As I sit here and look at the many holiday cards on my table, I can’t help what think oh what fun to have received greetings from the US on my first holiday in London! (And of course a few from my local friends!) The flat has been “lightly” decorated for the holidays—some Christmas baubles, flowers, candles and beads in the living area for Mirepoix and I to feel in the holiday spirit, and of course there was Nat, and Frank, and Chris and the usual eclectic mix of festive music playing while we were here.

To start off the Christmas festivities I decided to go to Midnight Mass. It was always a lovely treat to attend at “OLC” in Jersey City where Polish Christmas carols were sung; to this day I can still remember at least some of the verses. My local church, St. Helen’s, is just a block down St Quintin, and perfect for a midnight stroll to and from the flat. It is a small, spare church, and the mass was candle-lit to give it a particularly warm, festive feel. Once again the carols were a bit daunting—while the words were familiar, the melodies were not, and while I had two wonderfully-voiced gentlemen on either side of me, I was a bit tentative until I heard the first verse and felt comfortable enough to join the second. I so enjoyed having attended, wished the two ministers a Happy Christmas, and smiled all the way back to Garden Flat B.

I will admit to having struggled to stay awake to make the 11:30 service; after dinner there was quite a few hours to spare! I spoke with Kevin’s sister Lee Ann and stepfather Jim, as has been the usual Christmas Eve tradition. Lee Ann always makes these wonderfully large, meaty meatballs for dinner, and while last year she decided she didn’t have the heart for it (Kevin would make such fun), they returned this year, and I was glad for it; our chat felt less emotional, more happy than previously, and I was happy for her. She also sent me two lovely gifts—two Phillies’ World Series t-shirts in a very bright red, and a calendar of Kevin’s prints. I knew about the calendar—several weeks ago she asked me to send her some photos to make a calendar for Jim, and I sent her 25 pictures to choose 12 from . . . and asked her to also make a calendar for me. It turned out beautifully; coincidentally, her January choice was my holiday card choice for most of my and Kevin’s friends this year. It warmed me to look at each month and recall fondly where each photo was taken . . . it was wonderful, not sad, truly.

So, here I was, miles upon miles away, really craving those meatballs of Lee Ann’s . . . I decided to head toward a nearby indoor shopping area that had a few restaurants, one which was Italian (a chain, Bella Italia), to see if meatballs were on the menu . . . and in fact they were, and so it was a date for Christmas Eve dinner. Pork and beef meatballs (polpette), tiny in size compared to Lee Ann’s baseball-sized all-beef handiwork, and here with spaghetti . . . and you know, even for a chain, these little polpette hit the spot, and they gave me that Christmas Eve remembrance that put a wide smile on my face.

Christmas Day found me walking to Earls Court to meet with Chet and Andros for brunch. There is, oddly enough, no public transportation on Christmas Day in London, so it was either hoof it or cab it, and I decided that if I walked then I could have whatever I wanted for my meal! It’s just 2.6 miles, and I’d done it before—being out and about early on Christmas morning and working up an appetite sounded actually quite lovely. The streets were still quiet, though our chosen venue, Bench-o on Earls Court Road, was bustling. How wonderful it was to see such good friends here in London on Christmas Day! I had shakshuka—poached eggs in tomato sauce and veggies, served with brown bread. It was quite good—a little unusual, to be sure. (Honestlyl, the full English breakfast felt like too much meat (bacon, sausage) for me.) The conversation was wonderful, the company warming, and the cookies Andros made me fabulous! I am blessed to have such good friends.

Having eaten more of the brown bread with butter than I’d intended (LOL), I decided that it was another 2.6 miles back to the flat for me on foot . . . and then gearing up for the “virtual” family gathering. My friends, if you have not used Skype, please, do it! A free internet service that allows you to talk endlessly for free, and to also see each other via webcam, it is a blessing for those of us with distant family and friends. So, once Robyn arrived at Debbie’s place the call was placed, the webcams were plugged in, and voila, five hours of a dancing cat (that would be Mirepoix), a Christmas tree (that would be Debbie’s), individual chats with the nieces and nephews and even a speaker-phone connection with Texas to talk with the Kusmans of Spring, TX . . . all while cooking dinner (kielbasa for them, a Vietnamese chili stir fry for me), listening to Frank and Nat and I think, on their end, Michael. Buble . . . five hours passed without much thought. What a fabulous way to spend my Christmas late afternoon into evening . . . by the time I said my goodbyes at almost 9:30 I’d had enough Christmas cheer (a delicious Dr. Loosing Riesling) to send me off into dream land . . . I couldn’t have planned a better holiday.

