Madrid. October, 2009

Looking from our room down into the hotel’s interior patio, we saw this party going on. What was it? There’s so much black being worn. Could it have been a funeral party? Or is everyone in Madrid just so chic, especially after Labor Day, that few colors (and certainly no white on any of the women) are to be seen. A pink shawl draped over a chair back here, a golden brown suit there, a gentleman’s khakis. Otherwise, nada.

Montreal. October, 2005

Don’t you love pears? Maybe not as much as I do. I love their taste, their texture, everything about them. But only when they’re perfectly ripe. Why is it so hard to find ripe fruit in the United States? Maybe it’s me. Recently, my friend Nick offered beautifully ripe Forelle pears as part of his Christmas dessert table. He said he’d bought them firm, ripened them in a paper bag, removing them at the first touch of softness at the blossom end. I found some Forelle pears and tried it. Nada. Oh, well. I have my memories. Like that of these beauties in Montreal’s central market. So ripe and juicy and flavorful. And look. There’s a plate of sample slices just in case you’re from the USA and don’t believe that ripe pears can be found.

Milos, Greece. October, 2011

In a college classical art history course, I learned from Professor Barbara Kaufman that the right-angled, squiggly ongoing line so prevalent in ancient Greek artifacts is called a meander. Makes sense. So I was doubly excited to find it represented on this manhole cover on the Greek isle of Milos. Why doubly? Well, I was able to throw around the term “meander.” And I could indulge my love of photographing manhole covers of many lands. This is a particularly good one, I think, not only because of the meander, but also because of the surrounding stonework, no?

New York, NY. December, 2012

When Nick and I lunched at the wonderful Il Buco Alimentari & Vineria, here’s some of what we had. From left. Grilled sausage, Umbrian lentils, cipolline, sage. Pulpo a la Plancha: seared octopus, shaved carrots, pomelo, lime, radish, black garlic. Mmmm-mmm. We also had fried rabbit. And three cheeses from Emilia Romagna for a diet dessert. Right.

Galata, Istanbul. October, 2011

Among the many reasons we like to stay at the Galata Residence in Istanbul: the private apartments available for short-term stays; Faruk, the most charming and welcoming handyman; the proximity to the streets of Beyoğlu; the short walk to ferries to the Asian side of the city; the quick tram ride to the splendors of the oldest part of the city -- Aya Sofya, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi. AND the fact that we have a small kitchen at our disposal. Not that it takes much equipment for us to make tea or to concoct a simple but magnificent breakfast like this. Yogurt, made by people who know what they’re doing. Almonds secured from spice-and-nut vendors on almost every streetcorner. And whatever fruit happens to be ripe and in season, in this case, these beautiful figs. Who needs more than this?

Red Roof. East Gloucester, MA. April, 2012

I’ve written before about this magnificent house, home to so much history. So imagine my horror when I was running toward it just before Christmas and noticed the light in the neighborhood was somehow different from the way I remembered it. Surprise! Red Roof had been demolished. Razed to the ground. Gone. All that history, all those memories. Mrs. Isabella Stewart Gardner, a frequent guest, would be appalled. What kind of monstrosity will be constructed on the site, I wonder? I’d heard that the recent buyers of the long-family-held homestead were interested in restoring the property. Guess not. A shame, really. Glad I got inside to visit on two occasions.

Barcelona. November, 2010

Somehow, “Have a nice day” sounds much nicer, much less vapid in Catalan, no? Of course, it’s tinged here with a tiny bit of commercialism. These greetings are on the ends of checkout counters in a supermarket chain named DIA.