Monday with everyone from the show, Sam quickly insisting, "Not the monster though." He has met Schuler, the artful actor who brings him so sensitively to life but the whole green thing has touched that terrible hulk part of Sam's brain and it is going to take several months for him to really feel that he is not scared of him. At the moment he is still in the feigning ambivalence phase. He seems to do that for most things that he clearly is unsettled by; loud toilet flushes (the ones we have encountered here have been on turbo boost, one in particular almost sucked both he and I down the drain, it was one of those fandangled automatic ones. One unexpected breath or shift of weight and you and your excretions are done for) thunder, lightning, Grandad's china man outside their house and the like. The last is a dodgy ode to the Terracotta army. Not sure if he fears the poor quality of it in terms of accurate replica or the 5ft 5-ness of it looming in the shadows as you approach the door of a dark night. It is painted a moody shade of slate with surprising copper coloured highlights (a DIY addition) to hide the cracks. Turns out it wasn't made to the high quality the market seller down in Xian promised Dad it was. My father's love affair with all things China deserves a blog in itself, this is but way of introduction you understand. Picture Del Boy strutting down a midnight market in Shanghai and you are half way there. This might be the right time to report some criticism on my blogged thoughts from said Del-Boy. According to my father I would do well to be "less slick and educated" in my daily reportings. Less "mental" and more about what we are actually "doing". Apparently "every day people don't want an excercise in dissitation". Apologies Dad. Please excuse me for one moment whilst I dedicate the following list of actions for his benefit before I make a sunday dinner's worth of musings of essentially quite a peaceful sociable little day in a new town with very warm welcoming new friends. When push comes to shove this is what our day actually was:

1. FABULOUS coffee at Jo-Jos on Pratt Street (see yesterday's post)

2. Walk through Bushnell park and under big important historical civic building. One carving on which was labelled Hooker's March but judging by the pointy pilgrim hatted figure in it, not an allusion to the nightlife sort. Childish I know but you would have thought the same.

3. Market with friends and food.

4. Bus ride to friends house. $1.25. Children free.

5. Playing with friends at said house.

6. Bus ride back. Brazilian flag in hand. (a keepsake of Sam's young love)

7. Light but lovely dinner.

8. Blogging

9. Listing items for blog.

10. Hopefully proving that a list is not as much fun as a moderately structured stream of consciousness.

11. Stopping the list thing before anyone believes I am taking it the suggestions too seriously.

12. Looking forward to tomorrow's Skyped review.

There.

Now I'll get on with the over-wordy bit.

The afore moentioned flag now lies scrumpled on the desk. They say history repeats itself. It seems fitting that one of our little fella's first female friendships is with a young Brazilera. His father some ten years back was involved for almost a decade with one such also. I know the presentation of the gift certainly brought a wry smile to his Dad's face. The two tykes (Talita and Sam not Sam and his Dad) tired themselves out good and proper and shrieked, skipped, ran, jumped and argued their way through the minefield that is three. By the end of the afternoon they were hugging desperately. Sammy slightly weepy, waved goodbye at the bus stop (I like nothing better to ride local buses in new places especially when it allows you a glimpse of another reality aside from the carefully manicured centre of town. I spied some authentic looking mexican ma and pa places and a cluster of chapels in apartment blocks with hand painted signs written in Spanish most of whose pastora's were women) but nevertheless managed a "Have a good swim!" before the flood gates really opened in earnest (she was off to a swim class, it wasn't just one of his metaphysical salutations). A good day had by all. We are set to hit the Mother Goose session at the library tomorrow morning. I pray we encounter the sort of librarian who doesn't take the view that stories must be shrieked in that hyper talking-to-under-5's voice, or, like some parents I meet, the what I like to call the piercing parenting voice. I believe it is a phallacy that decibel level will determine attention level from young ears. I usually find the opposite is true for our boy. Hey-ho. Room for everyone I spose. As long as some golden eggs are laid, we'll all be happy.

If Libraries and ShowBiz be the Food of Love......

