Leaving Through Basil

The purported properties of basil have no end. It is associated with love and hatred, life and death. It is used to calm and to invigorate. Over the years it has been believed to have magical powers used for both good and evil. It is grown in pots by doorways to attract good fortune and repel scorpions. Sweet basil... grows by the entry to my building in Mahboula, and I enjoy brushing by it's blooms on my way out, smelling its scent.  One of basil's magical properties is the belief that a whiff of the crushed leaf on leaving will reveal the correct path ahead.

In my neighborhood that means avoiding the worst of the overflowing dumpsters and piles of construction rubble. Mahboula, meaning 'mad woman', is an acquired taste. There are many reasons why you might feel sorry for yourself if you have to live here, but I realize that it is the one part of Kuwait I will miss when I leave. For all its faults, Mahboula is the real thing, and there is a camaraderie here that only the hopeless find with each other.  My memories of this place are now intrinsically associated with the scent and sight of the basil herb.

From my window I watch cricket matches on the stretch of sandy lot between the unfinished construction sites. This seems to be the only pastime in a neighborhood with no bars, coffee shops or movie theaters (and an unused beach nearby).  Dedicated to the game, the players are out in sunshine or sandstorm. I watch the same players line up each morning to be bused to work, line up at the only ATM to withdraw their well earned cash, and line up again to wire their money home. I have never joined in their cricket,

but all of their other business is my business too. There is no pretense that we are here for any other reason than the monthly payslip.  And trust Mahboula  to find a way to wire my money to the US when the larger banks couldn't be bothered.
I walk out, through the basil bushes, and immediately hear the horns of taxi cabs, waiting to take me away, out of Mahboula. I am indebted to the cab drivers, with some I am on a first name basis, as they will know where I need to go better than I know myself. They are intelligent, articulate and polite. With them I feel both safe and connected to my neighborhood.

None of us contribute much financially to Mahboula, we send all our money elsewhere. But I am quite happy to let one of the local restaurants cook for me and have my dinner delivered. And if I'm feeling in the mood to bake chocolate chip banana bread I go out in search of ingredients. The nearby bakalas have a strange assortment of products and I enjoy poking around to see what can be found. The storekeepers greet me warmly and then beg me to let them help me find what I need. One digs up fresh red apples, another has tonic water tucked away, and they always find change.
I was quite proud of myself in finding a local bakery. The bakery workers didn't quite understand why I was taking pictures with my phone of their open-air ovens, and I never quite worked out when and what to buy.  But I was still greeted with shouts of enthusiasm when I walked by. I don't think they get many women walking by.

Mahboula's streets do not have women and children.  At first I felt uncomfortable being a lone woman among so many men.  Now I know that I am safe here. Everyone here behaves in fear of deportation. We all line up obediently to be counted, to be fed, to be moved from place to place and to be allowed to live in Kuwait. It is when I leave my neighborhood, my community, that I encounter prejudice, disrespect and disdain.  Here in Mahboula I am safe from those who wish me harm.
Foodies is my nearest eatery and serves rotisserie chicken. In order to walk past Foodies I have to climb over a pile of construction material or go into the street, jump across an open sewer and try not to be disgusted by the rotting garbage of the open dumpster. I am repelled, yet the owner will often run out and greet me as a long lost friend. I am drawn into conversation and make a mental note to put his chicken on the menu soon. Like the basil plant, Mahboula both repels, and sustains; supporting its own by recognizing what each really needs: community.

Mahboula saw through me when we met,

Then would leave me not alone;

Time, you thief, who love to set

 Memories, carve that in stone!

Say I'm beaten, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I failed again, but add

Mahboula suffered with me.

(adapted from poem by Leigh Hunt 1838)

Slide For More

Recently I took on the job of sorting through all my mother's old slides. Taken between 1958-1988, they are a record of both my parents' work in Brazil, and my childhood. The question was what to do with these forgotten images that sat taking up space in a spare bedroom.
The first task was to go through each box, view each slide, and then decide which were worth saving by digitizing them. Viewing slides is not that easy these days. I had to dig out my grandfather's old projector and insert each slide in, upside down.

