Posted on by dlockhart · 19 Comments

Dear Luxembourg,

It wasn’t you, it was me…

We were together six years and 17 days, though it started as a 2 year commitment–typical, you know, for a relationship that began the way ours did.

In the beginning I worried about our communication—as if language itself wasn’t hard, your rules for driving, your lack of giving me space for parking…You were unavailable to me, failing me with what I needed when I needed it most–like after eight o’clock in the evening and on Sundays. You forcibly stamped every paper in sight! Building our relationship was a procedure or policy to you. Every year from November to March you were gloomy and walked around in a fog. But I fell in love anyway…

The sight of you, Luxembourg, took my breath away–you were so different from everything I knew, and you opened new doors to me. Through you I learned to love travel, see places through different eyes, experience unfamiliar cultures. From you I learned to love not only the small towns along the way, but the big hitters–London and Paris, Berlin and Vienna, Strasbourg, Salzburg, Amsterdam and Rome, Bucharest, Provence and Puglia, La Côte d’Azur, and even Dubai. But I always came home to you.

You introduced me to delicious and reasonable wines, though I’m not sure how reasonable I was after enjoying them. Through you I met Bernard Massad and the Kox, Schmit-Fohl and St. Martin families, and my bubbly new best friend Alice Hartmann. With them, I enjoyed delicious cheeses like reblochon, epoisse, gruyère, comté, gouda, Neufchâtel, and the curly petals of tête de Moins, along with a slice of saucisse and a hunk of fresh baguette or a board of flammkuchen.

Oh, dear Luxembourg, you helped me soar! I was and am more confident than ever! I tried new things–leading book clubs and Bible studies, taking trips with my friends, practicing yoga, cooking new dishes, teaching English to those whose mother tongue was Italian or French or Azerbaijani or Romanian. My friendships with people you introduced were more than special–true and sweet, meaningful and lasting (except for those few that weren’t)…

And I do miss you, little Grand Duchy, even more than I dreamed. I rethink that decision to end our relationship, but you knew there was third party involved. You also knew I’d choose Mr. Wonderful over you, always. After all, he enjoyed you nearly 30 years before I met you, and I sat home resentful–of his time you stole from me, the tales he told of you, the food and wine he shared with you. He introduced you to me, and I was smitten–by your character and your culture and your culinary delights. You are a jewel.

Those 6 years and 17 days with you, Luxembourg, are threaded in the tapestry of my little life, and I see no warrant to give up my moniker. I earned the title European Trophy Wife, though it takes little effort to be unemployed and the wife of a successful technical leader on another continent. I pretend Mr. Wonderful is the recipient of a status symbol in his betrothed, but in reality, I was the winner. I am the winner–of a life of excitement and exploration and fulfillment, no matter where I live.

Posted on by dlockhart · 10 Comments

It’s time to go…

Six years ago we were preparing to move from our cozy, safe little life to an adventure in Europe. We had to make decisions, purchases and purges, preparations, preparations, and… preparations. We were leaving our 4 (nearly) adult children in charge of the family home we were determined to preserve, and the devil was in the details.

And now in the process of repatriating, memories flood back about the concerns we cultivated, the excitement we expected, and the issues we anticipated. As I’ve been searching through some of those documents and problems we addressed in 2016, I came across the extensive chronicle of home maintenance I’d shared with our family.

How to Ruin a House: a novella

By Mom

Sunday evenings are very special to our family. To commemorate this amazing bond we have, we gather all our trash/recycling and put it by the curb. Because of this ritual, we have the MONDAY ceremony of returning the trash/recycling receptacles to their rightful places. 

Dear Lockhart children…if you’ve been here over the weekend, please gather ALL the trash–upstairs and down–and remove it from the house to keep the stink monsters, soot gremlins,  and critters away. 

THERMOSTAT THEORIES — Summer settings for cooling–during the day, the thermostat is acceptable on 73 or so degrees (warmer if you want). At night, it can be turned down to 69, for a more pleasant sleeping environment. If you’re gone for the weekend in the summer, please turn thermostat up to 78 or more (in order to keep the Fairport Electric bill easy to manage). When the weather begins to cool in the fall, feel free to turn the thermostat to OFF position.

BEFORE TURNING THE HEAT ON WHEN THE WEATHER COOLS, and you’re sure you won’t turn on the air again…Change the ductwork in the basement. Photos for demonstration will follow.