There is something about the half hourly rumble of a train and its horn passing through the station next door that propels me into the dramatic getaway section of a black and white detective movie. As it punctuates my evening I can envisage the smoke, the glare of its front beam and the to-die-for sultry close ups of leading ladies and their men impeccably dressed and lip-sticked smouldering under the heat of being discovered for their crimes. Whatsoever they may be. There is something about the view across the way (once you get past the air conditioner the size of a small studio directly infront of our window) that harkens back to the tenements of 20s America. I can see windows infront and above me and its enough to give a bit more soul to our building. There's that train again screeching through the night. It brings my fantasy of being a real live living breathing travelling circus a little closer to life you see. A convoy of trucks is not quite the same as having our own train but still. Imagination will fill the cracks reality exposes. Despite all the newness of this particular location I was delighted to spy another one of those gold US Mail boxes by the elevators this morning and have made a promise to myself to use this one. Actually I find myself in the unprecedented feeling of having almost an entire evening to myself. Our little man was so overcome with his day that he passed out on my lap at dinner around 6.30 (oh no, does this mean I am going to see 5.30 again this morning?!) after only a few slices of mouthwatering-fresh-from-the-oven-bread dipped in olive oil. We had found ourselves stumbling across yet another gastronomic find (blessed be Cory's per diem which allows us to enjoy such treats!) around the corner from the theatre. After passing an hour or so watching - wide eyed and intensively alert to all his father's movements - the troupe's publicity photo call on stage and in costume we had built an appetite. I think the amazonian dancers overwhelmed our boy. One in particular seems to have etched herself somewhere deep in his psyche. When Sam first met Beth (who beautifully plays an upper class New York socialite, fiance to Dr Frankenstein) in the flesh he recognised her from a picture message Cory had sent a week or so before hand. When she came back into Cory's room with her illustrious flaming red wig on Sam seemed uncharacteristically bashful and by the time we past her in the corridor with her full ruby sequined jaw dropping glittering gown on he was positively speechless and barely caught her eye. Add to this the fact that towards the end of act one when we watched the show in Providence, he asked where the red lady was I think we can safely say some impact has been made on the young soul. I can understand the allure of the older woman for him. They seem to have the time to listen to all his musings on life and laugh wildly at his jokes. Hang on. I have just stumbled upon the discovery that an almost three year old male's needs aren't so different from their grown up counterparts after all? How can you compare the wide eyed expression of joy that Beth casts over Sam to the changeable and unrelenting demands of her three year old counterparts. I'm thinking specifically of one Talita, the petite Brazilian beauty he met over plastic fish and sweetcorn at the tail end of Alphabet Time in Hartford's public library in the play kitchen section. The luminous glassy room, the stacks of books, what better place for the sparky meeting of freshly grown and burgeoning intellectual minds. Her mother Carolina and I watched as they played together, Talita making clear demands on where each item should be placed on the rug and Sammy taking great care of her needs by asking her if this was the