Old people rock

I just returned to DC from two weeks in Alabama.  Every time I go down south, I make sure to go visit my grandmother in her assisted living facility that’s in a town so small you could halfway blink and miss it.  But within the walls of this 16-room facility lie some amazing characters and fascinating people.  The man that owns and runs the facility is a living saint.  He also raises cows and honeybees, and I am the proud owner of a small bottle of honey from his farm.  

But the true characters are the residents themselves.  While sitting out on the lovely screened in porch with my grandmother, one of her fellow facility-mates, Miss Jo, came out to join us.  After finding out I live (mostly) in DC, she proceeded to tell me that she worked in the supply department of the Pentagon back in the 1950s.  She was originally hired to be a driver, but upon finding out she could type, she was quickly put behind a desk.  A young man in the Army that worked in the same office took a liking to her, and soon she found herself taking breaks and conversing with him on a regular basis - often right inside President Eisenhower’s car that was kept in the basement where they worked and contained hidden guns in just about every nook and cranny.  They got married and lived the good ol’ Army life.  Her husband has long since passed away, but she clearly loved her time working at the Pentagon.  According to my grandmother, she tells that story quite frequently.  I was glad I got to hear it.

Later that same afternoon, still on the porch, Miss Suzanne came and sat with us for a bit.  Miss Suzanne is from France, and is a bit difficult to understand given the fact that she’s had a stroke and speaks with an accent.  She was worth paying extra attention to, though.  Miss Suzanne is from Normandy, and she and her family apparently had quite a rough time of it during World War II.  They often went hungry.  Suzanne’s first husband passed away early in life.  At the age of 50, Suzanne decided she wanted to come to the US.  Her friend and family thought she was insane, not to mention the fact that they didn’t have the highest opinion of Americans.  Suzanne thought otherwise of America and didn’t give a lick what anyone else thought of her desire to move here.  With no money and no knowledge of English, she boarded a boat all by herself and came to the United States.  She got along just fine, learned English, and married (and was widowed) two more times.  

And then there’s Miss Mildred, my grandmother’s best friend in this place.  Miss Mildred has a snarky streak.  She won’t tell dirty jokes, but she’ll tell “washed jokes”.  This is her favorite:

Q: What can a woman do with her skirt up that a man can’t do with his pants down?
A:  Run.

And now you know what a washed joke is.  


Miss Mildred is very particular about her food.  Thou shalt not put mayo on both sides of a hot dog.  One side is for mayo, and the other is for mustard.  And don’t you forget it.  She is also afraid of very random things, including clouds, damp air, and leaving the facility for any reason.  And if you give her a birthday card involving high kicks and showing off underwear, she will love you for it.  She never ceases to crack me up.

When I get old and crotchety, I want to have stories like Miss Jo, gumption like Miss Suzanne, and a sense of humor like Miss Mildred.  At the age these people are, it can be difficult to speak, difficult to remember when you’ve already told a story 25 times, and probably difficult to find someone to even attempt to listen when you need it.  But they are a treasure trove of history and entertainment, and I’m glad I was in a place to be able to listen and watch.  I’m not sure how some of them ended up in this tiny speck of an Alabama farm town, but I’m grateful they’re there.

The world, according to my liver

I've subjected my stomach to both the pleasure and pain of foreign cuisines here and there.  The winners were epic and unforgettable (warthog ribs in South Africa, prosciutto and melon in Italy, and tamarind shrimp in Vietnam).  The failures were cringe-worthy and forgettable regrettable (black pudding in Scotland, winter melon tea in Vietnam, and tako poki in Hawaii).  I've also put my liver to many a test.  Here is what my liver thinks about the rest of the world:

The Good

1. South Africa.  Wine country in South Africa makes my liver swoon.  It cried tears of sweet, sweet joy while processing the bubbles at the Graham Beck winery.  It declared it's undying, eternal love to Lynx's Blanc de Noir.  And the first touch of Amarula liqueur sent it frolicking into the lush, green hills chasing rainbows with a gaggle of puppies and kittens.  Quite frankly, I'm afraid my liver is going to defect to South Africa.
2. France.  The home of champagne.  The motherland of the tiny, beautiful bubbles that turn my liver into Tickle Me Elmo.  In France, my liver's inner child comes out to play on the see-saw, race across the monkey bars, and revel in youthful delight.
3. Germany.  The dark, glorious complexity of German beers make my liver want to don a smoking jacket and retire to the library with a cigar and a feeling of utter contentment.  The hefeweizens and doppelbocks have the ability to convince my liver that it can aspire to be The Most Interesting Man in the World.  