This old dinosaur was quite capable of both melting and eating the slides, but it served its purpose. It quickly told me which pictures were too dark, discolored or blackened with mold to be viewed again. It was easy to discard those slides. But then an image like the group above would jump out of the wall and flood me with memories and feeling. My mother often joined in my project, especially when I had difficulty identifying someone or a place. She could launch into the story behind each photo. Which made me wonder if it would be impossible to discard any of these slides. Didn't the story behind each one merit remembering, retelling to my children and my children's children?
But then I put up a slide that needed no retelling.  It was a picture of my mother cooking at her large wood-burning stove with my little brother along side. She was stirring a pot and he was looking up in anticipation. My mother was speechless for a moment.  Then she said, "This brings back so many good memories."  But they didn't need to be told, or explained in words, ...the picture said it all.
I had my answer.  I would save all the slides that spoke to me without the need of a caption, lengthy explanation or story.  They would stand alone.

I called on my mother sometimes just for a second opinion. She enjoyed looking upon those whom she had lost over the years and said, "So nice to remember, but you don't need to keep that one." I realized that she didn't need any of these slides to help her remember. These people were all in her heart. The slides were for me, and my brothers.  We were the ones who needed time to appreciate those years in Brazil and holidays with family in England. And one day, hopefully, our children will appreciate these images that speak of an incredible life.

In the words of Mma Ramotswe:

"The past is being remembered, 

and forgotten, 

in just the right measure." 

( Alexander Mccall Smith)

Making Connections

I've been to Amsterdam, but I've never been to Amsterdam. I fly KLM, which is a reliable and affordable airline to Europe, and make my connection in Schiphol airport. I know the airport well, once laying over there for 11 hours.  Nowadays I am able to avoid those long layovers, but I don't mind making connecting flights. They make the ticket cheaper and, when flying half-way across the world with kids, are a welcome break to stretch your legs. In the US they are necessary to stock up on food since the airlines stopped this service.  But flight connections can be very stressful and there is an awful lot that can go wrong.

I was feeling a little smug as I sipped my coffee while waiting to board my plane. But I was about to be reminded how vunerable you are mid-trip, still miles away from home.
When still in the air, KLM made an announcement for a certain passenger who had a tight connection in Amersterdam. This passenger happened to be sitting beside me, and they were moving her to business class so they could get her off quickly when we landed. She must have been stressed because she left behind her reading material and a window seat.  I was glad to have a view of Amersterdam and the surrounding fields as we landed. And as we taxied up to the terminal we passed a group of mothers and children wildly waving at us. I don't know if they were meeting someone on our plane, but it was a nice greeting! It reminded me of the days back in Brasilia or more recently in Kwajalein when we went to meet friends and family. We would watch the plane land and then wait for them to emerge and walk towards us on the tarmac.  I miss that because now I am likely to take a taxi home or rent a car and not give anyone the bother of meeting me.

During my two hour stay in Amsterdam airport I managed to leave my bag with boarding pass and passport in the toilet stall; then discover that I had also left my Kindle e-reader on the last flight. This is where KLM and the airport staff came to the rescue, twice. The cleaning staff had discovered my bag and locked the stall, keeping it safe until I returned to the toilets. And the flight crew of my leaving flight radioed the crew from my last flight, located my e-reader and delivered it to my new gate. I am sure this was just another day for them, but for me it was like a warm hug.
I started to think of all the stress of travel experienced by all the passengers swarming the airport trying to make a connection: lost luggage, fatigue, delays, cancellations, missed appointments and restroom needs. It gave me some empathy for those that pushed and shoved their way through, made no eye contact or ignored the usualy pleasantries.  Fortunately the airline and airport staff in Amsterdam understood that we are all just doing our best to make a connection.

221B: FAKE NEWS!

I found myself with a few hours to spend on London's Baker Street. Why not check out the famous residence at 221B? So I walked along the street, past the Sherlock Holmes Grill, Sherlock Holmes Hotel and even the Sherlock Holmes Chemist.  I was disappointed to arrive at what I thought was the Holmes residence and find ... a Chinese restaurant.  Only then did I feel foolish because I had been looking for number 22B, not 221B.  I turned around and walked the other direction.
I should have felt foolish because I had actually expected to find the residence of  a fictitious character.  Why should there be any residence at a made up address?
At the other end of Baker Street, near Regent's Park, there is a sign indicating the fictitious 221B, because it was supposedly the first floor flat of the building at 221.

There was a line of tourists waiting to enter the very small residence, one room wide, two deep and four floors up. I bought my ticket and joined the line. On the first floor were the living room and bedroom of the famous detective. We were allowed to sit in his armchair by the fireplace and pose for pictures. Someone dressed in costume told us we could even wear the distinctive hat. "You can put that hat on; it is just prop. The real one is in the glass case," he said. We all bought it! I even took a picture of the hat exhibited in the glass case.