right spot on every item he pulled out of the wooden play food boxes. Suddenly the weight of a mother's responsibility makes my shoulder muscles tighten. I watch him attending to his new friends and feel torn between the feeling that we are helping to nurture a very caring soul sensitive to the needs of others and predisposed to co-operation and the fear that in fact I am so utterly controlling that he must needs seek and be drawn to the kind of women that abuse their power (I can tell you she barked out her orders in a most forceful manner, in true three year old style). Later at the nearby cafe (freshly roasted beans on the premises and mouth watering tea. Yes, tea, served in an iron japanesey pot on a small ebony tray with a cup that had two handles on either side. I am a sucker for details, somone once attributed that to the cluster of planets in Virgo in my chart but I will try to keep personal astrological facts out of this to minimise offence) he put his arm around her. I, wrongly, interfered adding, "That's nice Sam, you can give her a hug." He looked me square in the eye and without diffidence or a hint of provocation he plainly replied, his arm frozen in its chosen position of comfort,"I am not hugging mum." The young couple looked up at me with a fleeting earnest look of pubescent love and just as I etched it to memory they broke into a tickle fight and threw themselves back into three year old and the couch. I love the juxtaposed way mock adult behaviour sits alongside the oblique sense of realism in a three year old. Whilst we were sat in the auditorium this afternoon Sam told one of the company managers that the cogs on the set were like the wheels on Harvey the crane engine (Thomas fans will understand) which is absolutely correct. In the next breath he asked the same man whether he lived on stage. He told him he lived under the stage. Sam held his gaze for a moment. I could see his own cogs turning to figure out what that meant exactly. Then dinner was called and we were onto salivating over thoughts of pasta and such. We did end up in an Italian but this was as far away from spaghetti and meatballs as you can get, not that I don't love a good spaghetti and meatballs but seasonal leaves with caramelised walnuts, goats cheese, wild cactus fruit drizzled with a Tahitian vanilla bean vinaigrette, it ain't. This is what started our feast. It was followed by grilled artichokes Roman style (they certainly made me want to be prone and draped in a loose fitting toga) and home made ravioli and a divinely delicately cooked sea bass laid over fresh roasted vegetables (already miss our allotment, we had those stripy beetroot ready to pick just as we left) and potatoes that so creamy they seemed to be made entirely of butter. I was sold from the moment they served Cory's iced tea in an oversize wine glass and presented me with a small liqueur shape glass on which to merely balance a slice of lemon to flavour my tap water with. We finished of with a "Triticot of Signature Deserts". I figure that my daily quota of egg to keep my iron in check also includes a rich chocolate souffle disguised as some sort of cocoa bread pudding right? I mean the doctor told me to eat eggs, she didn't say don't eat chocolate or don't eat chocolate and egg together. What more pleasurable way to ward off anaemia? Still I will compensate tomorrow at the farmer's market - our new friends have told us to catch the 61 bus with a dollar and 25 cents each to get there. Here we plan for Sam to meet Talita (we'll see if it was true friendship or just the glow of the early afternoon light) and her mother and baby brother once again and enjoy the fruits of local farmer's labours. I hope to bring back an armful for our bimbo too!