And what of Boxing Day, that non-US tradition celebrated by the Brits, the Canadians, Australians, the Kiwis, and a few others? I had no plan but to steer clear of the stores—while 50 to 70 per cent off sounds quite appealing, I just don’t enjoy shopping that much, and certainly not with most of the population who have nothing better to do on a national holiday! I did take the bus, however, to St. Martin in the Fields Church in Trafalgar Square. I wanted to sit, reflect, and simply see the church; I had not yet been, and they have concerts at lunch time and many evenings, too, so I thought I’d look at their upcoming programme. It is a smaller church in its interior than I thought, though quite lovely inside, and the crypt has been converted to a cafeteria-style restaurant that also houses a shop. It was warm, peaceful, and a good choice for a chilly Boxing Day. After leaving I walked a bit around the area, but found I was chilled and was afraid to get ill again, so I hopped the bus back toward home, taking in with sheer awe the number of people walking Oxford Street, queuing up at stores like Debenhams and M&S while the security managed the crowd control inside. My favorite fiew from the top of the double-decker bus as it turned dark: Regent Street had lovely fishnet-style lighting that, when lit, appeared to be large stars hanging over the shoppers.

The next day found me meeting my friend Sue for lunch and a matinee theatre date—first to Covent Garden for a bite at Brown’s, then off to see Piaf on the Strand. Brown’s was good, though it took a while for me to find something on the menu that they were actually serving and that I wanted—my initial choices, all fish, were unavailable. I settled for an asparagus and ricotta-stuffed pasta—a bit more than I wanted for lunch—but it was tasty and warmed me. It didn’t matter; I was happy to be out with Sue and have a nice catch-up . . . and she brought me the most fabulous Christmas present—bigos!!! (For you non-Polish out there, it’s kielbasa in sauerkraut, and it was homemade. In Poland it is the traditional meal to be served on the day after Christmas.)

Edith Piaf, the famous French singer, was not that well known to me as a person before joining Sue to see the play Piaf here in London. Of course I know she was popular for “La Vie en Rose,” and I know she died young, at 47, and that’s probably all other than the name “Piaf” was given to her as a stage name, which loosely translates to “sparrow.” Edith sang in public, as a street performer, early in life, and also made money as a prostitute. She did find someone who helped to get her legitimately on stage, and the rest is history . . . she even appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show back in the mid-50s. Her life was difficult, and she had morphine and alcohol addictions (having been in a serious car crash and losing the love of her life, Marcel, to a plane crash on his way to see her) and eventually died of liver cancer.

Sad, eh? It is truly a story to be told on stage, and oh my how this wonderful, beautiful, tiny person named Elena Roger with a big, amazing voice portrayed her. I was awestruck at Elena’s talent—the show is an hour and 35 minutes, no interval, and the Argentine-born Elena was on the stage for most of that time, singing for a good two-thirds of it. I hope it goes to Broadway in NYC and I hope Elena follows; she is worth seeing no matter what the role, frankly, but oh how powerful she was here—from the young voice of a wise-cracking street person who then transformed into a successful singer, whose voice matured with a grace and beauty that made her famous. Elena changed her voice again as her character aged and the power behind her voice faded, yet Piaf was still drawn to the stage and she gave what she could. It was almost sad and difficult to listen to, as the lustre and smokiness of her instrument faded. Wonderful, my dear friends. It would not be overstated to say it is a must see.

So is life good? Yes, it is . . . and that evening Sue and I met with Chet and Andros to catch up a bit more before Chet headed back to NYC in a few days. We walked a bit of Soho, having first met at a lovely little place called Amalfi that was packed with hungry patrons dining on individual pizze or pasta. It’s a lovely little spot that I will have to remember on Old Compton Street. We parted at Oxford Street—me to head to Regent Street and get the bus, Chet and Andros off to Hamley’s, a wonderful, huge toy store on Oxford Street, and Sue back home to Ealing Another fabulous night in London town.

Are you exhausted yet?

I mentioned in the title of this post Newark . . . as in Newark north of London and not of course Newark, NJ (or for my South Jersey friends, Newark, Delaware)! My friend Amanda lives in lovely Newark-on-Trent, 120 miles north of London. A short (75-minute) train ride from central London, I was looking forward to seeing some of the countryside and spending time with Amanda and another colleague, Janina, part of our “ladies wot dine” group. Newark is just east of Nottingham, and not far from Sherwood Forest—familiar names, perhaps? Newark has the ruins of a castle that overlooks the Trent, and Amanda escorted us around the remains of the castle and through the quaint town center, with what I thought was a preponderance of pubs (and yes of course we stopped in one along the lock), lovely small shops and several dining establishments. We found ourselves at Café Bleu for lunch—a lovely posh spot where we cosied up to a table for three by the fireplace. The food was fabulous—yes, my friends, even the haggis! (Don’t freak: haggis is a Scottish regional dish, made from lamb’s lungs, liver and heart and mixed with suet, onions, herbs and spices, all packed into a skin, traditionally made of a sheep’s stomach.) Amanda ordered it as a starter and was kind enough to let me try it; well, the foodie in me liked it, and I’d have it again, as my own starter, to be sure. Janina and I both had the hake for our mains, and it was generously portioned and perfectly cooked; it is one of my favorite fishes. There was no room for pudding!