Everything looked so authentic, but I had to laugh when I got to the handwritten letters.  Was I supposed to believe that the correspondence of Holmes and Watson had been preserved in this museum?  All this was fake! It had to be, There was no real Sherlock Holmes.  Just the fact that this place called itself a museum led the visitors to believe we were viewing something historically accurate.
Much of the 'props' displayed in the house were indeed historically accurate.  There were scientific books, household antiques and even a Victorian toilet.  But they were all mixed in with fakes, like the enormous  stuffed and mounted head of the Hound of the Baskervilles and the severed ears of Mrs. Mary Browner.  I had to remind myself that it was all really fiction.
This is what makes fake news so dangerous. In it we recognize  something familiar, or something true.  Then we let it lead us astray.  We enjoy being led astray, down the path into fantasy land.  As long as we are able to recognize the absurdity of the thing, and laugh at being taken for a fool, then we can enjoy the experience and come back to reality.

So I left 221B and crossed the road into Regent's Park. The grass was brown from lack of rain, and the gardeners were busy digging up the flower beds. This in-between season didn't really entice one to walk in the park.  But a path led me into an inner  garden, with roses of all varieties in bud and ready to bloom.  Each was carefully labeled with names so imaginative they could only be designed to make us believe there was a true story just waiting to be made up behind each one.

Bee Wise

"Get Wisdom - BUT with all your getting, Get Understanding"
This was on a bench in the rose garden of Regent's Park, dedicated to an Edward Sinclair who was described as "in every way a Wise Man."  I realized that I have had a few lessons in getting understanding recently, and I've been so busy in my getting that I nearly missed them. On a visit to Kew Gardens, I had to be politely, yet persistently, prodded to get the point of their new sculpture called The Hive.

There is so much else in the gardens to investigate, gaze at, walk through and photograph, that I almost forgot to visit the sculpture.  I figured I would do a quick walk by on the way out, pausing to take a picture just to say I'd seen it. But the Hive made sure I got its message in several ways.
After wandering inside the enormous metal frame of the bee hive I joined my mother below the glass floor. There I noticed a man restocking a metal pole with small popsicle sticks.  I then followed the instructions on the pole which said to hold the stick between my teeth and the pole while covering my ears. The vibrations created sound which only I could hear, inside my head. Then I understood the sound being piped out through the speakers inside the hive. It was bee music, created by the vibrations of wings, constantly changing in tone, rhythm and volume.
I was approached by another employee who asked me what I thought of the sculpture.  Did I think it was good idea? I had no response, because I really didn't know what the main purpose of the Hive was other than a cool piece of sculpture. She proceeded to tell me that

children could learn a lot here, to which I must have looked back blankly.  "About the bees and pollination!" "Oh, yes, that." I still wasn't sure how a structure of carefully constructed metal could teach about pollination. "You know that there is a real hive connected to this, don't you?"  Then it started to dawn on me that there was much more to this place than a cage wired with sound and lights.  But, of course, I was too proud to admit I really could do with a proper explanation.  I let my guide move on to find someone who was more responsive. I could always look it up later on-line.
Finally, my sister-in-law came to the rescue. She had stood by another guide in order to overhear his explaining to a child the real genius behind the Hive.  He explained how the real hive of bees, kept out of the public's reach, had been wired with sensors in order to detect the bees' activity. Using technology, this activity was transmitted to the man-made hive in the form of sound and light. The sound reflected the intensity of the vibrating wings, and the lights showed where and how the bees moved. So lights lit up in different locations and in different colors all around the inside of the Hive giving a truly natural, yet synthetic, experience of the inside of an active bee hive.

 It took one knowledgeable person to explain that to a child, knowing that they would be overheard by adults too proud to ask; then for one of those adults to pass along that information to me.  Maybe that is what "all that getting of  wisdom" means. You listen, experience and reflect.... listen some more, repeat, and finally it sinks in.  

Leeds Castle Revisited

After a delicious lunch in The Stables, we wandered through the beautiful gardens towards the hedge maze. A loud speaker was announcing the start of the falconry show. My mind was still on the gorgeous display of tulips and wisteria , but I listened with half an ear. I was watching the sky, hoping that I could make a run through the maze before the next downpour.  The falcons were flying between handlers and perching on nearby trees. I paid attention as the trainer announced that they were working on getting the falcons to hunt birds instead of  rabbits, because I had noticed some terns flying around.