On the Road to Asylum

The first thing that strikes me on our entry into Hartford is the fact that we spend fifteen minutes driving around in circles looking for a street named Asylum (My PMT wasn't that bad was it husband dearest?!) quite fitting for the dizzy state we ramshackle ourselves into corporate housing world and for the afternoon I willingly imprison Sam and I in our new cell. I mean apartment. He immediately forms a slightly unnerving attachment to his "cage" he means crib. Honestly, we gave away our old cat's one after he had to leave us for a diamante studded one in the sky. Even on skype Sammy jigged from one leg to another urging the grandfolks to admire the metal sleeping construction. On wheels. Just like in baby asylums. Sorry I mean institutions. I exagerrate my attention to inconsequential details, once you get past the plastic fauna draped over wall hung baskets and the faux cosy corporate look of our little place it makes for quite a neat little cave. Add to it the noise of a few well loved toys and books and you have yourself a home. Besides, we have an unadulterated view of the megagalactic air conditioner that services the building right outside our window. The beginning of the afternoon started well with a surprisingly delicious lunch just across the street. It may come as no surprise for me to give some substantial rumination over food, it is after all how I judge the success of any given day and is one of my primary passions for existence; with my Jewish and Italian routes it is something I have never fought on any level. I was wary on first entry to the place. TAPAS was emblazoned in psychadelic purple and yellows above the doorway and on first inspection the interior seemed a poor tribute to any tavernous spanish inglenooks I have dreamt of going in on balmy Sevillian nights. I imagined a menu heavily Americanized. Basically quesadillas and wraps disguised as "foreign" food. What we got however was a mouthwatering gambit of marinated chicken and veg, in a wrap yes, but a world away from bland deep fry-land, a crisp greek salad slathered in good quality olive oil dressing and herbs and clove-loads of garlic topped with a succulent salmon steak and our boy devoured a generous swirl of houmous surrounded by fresh pesto, olives, chillies, sun blushed tomatoes and capers. Ok maybe we ate everything but the houmous and pesto which we managed to stop ourselves from sopping up with the warmed pitta wedges and leave to the growing tyke. Whilst the boys left for their post lunch ablutions (Sam hurrying back after his and, when after a little while his father followed, he hollered across the restaurant, "Did pooh come for you too Daddy?" my husband hanging his head low in embarrassment which for me is a personal rare moment of delight seeing as he has dedicated so much time and energy in cornering me into public displays of cringe that any pay back is always gratefully chalked up) I started conversation with the owner. He has an air of Vince Vaughn about him but smaller and shiftier. He keeps glancing from side to side as if he is about to be recognised. He has started a little music hub in his place, which was originally opened by his father in the 1960s. A long island native he appears to have a somewhat ambivalent attitude towards his Conneticut home and even more so about Hartford itself. When I ask him, somewhat naively perhaps, what it is exactly that attracts people to the place he shrugs and tells me that is what he has been trying to figure out himself for the past 20 years. Kind of a conversation stopper for the new kid in town. I was hoping for a nugget of local wisdom or pride even but the only thing of importance I could ascertain from this character was how much he loved to play in his band (hence slightly open linen shirt) and how playing lead guitar was his primary passion (magnum PI uber retro cool shades check). I think he sensed I was loosing interest a little when he started waxing lyrical on how much he and his band buddys make in the nearby casino - largest in the states - for playing just one night. Actually that bit got my imagination, I think the heart sank when he told me people take their kids there "cos there is like a mall inside and all these crazy shops." Traipsing around a place like that with the two boys in my life would be like my own purgotorial abyss. Also during our short exchange I gather that there is no grocery store in the area. This means two things. 