After our fantastic lunch we walked a bit more, then took a ride over to the Minster—a foreboding, twin-spired church in Southwell, about six miles from Newark. (I think the foreboding sense came from the typical British weather du jour—it was chilly, cloudy, and a bit menacing though it remained dry.) It is the Cathedral Church of the Blessed Virgin in Nottinghamshire, and has celebrated worship for over 1000 years. Amazing, eh? There are gargoyles outside (always a treat) and an interior room called the Chapter House which contains carvings known as The Leaves of Southwell—images of animals like goats and birds as well as human heads, in portrait and caricature. There are also many different types of leaf in the images, all of which would have been found at one time in Sherwood Forest. I was so glad to have seen it; it’s an impressive structure with beautiful organ pipes that Amanda noticed were not as polished on one side as the other, as only Amanda would!

After the journey we headed back to Amanda’s lovely, spacious and warm home—she has it beautifully decorated and it comes complete with Barney, the brilliant Burmese who was ready for any affection being offered; he is a sweet thing and I was happy to have met him. Amanda treated Janina and me to high tea with truffles and other chocs, and then threw together a root vegetable soup when her plans for proper tea sandwiches were nixed after discovering that the Waitrose was already closed! It was a delicious, thick, hearty soup, served with brown and white bread from a nearby bakery, a delicious French Bordeaux, and to finish a slightly-sweet, dense Polish cake (courtesy of Janina, dzien kuje, pani) and some fresh dates. I was more than content to not need to pick up any nibbles at the station for the trip back to London.

(Pause: I will post a few pictures on The Gallery here of Newark; take a look.)

I must say it was a full, wonderful day and I was smiling broadly as I boarded the train back to Kings Cross. Amanda was blowing me kisses from the platform, much to the delight of the gentleman sitting in the window seat to my aisle . . . she’s a wonderful person and I feel fortunate to have her part of my London life. We met through a colleague and have become fast friends; she is a delight.

I did have a quieter post-Christmas Monday—some shopping to buy gifts for upcoming parties/birthdays, getting some food shopping done, and settling in for what should be a relaxing several days before work kicks back in on the 2d of January. It has been a wonderful first Christmas in London.

And so now I kick back for a few days, anticipate the New Year, and look forward to 2009. I don’t know how next year can possibly surpass this one . . . it has been filled with so many wonderful things—a new home, new friends, a wonderful new job, and so many opportunities to explore all those things that I enjoy. I should probably spend all of New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day counting my blessings . . . perhaps I shall, and I shall tell you all about it.

Until then, dear friends, may the New Year hold wonderful surprises, fabulous joys, peace, love, warmth, friendship and all that makes you happy. You deserve it.

As if having a whirlwind holiday in Kenya wasn't quite enough, the week after returning from Mombasa had its own flurry of things to do, places to go, carols to sing, and, alas, illnesses to contend with!

The weekend brought an invitation from Tim to join (and I mean join as in sing, and not just listen to) carols sung at Temple Church. The church, while famous for its scenes in the DaVinci Code, should perhaps more importantly be known for its rare circular nave (called the Round) built by the Knights Templar over 800 years ago. Some of the Red Knights (named for their red crosses) appear in effigy around the nave. The Knights held their secret initiation rites in the crypt at the church as well. It is a spare, lovely, almost intimate setting, and from our vantage point we could see the choir, the organist, and the different readers who approached a raised lectern to tell the story of the night of Jesus' birth.

Looking around the church, there were few who weren't singing; my most difficult task was trying to find my way around quite different melodies to carols I thought I knew—certainly the verses were familiar (even though some syllables in words are differently stressed), yet for most of them the music was completely different. I did my best to follow along when it was the choir as well as the attendants who were expected to sing. I heard some lovely voices around me, and that was enough inspiration.

About the choir—angelic, I'm afraid, is truly the best word. The lovely soprano voices of these young boys, some of them so tiny in stature, just had to make you smile. It was a beautiful service, and I was so happy to have experienced this tradition. It was immediately followed by another—a traditional Christmas meal.

The food was quite good—a typical Christmas dinner here is turkey, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts. The wine flowed; the red was a wonderful French Bordeaux, in fact. Ports followed with pudding. Perhaps all a bit much for a mid-day meal, but one must follow the tradition!

Speaking of which, I enjoyed pulling a Christmas cracker with a young man of about 9 who stopped by my chair to ask me, quite politely, if I would . . . I suspect he was disappointed that I won the prize (beginner's luck)! I proudly wore my paper crown and had to laugh out loud at the very bad British humour (these crackers contained silly jokes, given the family atmosphere). The lovely little girl sitting to my right asked me why it was the first time I was pulling a Christmas cracker, since I remarked so when the young man approached me. I told her that it was not a tradition in America, but it should be!