For the thermostat in winter, please turn no higher than 71 degrees during the day. You may sleep more comfortably turning it down to around 66 at night.  If you’ve been home for the weekend, please turn thermostat down to around 62 when you leave to go home. BRRR…

Please also take care to not leave crappy food in the fridge for too long. We’re not too excited to come home to a fuzzy green monster in the kitchen! (See Sunday ritual instructions)

Plumbing (in the color of plumbs!) and other water issues

In case of a water emergency–think “flash flood” in the house–turn off water at the main valve in the basement. That valve turns off water for the entire house. In smaller cases, turn off water under each sink. 

Please flush toilets on a weekly basis (keeps crud from growing).

Electricity

On the rare occasion a breaker blows–you’ll know. Sometimes the vacuum cleaner and the de-humidifier running at the same time will cause the breaker to shut off. The electric box is in the basement in the corner past the fridge. If indeed a breaker blew, you’ll see one of these switches is not like the others (yes, I’m singing that age old Sesame Street song in my head), so simply flip it!

Floors

Feel free to vacuum–please once a week (if you’re here!). In the winter, those little cinders from the salt and road get tracked in and could mark up the floor. If you want to really CLEAN the floor, just use damp cloth with a tiny bit of Dawn–clean with one hand, wipe dry with the other  =)  Wax on…wax off….NO WAX–that was just a movie reference!!  http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087538/?ref_=nv_sr_1

Laundry

Some quirks about doing laundry at home–comforters do not fit in the washing machine, no matter how hard you push and arrange. Those should be washed in a bigger machine in the laundromat (it’s not so bad–I’ve made friends there!). 

Occasionally, it may begin to seem things aren’t getting dried so fast (don’t pack the dryer with huge loads). Sometimes the outside vent gets packed with lint. It’s around the garage by the air conditioner condenser thingy. Lift up the little flaps on the vent (or if the dryer’s on–they’ll be flapping a bit) and see if you need to pull some lint out. Do it well–keeps the flow good for drying capacities. The applications are endless!!!  😉 The bunnies and bird love the lint. Okay…I’m not really sure that’s true…just making it up…

In Case Something Happens to Us…

We have a will, though the attorney who did it for us is no longer practicing. See the letter I put with the will–it’s either in the safe–good luck finding that!–or in the file box on the basement steps.

We each have life insurance policies–Dad’s through work and Northwestern Mutual, mine through Mass Mutual–maybe Hartford, too (not sure about that one–I’m in the process of seeing if mine from work can be converted). And, should we die in Europe, our healthcare–United Healthcare–has a clause indicating they’ll pay to mail us home–or something like that! Hope it’s not price per pound…

And always…

Take care of each other

Love each other

Be kind and forgiving

Be funny

Work hard, even when it’s not fun

Protect your hearts

Know we’re praying for you

Remember that your Dad and I lived an adventurous life, and as much as we love you, our Father in Heaven loves you so much more…

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 11 Comments

Cloistered from Covid19

The first week of lockdown was (almost) fun. While Mr. Wonderful worked from home and I was free from obligations, it felt like a chance to step back and recharge. I started reading The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, a Pulitzer Prize winning novel. I was sure I would use this two week lockdown to nourish my intellect, strengthen my physique with online yoga, and settle my faith.

I listened (by proximity rather than choice) to meetings about film and polypropylene and resins and recycling and customers and engineers and business cases.  I had video chats with friends from long ago,  nearly daily FaceTime with the kids/grandkids or sisters and mother. I cleaned the top of my cabinets, scrubbed my floors by hand, and posted non-stop on Facebook and Instagram.

The second week, I continued to read about the ‘rona and follow the directions of the Prime Minister, worried about my cough, grew exasperated when my husband said I needed to cut Facetime short because the WIFI for his WebEX meeting was breaking up. I defrosted my freezer and cleaned my oven. I waited for 6 pm, or 7 when work was finished for my great provider. I video messaged my gal pals, got excited when it was my turn to go to the store, prayed for my 3 friends who had positive tests for Covid19, and wondered if my non-stop headache and little cough could be from exposure at the dinner party at my sick friends’ house. I was interviewed for a podcast at our church. I was still reading The Goldfinch.

