g
Cotswolds

Garden Party

Posted on August 8, 2015

Our visit to the Cotswolds last weekend happily coincided with Miles’ annual-ish summer garden party. It was a perfect Sunday afternoon for that kind of thing: blue skies and sun bright enough to warm but not wilt the men in attendance, most of whom would deem it unseemly to remove their linen blazers no matter how high the mercury soared.

Summer scene in Cotswoldia

Miles always makes it clear in his invitation that the party’s occurrence depends on the whims of English summer weather, issuing a go or no-go in an email sent out the day before. His excuse is that is his cottage is too small to host the party in the event of rain, but I’m not so sure. As anyone who’s ever hosted a party in their first shoe-box-sized grown-up apartment knows, it doesn’t take a lot of space. I think it’s more that a garden in English summer requires only a bit of bunting to look festive while hosting indoors would require Miles to actually clean his house.

To be clear, I’m incredibly fond of the disheveled interior of Miles’ home. The route to the bathroom—the only reason you’re allowed to enter during the course of the festivities—includes a walk past a small kitchen where the tap is broken and, as a result, constantly running. It’s been this way since at least 2011 when I was last at his house for one of these soirées. In drought-riddled California he would be locked up for this offense, but I suppose it’s less of an issue in this perpetually sodden part of the world.

Next you go up dust bunny-strewn stairs with pairs of his shoes laid out neatly every few steps, each pair pointing in the downstairs direction as if to make it easier to dress on-the-run as he exits the house. A presumably dysfunctional shotgun rests in the corner at the top of the stairs, it’s barrel half hidden behind a white curtain billowing in the breeze. In the current climate of mass shootings in America its presence would be threatening; in England it’s merely decorative, as is the salon-style hanging of photographs and prints and paintings in the interior of the loo. If I wasn’t sure he would like it so much, I would be tempted to call Miles a bohemian.

Who needs a glass?

At first it seemed that Miles’ laissez faire attitude towards housekeeping extended to the selection of hors d’oeuvres, which were strictly limited to squares of plain buttered brown bread with smoked salmon or egg salad. (At one point I did spy something mayonnaisey-looking—prawn?—resting in a fluted edible cup. It seemed out-of-keeping and I demurred on that basis.) On reflection, though, I can see that the choice of food and the timing of its appearance served a very specific purpose, which was solely to absorb the copious amounts of rosé and white wine in constant circulation. One type each of rosé and white were the only options and why not? The whole affair was a lesson in the elegance of minimalism for any hostess who’s ever struggled with being the most-est.

Of course the success of any party depends not just on free-flowing chilled wine and fine weather, but on the congregants. It was as if the characters of Americashire had reassembled unwittingly on my behalf. Amongst the usual suspects of Cotswoldia was a farmer who wore a pith hat without irony. He also wore a rose in the buttonhole of his canvas blazer, and when I complimented him on it, he expounded at length about his daily selection process from his garden and his exasperation with his gender for failing to realize that a flower is exactly what a buttonhole is for. Other topics of conversation included an obligatory WWII story—this one about attempting to blow up Hitler’s bunker, a long ago road trip to a game fair in the Loire, and whether or not the pattern of lips on my dress was indicative of the fact that I would like the gentleman inquiring to place a kiss in every spot where the lips appeared. Charming and creepy is a blurry line, but he meant no harm. There was also a puppy, whose antics provided a useful escape route from at least one conversation.

Escape route to the side garden

Calling on the old adage that it’s best to leave while you’re still having fun, Rupert, Ralph, and I eventually managed to persuade husband it was time to go. As Rupert, our designated driver, chauffeured us back home in his convertible through the nearly harvest-ready countryside, there may have been several wine-soaked exclamations of delight: “Now THIS is summer in England!”

