The Frau

     Three weeks into visiting eight European countries, we were beginning to appreciate fixed itineraries where you had a room reserved when you arrived in the next city. We didn't have reservations, other than scheduled flights from Budapest to Copenhagen, and later the flight home. The rest was winging it with a Eurail Pass and guidebooks.

      It was fall so we figured most of the tourists had gone home - as did everyone else on the crowded train. Europe was in the height of festival season, something we'd have been more aware of had the Internet been available back then. ATMs weren't even in common use and forget credit cards. Half the adventure was finding places to cash enough traveler’s checks and change currency for the next leg of the journey.

      Our concerns about finding a place to stay grew more intense as we neared Vienna. Upon arriving at the train station, everyone moved as a herd to the bank of phones, calling the same numbers from identical tour books. No rooms. It was warm, we were frustrated and cranky and must have advertised such as we headed downstairs to the tourist office.
Air B&B '90s-Style

      Neither noticed the short, stocky woman with a scarf tied tightly under her chin approaching. Babushka came immediately to mind when she pierced our grey cloud of frustration with a mix of German and English. “Look for room?,” she repeated, following us closely. At first we kept walking, but she knew to jump into our first hesitancy. Wary but intrigued by this fairytale-like character, we stopped. She offered a buffet of languages, gestures and persistence to assure us she had a “ 'utiful room, very cheap, by park.” My husband speaks enough German that she spoke mostly that, but slowly so we could understand. 
     A slightly gnarled finger pointed to a spot on a city map she pulled from her sweater pocket, then she motioned for us to follow as she turned toward the streetcar. My husband and I looked at each other, admitting we had little to lose at this point. We didn't want to get back on the train; we wanted to see Vienna. I remembered an older friend describing doing something similar in Moscow, at night, and not only surviving, but having a wonderful experience in spite of misgivings as they ascended dark stairways. 
      Second thoughts visited me a couple more times as we boarded different buses (she had passes in hand for all three of us) and she pointed out museums, McDonald's, a street named for JFK, and expensive hotels, commenting on what a bargain her “ 'utiful” apartment was. A ticket conductor boarded at one point and hassled her but she stood her ground and he moved on in a huff.
Is This Legit?

      We got off by Schönbrunn Palace, then walked a block to her apartment building as she pointed out bus stops, where to get tickets and little restaurants. As she unlocked the front door to her building, she pointed out all the doctors listed on the sign. Was this a business building or apartments? Apparently both. We followed her to the third floor, then her apartment at the end of the hall.

      The entry was crammed with furniture, plastic flowers, bottles and kitchen appliances, all in orderly chaos. She led us to a large room with a double bed, well-worn furniture, a table covered with an oilcloth,  and glass knick-knack shelves full of mementos from many countries, gifts from previous guests. She was very proud of this proof that hers was a good place, enjoyed by people from all over the world.

      The room was sunny and had a little balcony which opened to a noisy boulevard below. We asked if there was a quieter room. Yes, she said, but it was smaller, with twin beds. Her hands were behind her back as she turned, opening and closing one in a follow-me gesture. We followed. The smaller room was cooler, and quieter; the window opened to treetops and a little courtyard. Perfect. We discussed price and number of days, all the while she told us about breakfast,where we could buy cigarettes by imitating a smoker in an exaggerated fashion, and pointing to the map of the city taped to the bedroom wall. She used more gestures to indicate food, music venues and other attractions. We took the room, mainly intrigued by her. Still, we slept with our money belts and passports under our pillows the first night.

No Vacancy

      We began referring to her as “The Frau” and the next day when we returned from exploring the city, she excitedly told us she had rented the other room for five whole days. What a relief it must have been for her, not having to go to the train station to find other boarders for the better part of a week. I asked her why she didn't get listed in one of the guidebooks and even offered to help her do so. She didn't have a phone and insisted she didn't want one, it would be too noisy an intrusion for her guests. I suspect she was “flying under the radar” and renting space illegally; installing a phone might bring attention from the authorities. 
A Red-Faced Run-In 

      Breakfast was simple but good: fresh rolls, marmalade, excellent coffee and tea, and some fruit. I usually went for an early-morning jog on the grounds of the nearby palace or a park and saw the Frau hurrying to or from a nearby bakery. One morning I was up extra early and ran into her as we both headed to the one bathroom. I realized she got up well before dawn to use and clean it before her guests awoke. She was “buck-nekked” and embarrassed, but I was glad it was me and not my husband who had run into her, and insisted she go first. While waiting, I noticed she slept on a little cot in the tiny kitchen. The rest of the apartment was rented out. The bigger bedroom was, in fact, intended to be the living room. No wonder the entryway was so crammed.