The third week, normal schedule resumed, though it was virtual. I was grateful for online church, Zoom Bible study and small group, Messenger chats with my friends. I celebrated a friend’s birthday with a group crémant toast on Zoom. I grew tired of trying to schedule running the vacuum around my husband’s meetings, hearing conversations about production runs and business cases and intellectual property. Our Zoom happy hour with longtime friends was a pleasure, and family Zoom meetin’ time with our kids a lifeline and a blessing. We signed up to help with grocery shopping and delivery with church, since we’d already been helping our elderly downstairs neighbors and our positive Covid19 friends. The Goldfinch dragged on and I grew so tired of the stupid mistakes the main character made, while continuing to love the character Hobie. I found out someone I love in the US had passed away and I can’t be there, to honor his life or the commitment of my sister, who loved him more.

Week four–ugh! In all honesty, I’m a bit pissed off at this stupid tiny virus that wreaks havoc in the life of the WORLD!

It’s so exciting when Mr. Wonderful takes his turn to grocery shop so I’m actually ALONE for a short time. On the other hand, as he passes for a snack between meetings and phone conversations, I annoy him with my, “honey, are you glad to be locked down with me?” and “will you still love me when they let us out?” queries. Yet, as my dear husband plays the guitar and sings in his beautiful tenor, I hum along in my serviceable alto. He puts his telescope on the patio and takes beautiful photos of the moon and the stars and galaxies and globular clusters. We’ve been married for 36 years…I’m sure we’ll stand strong in this and through this. And I finished The Goldfinch–FINALLY.

The amount of coffee we’re drinking is staggering, as is the amount of wine (not really–okay REALLY).  As my dear husband finishes a meeting and grabs for a snack, I cringe, dreading the sound of the pistachios and their shells in the little glass bowl–I’m just sure we have a rodent in a cage somewhere in the house. The amount of laundry is much less than usual, as my husband has his nice shirt only for video meetings, and I hang out in a tank and yoga pants. I cook, and cook, and cook some more. I might actually get good at it.

We head to the terrace every night at 8 to join the clapping and cheering for our healthcare workers. And every night, it brings a tear to my eye. We’re grateful for our health. We’re more than grateful for technology. I’m incredibly thankful for social media (well, some of it) and the diversion it provides, and the laughter at silly memes, and the feeling that we’re not alone.

I’m appreciative of those dear people who work in the grocery store, still smiling, despite enforcing the social distancing regulations. I’m grateful for full shelves in the grocery–for coffee and wine and chocolate and toilet paper, and beautiful fruit and vegetables. I’m thankful for the Post deliveries, and the Amazon deliveries. I’m grateful my little Chinese restaurant is open for takeaway once every couple weeks, and we’ve found some good pizza to grab. I’m grounded by my faith.

As this changed life continues, we pray for those directly affected by the disease, for jobs lost because of the lockdown, for milestones celebrated differently, for relationships and love and the joy of living. We look forward to a time of loosening of restriction. We pray for healing.

The Lord bless you and keep you, and make His face to shine upon you.

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Posted on by dlockhart · 3 Comments

This Thursday

Thanksgiving is all about the T‘s: giving thanks on a Thursday, eating a turkey named Tom with mashed and sweet ‘taters, and embracing traditions. We added another T to our holiday hoopla some years back, and since we moved to Luxembourg, it has become a big player in our November festivities…

When we were the young parents of toddler and baby boys, and we had an opportunity to save money toward buying a house, saving on rent by moving into a business and doing an odd job or two. And just like that, we lived in a funeral home.

Planning parties was tricky, knowing that if calling hours or a funeral were scheduled, we’d need to vacate the upstairs apartment, lest the rattling of the chandeliers downstairs rattle those expressing their grief. So when we invited Mr. Wonderful’s sister and her family for Thanksgiving, we knew our plans could go topsy-turvy. On Wednesday, we shopped and planned and cleaned and prepped and welcomed our visitors for the festivities. As the kids played and the men talked (American) football, my dear sister-in-law and I prepared a batch of brownies and threw them in the oven, knowing the picky little eaters in the other room would much prefer chocolate over pumpkin. We waited for the finished product, but realized there was no pleasing aroma of Betty Crocker wafting from the kitchen, because….the oven was not hot, not warm, not baking.

The appliance was antiquated, a huge monstrosity of enamel and iron, with a heating element that simply wasn’t working. Despite the men pulling and poking and plugging and un(plugging), calling every repair shop in the area, and driving to parts of the city no one should ever see, the oven remained broken, cold, unuseable. Our menu for the next day changed dramatically, as we needed a meal that could be prepared using only the stovetop and microwave. The solution was simple…tacos for Thanksgiving. The dinner was delicious and festive, the story funny for years to come (as if living in a funeral home wasn’t funny enough)!