 Surely they wouldn't make a live, in-flight kill part of the display, would they?  We followed the falcon with our eyes as it swooped and came down fast on a duck beside the nearby lake. There was a flapping of wings , cloud of feathers and a "Oh, that wasn't supposed to happen," from the trainer. She tried to continue on with the show, assuring us that the duck was fine, while another handler went to retrieve the bird.  He had a hard time getting the falcon to release its prey, and when it finally did, it was obvious that the duck was 'not fine'.  The lifeless body was quietly slid into a bag and removed from sight.

This was not my first visit to Leeds Castle, and with each visit I am treated to a new experience.  I had never  before seen such a dramatic falconry display, and neither had I paid the $25 entry fee before. On my first visit, my father took one look at the main entrance to the castle grounds and decided to take a public footpath in the another direction instead. He assured us that we would see the same spectacular views of the castle without the crowds. So we followed the path... right into the back side of the castle grounds. We felt a little bad about entering without paying, so we didn't go inside the castle itself.
The next time I visited I was accompanied by three small boys. I ran around after them, nearly lost them in the maze, and fed them outside on the lawn.
My maze experience was quite different this time with my brother. He seemed to have some inside knowledge or strategy. I followed him blindly and he didn't take a wrong turn.  We made it through the maze to the center in record time, then watched others wandering round either looking for a way out, or for their lost children.

My young sons had found little to interest them in the castle itself. Going around with my sister-in-law was quite a change. She is something of a history buff and we spent time reading up on the various past residents back to Henry VIII. We were surprised to find that most of the owners were men who managed to lose all their money and then marry wealthy wives. After using their wife's money to save the castle, they then ran off to a new colony in Virginia, leaving the upkeep of the castle to a woman. Eventually the castle

was sold to a wealthy American heiress, Lady Baillie. She restored the castle to its modern day state before donating it to the British government. Since then it has been used as a diplomatic venue for international peace talks. I imagine that if one can't negotiate peace in such an idyllic setting, then peace must be impossible.
We unhurriedly took in all the distinctly female details of the castle interior: the luxurious bathrooms, the fabric walls of the bedrooms, the inviting library and discrete ladies dressing

room.   I am now planning my next visit.  If I come with my husband he will want to bring his clubs and spend some time on the golf course. I will look to see what is flowering in the gardens and grounds. And if my sons visit again, who knows what they may then find of interest and what new view might catch their eye at Leeds Castle.

The Dumb Bell

Arriving in London, I was met at the airport by my mother and told we were going out for a pub lunch and asked, did I mind?  To be honest, I couldn't think of anywhere else I would rather go.
On Sundays the Dumb Bell serves a full roast lunch with a selection of turkey, beef and ham, Yorkshire pudding and all the sides.  I loaded up my plate with extra stuffing and sausages, and sat down to eat with friends and family.  The pub's name comes from an old story that is written out in their menus.  It involves a man who was scheduled to be executed at the sound of the ringing of a bell.

His executioner waited for the sound, but it never came, and he was forced to let the prisoner go. Later it was discovered that the execution had been ordered, the bell rung; but no sound came from the bell. Hence the name, "Dumb (Silent) Bell". When investigated, they found a young maiden, who was in love with the man, had camped out all night inside the bell, holding the clapper, so that it would not make a sound. A sadly romantic story.
Before making this trip to England I realized that I haven't written about the country much. Since everything British is so familiar to me I tend to take it all for granted. But his time I was especially grateful for the chance to visit a traditional British pub.
All that is good about British pubs is characterized by the Prancing Pony in Lord of the Rings.  The poor hobbits show up at its door on a cold and rainy night, being chased by God-knows-what, and find a warm fire , food and a bed for the night. It becomes a place of refuge, catering for their most basic needs.
I can see you thinking that since England is so cold and rainy,  the pubs are your best option when traveling. But I have fond memories

of visiting pubs in spring and summer months.  We would take our food and drinks outside and sit in the gardens.  I don't think I would ever choose another restaurant if there was a pub nearby.
I heard that pubs in London are closing at a rate of one per week. They are having to reinvent themselves as dance halls or children's activity centers. Why have Londoners stopped going to pubs to simply take time off in a comfortable setting with friends, good food and drink? Has it become too familiar, and therefore forgotten?  What we don't appreciate disappears eventually.

We finished our meal and , very contentedly, made our way home. Before leaving the Dumb Bell, we  stopped to make a wish at the well in the garden.  This seemed appropriate somehow, probably because we were feeling happy and hopeful for the near future.  When your immediate needs have been met, it is easier to be optimistic when you are setting out again, rested and in good spirits.