I’m Cindy, a single empty-nester, writer, editor, and English professor passionate about travel and culture. My story is here. I’ve been in school since I was five. I can assure you as an educator and learner that NOTHING teaches us more about the world and ourselves than traveling and living cross-culturally. This blog empowers women […]
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It was the Grand Finale of a month of festivities all over the island. In Santo Domingo there had been an air show the week before celebrating The Dominican Republic’s Independence Day on February 27, and this would end the Caribbean Carnival season in Santo Domingo. My friends texted to say the Malecón—the oceanfront road where the oldest parade in the Americas was about to begin—was closed. I’d have to walk several blocks to get to the restaurant to meet them. I’d seen families walking toward the parade site for miles from the Colonial Zone where I’d had lunch, some stopping to buy masks, others in costumes. My driver motioned me out, so I asked which way to Adrian Tropical. He pointed left.
I stepped out onto a side street that far ahead dropped off into the sea, but I was already swimming through waves of color. Dominican groups gathered plumed in jewel tones, sequins, fringe, and feathers. I passed the Tainos in traditional dress (the indigenous I’d seen in paintings last fall ), then women like cabaret dancers in larger, more flamboyant headdresses like those seen in Rio. I tried not to look lost. I’d lived in the DR since August and was comfortable being the only expat gringa singing to bachata in my barrio’s grocery store, La Serena (Little Mermaid), but here I was a fish out of water again, disoriented by the masses and not knowing exactly where the taxi had dropped me. I squeezed past the barricades, crossed the street, and was seaside, hoping to see the restaurant up the coast. Earlier the driver got lost taking me to the Spanish Square—the biggest landmark in the city. I hoped his directions were right.
After a few blocks of moving through the crowd upstream, I stopped and asked a lady eating street food if she knew where Adrian Tropical was. She called over two guys. I turned.
It was them. The ones my friend–her families were locals– said I didn’t want to meet.
They were completely covered in black grease—tarred but not feathered–playing the part of chicken thieves, once a common problem now satirized here. She said the Carnival parades can get crazy and that these guys tell you if you don’t give them money they’ll hug you. I’d just passed other chicken thieves—men clothed as women with bulging bosoms and butts. Once these humps were really live chickens but now they are pillows stuffed under their dresses. The Carnival star/antihero is the “Limping Devil”–Diablo Cojuelo–symbolized by the chicken carried upside down by his feet. Island lore is that the devil was cast from heaven to earth for his trickery, causing him to limp.
Looking into the eyes–the only body parts not covered in tar– of the characters representing Roba la Gallina (Steal the Chicken) made me turn chicken.
“Donde?” (Where are you going? they asked.)
“Adrian Tropical.”
“Ah, Tropical! Tropical!” They happily pointed to the direction I was headed. I thanked them and turned to hurry on, almost colliding with another guy I was warned about. He was carrying a “bladder”—a balloon on a stick—to wallop people with. I felt like Candide. No one can make this stuff up.
After 20-30 minutes of walking I decided I’d been sent on a chicken chase. I about-faced, crossed the street, and scanned the sky for anything familiar. I was dying to text my friends to ask where they were and to take photos of the costumed characters and creatures I passed, but I had been warned by locals to hang onto my purse and not take my phone out in the crowd.
When I saw the Crowne Plaza, I sent up a hallelujah and started sprinting until an officer checking IDs checked me.
Like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, I growled a plea. “I only have a bank card, and I just want to see the parade.”I must have seemed scarier than the devils cracking whips in the street beside me. She waved me on. I ran up the steps, asked another security guard which way to the roof, and he pointed to the 2nd story terrace. I texted my friends who said I was only an 8-minute walk away, but the parade had started and diving into the crowd beyond the hotel again was too much for me. I told them I’d stay put.
I looked down and understood the extra security. Below was the Ministry of Culture’s main stage where participants stopped to perform. It was like being in front of Macy’s on Thanksgiving, but with three times the number marching (30,000 yearly), above the fray, and feeling a warm ocean breeze. Here’s what I saw…
Masks were worn by the first actors on Greek and Roman stages. Festivals were held for Bacchus/Dionysus–the god of fertility, wine, and revelry–as a reprieve from following Apollo/god of restraint, rationality, and order the rest of the year. Masquerade balls during Carnival, the most famous originating in Venice, spread to other parts of Europe and were brought to the Caribbean by conquerors. Combined with African traditions of the people who were here and enslaved, carnival celebrations spread throughout the Americas. The largest in the world is in Rio, the most popular in the US is in New Orleans. The word carnival means to give up meat or things of the flesh, a practice observed by some during lent in Catholic/Christian countries. Thus, Carnival often occurs just before lent begins. To consider the relationship between lent and carnival, Christianity and community, see one of my favorite movies, Chocolat, set in a small town in France in 1959. The main character’s Latin American roots are also central to the theme.
Have you been to a Carnival parade or celebration? If so, where? Which are the Must-Sees?
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” –Maya Angelou
On a February Sunday in 2016 I sat calm, spent on the shore of Sidi Kaouki. Two of my closest friends, Kate and Ritchie, were with me eating salads by the sea. We were aware that our time together was short—a hazard of expat life that bonds people fierce and fast. I had told the school I wouldn’t be returning to Morocco in the fall. When offered another contract, I was tempted to stay longer because leaving the kids, friends, and country would be so hard and no job had opened at home. But I missed my kids and though they were adults, I felt they needed me.
We had completed a writing workshop at the Blue Kaouki hotel in a rural area twenty-five miles south of Essaouria. Jason, a writer and our co-teacher, had led the workshop of faculty members. He and his fiancé often surfed at the quiet beach town, so we stayed at their usual hotel, which had a terrace and sunroom where we could meet shielded from the February wind.