1. My son is going to start to honestly believe that eating out at establishments 3 times a day is normal and acceptable behaviour and 2. Our bimby will likely stay dormant much to my husband's distress. Ah. I sense a furrowed brow. A quizzical raise of an eyebrow? A what-on-earth-is-a-bimby kind of half shrug? I will gladly enlighten. The bimby, not to be confused with bimbo, is a masterclass feat of engineering brought to us by a group of friendly efficiency obsessed group of German engineers who decided what the world needed to make modern life simpler was a stainless steel electrically powered mega cooking machine. From the outside it looks just like a very sleek and slightly complicated food processor. But on the inside, it performs a plethora of functions to boggle even the most gadget friendly geek. You know who you are. This beauty chops, cuts, stirs, grinds, beats, steams, fries, whips, cooks, bakes, flips and generally blows people minds. The lure of being able to cook home made grub - in one pot, yes I'm talking pasta, sauce and all, and in under 15 minutes seemed too irresistable for life on the road. I mean seriously, a whole year without my aunt's pasta sauce or chicken soup?(She may have left us but her recipes will live on eternally) What kind of free wheeling globe trotting sado-masochist do you take me for?! It is for these reasons that my husband lugged our bimbo, sorry bimby, through premium economy as hand luggage (blade packed in suitcase) in a 50p kilburn market laundry bag purchased circa 1988 (another of my aunt's heirlooms). Make no mistake, classy is our middle name. And it is also why, he searched the internet high and low for a transformer (or what I have now fondly named robot in disguise) to use alongside it so that its 1500watts would not blow up our hotel rooms. One month into his stay here and 5 minutes after our Hartford check in do we receive the beauty. All 36 ilbs of it. Yes, our packing light motto is well and truly thrown out of the window. Hopefully not literally, because this is the kind of equipment that would take someone out. Sam and I watched his father unwrap the enormous parcel with the frenzy of a five year old on a sugar high at his birthday and eventually out of the mass of paper rose a cream metal box, gauge fronted and loaded with knobs. Its like something out of the BBC props store for a 1978 open univeristy experiment on vaultage with as much consumer appeal. Perhaps I have been spoilt being the proud new owner of an iphone and mac that my eyes have become jaded to the reality of electronics but this piece of weight looks like it would fit in better on a factory floor rather than a hotel's replica antique kitchen diner table, or in the dusty corners of my school's technology room somewhere half hidden between the drill and the soldering kits. My husband is its proud owner. Where I see unsightly gadget he sees chicken soup. I am like a 1950s housewife bowing under consumer pressure to get women back into the home and cooking for their men and brood. Still, the point is, magic as our bimbo is, she can't make something from nothing, so until Hartford can provide some basic supplies we are on the cafe loop, which, as it happens seems to be Hartford's strong point. I have had a glance at the map of downtown and it is clustered red dots - restaurants - and blue stars - "nightlife locations" - and a plethora of blue stars with red dots in the centre - "restaurants with nightlife". Not sure quite how to interpret the last one. I can't help imagining dimly lit restaurants with a hotch potch of ghosts popping up the bar amongst them Dick Turpin, Jack the Ripper, Fagin and a host of prostitutes to constitute Hartford's "night" life. I don't know why I take this tone, its nice to think you ave somewhere to get a carefully mixed cocktail locally should the mood arise even if the locale is named, and I transcribe their listings without edit, "NV (Envy)", or "Mad Dawg's" or "Fish Camp". Here I am dribbling around my day's musings when I ought to be sending my husband and the troupe my good wishes, hoping their first night here is going without gliches. It seems unlikely, at the last minute the curtain up was pulled back by at least ten minutes and the morning after the last night in Providence the crew were still loading out at 7 am when they should have been already travelling, in a 7 truck strong convoy, to Hartford. We know this because the head of costume met us rising to consciousness at Starbucks and in the hushed excitable tones of scandal he recounted a blow by blow account of the get out. Every company loves a little drama off stage and it is what everyone expected. It is a truly a feat to move the size of show that is Young Frankenstein and one that I know will be pulled off. Thats what happens in show biz. The human spirit finds a way to soar above the perceived limitations of time, humanity and reality. This is where I need to stop. I'm getting all pseudo lofty and I don't like who I'm becoming. Send me back to the Asylum street!