The entire day was quite wonderful and like nothing I've experienced in the US. I met some lovely people—Tim and I were the guests of the Ryan's, David being a member of the Inner Temple. (I think; there's also a Middle Temple!) David's family and his brother Christian and his family treated me so warmly that I felt instantly comfortable with the setting, and chatted about living in London, the cost of flat rental, etc.

It's hard not to walk on air after an afternoon like that . . . I can't tell you how many times I pause, gasp, smile, and still cannot believe that I am here, that I am enjoying my life in London, and that I am fortunate to have this opportunity. You've likely grown tired of reading it; I simply can't express it enough, it seems.

The week following at the office was unexpectedly short—on Wednesday I had a recurrence of my illness from Mombasa, and just as horrid the second time around. This time it was during the day that I found myself unable to be more than a few steps from the loo—chills, discomfort, the whole nine yards. What started at 7 am subsided long enough at 10 for me to go to the dentist just a few blocks away, but oh how that changed shortly thereafter (the dentist visit was short—no worries, return for a cleaning). By noon I was grasping for the phone to call the doctor, only to find out that the office was closing at 1 pm but I could call at 8 am sharp in the morning the next day for a same-day urgent appointment. By 2:30 I was digging for Immodium. By 3:30 I was better, but the previous 7 hours had exhausted me.

The doctor prescribed a "just in case" antibiotic at my request since it was the second time in a week I'd had been ill, though without a bacteriology report it could possibly be the wrong antibiotic; I was willing to take the chance. The ubiquitous "norovirus" is running rampant here, so much so that the NHS is asking people not to go to the hospital and just ride it out as it's spreading so quickly. I'm 4 days into my 5-day antibiotic treatment and won't get my test results back until Wednesday, but I am feeling worlds better now and whatever the root of the problem was, I think I'm over the hump.

I did buy a few baubles to decorate the flat for Christmas—no tree, but beautiful flowers with pine and roses to decorate my table, and lots of Christmas balls filling bowls or just poised so in the living area on windowsills, bookshelves, etc. I even have a few gifts, pleasant surprises from Kevin's sister Lee Ann in the US, and my friends Tim and Birgit . . . I'm being a good girl and waiting until the 25th to tear open the wrapping. Really I am. As of today.

The weather here has been lovely—warm and dry—and I so enjoyed it this weekend since I was feeling better and able to walk about. I actually dined al fresco for lunch on Saturday, and enjoyed my walk back to the flat. I chose The Real Greek--I was ready for some protein after bananas, toast and rice, and the skewers with a dipping sauce and some aubergine with crudite sounded not only healthy but tasty! And, but of course, a glass of retsina! The Greek traditional wine is stored in pine barrels and so it picks up the scent as well as the taste--it's actually good, believe me.

Ready to make up for lost time idling in the flat, that evening I met Tim for dinner at the OXO Tower, overlooking the Thames. It was still warm and there were a lot of people strolling the Thames Path, including me. I was having those "oh my" moments of being a bit overwhelmed by being here, slightly disappointed that Kevin wasn't, and overall thrilled with enjoying yet another glorious night in London.

The view from the 8th floor of the OXO is lovely—we were close enough to the floor-to-ceiling windows to scan the skyline—and the food was quite good. I had rabbit for the first time in ages, served with a polenta that was perfectly creamy. My starter was a trio of Asian flavors--a deep-friend cube of tofu, a cold spring roll wrapped in rice paper, and some pickled vegetable. Tim seemed to enjoy his tiger prawns and duck--we both cleaned our plates. The only disappointment of the venue was the volume of noise—poor acoustics, perhaps—as there was more "huh?" going on than two reasonably young people should exchange in conversation!

We moved on for a coffee someplace quieter, crossing the Millennium Bridge to scout for a place on the other side of the Thames. I had my first (and perhaps not my last) of what I think is called Strega (Italian for "witch," and it can be bewitching after more than your share—LOL). A favorite of The Godfather (really, Robyn), the liqueur has notes of mint and fennel. It will make you warm, believe it! Another fabulous meal and lovely night in London town.

And so now I await the holidays: it's work until the half day on the 24th, and then settling in with Mirepoix for Christmas eve. I am thinking about attending Midnight Mass at St. Helen's, just a block away, or the morning service should I find myself unable to stay awake. I expect to see friends Chet and Andros on Christmas Day, and have a nice holiday planned between the 26th and the 2nd with my London friends—some theatre, some dinner, a trip out to Nottingham, and who knows what the new year will bring? I find it always a reflective time—Kevin would enjoy going to Philadelphia for New Year's Eve, warming up with a bottle of bubbly to ready for the big moment(that in most cases we didn't quite make), though it was really about just spending the time together, and often with friends. All good memories tucked in my heart, with room for new, wonderful memories here, I hope. I know; whatever it is, it will be my first new year in a new home.