We had left school on Friday and while the ride through the rural countryside was beautiful, my gut churned. A policeman stopped the van and climbed aboard, asking us one-by-one where we were from and where we were going. Satisfied with the driver’s papers and our answers, he waved us on. I checked my phone again to see what was going on, and it seemed a terrorist cell had been discovered and members had been arrested near there a few days earlier. Even so, this was not what upset me. After living in Morocco almost two years I knew the country’s vigilance against terrorism — the teamwork of the people and the police meant eyes and ears were always protectively watching and listening. No, I was worried and felt sick about what was going on at home.
My plan had been to return to the same address of twenty-one years after my time abroad, but circumstances had left my house standing empty for a couple of months. I’d hoped to get a renter until I could move back in late June, but no one was interested in such a short lease. I couldn’t afford to let it set empty until then, and I didn’t want the stress of renting it for a year, leaving me with nowhere to live. Given the upkeep of a large yard and an old house, I wondered if it was time to downsize. After months of praying and discussing with my family, it seemed time to let it go.
In 2014 before I left the US, I read an article written by an expat that said there would be great gains from living overseas. I knew I was meant to go to Morocco, but the article said there would inevitably be losses, too. I never dreamed our family home would be one. Today, almost a year since the house sold, I am thankful and believe God worked out all things for good, but I still sometimes wake from dreams where I’m on my deck with my dog or in the kitchen with my kids, and my heart hurts. A year ago… the heartbreak seemed unbearable.
Ritchie, who is now teaching in Russia
I hated that the huge job and burden of getting the house ready to rent or sell had fallen on my brother-in-law, sister, and daughter—months of fielding phone calls; meeting potential renters/buyers; cleaning; hauling; painting; upgrading; waiting on installers, repairmen and inspectors. A back-breaking and agonizing feat, a sacrifice of precious time–all for which I will be forever grateful and humbled by.
I also hated that I couldn’t say goodbye.
So when Jason sat us down and explained we’d be writing from the part of us called our “Crazy Child,” I felt grateful for release and terrified of what would surface. The last two months I’d cried into my prayer journal—pages of countless question marks and pleas for answers from God. The day before we left for the workshop, I prayed He would strengthen my family over the weekend for the final phase of preparing the house to be sold. I asked for stronger faith for us all from the outcome—whatever would ultimately happen. But as my guilt for being away mounted and grief grew, I felt physically sick.
The Crazy Child is an aspect of your personality that is directly linked to your creative unconscious. It is the place in your body that wants to express things. It may want to tell jokes, to throw rocks, to give a flower to someone, to watch the sunset…
To convulsively weep and throw up simultaneously? I wondered, hoping so, because that was what mine was about to do.
The Crazy Child is also your connection to the past. Everything in your genetic history, your cultural history, your familial history, and your personal history is recorded in your body—in your nervous system. Your Crazy Child has direct access to it all. Everything you have done, and everything that has been done to you, is in its domain…
When the Crazy Child writes, it’s a raw, truthful part of you that reveals itself. It has not been civilized…Your Writer and Editor …are valuable aids to writing. But the Crazy Child—your creative unconscious—is the source.
I had thought the workshop would be good for me. I was thankful for a chance to focus on creating something rather than losing everything.
I knew the “Editor”—the critical voice—all too well. It always spoke in “shoulds” and kept reminding me that I should be home in Tennessee this weekend, though logic told me there was no way I could get there and back from Africa in two days. So when Jason sent us off to write from our Crazy Child—not the Writer who wants to organize or the Editor who wants to polish—I felt relieved. Alone I could cry and cleanse my stomach of everything souring there. There would be time to revise the draft others would see later.
When we reconvened I felt weak but better. The dry heaving had subsided. But then, to my horror, Jason said we would share THIS PIECE…NOW. To reassure us, he read from Bird By Bird written by one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott, on the value of what she calls “shitty first drafts”:
Now, practically even better news than that of short assignments is the idea ofshitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts. People tend to look at successful writers who are getting their books published and maybe even doing well financially and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated. I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much. We do not think that she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can even stand her. (Although when I mentioned this to my priest friend Tom, he said you can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.)
For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts. The first draft is the child’s draft, where you let it all pour out and then let it romp all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see it and that you can shape it later. You just let this childlike part of you channel whatever voices and visions come through and onto the page. If one of the characters wants to say, “Well, so what, Mr. Poopy Pants?,” you let her. No one is going to see it. If the kid wants to get into really sentimental, weepy, emotional territory, you let him. Just get it all down on paper because there may be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. There may be something in the very last line of the very last paragraph on page six that you just love, that is so beautiful or wild that you now know what you’re supposed to be writing about, more or less, or in what direction you might go — but there was no way to get to this without first getting through the first five and a half pages.
Normally the “Mr. Poopy Pants” part would have made me laugh, but I just wanted to cry. Again. I felt as I had so many years ago—naked and exposed. My paper was worse than undigested food mixed with stomach acid. Following Anne Lamott’s lead…I told Jason my draft was not only shitty. It was liquid diarrhea. How could I not clean it up? It was sure to smell up the place. As the sharing began I realized I had no other choice but to let it go. To let her go. My Crazy Child would wait her turn, then share like the others.
One-by-one we read. Around the table our crazy kids showed themselves. They were from Canada, France, Australia, The Philippines, England, and the US. Collectively they made us giggle, laugh, nod, sigh, and weep. We asked them questions and repeated back their words—their wisdom, their courage—as their writers took notes. When I finished reading, some were crying and Ally, our guidance counselor and one of the most sensitive souls I’ve ever known, got up, walked over, and hugged me from behind. We all left lighter that day because we carried home something of substance—of ourselves and of each other. Our sharing made us vulnerable, and for that we left stronger.
Yesterday I saw on Pinterest writing prompts my daughter had pinned. She and her brother are doing great, and that makes me happy. Recently I took the online class by Brené Brown, The Wisdom of Story, and have finished the first chapter of the memoir I’ve needed to write, it seems, my whole life. I get up at 5 AM before work and continue after school till I can work no more. Glennon Doyle Melton, Brown’s co-teacher, says we must write from our scars, not our wounds. This morning I reread what I wrote at the workshop a year ago. It was stream-of-consciousness–the gushing flow of multiple losses over many years, allowed to surge when the locks were lifted on the dammed pain. It will be there– in my book—because it covers chapters, decades, of my story.