Last Day in Providence

I'm tinged with a little tourist-lag. You know that hazy feeling that accompanies the late afternoon of a day filled with trailing a new place. I've ensconced myself in the sanctuary of our room while the boys are in the park across the street at bat practice, I left them there when I had had enough tween skater-boy watching. I was starting to feel a little nauseous with all their twisty turny flip flopping jumpy stuff. Least I'm blaming that swirly stomach thing on them poor scapegoats when I think the true culprit was some serious overeating at the Providence's institution which is Old Canteen. Let me transport you to a restaurant at the foot of Little Italy that on entrance overwhelms you in a vision of pink. I'm talking padded fuschia chairs, dusty pink walls, pink tablecloths, even the waiters serving water from plastic pink jugs. I feel like I'm wearing rose tinted spectacles and can't take them off, but isn't that always the case?Everything appeared unchanged since 1972, clearly they had gone for the sublimely unintentional uber-kitsch look. Everyone we have spoken to have urged us to eat there and I have to agree that the food we ate, sat beneath a mega-mural of Venice, was quite delicious. My husband ate his comfort food of chicken parmigiana with spaghetti drenched in a rich tomato sauce. Our son feasted on the beans from my ham and bean soup and garlicky pasta swimming in a white wine, garlic and clam sauce. I inhaled my lemon sole and scallops with sauteed escarole. We finished with tiramisu, spumone (american-Italian for cassata) and jello for the boy - yes Jello not jelly, they are quite different. Sort of. And coffee of course. Served to my delight in a neopolitan coffee maker and two little espresso cups. An aromatic liquid somewhere in between a watery filter and a punchy espresso. Perfect. After I had visited the ladies, lured by a beautifully kitsch pink illuminated 1950s font sign I followed the smell of anisette (one of my top ten) and found myself at the "Vintage Room". It was as dark as the main dining room was luminous. Like a secret cave. Smell of cigar smoke in the air perhaps left over from the owner's sons holy communion party in 1986. At its entrance hung a painted portrait of the owner, his wife, and what I imagined were their grown up children. All proud smiles and brightly coloured late 80s clothes. My godfather has similarly artistically licensed visions of himself and his family hung on his walls in Sardinia. Inside, from what I could see peeking conspicuosly round the corner - there was that sort of no women welcome feel about the place - there were shadows of men in shadowy conversations hunched over the bar with a busy tender filling bottomless glasses of anisette. I make to move out of a man's way as he hurries past me to the telephone booth I see to my right, complete with pink wallpaper, glass door and pay phone (I am in a 1950s movie after alll!) but not before I catch sight of the Vintage Room's pink bulbs in the black ceiling lights. Whoever held the reins in the dining room decor obviously was not about to give up on this space. I reluctantly drag myself away and we digest our lunch with a stroll down the rest of Little Italy's main drag. The sound of a fountain leads us to the main square surrounded by Italian cafes. There are a lot of well-fed men here drinking a lot of coffee. As we help Sammy make a wish or three in the fountain a man strikes up conversation with my husband about the time he met Derek Jeter (big baseball name over here and not bad to look at either - only reason I remember the name) and didn't even realise it was him even after an hours worth of chit chat (our son's yankee hat once again proving the opening spark for conversation in Boston Red Sox land). I half follow the conversation whilst making sure my son does not go for an unplanned swim and take stock of the impeccably ironed shirts he and his "buddies" are wearing, the healthy looking olive oil fed skin and the booming Italian belt (once again voice not accessory) and dynamic hand gestures. I quickly arrive at the assumption that we have met our first Rhode Island mobsters. I catch sight of a priest sitting with his coffee and another ironed shirt olive skinned dancing hands guy. Actually the entire square is populated with these men. I have my mobster's girlfriend's ginormous cheek covering sun glasses on (free with mag) so I reckon I just about to fit in. Therein the sweet paradox of being a traveller. You want to fit in enough to not draw unwanted attention to yourself whilst reveling in viewing local life with the fresh eyes of the outsider. One final stop into the local deli to inhale the nostaligic smells of Italian cheeses and chocolate, just enough to catch the tail end of the conversation between the owner and a customer,in Italian, "put it in a black bag, hide it behind the counter no-one will find it," my imagination is doing epileptic summersaults, and then its back to our hotel on a dollar trolley ride. By that I mean an old fashioned looking street car with the engine and wheels of a coach. Pretty buses I like to call them. I have a sneaky suspicion that that was not the last Little Italy we will pass through on our trip. So now I am sure you will understand my afternoon dip. Still, it means I can, for a few minutes or so, indulge in my vision of being a writer; its a sunny autumn afternoon out of my window, I am sat in an armchair with feet up on matching pouff with a standard lamp lit behind me, battering away at my lap top. It would bring a smile to my husband's face. I had tried you see some years back when we were first married, in vain, to convince him that we needed just such a corner in our small first flat. His argument against, facile as I saw it, was that all the corners were already taken up by a piano and shelves and sofas and books and TV. I battled him down and, eventually he relented for a month or so and I moved everything around to accomodate it only to find that I had sat in it perhaps only once, and that was just for five minutes or so to catch my breath straight after I had finished moving the piano single handedly to the other side of the room to make room for my "reading corner". Amazing what you can achieve on cheap laminate floors. Now, however, I am older and moderately wiser and I am ready for that illusive reading or perhaps more aptly named writing corner. Besides, what better way to recoup after a brush with made-men?