And here we are for our fourth non-Thanksgiving in a country far away from family. The turkeys are tiny yet cost a wing and a drumstick. There is no Thursday closing of the office, no gathering of family and friends on a weekday for a midday meal, with the Macy’s Parade and football and the whir of a mixer and the mixture of laughter amidst the games. Of course I live in a different country and it’s unfair, and probably childish, to expect things to be THE SAME. So yes, I miss my kids desperately, and my mom and all the sisters. I miss making a meal for 10 people or more while my sons ask if there’s anything they can do to help and my daughters decorate the table. I miss the smells, and the heat of the kitchen, and the fully belly and exhaustion when the day is done.

As always, I am thankful, that our kids are with people who love them, that they are healthy, that they’re people who are kind and generous and funny. I’m thankful that I still have my mother, and that she Facetimes with me from her always rocking chair while I look for Dramamine. I’m thankful for my sisters and their husbands and how we love and support one another. I’m thankful for my dear husband’s sisters, whom I love and admire and enjoy so very much. And I’m thankful  for friends both here and around the world who become our family.

Tomorrow, the Thursday I’ve been dreading, we’ll give thanks for a God who loves us and desires the best for us. We’ll give thanks for Mr. Wonderful’s job, even when it’s difficult. We’ll give thanks for food on the table and and for all we’ve seen and done. And before we Facetime, we’ll have tacos for dinner and toast the technology that connects us with those we love.

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 13 Comments

The Day I Broke Yoga

I’m not physically fit.

Some might call me curvy, the politically word correct for “chubby.” I’m more flexible in my politics than my torso, but my very fleshly posture is not rigid enough in the correct way. I decided, with great encouragement and enthusiasm from a dear friend, it was time to do something about it.

For the first time in my sedentary life, I went to a yoga class.

Now, in all honesty, I had a fear of yoga for 3 reasons:

  • I am not athletic at all. My dad always told me, “Diner (his nickname for me),  if you can’t be an athlete, you can always be an athletic supporter.”  BA DUM CHHH
  • That rigidity I mentioned came into play in thinking if I participated in yoga, I’d become Hindu.
  • And, I was just sure that, upon doing the downward dog with my buttocks in the air like I just didn’t care, I would toot–having four children loosened my resolve in many areas, especially the nether regions…

So I put on my big girl yoga pants, took an imodium, prayed for strength and dignity and went to yoga class–senior yoga. Upon arrival, I was greeted by the very petite and kind teacher. And then I learned that, not only would I have strange-to-me vocabulary and movements, BUT THE CLASS WOULD BE IN FRENCH!! I understood a few words here and there, but mostly I just mimicked the other attendees, some of whom had taken more trips around the sun than I, some of whom were nattily dressed in yoga garb, some of whom were older men in t-shirts and shorts. I chose a spot waaay in the back next to the wall, unfurled my pink Nike yoga mat Mr. Wonderful had bought me many years ago for my birthday, folded a wool blanket of some kind, and sat on that: criss-cross-applesauce-hands-in-my-lap.

I was unprepared for the singing part of yoga–the not quite matching pitch of the humming drove my somewhat musical ear to prayer. The equipment that helps maintain poses also surprised me–the belt, the blocks, the foam blocks, bolsters, and  chairs. The bolster was nice and cozy until I scooched off the end as instructed, felt something pop, and drown in a tsunami of buckwheat. My friend, who shall remain nameless (Martha), looked at me with eyes wide and we both bent to scoop, sweep and hide away kernels of stuffing while the teacher paused and focused on us. There was no point in hiding the carnage at that point…

Here’s the good news: I made it through 90 minutes of yoga en francais. I felt strong, accomplished, sore as can be. And I went back the next week. And the next. I’ve found myself doing stretches when I’ve spent too much time bending over my computer or a book, or when my back starts to ache when I’ve walked a lot. I remind myself to pull my shoulders together, raise my chest, and take a deep breath. It’s easier for me to reach and bend. I appreciate the functional benefits. I feel proud that I tried something new, that I pushed myself a bit.

I will always be an athletic supporter–but a strong one!

I prayed for strength and perseverance during poses–I’m still a one God gal.