In some ways I’m where I was a year ago. And not. Then I had no idea I’d end up teaching in The Dominican Republic. I’ve told the school I’ll be moving home this summer to be with my family, though no job has opened there. Whatever happens, I know I’m to continue working on my memoir and that my Father loves and has a plan for this Crazy Child, Gypsy, Writer, and Southern Mom–all me.
*I know many of you have told me you want to write your story, too. I have also found these resources to be helpful:
Below are my classics–tried and true– for celebrating Valentine’s Day, romantic as much for their settings as for their stories. While living abroad since 2014 I’ve seen most of them broadcast repeatedly in English on television stations in Morocco and the Dominican Republic. Valentine’s Day Movie Marathons are as popular in these two countries—one Catholic, the other Muslim– as they are in the US. It seems Cupid, son of Venus born on Mt. Olympus in Greece, is a global citizen and the universal language is love.
#1 Chocolat
Nominated for 4 Academy Awards, this movie is hands-down my #1 V Day choice—this year more than ever—with its redemptive message that even the most polarised can unite with grace, real relationship, and love. The film is adapted from the novel written by Joanne Harris. Interviewing the author, born to a British father and French mother, who was once an English teacher and who lives in Yorkshire, Bronte country, was a thrill for me. See it here.
The film is delicious: a dream cast including Judi Dench, Juliette Binoche, and Johnny Depp; sensual cinematography focused on the making of chocolate in a French hillside village in the 1950s; magical realism from Latin American culture; and a challenge to change and choose love over legalism for the sake of family, friends, and community.
I wonder, do we all know where we belong? And if we do, in our hearts, why do we so often do nothing about it? There must be more to this life, a purpose for us all, a place to belong. You were my home. I knew from the moment I met you, that night, so many years ago.
Angelina Jolie and Clive Owen star in a romance fueled with chemistry of a couple committed to a cause greater than themselves. It’s the story of a woman who leaves her London home for Ethiopia when made aware of the needs there in a refugee camp. Forever changed by what she sees and who she meets, she supports the ones she loves from home and on trips to Cambodia and Chechnya. The film is dedicated to relief workers and victims of war and persecution—another timely choice. Jolie adopted her son, Maddox, while in Cambodia during filming. She brought to the part experience working as a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador.
Inspired by the movie, I tried to rock the heroine’s hat on my trip to Russia.
#3 Slumdog Millionaire
As art, this one ties with Chocolat and Life is Beautiful for my three Favorite Films of All Time. When I first saw it before the Academy Award nominations, I knew it would sweep the Oscars. Here’s why. I long to go to India, but in the meantime, I take trips there in my apartment by dancing to the bonus material at the end.
#4 Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
Also starring Dev Patel and Judi Dench, this film made me cry every time I watched it until I moved abroad because it made me long to try on the expat life. Having done so, I’ve quoted it often on this blog because I now know living outside your home country is what Glennon Doyle Melton, author of Love Warrior, calls a “brutifal” (brutal and beautiful experience). I’ll be forever grateful for this movie moving me to live in Marrakesh for two years. The plot has more than one love story, but the greatest one is making choices in life and learning to love them.
#5 Under the Tuscan Sun
So anyone who has known me for awhile knows the influence this film had on me and other women who have moved abroad. The first night after arriving in Morocco, I unwrapped this DVD (one of 5 in my “survival pack”) and watched it for the twentieth time. I needed to remember that things probably would not go as I planned but love always prevails even if it comes in a package we never expected. So if you are lonely–in a relationship or without one–watch this and please go to my Instagram to get inspired to decorate your own life.
#6-#8 My Favorite Trilogy: Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, Before Midnight
Starring Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise, filmed in 1995, is the story of a young couple who meet in Vienna the night before she must return home to Paris and he to the US.
Before Sunset, the sequel, was filmed in 2004 when the couple meets in the City of Lights, followed by Before Midnight released in 2013 and set in Greece. For anyone who has or is open to finding love abroad or cross-cultural relationships; loves character-driven, smart dialogue or backdrops in the most beautiful places on earth; or appreciates soundtracks you’ll want to download and listen to forever…this is binge-worthy.
#9 Out of Africa
I admit that until last week I had never finished this film. Although the second half moves faster that the first, the whole is an epic love story and worth the time investment. At first Colonial Kenya sent me to Victoria magazine again—my favorite publication in a past life now online– as I saw the comfort china and crystal brought to the main character so far from home. But better, it causes us to question anew the values of that period and our own. I was moved to download the book on Kindle and read the memoir from which it was taken. I didn’t need more reason to do a safari since it already tops my Bucket List, but examining the relationship of the characters played by Meryl Streep and Robert Redford is a Cinema Bucket List must-do.
#10 The English Patient
This one would have been farther up the list a few years ago (I kept the DVD close and watched it often) based on the fiery passion between the characters played by Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas. Maybe actually riding a camel across the Sahara Desert in scorching heat and not looking like Katherine whose scarves always blew beautifully behind her in the breeze did it. Maybe I’m just getting older, wiser, and suspicious of that much intensity because in real life it too often turns to burn (no pun intended). Still, I love the film—especially the backdrops of the desert, Cairo, and Italy where Juliette Binoche teamed again with Fiennes years after they played Catherine and Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, based on my favorite romantic novel of all time. My fav stop on my trip to Tuscany last year was seeing the church below featured in the film. In this case, reality was as beautiful as fiction.
What are your go-to romantic movies? Please tell us in the comments below. Happy Valentine’s Day!
You might also want to check out my Weekend Escape series to inspire travel and connection.
I’m starting this series to inspire real life travel, celebrate global culture found at home, and feed the soul. In the summer of 2014 just before I moved abroad from Nashville, I saw Chef at the theater and loved it. Although the soundtrack has been on my plane playlist since I rushed home and downloaded it, I hadn’t seen the movie again until last night. A great getaway, Netflix and Chef took me on a food tour that stopped in Miami, New Orleans, Austin and Los Angeles. (I’ve been considering a streamline retro trailer life in the US for awhile now.)