First of firsts

So maybe I should be sleeping right now and getting some almost hard earned rest - our son and his body decided that 3.30am was actually 8.30am. Our efforts to maintain a calm nightly atmosphere demolished by the sprightly tone of our three year old, "Don't whisper Daddy, NOBODY's asleep!". How right he was. After silent negotiation - I used my usual technique of managing to fall efortlessly back to sleep so as to let wonderful dad take over - and having had a small carry on case load of books read to him I finally surfaced at 6ish and mumbled a few good mornings to my husband as we shuffled past one another changing shifts. He probably needs the rest more than me, lets face it he's the one at this very moment entertaining 3,000 or so Rhode islanders whilst I wax lyrical in my slouchy clothes typing my blog. A number of firsts then today. Namely a new city. Sammy and I ushered in the dawn on the ground floor award winning Starbucks. How easily one succumbs in the shadow of sleep deprivation. More worrying perhaps is that I actually found their coffee rather palatable. Whilst Sammy alternately labelled (loudly) each passing vehicle and nibbled on the softer ends of a toasted bagel with cream cheese I watched the incessant rain drenching the hunched locals scurrying across the road for their life saving cuppa' java. It was like the familiar dark autumnal mornings from home. They don't call this part of town New England for nothing. After Cory finally surfaced and Sam had firmly ensconced himself in his shadow I left them to baseball coaching (his father has every intention of doing his best at helping Sammy become a well rounded sportsman and partaker of the arts - no pressure of course, what with his namesake being one of the most talented performers the world has known - Sammy Davis Jnr for those who are not as obsessed as us and who, shockingly may not have seen the link immediately!) whilst I took a jog around the area and sniff out our new home. We are staying in an area called Westminster and the feeling around the streets this morning was not unlike its British counterpart. Think city of London on a sunday afternoon, that slightly ghostly deserted street feeling with the accompanying gourmet coffee shops and banks. Add to this a few dotted retro clothing stores (it is a university town) the faded glamnour of a town at its dizzy height in the early 20s and you start to build some sort of picture. There was an unexpected romance to my little tour. Me legginged, hooded up, rain splattering my calves and face, the steady drum of my (wet) trainered feet framed by the photogenic red brick facades of Providence's Middle Street. After my foray I returned (damp) to our hotel, the Biltmore, stunningly restored to its 1922 glamour with an achingly ornate corniced ceiling on its second floor, and, my personal fabourite, brass rimmed and plaqued glass US Mail chutes that I imagine run the height of the building and would have (maybe tomorrow I'll see if they are still in use) sent guest's mail swiriling down to the intricate brass mail box by the foyer's lifts. After cleaning oursleves up a bit and a bit more baseball coaching (I told you he's serious) we head down for a seafood lunch. We discovered that our slightly fussy eater actually seems to love all things shell-y so I took great pleasure in watching him share my mussels (white water apparently and locally sourced) and scoff generous helpings of his dad's chowder or is that chowdah? The pronounciation I mean, well its a New England thing. I found this out last night when the valet very kindly helped me with not only my bags but also with my sleeping son whom I did not have the heart to wake up (he was such good company on the long flight he desperately needed his sleep though I know we paid for it this morning!) and his eagerly awaited reunion with his father was somewhat of an anticlimax as he was wheeled into the room, out to the world still tightly strapped into his car seat, surrounded by baggaege on the valet's trolley. Still made his dad's night. When the young chap commented on our son's hat (Yankees of course, its a family thing) we braced ourselves for the usual banter that goes on between Boston Red Sox fans and yankee lot (they are both as a rule fiercely loyal and an age old rivalry dies hard) he actually surprised us by saying he only helped me because we were claerly a New York Yankees family. I didn't really listen to the rest of the conversation between and my husband so perplexed was I by his Rhode Island twang. To my, slightly trained ears, it is like a cross between east end and west country with a bad actors' attempt at an american accent thrown in. They start talking in this part of the world and you never know where the inflections will go next. I absolutely love it but need more than a weekend to master it past the usual suspescts, "cahhhhhh" for car and "wadaahhh" for water and the plethora of others found plastered on gawdy tourist shirts littering coastal towns just a little north of here. Beyond my geo-anthropological (try saying that after a couple) discoveries I would like to share two more. 1. The iphone (another first this morning, it will be accompanying me on my travels and making me feel just that one step closer to being James BOnd - how does it KNOW how to do all those craaaaazy things?!) is sturdier than you might expect,I stepped on it not half an hour ago trying to wrangle sleeping son (the mussels it turned out sent him over the edge) handbag, historical weighted door and card-key and let go of said bag trod on it, and phone, and to my delight the sitting victim came away without a scratch. Smells a bit fishy though. That will teach me for eating mussels in one hand and catching up with my cousin in Sheffield with the other. Cross-contamination was inevitable. And finally 2. you can never have enough hanging space to dry clothes and towels on, most bathrooms are seriously lacking in this area and hotels are no different, especially when in the second week of no-nappies for growing boy. After tripping onto the phone I lay him on the bad. He squirmed in a fit like manner and I panicked silently, he whispered that pee and pooh were coming, I whisked us off but not before I suddenly felt a wet warmth soak my shirt. He cried. I cooed. We changed. He slept. What a come down for him after the triumph at the restaurant - he seems to alert us in ample time - and he and I hugged in delight at what he calls his "family of sausages" floating in the water. Neither of us have lost the thrill of it. Yet. I do wonder though, if mothers secretly still feel this long after their sons are several decades past potty training. I think I can imagine myself in a quiet glow of pride as Sam excuses himself from the table to relieve himself. "I helped him do that'" I'll think to myself. Is that a little creepy? If it is don't pass it on. I'll now shuffle over to an inviting sofa, admire the autumnal bouquet Cory put on the windowsill for me and perhaps even treat myself to another coffee. Two in one day? Just another first on my first day. My first second.