Life continues to be an amazing adventure, dear friends. I wish you all a very, very happy Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, whatever your particular holiday is, and truly hope that you enjoy the warmth of the season with love and comfort.

I am blessed and hope to pass some of that to each of you. You are all the reason why I am blessed . . . I treasure all of you for being a part of my life, for being supportive, and for taking good care of me whether you're here in London or miles away.

So, until then, much love and merriment, perhaps a little reflection, and mostly, my warmth and gratitude for your love and kindness.

I didn’t decide to take a warm-weather vacation in early December because of the dreary London fall weather—honestly! I had grown accustomed to taking a break in late November to Negril, Jamaica, and while sometimes that life feels like a distant memory and I don’t know that I can go back there without feeling incredible sadness without Kevin, there are a lot of other places in the world . . . why not Africa, for example?

Some of my friends have asked me why Kenya; my first thought is more why not? Being just 8 hours away and with just 3 hours difference from London’s GMT, it feels more doable than from the US. That, and, there aren’t many places above 72 degrees in Europe in early December, and I wanted not just warmth, but heat—I wanted to spend 75% of the day in a bikini, shading myself under a palm tree with a good book. Mombasa fit the plan perfectly.

The bonus to going to Nyali Beach in Mombasa, on the east coast of Africa, is that it is within just a few hours of the largest safari park in the area, Tsavo. So, my holiday was to potentially include a day eyeing the Big Five (rhino, elephant, lion, buffalo, and leopard). I didn’t make any arrangements in advance, since the travel agent assured me that it could be done by a representative from her agency once in Mombasa.

Enough warm up, eh?

Arriving in Mombasa, my first impression was that this area of Kenya is similar to Jamaica—it is poor, based on the tin-roof shacks, the many people (mostly men) loitering for lack of employment (which is 40% in Mombasa), and just the “feel”—it is tropical, the people are beyond friendly, and it is in many ways beautiful.

I had a wonderful room with a view of the Indian Ocean and the infinity pool, which was just steps away. The room was tastefully decorated with a big queen-size bed, a sliding-glass door leading out to a small balcony with two wooden, cushioned chairs and a table, perfect for reading when I’d had enough sunshine. Yes, this would do nicely. The tide was out so I couldn’t run right in to the ocean, but I patiently waited and found myself in the warm, gently lapping waves soon enough. Ahh, life is good.

Most guests do not swim in the ocean except early in the morning—the beach is patrolled (with uniformed men carrying rather large rifles), but there are still hawkers who want to sell you something (including a camel ride; check out my photos on Snapfish: http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=427101228924299267/l=452159795/g=11619179/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB). I chose to follow that regimen; it’s peaceful in the morning, still hot, and perfect for a swim just before or just after breakfast. The sand was more like powder—and more “packed” than the sandy beaches of the Caribbean or the US. The beachfront at the hotel is narrow, and there aren’t chairs or hotel amenities; basically you take your swim, perhaps walk a little, and then head back up a short flight of stairs to the hotel proper (and the pool did serve drinks from 10 am until 6 pm)!

Speaking of drinks, I had decided when booking my trip to get the all-inclusive package—as a single female traveler I didn’t want to rely on having to leave the premises for a meal, for one thing, and most resorts that have an all-inclusive deal have a variety of restaurants and choices, as did this one. There were a lot of selections at the main restaurant, always a buffet, but I must say I was a bit disappointed in the fish options; when offered, it was generally overcooked. I found myself often at the “vegetarian” corner, bypassing the lamb, beef and starchy stuff usually offered for mains. Overall the food was good, but I wouldn’t say it was a selling point for me. I did try both the white and red wine offered as part of the all-inclusive package—the red was practically undrinkable, being too grapey with an odd finish of being at the end of its life. The white, a chardonnay, was actually good; it wasn’t oak-y or buttery, and was quite refreshing. Unfortunately in 30-degree (86 F) temperatures it warmed up in the glass rather quickly; I had to learn to drink fast (LOL)! I also expecting the Kenya coffee, one of its prized exports, to be delicious—it was a bit too strong, and not as flavorful as I’d hoped, but believe it, I enjoyed it every morning with my bacon and eggs! Oh, and a word about the bacon: they offered crispy and non-crispy. Apparently the word “crispy” has a completely different meaning! Neither was what an American would think of as crispy; in fact, I wasn’t sure I could discern a difference between the two offerings. Crispy didn’t mean crunchy, to be sure. I managed . . . I stuck with the crispy.