I had no idea after two years in Morocco I’d end up living in the Caribbean, but given my love of Latin culture in Nashville—the music, dance, food—it makes sense. Last fall the Santo Domingo Food Truck Festival felt like home. In fact, downtown workers in Music City say the best part of the workweek is Street Food Thursdays. But this movie, starring Jon Favreau as Everyman Chef Carl Caspar, serves up more than culinary masterpieces and comfort food– a grilled cheese sandwich turned art, a Cubana this carnivorous girl raised on Western Kentucky pork craved. It’s for those who fancy food…eaters and cooks…and those who love a good story. (Foodies can check out this space with recipes from the film (and other films) thanks to Judie Walker’s story here.)
Most will be able to relate… wanting to do what you felt you were put on this earth to do but feeling held back in (or from) the dream job…parents co-parenting across two households… dads and sons wanting to connect but not sure how …the bullying and blessing of social media… a career crisis that can rend or mend a family. Performances, funny, real, and warm, are given by an interesting cast— Emjay Anthony (Percy), compelling ten-year-old son of Carl and Inez (Sophia Vergara); Marvin (Robert Downey, Jr.) as the first husband, Riva (Dustin Hoffman) as the creativity-crushing boss, Molly (Scarlett Johansson) as faithful friend, and Ramsey Michel (Oliver Platt), the callous, caustic food critic who ignites a Twitter War and change. An added treat is live performances of “Oye Como Va” and “La Quimbumba” by legendary Cuban singer, Jose Caridad Hernandez, who plays Abuelito.
The film written and directed by Favreau with the help of consultant/food truck Chef Roy Choi of Kogi Korean BBQ won nods including Audience Award for Best Narrative at the 2014 Tribeca Film Festival and in 2015 Best Comedy given by the AARP Movies for Grownups Awards.
Be prepared to plan a southern road trip to NOLA for beignets from Café du Monde, Little Havana for Cubanas at Hoy Como Ayer, or some blues at Franklin Barbecue. Even better, the film will help anyone who feels he/she may have lost his/her way or is simply afraid to turn in the direction to which we’ve been called for a long time. E. E. Cummings said “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” Growing pains are real no matter our age, and change for the better usually comes after we are pushed from our comfort zones and, thus, really scared. For years I’ve taught literature students the hero’s quest which is all of our journeys. When called to adventure–our bigger story and unique purpose God put us here to do–we often, at first, back away from the call. When we do accept it, there will be obstacles, but I believe it’s the way out of living the lives of quiet desperation Henry David Thoreau said sadly most people accept. Carl is faced with a choice though he feels he has none. Sometimes it takes a lot for us to heed our hearts.
Carl: “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve always known what I was going to do and now I’m lost.”
Molly: “I think that’s a good place to start.”
Food Truck Fest in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic…
A wedding. Two unique people become one. A mystery and a marvel. Until recently I’d never attended a January wedding, but starting a new year with a couple committing to share the rest of their lives felt right.
And kind of Disney. Weddings renew hope, reminding us that there is happy-ever-after, not only for the couples, but also for the communities their love creates. Flocked around the lovebirds on an island in the Caribbean were family and friends who’d flown from around the globe to witness, to be…love.
The Magic Kingdom may own ships on which families ride off into the sunset, but they still market their “It’s a Small World” ride as the “Happiest Cruise that Ever Sailed.” I went to Disney World as a kid just after it opened, and, shocker, it was my favourite attraction. Three-hundred papier-mâché dolls traditionally dressed dancing and singing in their native languages a simple song of world peace made my soul sing.
Looking at the guests gathered, I remembered again that it IS a small world. Marcus, the priest who married them and the groom’s lifelong friend, called us The United Nations. They’d gone to high school together when Moises moved from the Dominican Republic to the US, and it turns out Marcus now lives in Louisville, Kentucky, the state in which I was born. In fact, when I met his fiancé at the wedding (they got engaged three days after the wedding at this waterfall) I learned she is from Madisonville, Kentucky –35 miles from Hopkinsville where I grew up.
Maria, the bride, is my coworker. Some of her family and friends flew in from Russia for the celebration. A couple of years ago I’d assisted a coworker, also Russian, in taking student delegates from The American School of Marrakesh to St. Petersburg to the Model United Nations Conference. (I love that in Model UN each student draws a country—not his or her own—to research and represent on global issues. The task is to collaborate with delegates from other countries to find solutions that benefit all.) Of all the European cities I’ve fallen in love with, St. Petersburg is probably the most beautiful–canals like Venice and Amsterdam lined with art, parks, and more palaces than Paris.
Emma, Maria’s longtime friend, came down from New York.Maria’s sister Skypes in their mom from Russia.Calise, a friend I met at my table of Santo Domingo friends including one couple now living in Brazil, is a diplomat for the DR in India and Argentina. Her brother, who was abroad, is another close friend of the groom.
Maria was one of the first people I met after moving to the Caribbean. When I needed to see a doctor and couldn’t make an appointment or speak in Spanish to the clinic staff, she went with me and translated. She introduced other coworkers and me to Moises. Gregarious and kind, he took us all to Zona Colonial for salsa and dinner and has grilled for us while on duty and off the best steaks in town. A chef for big destination weddings across the island, he and Maria decided they wanted their day to be relaxed and fun, which it was, with his staff cooking in the kitchen and serving the feast.
GuacamoleThe best mojitos imaginableCoconut water
Traveling to twenty-five countries on four continents has amazed me with the world’s vastness. Travel provides wide, open spaces for beauty and adventure. And sometimes loneliness. I didn’t speak French or Arabic in Morocco and I barely speak Spanish, but I’ve learned to depend on the kindness, the hospitality, of strangers who become friends.
I am most changed–I think we all are– by the people we meet. Friends I’ve met on the road. People at home I’ve loved all my life. I’m no longer a child, but I still believe it’s a small world. That most of us are more alike than different. That God is love and says we must love one another. That peace happens in our world, our country, our hearts through real relationship. Face-to-face, heart-to-heart encounters with people truly change the world…for good.