Berlin

The German Way of Death

Posted on July 23, 2015
A favorite monument in Friedhof II der Sophiengemeind

My favorite walking route on my morning commute takes me through a Protestant cemetery. Like much of Berlin the exterior walls of Friedhof II der Sophiengemeind are covered in graffiti, but just inside is a woodland oasis. There are flowers, but they are the flowers of a landscaped yard—rhododendrons and hydrangea—rather than the sanitized cut arrangements you often see in an American cemetery. There are some grand monuments, but mostly the landscape is unruly: full of rambling ivy, shrubs, and, in summer, leafy boughs bisecting your line of sight. Most striking is the contrast of the German predilection for chaos in death versus their stereotypical Teutonic rigidness in life. Perhaps in his final resting place, a German finally lets himself go.

A typical grave

As a non-German speaker, I look for clues about the culture of my host country outside of language: in the aisles of a grocery store (I’m not sure what condiments in a tube tells me, but I’m sure it’s something), the walls of a gallery, and even the paths of a cemetery. Still, the paths of the Friedhof II der Sophiengemeind remind me of one bit of language a co-worker taught me. It’s a Swabian saying, “schaffe, schaffe, Häusle baue” that means “work, work, build a house.” According to my colleague, the saying captures not just the hard-working nature of Swabians, but also the more universally relatable ideal of a house in the country.

In Mitte, the central district of Berlin where the cemetery lies, there’s no such thing as a standalone house; the streets are lined with five-story apartment blocks. But here in Friedhof I like to think the residents have finally built their house. It’s a lovely, rambling affair and as far outside the city as you can get without leaving.

Watering cans near the cemetery entrance
Cotswolds

An Evening at Longborough Festival Opera: Glasto for the Middle-Aged

Posted on July 8, 2015
Opera-goers mill outside the theater, a former barn, during the interval

Last Saturday night I finally did something on my Cotswold bucket list: attend a performance at Longborough Festival Opera. (OK, it’s not actually on that list, but it should have been.) If you haven’t heard about Longborough, it’s in the vein of Glyndebourne’s country house opera and one of those Cotswold gems you wouldn’t believe until you pull into the grounds and see it for yourself.

One of the “guests” roaming the grounds

Upon arrival we were greeted by a rooster strolling amongst the other festival-goers, many of whom—unlike us—were wearing black-tie as they sipped pre-show glasses of wine. Nobody gave our casual dress a second glance, though; they were all too busy taking in the stunning views of the countryside in show-off British summer weather.

Even if the climate hadn’t cooperated, the show would have gone on. Longborough has its own permanent theater in the form of a converted barn complete with seats salvaged from a remodel of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, a pink stucco facade, and statues of Wagner, Verdi, and Mozart. The barn sits right across from the home of the couple, Martin and Lizzie Graham, who are responsible for the whole endeavor and seem to fit the mold of the stereotypical British eccentric rather well (read more about them here).

Despite my enthusiasm for the setting at Longborough, I confess that I’m not particularly interested in opera. Yet for reasons I can only attribute to the lingering effects of my bourgeois upbringing, I keep dragging husband to performances. Most recently we saw A Rake’s Progress in Berlin, which proved to be an excellent opportunity for him to catch up on his sleep. Occasionally he would wake up long enough to wonder aloud if the admittedly bizarre performance had licensed the use of the Disney characters whose likenesses made random appearances on stage. Thankfully the Longborough production of Rigoletto had no such ethical quandaries, not counting the cheating-on-and-murdering-of-an-innocent-young-woman aspects of the plot.

Our new hamper after we’d demolished
everything in it but the Eton Mess

The point is that the draw of an opera at a country house in England is not just the opera itself—which turned out to be stunning even if husband did have a little lie down in the box in the second half—but also the atmosphere: the grounds, the breed of very serious spectators making opera buff small talk that goes way over your head as you murmur affirmative throwaways, and, weather willing, the interval picnic.