       Often while we were gone for the day, she would rearrange the hand-laundry we had hung near the window, or she “improved” how we had arranged things. Normally, I would have resented it, but somehow it was OK that the Frau did it; we could laugh about it.
     When we'd return after an evening out, she would be sitting in the tiny entryway, watching her little TV by an extension cord plugged into the outlet in our room. She'd immediately jump up and pull the plug, apologizing for the inconvenience. I hated to intrude on her evening's entertainment.

      The morning we left she brought in some wall paper to show us what she planned to do with the drab little room we'd been staying in. Maybe she showed it to all the guests who left, hoping they'd return or send their friends. Who knows if the room really ever was wall-papered.
      I would have loved to learn more of the Frau's story. We did learn her real name and that she was from Hungary. Was she a legal immigrant? Where was her family? Was the apartment hers? We're likely not the only ones to remember her after many years. 
A Belated Memento

      When we got back home I bought a robe and slippers at K-Mart and mailed them to her as our thank-you memento, half expecting she'd never receive them. A few weeks later a postcard arrived with the tiniest handwriting I've ever seen covering every inch and curving along the corner. It was from the Frau, thanking us and sharing her latest news. Ours wasn't a memento she would show guests, like those on her glass knick-knack shelves. But, if they did see it, surely it brought a tiny bit of comfort and helped her avoid embarrassment.

      We spent four very full days, seeing wonderful sites and art, hearing great music, and enjoying some famous Viennese pastry. Still, twenty-four years later, when I hear the word Vienna, the Frau still springs to mind first.

Moon Walk

Last Summer of (Relative) Freedom

     It was the summer of 1969. Judy and I wanted an adventure while we earned money for out last year of college. If all went according to the proper sequence—graduation, finding a job—this would be our last chance.

     Judy's parents had visited Galveston, Texas and thought we could get jobs there for the summer. They were right. We both landed jobs at the historic Hotel Galvez, across the street from the beach. It is so solid many Galveston residents have ridden out severe storms there since 1911.

     Judy was hired as cashier in the bar. I started as a waitress in the dining room and was soon promoted to hostess, but filled in as waitress when staff was short, which turned out to be often. Tourist towns knew college students were temporary so got as much as they could out of you. Maybe laws have changed that now, but I had a strong work ethic and was reluctant to say no to extra hours. I went weeks without a day off and by August was suffering heavy burn-out, grateful I wouldn't have to do that my entire life. It was sobering insight into the plight of those who have little choice, including many of our co-workers there.

     We rented a cheap, shabby house just a few blocks from the hotel. It had the basic amenities but cockroaches so big we joked you had to step on them with both feet. But, we were rarely there, except to sleep or change clothes, so it was acceptable.

That's One Step for Man...

     I've never had a strong interest in space exploration or spaceships but the world was focused on Apollo 11 that summer because the astronauts were about to land on the moon. Even I was caught up in it. On July 20^th, we gathered around the television in the apartment of a fellow waitress from the hotel, with her three small kids, to watch the historic event. It was impossible not to be impressed and wonder if it really was happening.

     In late August, Judy and I bid farewell to Galveston and took the train from Nuevo Laredo to Mexico City for the last leg of our summer adventure. My family was living in Mexico City at the time so we saw the sights there, then traveled down to Acapulco. As part reward for a summer of hard work and a soon-to-graduate present, our parents put us up at Las Brisas, a beautiful resort hotel with private cabañas. It was great being the guest and not the worker, for a change.

The Mexican Connection

     Late one afternoon, we had just returned to our cabaña from the beach when there was a knock on the door. A staff person greeted us with tropical drinks and invited us to a reception on the main patio for the astronauts. Really??! We had no idea they were even in Acapulco, let alone staying where we were. So, we got dressed and joined the party. Those generous fruity drinks were deceptively strong and my words were probably slightly slurred as I told the astronauts how very proud we were of them. Looking back, they must have been so tired of hearing those words and continuous superficial events like that—and much larger ones—for months on end. They must have wished they could be sealed back up in that tiny space capsule, far from the adoring crowds.

The Colombian Connection

     Fast forward exactly two years. I'm a Peace Corps volunteer in Colombia, working with Servicio Nacional de Aprendizaje, the National Service for Learning. They offered classes throughout the country, from business and technology in cities to raising animals and home economics in the countryside. I was teaching nutrition, health and first aid in rural areas as an itinerant teacher, spending 2 or 3 weeks in a site, then moving on to the next place a course had been requested. I usually stayed with a family or in the casa cural with the priest and his housekeeper.

     This assignment was high on a mountain in the cordillera of the Andes, in a little vereda called Valparaiso. A vereda is a small community where, rather than living next door to each other, residents are scattered on little fincas (farms, mostly coffee and cacao) on the sides of hills. You could watch the children work their way up, down and across the facing hills to get to the school, usually built by the Colombian Coffee Federation.