Before moving abroad, I lived in Nashville from 1987-2014. This year I plan to move back to Tennessee and the place I call home. Most tourists come to Nashville for offerings in the downtown area –country music, sports, special events–but for lazier days wandering urban neighborhoods like-a-local is relaxing and fun. Over Thanksgiving weekend I had an amazing meal in East Nashville at Lockeland Table. I had to try their Southern Girl Cocktail. The Tennessean shows how it’s done here. Two other favourite places I love to roam and relax are Hillsboro Village where I did some Christmas shopping, and 12th South where I stayed a couple of nights before returning to the Caribbean.
HILLSBORO VILLAGE
At Pangea my daughter, Taylor, and I love to shop for clothes, purses, and other global goodies from Asia, India, and Central America. We found unique Christmas gifts–an antique brass compass and magnifying glass, a book on Southern cocktails, a leather wristband band–and a necklace and earrings for ourselves. Through the years I’ve loved birthday surprises from here–a book on literary lore, gift cards for vintage clothing or bedding.
And if you want to play around with a new look, stop by SEE. Here truly all that is old is new again with retro- large- lens-a-plenty. I saw my eye doctor there and picked out new specs for a new year.
The Belcourt in Hillsboro Village
A holiday highlight was a mother-daughter day at The Belcourt which was closed for renovation when I was home last summer. Although I missed this old familiar face , sinking into the seats of the historical hub of independent films felt like home. The nonprofit first opened its doors in 1925 to show silent movies on the city’s largest stage, but its vital voice in the community rallied supporters to make needed structural upgrades and add a second floor for a third screen and classroom space for educational outreach. For steering its expansion/revival Stephanie Silverman was named 2016 Nashvillian of the Year. Last fall in addition to the beloved weekend classics, new releases, midnight movies, Saturday family films, and offerings by Vanderbilt University faculty, local ladies benefited from Strong Leads: A Film Seminar for High School Girls, a six-week-after-school program on films about or made by women. And speaking of strong female leads…
Fans of Camelot, Taylor and I saw Natalie Portman in Jackie. I’ve always had a thing for the Kennedy story–probably because I remember though only four-years-old watching As the World Turns with my mother (I named my little sister after Penny, the main character). When Walter Cronkite interrupted the program to announce the President had been shot in Dallas, my mother called her mother. It was the first time I saw her cry. The film focuses on the seven days after JFK’s assassination from Jackie Kennedy’s perspective shared exclusively with Life magazine writer Theodore H. White.
Though heavy for the holidays, we appreciated the film’s honesty. Portman’s performance, a raw and rare portrayal of a very real wife, mother, woman, pushes past previously guarded and gilded glimpses at the most private-forced-public of First Ladies. Today a new generation reads What Would Jackie Do? inspired by her iconic taste in apparel, home restoration, and social graces. As with many women of her era, it wasn’t her style to take charge of her life until after Jack’s death when she became the Leading Lady of his legacy and her children’s future. Like Marion Zimmer Bradley’s TheMists of Avalon, the story of King Arthur’s Camelot from the queen’s perspective, the movie is more interesting than the original fairy tale because–like many women–Jackie helped create it to protect the ones she loved. Intelligent writing and exquisite cinematography merge historical details documentary-style with high art. The result is gut-wrenching. Although her prominent position exacerbated her tragedy, women who have lost children or raised them alone by death, divorce, or default can relate to how alone she felt. Taylor was impressed with Portman’s portrayal of strength and loyalty. She observed of Jackie’s tortured and tenacious planning of the burial: “She wanted the funeral to be perfect, but funerals are really more for the living than the dead.” Portman is expected to be nominated for an Oscar and the movie for Best Picture. It has already won Critics’ Choice Awards for Best Actress, Best Screenplay and Costume design, and Hollywood is still abuzz about Portman’s Jackie-like couture on the Golden Globe Red Carpet. If you are into history or empathy, see it no matter where; but if you can catch it at The Belcourt, bonus.
Pancake Pantryfor those who don’t mind a line and a long wait
12TH SOUTH
Just a few streets away from Hillsboro Village is 12th Avenue South flanked by new high rise apartments, historical craftsman cottages, and locals’ long-time hangouts.
Last summer when I stayed in the 12th South area, I couldn’t get into bartaco for dinner. Crowds spilled out the doors and draped over the patio walls waiting for a table, so my sister, niece, daughter and their guys met there for lunch instead. The food was fresh, the music fun, the atmosphere relaxed–much like beach bars in Samana province of The Dominican Republic where I was headed the next day. The baja fish and sesame ribeye tacos, corn, guacamole and sangria were excellent. My only regret is not trying the black bean salad and a mojito, but I plan to be back…
So fun to have Andres and Emily, our “Texan tourists,”and Penny with us.Taylor, Ben, and me
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Borrowed from Five Daughters Bakery for Two Sisters & Two Cousins Below
It was nice to finally check out Draper James, Reese Witherspoon’s place. The southern girl is from Nashville so this one is the flagship store.
Below is my friend, Carol’s home, where I stayed last summer and last week when in town. You can book her upstairs suite with a separate entrance on AirBnB here. Just off 12th/ down the street from Five Daughters Bakery and Mafiaoza’s Pizzeria, it is central to all Nashville offers including her southern hospitality. While her home is now a quiet retreat that stays booked most of the year, back- in- the- day I danced under the stars at many-a-salsa-party in her beautiful backyard.
Separate side entrance to suite–see Air BnB link above for all photos
A reader’s paradise above and below
Ms. AirBnB, Carol, and our friend, Kim
Places locals like…
Frothy Monkey–one of the coolest coffee shops in the city
12 South Taproom A recommendation from Carol for live music and fresh oysters (on my Next Time list)
Epice–I’ve had dinner here twice and love lingering over their delicious Lebanese food at marble tables on the patio
Urban Grub–large round booth to gather friends left of bar; best grits in town; oysters and craft cocktails their superpower
My coworkers in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic greeted me Latin-style after our being off for 3 weeks for Christmas break. Hugs. Kisses. Big smiles. “Happy New Year!” “Feliz ano nuevo!”
