I wish I had taken more photos of the archaeologists in my aunt’s yard, but I was too busy marveling at the fact that there were archaeologists in my aunt’s yard. She was completely used to it, of course. Her village, my grandfather’s own, is ancient. I knew this. The area is full of artifacts…
Yesterday, I may have exaggerated slightly when I said that I found my aunt’s home all by myself. I was caught up in the poetry of it, of the idea that I could wander the same ancient streets that my grandparents did, and find their loved ones’ homes without needing an ounce of help. But…
“What’s the address?” Rand asked. I shrugged. “No idea.” “Is it on this street?” “I think so? The door is green.” (I feel it pertinent to note that nearly half the doors in the village happened to also be green.)
“Is … is that a peacock?” Rand asked me as we walked through the village. “Where?” “Over there, by the church.” “I highly doubt it,” I said, squinting in the direction he was pointing. “I don’t think that-” And then I saw it. “Yup,” I said. “That’s definitely a peacock.”
Our plane landed in Naples just as the sun started to set. Vesuvius loomed over the city as we sped out of town, the volcano turning deeper and deeper shades of purple in the fading light. We were heading towards my grandfather’s village. I suppose it eventually became my grandmother’s village, too, after she married him…
I finished The Bartender’s Tale on the flight to Germany, at some nameless hour high above the North Pole. I decided to leave it with my dad, but there was one snippet I wanted to hang onto. So I took a photo of it. – Pretty easy to guess which part, I fell in love…
My dad lives in a small Bavarian village about an hour outside of Munich. I usually don’t blog about it, even though it’s crazy adorable, because it’s also immensely sleepy and boring. The little hamlet shuts down after 6 or 7 pm on weekdays. And pretty much all day on weekends. And Mondays, too. It’s…
I have trouble describing my dad. He’s not incredibly cheerful, but he isn’t melancholy, either. I don’t think anyone would call him warm, nor would it be accurate to say that he’s unfriendly. If I were forced to put his demeanor into words, I’d say he’s rather serious, and often rather annoyed. His annoyance usually…
We are sitting in a cafe in Füssen, eating a way-too-sweet (but still delicious) merengata dessert when it happens. The screen on my new camera flashes “memory card full” and then goes to black. I can’t take any more photos. “What the hell?” I yell, and then, for reasons that are still confusing to…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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