While the food was not fabulous, the service was wonderful. It’s amazing how that works—no doubt the servers are not well paid, but like in Jamaica they smile, they greet you warmly, and after the first day they remember you—what you like to drink, whether you’re expecting someone else—and they anticipate whether a second glass of wine is in order, which is always nice. My favourites of the bunch, who always seemed to stop by my table: Winnie, who I exchanged email addresses with; George, who always asked me if I slept well; Cyrus, who had the broadest smile; and Nelly, who always made my day by telling me how lovely I looked at dinner time (I mostly wore skirts and frilly tops rather than jeans or khakis). There is nothing more enjoyable than spending a holiday where the people become part of the enjoyment of being there.

There was also entertainment: occasionally music at lunch—a trio playing traditional African music (in fact Steve, one of the trio, stopped by to introduce himself and, naturally, try to sell me a CD). Some nights there was either a band (one of which was excellent and included a saxophonist who had me swooning from the music when they performed Marley’s No Woman No Cry, a favourite of Kevin’s), or the “animation team” performed—one evening they lip-synched to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. That was quite silly in hindsight, but they sure did give it their all and I enjoyed it. We ate out of doors that evening, under the stars.

The staff throughout the resort were all lovely—being an early riser, I was usually at breakfast by 7, dropping my book at the pool by 7:45 to take a dip in the ocean or pool, or just get my “sunning” started, and then moving to the shade of a palm tree by 10. My pattern was noticed rather quickly—as I would pick up my bag and towels to find a shady spot, the pool attendant generally anticipated my move and helped me find a chair and made sure there was a cushion ready. You simply have got to love that kind of service. One of the attendants, John, offered to take me to “the pumps” (aka a pub) on ladies’ night to chat about Mombasa and learn a little about the area—before you get any notions, John has got to be at least 60 (I didn’t go, BTW) and I think he was being kind to a single woman.

So my days were for the most part the same—a good sleep (no alarm), but still up around 6:30, breakfast at 7:00, a little sun and water, a dip in the pool, lunch at 12:30, afternoon reading in the shade, and then relaxing and a dressing for dinner at 7:00 or so. Entertainment was generally at 9:00, and then off to bed! The room was air conditioned, so it was always a comfortable, pleasant sleep.

Pause—I was surprised that the sky wasn’t full of stars, as there were many clear nights, but only a dotting of twinkles in an otherwise dark sky. I knew it was clear because I could see the moon clearly . . . odd.

I did not see/feel a single mosquito! My bed was equipped with mosquito netting (on the chance that I might open the sliding glass doors in the dusk or evening, I suppose) but I never used it. I did buy repellent recommended by the doctor and it either worked like a charm or I missed the mosquito season!

Having had a few days of doing a whole lot of nothing (well, I did read three books), I decided to take a tour of Mombasa, which included a trip to the woodcarving cooperative, the spice market, a Hindu temple, and Fort Jesus, which was built by the Portuguese and used as both a prison and a defensive base for protection from enemies coming across the ocean (pirates then, pirates now).

I was on the half-day tour with four Dutch who spoke no English—odd for Dutch, who in my experience are generally well-versed in English. It meant that our guide, Mohammed, had to say everything twice in both languages, and of course he took it in stride.

The Akamba wood-carving cooperative was quite educational and interesting; it opened my eyes to how all those little wooden trinkets at the duty free are made. There are specialists for each of the different types of wood (neemwood, native to Kenya, and also ebony, mahogany, and teak). Only the men carve, and the women do the less intensive tasks like finishing and painting the carvings. Each piece is noted with the number of the carver, and when it is sold that artist gets a 20 per cent commission. From that the carver must purchase his own wood and materials to finish the piece.

What’s interesting is that the cooperative is attentive to the environment: for every tree felled, two are planted. Take a look at the photographs I have posted; it gives you a feel for what the work environment is like—basically open-air shacks covered with tin or rags to keep the sun out. It is very narrow space between the stalls. Behind the cooperative is the living space for the workers; we did not get to see that area, though I suspect it was not all that different from the cooperative itself. There is no electricity, so work begins at 8 and ends at 6. Most of the workers gave us a hearty “jambo” (which loosely translates to hello). The cooperative has its own shop to sell the carver’s wares, in addition to having them exported to other outlets and likely also sent out of the country.

Driving between sites on the tour, I saw several small shops in a row—bakers, clothing shops, and lots of Zain (mobile phone) outlets—along with open-air stalls that seemed to be mostly for the locals rather than the tourists. There was an inordinate amount of traffic on the roads; a fair number of the vehicles are Toyotas, mostly small vans transporting several people. There are some bicycles, but not many; there are more single-axle carts that can either be pulled or pushed. Many of them were filled with petrol—while there is electricity, it is sporadic, and petrol is used to fuel generators. The architecture seems mostly boxy, old construction—there is some development, but not much, and most of what is built is no higher than 3 or 4 floors. I must say I didn’t feel right about taking photos of the people, who mostly seemed poor. At one strip when we stopped for a traffic light, there were young kids, probably between 10 and 14, who were approaching our vehicle with a hand out while the other held the arm of someone who was blind or somehow disabled. It was a bit unnerving, but not unexpected.