On my way to the grocery an older lady saw me trying to cross the street in the rain and scooped me under her umbrella. She talked to me like a mom in Spanish. We braved the crazy traffic together. After that I made my ultimate comfort food, Irish Beef Stew.
My mom is feeling better after receiving treatment today in Nashville. My sister– truly our family’s Florence Nightingale–got her a doctor’s appointment. My aunt drove her to and from Kentucky.
My daughter is at the Vanderbilt-Kentucky game with her boyfriend and dad. She sounds happy. My son messaged back that all is good with him in Knoxville.
Yesterday I talked with a former student who graduated in the ‘80s. Now retired, he reached out and said it was on his Bucket List to have a conversation with me because I made an impact on him and some of his friends. A very wise and creative person, veteran, survivor he knows how much I want to write a memoir to share what I’ve seen and learned to encourage others. Understanding my frustration of never having enough time to write, he advised me to be ok with where I am–of doing what I can do– because we may never achieve all we had hoped, and that is reality, and we are still enough. He reminded me not to languish over where I think I should be or want to be. To un-clutter my mind and not allow worry to pierce my heart. To be ok with doing what I can do each day no matter how seemingly small the accomplishment or far the goal. Because, paradoxically, when we stop worrying, obsessing, we’re freed to move toward what we seek.
Today I talked with my gone-back-to-school friend. Both of us have had full-on panic attacks—me last fall and her today. We needed to know we are not alone. I reminded her to be as kind to herself as she is to others. To let go of perfection, over- achievement. To not sacrifice what is most important—like her health–in the pursuit of making others healthy.
Tonight I am continuing the course taught by Elizabeth Gilbert that my single mom/songwriter friend recommended on creativity and finding your life’s purpose. Eat, Pray, Love inspired me and millions to do more than travel–to take a soul journey solo. Today she is a life coach not only by example but also by design offering video sessions and an online supportive community of other creatives (which by her definition would be anyone who tries to consistently choose curiosity over fear) seeking to live their best lives possible. She distinguishes between hobby, job, career, and vocation and provides journal exercises to determine what we care about most, why we care about it, and how to start doing it daily. She believes creativity is about becoming a student of whatever lights up our brains like a cat scan.
She says the creative life is about humility. And service. She basically says what Hal Thurman did (my favourite quote which I’ve shared with readers and students for years): “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”
I love that she advised bloggers not to worry about building a big platform. Rather, she says: “Serve the platform you have. Do you have five followers on Facebook? Serve them.” She mentions her blogger friend who shares what many are afraid to say about being a mom and wife. That kind of transparency and authenticity has organically drawn a huge audience because it helps others–something I’ve wanted to do whether teaching or writing. I want to share in a memoir what I’ve seen and learned, but until that book happens, I need to show up more on the blog while still on the journey. I need to let go of perfectionism which causes me to labor so long over what I want to say that posts end up in my unpublished drafts folder. Though I work more than 40 hours per week so have authors I’ve heard speak since I first started attending the Southern Festival of Books. Many said they show up every single day before their “day job.” I’m a morning person so have pledged this is the year I’ll write two hours before work every morning and not wait for the perfect time like weekends or school breaks. And so I write this…
Simply.
Humbly.
Quickly. (Ok, I have edited it a few times since posting.)
Immersed in a culture that just celebrated Three Kings’ Day I was reminded of the Wise Men who brought gifts to Christ. And this I know: I want wisdom in 2017. In 2016 my word was “Hope.” Then…”Wait.” So far this year it’s “Wisdom.”
Last fall was a stormy season–ranked just shy of Category 5 for more reasons than Hurricane Matthew. My mantra then and still was, “No say,” which translates, “I don’t know.” I don’t.
I’ve been confused about many things that have happened and especially about what’s to come. I don’t know what job/career will come next. I enjoy teaching those who want to learn, editing, proofreading, promoting, recruiting, and, of course, traveling. I want to be closer to family again. The perfect life, it seems, would be full of writing, traveling, friends and family. As I’ve said many times before–roots and wings. I don’t know where I’ll live having sold my house last year. Or what I’ll drive having given my son my car. But I don’t have to know. Until God opens the next door I’m thankful for each day–for where I am now. And I’ve thankful that, as Elizabeth says, the font of creativity (and I believe, wisdom or anything else good) isn’t us. She reminds that before Renaissance humanism, the ancient Greeks and Romans believed that all good things we achieve, that we create…that especially genius… comes from divinity. Thus it’s good to know just one thing: I know so little. My theme verse since moving to the DR has been,“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight.”
A very wise former headmaster told me years ago when I felt very alone as a single mom of two young children: “Bloom where you are planted.” And another truism I’m trying to practice here is that even when you don’t speak the language, smile. Smiles translate worldwide. And for awhile now I’ve tried daily to list all the things for which I’m thankful.
It’s so cool outside that my bedroom windows are open. This usually screaming, shrieking, honking, jackhammering, rooster-crowing, motorbike beeping city is asleep.
Though I am writing this on a Dominican Republic beach a couple of hours from Santo Domingo where I’ll return to work on Tuesday, I’m reliving the mountain escape I had while home for the holidays. I’m sorry I missed the snow in Tennessee that arrived just after I flew back to the Caribbean on Wednesday, but I am glad my son and I had clear roads for a trip to the Smoky Mountains while I was there. Cole moved to Knoxville last summer and with each visit I understand more why he likes the city where he chose to work. Nashville’s growth spurt since I’ve been gone has frustrated natives and longtime transplants with the high rise apartments and traffic chaos that came with it. Knoxville feels much like Nashville did before the boom and with the bonus of Gatlinburg one hour away and The Biltmore two (which we plan to see next summer when the gardens are in bloom), it’s a great destination for more than Vols fans.