Nobody does summer picnicking better than the British, a fact I attribute to the abysmal weather for much of the rest of the year. What else could motivate people to pack up most of the contents of an indoor dining room and transport them to a field in the middle of nowhere? (Things I’ve seen produced out of a British picnic basked include an eight-armed silver candelabra and a garland of paper lanterns “for atmosphere.”)

Rather than be mocked for my lack of proper kit, as I once was when I arrived at a Cotswold picnic carrying ice in a plastic Tesco bag, I opted to order our dinner from The Old Butchers in Stow-on-the-Wold. As if the nuts, olives, charcuterie, smoked salmon, potato salad, Chinese chicken salad, and Eton Mess weren’t enough, I am now the proud owner of the hamper in which it was delivered: a polka-dot-lined affair complete with tea cups, silverware, and china plates. It’ll be just the thing to disguise a Tesco bag filled with ice—and maybe even a candlestick or two—on our next visit to Longborough.

Picnic with a view
Europe Walking

Walking to Paris

Posted on June 20, 2015
Making strides in his campaign
to convert me to his pedestrian ways

Last month we walked to Paris. To be more specific, we walked the mile and a half from our apartment in Berlin to the Hauptbahnhof, boarded a grey and red Deutsche Bahn train to Cologne where we changed to a burgundy-colored Thalys train to Paris, then disembarked at Gare du Nord and walked the two-and-half miles to our little hotel on Île Saint-Louis. Three days later we did the same in reverse.

The decision to walk from our apartment in Berlin to the Hauptbanhof was merely pragmatic; construction in the city has rendered a good section of the route impassable by car. But I had long thwarted my husband’s ambition to walk—he’s an avowed pedestrian—from Gare du Nord into the center of Paris based on the belief that it was too long which, perversely, was a view I had formed while making the same trek through the traffic-snarled streets of the City of Lights in the back of a taxi. When I finally looked up the route on a map, I was shocked to find it was less than three miles. I could hardly say no.

Adding to the decision to make our journey to Paris one in which we cleaved to the earth rather than ascended to the heavens was the spate of recent airline disasters. A German Wings pilot had just crashed a plane into the Alps and I was still unsettled by the disappearance of Malaysia Airlines flight 370 a year earlier. Despite the fact that a rail ticket cost about three times more than a flight, I had no problem justifying the expense. In the words of Will Self in his memoir Walking to Hollywood, “I could no longer cope at all with the infantilizing demanded by…air travel. It was over. No more would I dutifully respond to those parental injunctions go here, go there, empty my pockets and take off my shoes. Never again would I take my underpants to see the world, which meant in turn that never would the world witness them espaliered on a hedge.”

Serious walking gear

Instead my underpants would be folded neatly into a sage-green backpack I had purchased for the express purpose of our ambulatory adventure, along with a pair of pink-and-white-striped slip-on sneakers that, while not exactly Parisian in sartorial tone, seemed a better option than the American-in-running-shoes cliché. In addition to being a way to avoid death in the skies, walking to Paris had also been an excuse to go shopping.

***

There is something extremely liberating about arriving at your destination and stepping onto the platform with nothing more than a backpack, a superior smirk your only concession to the lengthy taxi line you pass as you head straight out to the street and on your way. I had hoped to stop for a drink at Albion, a wine bar near the station, but it was not yet open for the evening. Still, I liked the idea that, on foot, serendipitous stops could be accommodated.

Mistinguett at the Moulin Rouge
Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

Instead we headed down the old Roman route of Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin, dotted with hair salons catering to women of African descent and Turkish coffee shops filled with men playing cards. A lone boutique had raised the flag of gentrification with its window displays of artsy journals and minimalist housewares. It’s the kind of shop you might just as soon find in Portland as in Paris and for which I am loathe to admit I’m a target market, but we had somewhere to be and didn’t linger, even when we passed the spindly beauty of the 10th arrondissement’s city hall or through the arch of Porte Saint-Martin, a war monument erected by Louis IV. After the fact I read about two more landmarks we had passed on the street, the theater Le Splendid, where Maurice Chevalier and Mistinguett (a contemporary and competitor of Josephine Baker) once performed, and Lévitan, once a Jewish-owned furniture store that was turned into the Paris annex for Drancy, an internment camp, during WWII. Along a single street we had managed to walk the history of Paris.