     Getting to Valparaiso was a challenge since the vague outline of a “road” had long been washed out by rain, leaving a very rocky path. There were no horses or mules available my first trip up, but another Colombian service organization loaned me their driver and '59 Jeep (the gas pedal tied to the steering column with a rope!). It was a bone-jarring, neck-wrenching hour, but we made it with just one flat tire. Thereafter, the most comfortable trips to and from Valpariso were by mule or horseback. Those involving vehicles (Jeep or truck) always took other passengers, which was understandable since there was no scheduled transport to Valparaiso and no one in the vereda owned a vehicle.

     I stayed with a lovely family at the top of the mountain and, as always, learned more than I taught while living with them. There was no electricity there, though they had rigged up pipes from a stream for water. All cooking was with wood and baking was done in a hand-built mud oven. It might seem a “simple” life, but when you realize all labor was physical, there was no refrigeration, corn was pounded by hand into meal, and fresh milk shaken in a gourd for butter, all clothing, sheets, towels, etc. washed by hand and dried by air, even in the rainy season, it didn't look so “simple.”

     In the evening we would visit (no t.v, of course) and one night the subject of the astronauts walking on the moon came up. Most of the family was skeptical that it was real. The father was convinced it was all done in Hollywood.

     Each weekend I returned to the apartment I shared with three other volunteers in the capital of the state we were living in. It happened there was an article in Time magazine (all volunteers received a free subscription) with spectacular pictures of the moon walk on the second anniversary. I took the magazine with me to Valparaiso the following week. When I showed it to the father, he just looked at me with a crooked smile that said I was so gullible to believe photos that good could be taken on moon. They were really good; he even had me entertaining fleeting doubts. And why not, living where and as they did? When he'd asked how I had gotten to Colombia and I said by airplane, he asked how many days that took.

     At another site, which was a village, not a vereda, I was walking in the town square with my hostess one night when the moon was full and beautiful. She, too, brought up the moon walk and was amazed that men had actually done it, She harbored doubts too.

     At the time (1971), it seemed we were in such a modern era. I couldn't have imagined Peace Corps Volunteers today using cell phones, nor even the concept of cell phones or personal computers, and being able to keep in touch with their families through e-mail and Skype. "Snail mail," telegrams, phone offices (in larger towns) and notes sent with bus drivers were the main methods of communication then.
     I often wonder what places like Valparaiso are like today. It occurred to me last night that I could Google it. I didn't find much, other than the weather and some maps. Valparaiso is a common name for towns and the photos showed a flat place by a body of water, obviously not the same one.
     Colombia went through some horrific years during the drug wars. The family I'd stayed with had moved to Valparaiso from elsewhere due to the previous political violencia in the 1950s. I do hope the daughter who wanted to be a teacher, and was an excellent student herself, was able to fulfill her dream. If so, she'd be near retirement now. How I'd love to sit with her in the evening today to hear her story.

The Berry Spoon

    This essay is about a special neighbor, one of the people I refer to in my previous essay, The People in My Recipe Box. Grace is not her actual name, she was the embodiment of it.

     The Berry Spoon, as my neighbor, “Grace,” called it, is one of those items in my kitchen, left with me by a friend, thus imbued with special memories. It was her favorite spoon. Now it's my favorite. I understand why she liked it so much. It has a slightly larger “bowl” than average and has a solid, friendly feel without being imposing.

The Berry Spoon

Come to think of it, that describes Grace too.

      Grace left me many indelible lessons, as well. Often her spirit comes out of the drawer with the spoon, broadening my perspective on that day's worries. We often say someone is our inspiration; Grace truly was, and still is, just for being herself.

      In her final years, Grace was so crippled with arthritis that her physical world shrank to the confines of her small house. For a woman who loved the outdoors and could name any wildflower, plant, tree or animal, this was especially difficult. You wouldn't know it to be around her, though. She offered those who stopped by a cheerful welcome and such interesting conversation you stayed longer than you intended. A computer entered her life at just the right time and became another lifeline to the world and her many friends. She was an avid reader, plus a nephew gave her a top-of-the-line radio for listening to her favorite news programs and music. Her mind was in the broader world even when her body couldn't be, and since her house was in a woods every window offered a comforting view of nature.

      It's somewhat miraculous Grace could be so cheerful and welcoming, but she refused to let adversity bring her down. At least not for long. It was her nature, and tested throughout her life. Occasionally when I'd stop by her door was locked, indicating the pain was winning that day and she wanted to handle it alone. Invariably, she'd be back to her gracious self the next day. I never heard her complain.