Here’s something that was unexpected: in most areas the roads were actually quite good and well maintained. A few blips to that, and a lot of places where traffic just seemed to have to suddenly merge, but the condition of the roads themselves made for a usually smooth ride.

The veg market was crazy—hawkers everywhere trying to get you to buy packages of nuts, tamarind, whatever. They are persistent, but not frightening; if you keep walking, the hawker will likely follow you until someone else comes along. The spice market, a narrow passageway that was just outside the larger market, was a sight to behold—colourful spices in huge burlap sacks, much of it from nearby Tanzania. Rice of different sorts lined one side. We got a quick education from one of the workers there, who would scoop a bit of the spice and then let us take in the aroma. Oddly enough, the area itself didn’t have a distinctive smell of one or another—perhaps too many competing scents for any one to be dominant!

I was glad I took the half day (about 5 hours) to visit some of Mombasa and learn a little about the area and the population; it gave me a bit of perspective about life for the locals, and I always enjoy seeing some of the sites outside the beach to get a more rounded understanding of the culture and area.

And then there was the safari. I let Martha, the tour rep, talk me into staying overnight in a tent camp because the trip to Tsavo from the resort was a few hours and it would be a long, tiring day. She promised that the tent was “luxurious” and even had a flushing toilet indoors—why not?

My travel companions to Tsavo were a group of Brits and a German couple, the Mildes, who wound up being my Land Rover buddies as well. There was little conversation on the way—everyone, including me, was looking at the sights from our bus and taking in the landscape. Once we arrived at Tsavo the Mildes and I were assigned our guide—Sammy, who spoke both German and English (so once again there was the need to repeat everything). We immediately set out, at about 11 a.m., to look for game. The Land Rover was roomy for just the three of us, which was nice—we each had our own open-air roof space to gaze out of, take photos (many of which are on Snapfish), and lure animals to the vehicle—LOL! I must say, it was wonderful. We didn’t drive far before seeing herds of elephant, baboons, impalas, and antelope. The real thrill was seeing a lioness napping under a bush, although as we approached she decided to wake up and give us a once over.

I was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable it was—I expected to be quite hot and sticky, but the open structure of the vehicle allowed air to circulate and so while it was not cool, it was also not hot. I so enjoyed the first outing, and then it was time to get our tent assignments and have lunch. When I saw the tent, I couldn’t help but smile at Martha’s comment—the en suite bathroom could fit three of my flat’s bathroom, and it had a lovely shower (with a water bucket above that worked with a lever to let water come pouring down), and yes, a flushing toilet. While the towels were a little scratchy, the rest made up for the minor complaint. The sleeping area had three twin beds, a fan (which I didn’t need to use), and overhead lights (that only work part of the day, and via generator). It was quite nicely decorated—it had an American Indian feel to the sheets, rugs, etc. There was even a small free-standing pole with hangers, and extra pillows. I’ve been in tents before, though nothing like this—Martha was absolutely right.

We took a second outing from 4-6:30 pm to look for more game—we saw zebra, giraffe, ostrich, a number of different odd birds, and again, many elephant herds. You’ll notice in one photo I posted that an elephant is looking right at the camera—we had stopped since it was so close to the road, and after a minute the elephant decided we should move on so it started approaching the Land Rover. Sammy knew when to pull away, and he did ask us if we were getting nervous; I had to laugh at that. The elephant was coming near us, but it was moving far too slowly for the Land Rover not to make an easy getaway!

Sammy, my friends, was a wonderful, informative, humorous guide. He kept his eyes attentive to both the road and any game in the distance, and often spotted them before either the Mildes or I did. The guides keep each other in touch via radio, so if someone sees a lion (which is apparently rare) or a rhino, it gets announced on the radio and, depending on how close your vehicle is, you head in that direction. We did use the radio to get to a lioness who was literally feet from the road (see the photos I posted), and my gosh, she was beautiful. I literally laughed out loud when she started grooming by licking her paw and rubbing it on her face—visions of Mirepoix doing the same ran through my mind!
We headed back to camp and had about an hour to get ready for dinner. The dining area was so pretty—softly lit with paper shades that gave the open-air room a reddish orange hue, you could sit at a table in the small bar area before dinner and look at impala sitting just in front of you, or watch the baboons scurry about. There was a small open campfire lit about 15 feet from the dining area, which provided some light to see what was just at the doorstep.