View of Smokies in the Distance from my son’s area of Knoxville
Tennessee is a hiking and wildlife lover’s paradise. My first morning there while drinking coffee and looking out my son’s sliding doors I saw the usual–a cardinal, squirrels chasing each other–and then something moving in the brush behind his apartment that looked like a bobcat but larger. Then there were two of them. I grabbed my camera to zoom in and started snapping; while focusing and scanning the second creature disappeared.
Whether they were both coyotes (a growing problem in suburban Nashville as well), coywolves or one was a deer that took off like the roadrunner I am not sure, but one of these guys stayed and stared me down. The sighting seemed another sign that 2017 will be full of surprises.
Thrilled to be home for the holidays for the first time in two years, I had wanted to rent a cabin in the Smokies for our family, but with the recent fires we weren’t sure how much of the area had been destroyed and which roads would be closed. Instead we drove to Cade’s Cove and stopped for lunch at Applewood Farmhouse Restaurant, a hot spot for locals and tourists. We saw no fire damage and given the line of cars, neon lights, and ticket sales the Pigeon Forge “strip” was still going strong.
The good news about southern food is the comfort. The better news is there are gorgeous opportunities to hike it off. Living two years in the desert and the last six months in the tropics, I had so missed journeys amidst farmhouses hidden in hills; cows and horses in fields; and cold, crisp air on moss-covered banks beside mountain streams. My questions about the future, usually rushing like water over rocks, are hushed and stilled by a winter forest.
Applewoods was packed with people and home cooking. I couldn’t decide between fried chicken, chicken pot pie, and chicken and dumplings so had all three. The apple fritters with apple butter below…wow.
Beaver Dam
Later in the week Taylor drove up and joined us for some amazing Italian food and a day in downtown Knoxville at Market Square. I highly recommend Altruda’s for an authentic, family-owned atmosphere and The French Market for a quick trip to Paris.
Reviews raved about the family-sized salad and garlic rolls–well deserved praise.
The ziti is amazing.
So many choicesThe Crepe Suzette may have been my favourite treat over a holiday full of scrumptious food.Taylor liked the chocolate crepe and hot chocolate as well, but Cole waited for our next stop, brunch at Tupelo Honey’s.
Macarons to go
For the blueberry jam and biscuits (or the joy of being with my grown kids below)…no words are adequate.
We took a quick walk around Market Square where there are many Sunday brunch places, unique shops, an ice skating ring, and history.
It was New Year’s Eve day so most were indoors waiting for the big party that night.
As we took a shortcut to our car, we happened upon an alley of street art. Again, it seems, technicolor surprises are just around the corner this year.
We saw Arrival, nominated for 2 Golden Globes. Cole had already seen it and thought I’d like it. He was right. Among other vital truths, it stresses that we can’t survive without communication and global collaboration.
Knoxville sunset
As I felt when the holidays were over with my children in London and as most moms feel when the world goes back to work and “reality,” (and though I am forever grateful for the beauty and adventure of the time spent abroad), nothing brings me joy like relationship. Translated: quality time spent with my kids/family. I loved Marrakesh, but it was too far from them. The Dominican Republic, though many hours closer, is as well. They are grown and have lives of their own, but my heart longs to see them more often. We are bonded across miles by blood and years, vacation times spent together, technology and our love for one another. And we’ve learned, or at least I have, that home is what we are to each other–not one place. Good to know since Taylor is in Nashville and Cole is in Knoxville now. (Likewise, my sis is in Nashville but mom is in Kentucky.) And though I’ve learned “home” is wherever I am at peace with God, as a southerner I feel tied to place, to roots, to people–my people–my kids, family, and closest friends. And so my journey back has begun. I look forward this year to following the path God charts to my dream destination.
Nine trips to Italy and I’ve just planned the next one. This year I spent New Year’s Eve in Venice, my birthday in Tuscany (below), and Easter in Rome, but I’m asking Santa for an extended holiday in the land I love.
The Girls in Tuscany
Thanks to Chef Paulette‘s just-released book, Italian Cooking Party, this tour will last for years to come with 100 of her recipes, tips on how to stock an Italian kitchen, and secrets to throwing Italian parties anywhere. Details of how to order her book are here; and if in Nashville, you can purchase copies for the cooks in your life in time for Christmas at Parnassus Books.
Many know Chef Paulette from Channel 4 WSMV’s More at Midday and Today in Nashville (see her making Walnut and Chocolate Biscotti below) and have traveled with her to Italy. Or they’ve seen her perform with Duane in Duette. Upcoming shows in Music City are January 1, 2017 at Brown’s Diner and January 6 at The Frist Center. I met Paulette many years ago in one of her cooking classes in her Bellevue home. As Diana Krall crooned, the chef who had migrated from New York City from the kitchens of Mario Batali and Micol Negrin and learned from cooks in six regions of Italy impressed me with her signature recipes and soulful teaching. I knew we were kindred spirits when she sat with strangers as if family, lingering over the meal the class prepared. Her home soothed, transporting me to summers spent with Italian friends in Piedmont. Students left warmed by the wine and conversation.
Multiple cooking classes and a friendship later, I’m still drawn, wherever we meet over dinner, to her heaping hospitality and wisdom cultivated at her parents’ table. She laughs: “I always want to sit at table longer than anyone else. I don’t want to clear the dishes but keep hanging. I grew up in that. Mom would do the dishes but I sat listening to my dad. Dad was a philosopher. I remember crying at his philosophical life stuff. Coffee and cake would come and we’d still be sitting there.”
Jack Canfield, author of Chicken Soup for the Soul, advises: “Make a conscious effort to surround yourself with positive, nourishing, and uplifting people–people who believe in you, encourage you to go after your dreams, and applaud your victories.” Paulette is what southerners call “good people.” I asked her once if she ‘s a romantic. She said she takes chances and is generally optimistic–good traits for a time when nothing globally or personally seems certain.