And when I google “farting in yoga class?” –there are 23,400,000 results, including YouTube videos…just sayin’…

 

 

 

 

 

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Q & A with an Expat

We never thought we’d move to Europe. Our relocation to New York from our cozy and familiar state of West Virginia was a big step for us years (and years) ago. Then our move to the Deep South was a huge difference–in accent, slang, food, and custom…The move back to New York after our nearly 5 year “exile” was not as smooth as we had hoped, but we did become quite cozy and comfortable in New York.

Then we moved to Luxembourg.

Upon our return “home” for a visit, we encounter a few types of people: those who want to know what our life is like here in this sweet little country, and those who are unsure how to approach the topic, and those who never (because of time constraints or lack of interest) get passed the subjects of family and current events. We’ve learned to distinguish the course of the conversation and, after sincerely investigating the events of their lives, we discern how honestly to answer or offer a snapshot of life outside the United States. Yet, even as Mr. Wonderful and I carefully answer queries posed, in the back of our little pea brains lie the responses with which we’d love to cut loose! Here are some commonly asked question:

1. So, how do you like living in Germany (substitute “Belgium” freely)? Answer given: Actually, Luxembourg is a country all its own, bordered by France and Belgium and Germany. Answer we want to give: You know, Luxembourg is  ON the map of Europe–perhaps you could take a peek!

2. Does everyone speak English? Answer given: Luxembourgish, French and German are the main languages used, but some people speak English, though we try to communicate in French first. Answer we want to give: Heck no, not everyone speaks English! It’s a FOREIGN COUNTRY!!!

3. What’s it like living in Europe?  Answer given: Oh, it’s hard being away from family and friends. The streets and parking spaces are small, the holidays are not the same, the language is labor intensive…but we are incredibly grateful for the opportunity! Answer we want to give: Are you kidding? Have you even looked at our posts on Facebook and Instagram? The castles, the views, the Eiffel Tower and the Tower of London, Vienna (the real one), the wine and the cheese and the bread…

4. Aren’t the people less friendly than we are in the United States? Answer given: Sometimes it’s harder to get to know people–remember, the language is a barrier at times and the culture is completely different. Answer we want to give: Do you kiss people you meet three times to greet them? If that’s not friendly, we don’t know what is! We’ve been welcomed and accepted by many of the nationalities we’ve encountered here, and it’s a privilege to call them “friends.”

5. Why did you move to Luxembourg, and would you do it again? Answer given: We had little choice in the move because we like to eat and pay our bills! Answer we want to give: Working and living in Europe is like a dream come true! We could never imagine being able to travel and meet so many fascinating and wonderful people on our own, so we knew our attitudes and approach had to match the task–to assimilate and appreciate and absorb the opportunity all around us with a touch of confidence and a ton of joy. Would we do it all over again? You bet we would!

Posted on by dlockhart · 13 Comments

Seasons in Luxembourg

It’s the leaving season. In the past few days, two of my dearest friends left Luxembourg, and in days to come, two more sweet women, as well as others I’ve been privileged to know, will depart with their families. If they return someday, it will be as tourists, guests, “friends who are visiting,” not as fellow expats navigating this adorable little country. It’s the heart-wrenching leaving season…my least favorite season of all…

My phone has been pinging so often, with questions to a group chat like, “Who needs a hand blender?” or “Mint extract, anyone?” or “I’ve got bottles of toilet cleaner–who wants ’em?” As those departing prepare to return to a country using 110 voltage or a different plug, and their packers have given them lists of forbidden items in the shipping container, they’re desperately clearing their homes while clinging to friendships. You see, living in an unfamiliar country or language or culture is a catalyst for relationships, as piloting through unknown waters together fastens people  in a bond held strong by experiences recounted or fear of the unknown. Butchering the language with someone is so much more enjoyable than floundering alone, d’accord? How comforting it is to laugh about the lack of online registering and the lunch hour closures of government offices when trying to renew that ever-expiring resident card? And then there are the lingering lunches on the terrace…

We don’t forget or replace our friendships “back home.” In fact, many of the people I love spending time with here in Luxembourg remind me of someone in New York. The candor and humor, the laughter and conversation, the compassion and service…I can draw lines to match Luxembourg friends to New York friends (or West Virginia family), regardless of language or nationality or accents or looks. The phrase “having the best of both worlds” takes on a whole, friendly new meaning.

family

And now,  as expats move back to their home countries or next assignments in order to be settled before the school year begins, friends and family arrive here for visits, a lovely reminder that the longevity of friendship has little to do with location, but much to do with the heart and desire. The leaving season is upon us, and though it tugs at my tear ducts,  a lifelong alliance with the leave-ER is a sweet memento of life in Lux.