The Bad

1. Vietnam.  The "happy water" in Sapa turned my poor liver into a terrified child cowering in a corner in the fetal position.  By the end of the night, it was wide-eyed and crying, "No more, please, no more!" The beer was Budweiser-ish, but with Asian names such as Tiger and Bia Ha Noi.  Trying to convince my liver that this was beer is akin to eating turkey bacon and vainly hoping that the stomach and brain won't take notice.  My liver shook its head in shame at my consumption of such inferior alcohol.
2. Cambodia.  Once again, my liver had to tolerate the consumption of southeast Asia's version of Miller Lite.  With each new bottle, it would roll its eyes, sigh, and say to me, "Again?".  But it gained a new appreciation for these beers after I gave it it's own version of eletroshock therapy - garlic-infused vodka.  It breathed a sigh of relief when I went back to the good ol' Angkor beer.

The (almost) Ugly

1. Egypt.  My liver had a fit when it realized it had to spend 10 days in a predominantly Muslim country.  It's life flashed before it's eyes with visions of withering away and dying.  It fell to its knees in joyous thanks when it realized that I was staying with friends who were experienced expats - with a fully stocked liquor cabinet. 
2. India.  Once again, my liver was up in arms at the prospect of 10 days in a country that frowns upon its nectar.  But it was rescued a second time by understanding expat friends that had plenty of provisions on hand. And, I daresay that the nearly barren state outside of the expat compound gave it a new appreciation for cheap brews - it actually welcomed the ice cold Kingfisher beer that I fed it.  I must say, I was rather proud of my liver for learning to appreciate some foreign culture. 

The (truly) Ugly

1. Botswana. My liver has already informed me that if I so much as think about going back go Botswana, it will declare mutiny and go into hiding indefinitely.  The shot of Klipdrift (which, granted is made in South Africa, but my liver associates it wholly with Botswana) knocked it to the ground, twitching and screaming in pain.  It had barely recovered when it was hit with yet another poison - Chibuku.  Chibuku can best be described as a stale, fermented corn milkshake laced with a bit of moonshine.   Alcoholic gruel.  This was more than just an offense to my liver - it was a crime against internal organs (including my stomach).  I think my liver even tried to call the UN to report me after it regained consciousness from its violent reaction to the Chibuku. It's scarred for life, and I think it's writing a book.

WTF

1. South Korea. My liver left South Korea in a haze, wondering what kind of circus it had just been forced to partake in.  First, it was drowned in soju, thoroughly convinced that I was attempting some form of waterboarding for my internal organs.  Then I nealy gave my poor liver frostbite and sugar shock from a slushy pina colada concoction that came in a ziplock bag with a straw and a smiley-face sticker. It dusted off the glitter, Engrish, and Hello Kitty (not that it remembered where any of it came from) and wandered off into the night hoping that someday, maybe, it will all make sense.

I'll have the damnation, please

Amanda:  "Wait.  You're an opera singer, but you've never been to the Paris Opera House?!"
Me: "Um... no..."
Amanda:  "We have to fix this.  Pick a weekend.  We're going to Paris to see an opera."

And that's how I found myself on a plane to Paris on a freezing cold December weekend with my brilliant friend.  We greeted Paris with wool socks, ball gowns, and box seat tickets to Smetana's The Bartered Bride.  Paris greeted us with rain, sleet, Christmas lights, and champagne. I couldn't feel my feet for the cold the entire weekend, but, well, that's what the champagne was for.

We ran late to the opera.  We burst into the house in a flurry of pouf and pearls.  My jaw dropped immediately upon entering.  This was one of the most beautiful, ornate places I'd ever seen.  Even better, I wasn't there as a tourist - I was there to see a dadgum opera!

The opera itself was amazing, and time flew.  I never could wrap my head around the fact that I was seeing an opera in the Paris Opera House.  We sat on red velvet chairs in a box with red velvet walls.  There was gold everywhere.  There was the gargantuan chandelier of The Phantom of the Opera fame.

Amanda and I wanted to keep this fairy tale evening going, which meant that champagne was in order.  We took a cab to a restaurant with a view of the Eiffel Tower.  Our waiter was Italian.  And by the laws of physics, all Italian waiters must flirt with anyone with boobs.  He gave us menus and a wink.  We ordered our champagne and perused the dessert menu, because we had been subsisting off of nothing but champagne, chocolate, and macaroons thus far, and we saw no need to change this delicious pattern.

Amanda and I saw it at the same time.  We looked at each other and grinned.

"Do you want to split it?"  Amanda asked.
"You bet," I replied.

We called our new Italian friend over.  "We'll have the damnation, please."

That was one delicious damnation.  If this is hell, I'll take it.