la porte Saint-Martin

Before long we emerged into the piazza of the Centre Pompidou, then zig-zagged through the narrow boutique-lined streets of the Marais and onto the island where, after attempting to check into two hotels that weren’t ours, we finally made it to our room in the Hôtel Des Deux Iles. By five o’clock we were back in the Marais, firmly planted in the brasserie-style chairs in front of Au Petit Fer à Cheval and drinking the pichets of Chablis we ritualistically use to commence a weekend in Paris. We had arrived but, as the saying goes, it was the journey that mattered.

Europe

Weekend in Leipzig

Posted on June 13, 2015

Once part of the GDR, Leipzig played a crucial role in the downfall of East Germany that’s often overshadowed by the symbolism of the fall of the Wall in Berlin. These days, along with Berlin and Dresden, it’s one of the most vibrant cities of the former East.

Courtyard of Hotel Fregehaus

Arrive in style
Leipzig’s grand Hauptbahnhof lends credence to the theory that train stations are the penises of urban planning. It’s a short walk from the city center, where we stayed at the Steigenberger Grandhotel Handelshof. The hotel spans a city block and was impressively remodeled four years ago. While I suspect they will regret some of interior design choices—the black Lucite chandelier over the bathtub comes to mind—there was no faulting the extraordinarily friendly service from the hotel staff. For a more intimate experience, try the stylish Hotel Freghaus situated in a historic house around a courtyard flower shop. Its neighbors include a terrific vintage store and Leipzig’s stunning Museum of Fine Arts.
Hotel Fregehaus, Katharinenstraße 11, 04109 Leipzig, tel: +49 341 26393157

Café at the Museum der bildenden Künste

Neomodern
Regardless of where you’re staying, the Museum of Fine Arts (Museum der bildenden Künste) is worthy of at least an afternoon musing the world-class collection whose origins date back to early nineteenth century. These days the collection intersperses new with old in a stunning modernist setting. The architecture that houses the collection, designed by Karl Hufnagel, Peter Pütz and Michael Rafaelian, is as special as the collection itself, which includes a swathe of contemporary artists who are either from or working in Liepzig. My favorite “discovery” was local painter Neo Rauch, which I promise has only the tiniest bit to do with his first name. Rauch has a studio at the Spinnerei, a former cotton mill that’s been converted to an art complex of studios and galleries in the western Leipzig district of Plagwitz. Both the neighborhood, centered around Karl-Heine Strasse, and the Spinnerei are worth a visit.
Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig, Katharinenstraße 10, 04109 Leipzig
Leipziger Baumwollspinnerei, Spinnereistraße 7, 04179 Leipzig

The Spinnerei
City of Music

Our weekend in Leipzig coincided with a festival celebrating the 1,000-year anniversary (yes, one THOUSAND years – in your face, America) of the first recorded mention of Leipzig. The festivities included everything from really bad American rock bands to choral music, only the latter of which is fitting for the city that was once home to Bach, Wagner, Schumann, Mahler, and Mendelssohn. Bach conducted choirs at both St. Thomas Church, where he is buried, and St. Nicholas Church, whose pale pink and green ceiling is as pretty as a box of macarons from Ladurée. Under the parsonage of Christian Führer, the church also played a central role in the 1989 demonstrations that helped lead to German reunification.