Our menu for the evening was cook-it-yourself lamb, chicken and beef skewers, some salads, “jacket” potatoes (aka baked potatoes), and crepes for dessert. I sat with the Brits who had been in the bus with me to Tsavo; since the Germans didn’t speak more than a few words of English and George, one of the Brits, invited me, I thought that would make for a more pleasant evening. The group (two Steves, Carl, Kay, and George) were in Kenya for the scuba diving, which they all concluded was quite good. We talked about my time so far in London, about diving, what we saw on safari, etc. It was a very nice evening of food and conversation (I’ll admit since I went for the potato I skipped the crepe but did have coffee). I was escorted back to my tent (perhaps because I was a single and it was pitch black, though the did supply flashlights) and had a wonderful sleep—I didn’t need the fan as I had a couple of the flaps of the tent up (it was screened); I enjoyed hearing a roar or two in the background and the rustle of wild animal at my doorstep!

The morning call was at 6:30—pre-breakfast—to take another safari. I told Sammy I was hoping to see giraffe; we had only seen them in the distance the day before, and it would be fun to see one a bit closer. With that in mind he thought to take us to places he’d known he’d seen them in the morning before, though we found none—until we were literally feet from the entrance back to the tent camp, and there they were—and how graceful, how beautiful. I smiled. Sammy smiled. Life is good. I thought that if I’d had a better camera (or a better cameraman—earth to Kevin . . .) that I’d have some magnificent shots. The truth of the matter is, though, that I was less interested in taking photos than in simply watching the game, and being awed by their magnificent size, their gracefulness and beauty (or, in the case of buffalo, their unquestionable ugliness). I’d take a picture, usually quickly, and then just rest my head on my arms through the roof of the Land Rover and watch . . . drink it in, count my blessings while counting the herd. There were many “too good to be true” moments, believe it.

Much of Tsavo looks the same—sparse brush dots the area, and there are many trees for the giraffe and elephant to graze at. The dirt is deep-orange clay, and some areas have more grass and feel a bit more lush. There are a few bodies of water in Tsavo as well, all appearing a bit murky and muddy. There is an occasional bit of beauty in flowering bushes, mostly a delicate yellow.

By this time having spent several hours together, we were good friends in our Land Rover even if Gisele and Walt didn’t speak but a few words of English. We were laughing and singing (the tunes ran the gamut from Let it Be, Dream, and Alleluia). Sammy and I did all the singing, and the Mildes were laughing and enjoying and throwing “bravos” at us. Sammy told me I had the voice of an angel, which of course had me laughing out loud—when Kevin was ill I’d asked him if he wanted me to sing him a lullaby to help him sleep, and he’d always say no—he’d heard my voice and it was by no means angelic!

As we traveled through Tsavo we would yell out “Opa!” as we saw deep grooves in the road that we knew would make the Land Rover lurch up and down; for us, opa was a wonderful exclamation that simply expresses a feeling rather than having a translation. I must say it was great fun as well as a fantastic, beautiful experience that I am so lucky to have had. I sit here today in my flat and think, truly, how amazing the entire trip was. I can say I’ve been to Kenya, that I’ve been on safari, and . . .

. . . that despite brushing my teeth with bottled water and being very careful about everything I ate and drank, the evening after the safari was not a night to be remembered fondly! My illness began, actually, just before leaving camp, but fortunately for the three-hour trip back to Mombasa I managed to sleep and be all right. Not so the rest of the evening and well into the morning—I needn’t go into details except to say that I barely slept, drank a lot of water (bottled, of which they provided and I had purchased more of), and waited for the morning to come so I could purchase Immodium. (In hindsight I was thinking it was the ice in the Diet Coke that I had, although it was at the resort. Oh well!)

I was happy to have such a lovely room with a fabulous view—because that’s where I spent the rest of the day except for a brief visit to the dining area for something light to eat. Sylvinna, my room attendant, came in to tidy up around me, and when I told her I had been ill she left me extra water—again, how thoughtful the staff—and then she asked me the next day how I was feeling. I was far better by nightfall and again ate lightly and took a leisurely evening reading. By the next day, my last, I was back in sunning and swimming shape, and I fell into my pre-safari routine and enjoyed the day, the food, and the people. Although I was leaving that day, I remained at the resort until 5—I was taking an overnight flight from Nairobi back to Heathrow, but not late. I savored the last hours, and thought what a truly wonderful trip this had been.

Nairobi’s airport is actually quite nice—lots of duty free shops and places to sit until your flight is called (which for me was close to midnight). I was anxious to just get seated and possibly sleep for some of the eight-hour flight back; on the way down we had a screaming baby so there was little sleep for anyone in my area of the cabin. I started the flight by watching a movie, but Mamma Mia it was awful, so I turned to the Africa Now Radio station and dozed intermittently to wonderful music . . . I am certain to have slept for some of it, and enough that when I arrived back at the flat in the early morning I felt no need to nap—nor did I all day. I did organize my photos first, and hope that you have had a chance to enjoy them.

And today, again, as I sit here to share this and reflect, I cannot help but think, what a wonderful life.

Tis the season—may you have a wonderful holiday!