This year the decision to sell our family home of 21 years was one of the hardest of my life. Leaving Morocco was difficult, too, although I wanted to be nearer family. Last February I had no idea when the house would sell nor where I’d end up working or living. When I told her my concerns, she wrote: “Isn’t that great? All sounds great — even the leap into you-don’t-know-where back home. Sorry about your house but maybe that was the only way for you to move from it and into this newer part of your life. I’m so glad Morocco was wonderful for you — (how could it not I guess!)…but what a way to evolve and find more of yourself.”
That’s Paulette Licitra, the consummate Renaissance Woman. Her story is the Portrait of an Artist who never stops growing, learning and laughing. A lady who reminds me that challenge brings change… reinvention…and despite growing pains it’s a good thing.
The Brooklyn-born Italian-American wrote novels and plays produced in New York City. When she won the Phoenix Theater’s national playwriting contest, her hip my heart premiered in Indianapolis, receiving nods for its multicultural casting and a “haunting ballad” she wrote. She also boosted women’s literacy rates in Jordan, Egypt, and Morocco with an Arabic version of The Electric Company while writing and producing for Nickelodeon and Children’s Television Workshop.
By September 2001 Paulette was on top of the world…literally. Perpetually peaking, she had climbed through a Costa Rican cloud forest on an Earthwatch Expedition to study the mating dance of the long-tailed manakin. Bound for the Northern Cape on a Norwegian cargo ship, she’d crossed the Arctic Circle prowling for Atlantic puffins. Trusted with national treasures in over twenty states, she had researched and recorded audio scripts and podcasts for land, sea and air: the Sky Tour at the John Hancock Observatory, Royal Caribbean cruises, the New York Botanical Garden, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Pearl Harbor, and the CN Tower Observatory in Toronto. Her expertise earned her the job of writing the audio script for a tour atop Tower Two of the World Trade Center, what would be “the tallest rooftop terrace on the planet.” In her New York Times piece, “The Tour That Never Was,” she later lamented: “I spent a few weeks haunting the observation deck, looking out the windows, spacing out the tour stops and figuring out how to direct a visitor’s gaze… (they) were setting up the kiosks that would hold the headsets when the attacks came.”
After the tragedy of 9/11, tourism tanked so Paulette Licitra decided in her 50s to become a chef and worked in New York kitchens alongside Mario Batali, Micol Negrin, and with cooks from six regions of Italy. Re-charting her professional course, she became Editor-in-Chief of the award-winning Alimentumand moved to Nashville. She also reunited with a high school friend. After graduation they had gone to Woodstock together as purely platonic buddies. After years of living separate lives, they met again and something shifted. The intensity of this Duette is clear on and off stage. She showed me once the prophetic photos used by Joel Makower in his Woodstock: The Oral History of the soulmates’ teen faces peering at the camera from the crowd.
Juliette Child said, “Life is the proper binge.” A journalist, novelist, playwright and painter…chef, singer, tour guide and candlestick maker…. Paulette inspires me. I asked her about the courage it took to live the life of an artist–something I’ve always longed to do. To have the freedom to focus on creative projects–to make one’s own schedule–to give your first love first place until it’s time to return to an old love or try something new. She said:
“I was ALWAYS attracted to the road less traveled. The idea of a suburban life in a house with a husband and 2.5 children made me squirm a little. Somehow I think I was always afraid that my brain and spirit would be lulled to sleep and all my creativity would be silenced. Probably not true, but the idea pushed me in another direction.
From a little girl I wanted to be a dancer. In high school I wanted to an actor. In college I wanted to be a writer. All the things I’ve wanted to do—the things that compelled me forward– were always endeavours that didn’t make money unless you were a star and involved a big population that was trying to do the same. I really think an artistic life is like a calling. It comes from inside. You can try to ignore it but it is very insistent. And if you leave yourself open to listening and following its call then you’re always off the beaten path. Some people have to ignore it because of commitments. There’s a great book about women who have had to do this: Tillie Olsen’s Silences. I was always so afraid of being silenced, of not getting my visions made into something out there…and still…I feel like I really haven’t done it yet! SO many stories and ideas still jam my head constantly.”
She said career highlights were interviewing survivors for the Holocaust Museum tour in Houston. There was also the day Israeli and Jordanian producers were in the NY studios together. Paulette smiled and said, “It was fine. I remember thinking, ‘You see. It doesn’t have to be the way it is. Everyone is into creating great stuff for kids.'” She recalls making a video for choreographer Loretta Thomas: “We shot on the streets of NY for 24 hours straight. At 3 AM Martin Scorsese pulled up to his apartment in a limo in Tribeca. We made eye contact and he smiled!”
Christmas is a great time to thank those who call us to taste la dolce vita. The new year is a great time to host others at our table and celebrate the good together. Her book offers more than amazing Italian cuisine. It offers soul food meant to be shared.
*Chef Paulette’s winter cooking classes are sold out. However, you can buy friends gift certificates or contact her for information for the spring classes starting in March here.
Like I said, Santo Domingo takes salsa seriously from Sunday night dancing-in-the-street in the Old Town to Saturday night shaking-in-the-courtyard in the New City. According to health experts and dance studios, such as Arthur Murray, salsa and merengue burn an average of 400 calories per hour. Good to know for those who love the pulled pork sandwiches vendors sell at Las Ruinas and the best ribs I’ve ever had at my favourite restaurant in The Colonial Zone just down the street.
Since the days my cousins and I gathered after church at my grandparents’ house for dinner (SouthernSpeak for lunch), I’ve loved a big Sunday meal. Though I don’t recommended eating the huge portions at Pat’s Palo just before trying to shake it like Shakira, I highly recommend this spot for Sundays and any day of the week. An institution with locals, indoors is cave-cool and outdoors the patio overlooks The Alcázar de Colón, Diego Columbus’ home. There’s also a great playlist, live music, and PIRATES for waiters (who doesn’t love Jack Sparrow and other pirates of the Caribbean???) Though I support Piantini, my local ‘hood, this is one of the two must-eat places in Santo Domingo (the other being Adrian Tropical). Here you get fabulous food, a fun atmosphere, and a front row seat to the authentic Santo Domingo old and new.
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