Nikolaikirche
Faustian Feasting

Our most memorable meal of the weekend was in Auerbach’s Keller, located at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the entrance to Mädler Passage, a shopping arcade whose roots begin in the sixteenth century when the rector of Leipzig University opened a wine bar in the courtyard (how very civilized). The restaurant is famous for being a setting in Goethe’s Faust, scenes from which are depicted in murals on the restaurant walls. It’s definitely touristy—mannequins of historical characters astride wine kegs in one corner of the building do nothing to lift the tone—but the food and the atmosphere were still hearty. We feasted on soups made from root vegetables, beef roulade, and potato dumplings then immediately went back to the hotel and slept as if we had tilled fields from dusk til dawn. On my next visit, I’m looking forward to trying some lighter fare at the recently opened Tacoholics in the Plagwitz neighborhood.

Auerbachs Keller, Mädler Passage, Grimmaische Str. 2-4, 04109 Leipzig
Tacoholics, Karl Heine Straße 58, 04229 Leipzig
Signage outside Tacoholics

Spy Story
On our final morning in Leipzig we visited the former local headquarters of the Stasi which has remained largely intact as a memorial and museum, the Runde Ecke, since the fall of the GDR. The displays are in German, but 4€ rents an audio guide in English. The technology employed by the GDR to spy on its own citizens is so outdated it looks laughable, but there’s little that’s humorous here—aside from the can of Florena Action aerosol hairspray in a display case dedicated to disguises. The whole experience is more poignant in light of recent revelations about the NSA and makes the Germans’ empathetic view of Ed Snowden entirely comprehensible.
Museum in der Runden Ecke, Dittrichring 24, 04109 Leipzig

“Everything in view” at the Museum in der Runden Ecke

More pictures of Leipzig here on Pinterest.

Cotswolds

Summer in the Cotswolds

Posted on May 25, 2015

Summer in the Cotswolds means Giffords Circus, an old-fashioned village green circus that’s the brainchild of Nell and Toti (yes, Toti) Gifford. You can read all about it here and, better yet, book a ticket. Here are a few pictures from our visit last weekend to see Moon Songs, the title of this year’s sublime show, on the grounds of Sudeley Castle in Winchcombe.

Circling the wagons under the horse-chestnut tree
Dog and a bear on a horse. Just because.
Tweedy the clown gets loaded into the canyon
Europe Uncategorized

Life on the Rails: In praise of the road well traveled

Posted on April 26, 2015

In my last post before we left for a stint living in Berlin, I made a list of all the things I still wanted to do in the Cotswolds. Now that we would be less than a two-hour flight away, I thought I would finally get around to marking some things off this Cotswold bucket list.Our first visit back to the Cotswolds was last weekend, and I managed do exactly none of them. Part of the problem is that we like the things we usually do so much that we lack the motivation to do anything else. With walks through scenery like this just outside our front door, who could argue?

We even like the things we don’t like, or more precisely, we love to hate the same things over and over again. Case in point: we went to dinner with our old chums, Rupert and Ralph, at our local inn, the Wheatsheaf, on the Friday night of our visit. The menu featured a battered brill with petite pois and potatoes that sounded suspiciously like fish and chips for £25. Still, two of our party chose to order it, making a point of telling the waiter they would have the “£25 fish and chips.” It was delicious if ridiculously priced, and for the remainder of the weekend we revelled in repeatedly sharing our outrage. Undoubtedly we’ll eat there again next time we’re in town.

My husband’s and my travel predilections are so strong that our Facebook posts look like they’re on an annual repeat cycle, and our friend Rupert likes to poke fun at our predictability. “Back on the rails,” he’ll note every time he recognizes one of our check-ins at favorite restaurant. “Choo choo” is another shorthand favorite.