Reluctantly Entering the Starbucks Generation

I am afraid. My husband presented me with two bits of information that have unsettled me. The first is that he is on first name terms with the bar tender at Starbucks. Or is that barrista? Or server? Or coffee advisor? Either way I don't like it. Not one bit. Perhaps the fact that my family run a small cafe in North London makes me somewhat indifferent to the megagiants of the coffee chains. I don't think of myself as such a coffee snob (my husband would beg to differ and has almost given up making the first pot of the day to avoid my turned up lip if, god forbid, it shouldn't be just right) I think its just I don't like the taste of their coffee. To you the friendship may seem like a simple act of human kindness for which my better half is well-known, and yet, to the remnants of my cynical British self, it presents itself as our first lure into the yankee way (yes I am well aware that coffee chains are thriving over here, I am talking from merely from my slightly insignificant point of view not as a voice of reality). These are our remaining hours with my folks before we jet off to Boston-land. The imminence of our departure for a year long adventure is affecting our little clan in different ways seeing that, despite our Italian (Mum) and Jewish (Dad) heritage we are not disposed to great displays of emotion. Instead of tears or guilt trips or other negative parental stereotypes my parents appear to be behaving in the following manner: Mum has gone into ironing and cooking superdrive, folding our clothes even more meticulously than usual and creating the most breathtaking dinners an deserts and Dad repeatedly asks if I I will be designing the new menus for our cafe from afar. No doubt the final correction stage will take some time. I wonder if he will give me a conker or two to remember him by like my first day of university - "one for every year". Our son has been play acting plane rides for weeks, and appears firmly ensconced in intricate make believe stories that span many lands. I am alternately super calm and super leaky. Eyes that is. Hot tears seem to spring up and I do little to stop them. Not that I am sad to leave, my feet are permanently itchy. Just a little overcome. We have said goodbyes all week and I think they have taken their toll. The second thing my husband informed me of on our fuzzy phone conversations when time schedules coincide (me struggling to stay awake, he on his afternoon coffee high) is that he has volunteered me to twitter on his behalf. I say that's a novel way of describing my daily ramblings to him. He says he means the real twitter. I tell him to twitter off. He laughs and explains that it will be a creative project for me - the PR department have suggested he do it in character. I explain to him that his character only "lives" for a couple of hours a night and that, in the cold light of day, Igor is but a fake hump and set of limp black lycra leggings. It appears that the PR lot have waved their magic and I indeed, will be expected to post Igor's thoughts to possible followers. Do they really believe he ought to become the messiah of musical theatre? Stranger things have happened. Healthy, I think, it is not. What worries me the most as we come to the tail end of our "chat" are the suggestions he offers, "you know, you could say things like, I am at Starbucks getting coffee, blah blah blah." Coffee chains and social networks in the same sentence. This is not the man I married. I'd better get my British ass over there double quick before we are well and truly Starbucked.

Count Down To Take Off

Saturday. Blurry morning after the night before. Wrap party wrapped. Our travels suddenly seem like a palpable reality. Sam and I count down the days to joining the traveling circus. Ok, not a real-bonafide-we-are-in-Chicago-in-the-1920s-traveling-by-train kind of circus, but the overactive part of my imagination has already anticipated similar camaraderie and drama. And mileage. The thought of flying and driving across the states as a three strong family band and part of a 40 something strong troupe of american musical theatre performers, musicians and technicians fills me with the kind of tingly anticipation of a 6 year old on christmas eve. I think, perhaps wrongly, predicted that I will take on the persona of token foreigner in the group, what with me being the only Brit in the pack, and along only for the ride - Cory will be doing the real work, sporting a hump for 8 shows a week entertaining the american public as Igor in Young Frankenstein. I wonder how long I might maintain the illusion that I do actually live in a castle and drink tea dead on 4.30pm every afternoon. Will my accent retain its roots or will I, not for want of resistance, simply succumb to the blurred twang of a transatlantic drawl. There are worse fates; I might become addicted to fanatically fussy coffee orders that extend way beyond a simple two syllable request, supersizing, unhumanly toned triceps, tanning booths, botox, coca cola, rodeo. I will stop at that before I tick all the negative american stereotypes. Which is of course why I am looking forward to our adventure. I fully intend to prove many of the stereotypes wrong. Or maybe right. Or maybe a bit of both. I intend to be surprised by people. To get to know the yanks, if perhaps a select group of them. Are musical theatre performers a good guide to the people? I don't see why not? I strong belt, (I'm talking vocal not leather) a few sequins a couple of jazz hands and a trunk load of theatrical anecdotes never hurt nobody....But first, to pack. Or unpack as I like to think on it. As in, take out half the stuff I have planned to take to leave room for copious collecting of memorabilia. My heart goes out to the poor stifled voice in my head, barely audible above the reams of daily amplified lists, struggling to convince me that this tour might also be an excercise in relinquishing our materialistic lives. Nothing makes me want to enjoy a minimalist life more than packing up our flat up for the year. And yet, here I am making room in the case for more stuff to clog up the not-sure-what-category drawer, or, my personal favourite, as my exasperated husband will tell you, the this-sideboard-is-from-Narnia-so-no-amount-of-schmutter-is-too-much-all-extras-will-be-shunted-miraculously-to-magic-lands-and-will-not-fall-out-each-time-you-try-to-actually-store-useful-things. In my defence it is the first time I have had such a beautiful piece of practical (not a word usually associated with anything I own or love) furniture. I digress. I won't make empty promises of not doing so again. For now, I leave to rise into the world of the living (thank you bucket of coffee) look forward to some serious mum and daughter time (thank you best mate and her fiance for playing mum and dad to our Sammy-boy for the day) and blog my way to the start of our travels. Altogether now, "happy trails to youuuuuuuu......."