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Cooking up Conversation

I’m sifting through recipes, some handwritten, some typed, some with my editing marks. There are instructions for Kisir (Turkey), Cod Mousse and Chicken in a Pan and Cantucci (Italy), Chicken Tarragon Cake and Apple Pie (France), Orange Cake (Azerbaijan), Tart of Sintra (Portugal), and Lomo Saltado (Peru). I’m looking at the recipes with a smile, thinking of the women who contributed them…

english conversation

It’s a highlight of my week. I meet women and promote talking–about families, about cooking, about holidays and vacations (which apparently can be the same thing), about books and movies, about personality bonuses and blemishes. Because I can talk at length and listen fairly well,  it’s my privilege to facilitate the English Conversation group along with my British sidekick, Paula, at the American Women’s Club of Luxembourg.

I know how hard it is to learn a new language, especially now that I live in a land of trident tongues spewing French and German and Luxembourgish. It’s encouraging to me to see these women screwing their courage to the sticking point as they speak, write and read in a language that’s foreign to them, without familiar vocabulary and grammar, without ordinary spelling and cadence. We’ve read about professions, then discussed our favorite jobs and those we were glad to see end. One woman spoke of a tutoring job she had when we was young, of a student who was “both lazy and stupid, a bad combination!” We’ve read about travel, then cited our best and worst vacations. When one member suggested her most disappointing holiday experience was in Rome, another chimed in (with a bit of an Italian accent)  “that’s not possible!”

And now our project is sharing our favorite recipes in writing for an international cookbook for the American Women’s Club. I’m learning so very much and tasting amazing food. I now know what a knob of butter is, that pearl is a type of sugar, that apple pie is delicious not only with coffee or tea but also with Champagne! I’ve grasped that to the tooth is the translation of al dente and can be used for food other than just pasta. Then there’s the realization that cantucci is not just any biscotti: this delightfully crunchy biscuit with almonds is served at the end of a meal, not with espresso but with vin santo, a dessert wine. How could I not have known about cantucci all my life? I’ve smiled as I remember that unlike French and Italian and Portuguese and many other languages, English grammar doesn’t assign gender to nouns, so  phrases like, “make the chicken into strings not before having hit him with the meat tenderizer,” or “add the sugar to the butter and beat him until he’s fluffy,” make me laugh as I think fondly of these dear women.

Though our course in English conversation may be suspended for a summer break, ideas are simmering for meaty chats in the fall. For now, here’s hoping the promises of tutoring in cantucci and meeting for  chats and coffees is, like all good pasta,  al dente.  Buon appetito!

 

 

 

 

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Not just any restaurant review

 

It’s time to come to grips with reality–I’m waaaay past the point of using the excuse “I just moved here” to explain my lack of cooking–or attempting to cook–or even grocery shopping for that matter. The fact is, when I’m murmuring, “oh my gosh, it’s getting late! What will I make for dinner?” I know what I’ll make for dinner…RESERVATIONS. Whether having dinner with Mr. Wonderful or a lingering lunch with a dear friend, our neighborhood pizzeria has become our kitchen away from home, and it’s growing on us…like a truffle.

We first visited Our Restaurant just days after we arrived in Luxembourg. We were sans reservations, and were greeted by a flustered waiter who was a little less than welcoming and not at all charmed by our Tarzan French with a West Virginia accent. Generally, we can elicit smiles from the most distracted serveurs, but not this time. We ordered wine, vin rouge et vin blanc, which we repeated in French as well as English. The waiter brought two glasses of red wine, and was quite perturbed when we corrected him. As we dined, we watched customers come and go, some were greeted with the Luxembourg kiss(es), some with a handshake–we’d been greeted with shifty eyes, a nervous twitch, and a final resignation that they’re-not-leaving-so-they-might-as-well-be-seated attitude.  Being the types who wade in and ignore the more subtle nuances of European etiquette, we smiled and assumed the best, taking a smallish table near the window. The meal was delightful, the experience really was quite enjoyable as the hustle and bustle of locals filled the space.