He is perhaps to blame for why I am feeling a bit defensive about taking the road well traveled. It is not a fashionable choice as anyone who knows the last three lines from Robert Frost’s famous poem will tell you.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

And everyone knows these lines of the poem because they are ubiquitous. Just yesterday I saw them artfully scrawled on a chalkboard in a Scandinavian clothing store in Berlin. This ubiquity, of course, defeats the whole purpose. If everyone takes the road less traveled, then it’s no longer the road less traveled. The road less traveled becomes nothing more than a formula, the irony of which found expression last year in the normcore movement, an equally self-aware propensity to be anti-fashion (think mom jeans, polo shirts). But I digress from my point, which is the first three lines of the poem. They’re less well known (the road less traveled, if you will), and I take my inspiration there:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood

Of our beloved homes in California and the Cotswolds, my husband has often said how he wants to live in both at once. We long to “travel both and be one traveler,” but, in the absence of the science to enable that, we have settled on trying to craft a nomadic life so that we may spend time in both. The same applies to visiting other places we love and repeating the experiences from previous visits. In doing so, we create a routine that is nothing less than a sense of home. We are carving out a way to “be one traveler” however infrequently we visit.

One such beloved spot is Paris. We have a visit planned in May, but I can tell you now how the weekend will go. We will stay in a charming but microscopic hotel room on the Île Saint-Louis from where each morning we will jog a loop around the islands before breakfasting at the bar at le Louis IX, which seems to be a favorite of Parisian garbage collectors. Then we will rent bikes and ride to the Eiffel Tower before lunching on the terraces of Tribeca on the pedestrianized market street, Rue Cler. There we will admire the manners of small French children out for lunch with their families and envy the achingly chic French teenagers smoking Gauloises between bites of steak tartare.

Picture of Au Petit Fer A Cheval from 2011. Look on Facebook for another one just like it next month.

In the early evening we will head over to Le Marais, where we will drink a glass of wine at La Belle Hortense, a combination bookshop and wine bar. I will wander around the shop caressing the books and wishing I could read French. I may buy one anyway. Once we spy a free table outside at the bar across the street, Au Petit Fer à Cheval, we will rush over and grab it and drink more wine than we meant to before heading to the establishment next door, Les Philosophes, for dinner. The only Parisians in the place will be the waiters, who will accept my husband’s request for his steak to be “bien cuit” with a surprising lack of fuss; I will have the honeyed duck confit. After dinner we’ll stumble back across Pont Louis Philippe and collapse into bed before getting up the next day and doing most of it all over again.

And this road well traveled is how every few years we get to “be one traveler” who lives in Paris, too.

Berlin

Springtime in Berlin

Posted on April 25, 2015

We’ve all been pretending it already happened, but spring in Berlin didn’t officially spring until today. It was warm, almost muggy, and all of Berlin was out to enjoy it. Lines spilled out of ice cream shops onto the sidewalks (I love how Berliners love ice cream) and humans dotted the soft slope of Volkspark am Weinbergsweg near our apartment, reminding me of sheep on a Cotswold hill.

Volkspark am Weinbergsweg, Berlin

I started my day in the café at the bottom of Soho House with a cold-pressed beetroot, carrot, orange, apple, lemon, ginger, pineapple juice (I jest not, have a look at the bottle in the picture below). It was delicious if slightly disturbing to be eating breakfast that was indistinguishable both in content and setting from any restaurant on Abbot Kinney in Venice, California. I guess it’s official: hipsters have homogenized the world and they did it with avocado toast.

Breakfast at ‘The Kitchen’ in ‘The Store’ at Soho House Berlin

Next I did some shopping. That the warm weather went to my head is the only explanation I have for how I ended up with both these pairs of flip flops. Bimba y Lola, where I picked them up, is my new favorite store. Apparently it’s Spanish and there are a few of them in London, but it was new to me.

On my way home I spied these birdhouses in the park and was charmed by the fact that even the birdhouses in Berlin have graffiti. I noticed the inscription “Morgenvogel-Haus 157” on one of them and did a little Internet sleuthing. From what I could tell with the help of Google Translate, the birdhouses are part of a long-running artist’s project to ensure birds retain habitats in Berlin despite the relentless development since reunification. There’s a cool animation of all the birdhouses that were installed as part of the project here. Very sweet. Very Berlin.

Morgenvogel “Real Estate for Birds”
Books Cotswolds Walking

10 Things on My Cotswold Bucket List

Posted on March 14, 2015

Next week we are headed to Berlin again. We prefer to think of it as an extended sojourn rather than a move, as well as a bit of practice for our aspiration of being bi-continental. Only eventually we want the two destinations to be California and Cotswoldia.In the meantime, Berlin will absolutely do. My reluctance to leave California has way more to do with how much I love living here than any negative commentary on the German capital. But one has to make hay while the sun shines, and right now the hay is in Berlin. Plus, it’s pretty hard, not to mention ungrateful, to complain about getting a chance to live abroad again and be paid for it. Or so I tell myself while I gaze mesmerized at sunset over the Pacific.

And while Berlin has lots of things going for it (trendy, artsy, foodie—you’ve read the glossy travel mags), I have to admit what I’m most looking forward to is that we’ll be able to visit the Cotswolds much more frequently. It got me thinking about all the things I still want to do there, a bucket list of sorts:

1. Hike the Cotswold Way, over 100 miles of walking between Chipping Campden and Bath, (crucially) punctuated with overnight pub stays.

2. Take a stay-cation at Log House Holidays. Because log cabins in England on a beach (OK, a lake beach).

3. Eat at The Wild Rabbit, because it opened after we left and on return visits we were too busy revisiting old favorites to try it. Also, because I’m a sucker for Daylesford Organic (one of those old favorites), which, like The Wild Rabbit, is owned by Lady Bamford.

4. Read Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie (shhhh, don’t tell anyone I’ve never finished it) then go have a pint at his local, The Woolpack, in Slad.

5. While I’m reading, I’ll also tackle Autobiography of a Supertramp, by Welshman W.H. Davies, who spent time in America and finished his life in the Cotswold town of Nailsworth.

6. Go to the farmers market in Stroud everyone talks about. I’m hoping it will ease me down from missing the amazing Sunday Farmer’s Market in Ojai, California.

7. Hit all those annual quirky Cotswold events I meant to go to but somehow, Tetbury Woolsack Racing aside, never managed: clypping in Painswick, cheese rolling on Cooper’s Hill, rubber duck races in Bibury, river football in Bourton-on-the-Water, and the Olimpicks in Chipping Campden.

8. Continue to refuse to attend The Big Feastival because Alex James’ adoption of a Cotswold farmer persona does my head in.

9. Go on a pheasant shoot, not because I want to kill any birds but simply because I want to wear a fetching ensemble of plus-fours and a velvet waistcoat.

10. Drink wine at the big table made out of a door on the back patio at The Ox House. OK, I’ve done this approximately 1,000 times before, but it never gets old.

11. I know this post is called “10 Things…” but I keep thinking of things to add after I originally posted it, including watching surfing on the Severn Bore. It may be a little different than watching the surfers off C-Street in my California hometown, but it looks pretty awesome.

12. Update—more tips from @PollyPissyPants, none of which I’ve done before: Bisley Well ceremony, Buscot Park, Lacock Abbey & village, tea at The Old Bell and the Abbey in Malmesbury, and dinner at the Bell at Sapperton.

Sometimes I wonder what I did for those three years I actually lived full-time in the Cotswolds, but, as documented on this blog, it was lots. Just goes to prove what I already knew was true: There’s always more to discover in Cotswoldia.

Random

Big Pharma Wants to Date Me

Posted on January 8, 2015

It’s ski season, at least that’s my excuse for going off-piste with the content of today’s post to share an essay of mine on a topic about as far away from the Cotswolds as you can get: adventures in the American healthcare system. The piece is called “Big Pharma Wants to Date Me, and Other Quirks of Being Sick in America,” and it chronicles my experience being of being doggedly wooed by a pharmaceutical company after being diagnosed with a chronic illness. I tried to be serious and funny and personal at the same time, and I hope you’ll check it out. It was published on The Rumpus here earlier this week.