It was inevitable that we return to Our Restaurant as, the schedule of our French classes, paired with the phrase “fully booked” from other restaurants and the rumble of hunger steered us in that direction. The restaurant is quite conveniently located just a few blocks from our apartment. Of course, it requires a nearly vertical trek home after filling our filling our stomachs, but who’s complaining? (Okay…I do…all the way up the hill…EVERY TIME). Our habit was (French class est fini) to walk from class in the city centre to Our Restaurant, arriving around 8pm, before the dinner rush on Monday and Wednesday evenings. We watch the maître d’ greet the patrons with a flourish, pour the wine with added kisses, and typically bellow at or frantically gesture for Pasquale–the somewhat detached and (maybe) confused waiter from our first visit. We see many of the same satisfied and animated diners, eat our same favorite delicious dinners,  and enjoy the brasserie drama.

And now…we are greeted at the door with the Luxembourg salute–three kisses beginning on the left side (unlike the two-kiss Italian welcome beginning on the right cheek–more later about greetings gone awry!), we can coax a smile from grumpy Pasquale, we receive a complimentary lemoncello at the end of the evening. When introducing our friends to Our Restaurant, they are welcomed as generously as we. On such an occasion, I asked the maitre d’ to take a photo of us, so he cheerfully took my phone to snap of this (not so flattering) photo instead of a pic of our group!

We’ve been scolded for using the wrong fork for our sea bass Valentine dinner (here we go with the big fish stories again!), and we’ve taught Pasquale the meaning of the word “fancy” and that we don’t wear it well. He is always happy to help with menu suggestions, to talk us into ordering the delicious and artsy pane cotta for dessert, always pouring the extra glass of wine for my dear friend and me at lunch (we pay for it, of course!). Now we feel a part of the neighborhood, like we’ve found “our place,” like we’ve reconciled our clumsy attempts of integrating with the elegance of Europe. Our neighborhood pizzeria has definitely become Our Restaurant, with the staff our quirky and loveable members of the family. Because, after all…96c19661e11912aac44401e72aaa34b5

 

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The Best People

The Crown, S2:E4 “Beryl”

TONY: You’ve probably never been on a bus, have you?

PRINCESS MARGARET: (puffs on her cigarette) No.

TONY: Pity. You really do meet the best people.

I don’t mind riding the bus. When the temperature is crisp and precipitation is less than predictable, it’s worth a good hair day to check the schedule, validate that ticket on my phone, and hop on the number 28 to some of my familiar, if not favorite, places.

I’d had a wonderful morning with some friends and needed to scurry to the grocery store to grab a few (ha!) things for upcoming festivities at our apartment. The bus would be another 5 minutes and since I was most likely the oldest person waiting, I parked my tired boo-hiney (West Virginian for buttocks) on the not-so-clean wooden bench to await my extra long limo. A woman, most likely near my age, joined me on the seat then began speaking to me en francais.

“J’aime tes chaussures.” I smiled, and immediately told her, in French, that I spoke only a little of the language. She was not deterred from pursuing conversation, so I tried in my best bad French to tell her I walk a lot in these shoes, because I couldn’t remember the French word for “comfortable” (which is, of course, confortable— almost the same word with a French accent!!). She spoke a bit of English, I spoke a bit of French, as she told me her sister had a bad foot and footwear like mine would be good for her. (Was that a compliment? I hadn’t thought of my sandals as orthopaedic).

My bus arrived, and it was, of course, her bus, too. I boarded and sat against the window, and as she approached I realized she was going to sit with me, so I patted the seat and smiled at her. She introduced herself: Marianne had lived in Luxembourg for a very long time, though she was originally from Cameroon. Her skin was beautiful brown, as she pointed to her hand and said her children were the same color, though her husband is Luxembourgish. We talked about how Luxembourg is a country of peace and the people are nice. We chatted about window shopping at La Belle Etoile and cooking. She swore the prepared chicken wings at that Cactus were better than any other Cactus store in the country. She told me her husband is a good man, and asked if I had a good man, too. When I answered, she smiled broadly and we both nodded.

As we parted ways, she squeezed my hand, and I told her I hoped to see her again.

It was no random occurrence, the encounter with Marianne, in my heart or in my mind. In this place, so foreign and far from home, I’m finding a human touch, a smile, a word goes a long way in making me feel like I belong or matter or make a difference.

Have you been on a bus in Luxembourg? You really do meet the best people…