      As someone who is also independent and doesn't like to ask favors of others, I understood not to push when I offered to do something and she declined. I did learn to off-handedly ask if there was anything I might do as I was leaving. She would sometimes ask me to open a can of soup and just leave it on the counter, thank you. She'd take care of the rest. It would have been slow and painful, but she was determined to manage what she could on her own, as long as she could. I'll be exactly the same someday. Meals on Wheels and prepared foods brought by friends were welcomed nourishment beyond what was on the plate – for both parties.

      Listening to her stories about her friends you'd wonder how Grace managed to know all the most interesting people in the world. Everyone has a story and she loved hearing them. She was a thoughtful listener who sifted details as one would pan for gold, mining gems in everyday lives.

      I never heard her speak ill of anyone. You knew when she disagreed with someone's views, including your own, but she was kind in disagreeing with you, prompting deeper consideration rather than resistance.

     Grace would sometimes reveal interesting aspects of her own life but it wasn't until after her death when a group of us gathered to honor her memory that I learned some of the saddest chapters of her own story.

      She never spoke much about her husband, but did say he taught at the college where they both worked and had met. Among the two pick-up loads of items I took to the landfill for her when she was preparing for her final move were framed certificates from his professional life. She had told me once that she learned she was pregnant just before they were to visit his homeland where she would meet his family, shortly after they were married. It was her first foreign trip and she wasn't going to miss it. She knew if she told him he wouldn't allow her to travel, so she didn't tell him until they returned. Apparently it was a wonderful trip and she got through morning sickness, no doubt like she did arthritis in her final years.

      But, her husband later proved abusive and would sometimes lock her and their child out of the house while they were outside. Rather than frighten her child she would turn the predicament into an opportunity and they'd go into the nearby woods "for an adventure and camp” until she knew he had left the house.

     Among her happier stories was that she had been the first woman allowed to take forestry classes at another university and, after much petitioning, was allowed to wear pants in the field. It made for mad dashes between classes to her residence since she could wear the pants only for that class, but she was very willing to do it and was a good runner.

      Grace was a Christian Scientist, which meant she shunned medications, often to the frustration of those who loved her. As she neared 90 years of age, she was convinced to sell her beloved rural property and move to France to live with her child, a renowned artist there. It meant Grace would also finally spend more time with her beloved grandchildren too. She was, of course, happy, yet sad to leave her friends and home of so many years.

      I'd been at a meeting the night before she left so it was around 9 p.m. when I got to her house to say good-bye. We both pretended it wasn't for the final time, but knew it likely was. It was also election night, 2004. She had been determined to vote before leaving and the results of that election made the sadness even greater. Yes, she leaned towards Democrats, but listened to all candidates and recognized virtues no matter the candidate's party. She chuckled at the irony of her, a widow on a small pension, supporting a wealthy Kennedy candidate during a previous campaign.

      Grace's physical world continued to shrink as her condition worsened with age. Some of her friends visited her in France which delighted her no end. The rest of us kept in touch through e-mails and letters, both of which must have caused her physical pain to read or write at times. Even when bed-ridden she would describe the birdsong and budding bushes at her window and imagine the scene beyond just from the little patch of visible sky. She kept friends back home in touch by sharing news and was the first to tell me of illnesses and unexpected deaths in our neighborhood. Her connections never ceased to amaze and inspire me.

      Every spring when the first wildflowers appear, if I know their names its likely she taught me. As my own aging brain can't recall a name, my soul aches to go to her house to ask her.

In her element as a young woman. I still "see" her in my walks in our neighborhood woods.

     Grace has been gone for over a decade, yet I can recall her soft, gentle voice as if I last heard it this morning, or the twinkle in her eye when she told a fun story or about a friend's good news. The Berry Spoon feels warm sometimes, like she's held it until I picked it up.

      Grace and the extra big bowl of her Berry Spoon taught me that if you open your heart wide enough, it will fill with kindred spirits who will nourish your life, even when they are long gone and you are “alone” in your kitchen.

Local Food is Not a "Fad"

     Yesterday I attended the 9^th annual Local Food Connection at Lane Community College in Eugene. I'd been among the Benton county contingent who helped organize it the first three years, but then got too involved with other events to continue. Some of the original organizers are still going strong, as are the major sponsors.

      The Local Food Connection is designed to bring food producers (farmers, ranchers, fishers, wildcrafters, etc.) together with buyers (processors, restaurants, grocers, schools and institutions). There is, naturally, lots of networking, lots of energy.

Food, Food, Glorious Food!

      Opportunity to connect is the main draw, but the food itself “seals the deal.” Over 30 participating food producers, processors and distributors donate ingredients and while we're busy in the main room, then in workshops, LCC's culinary arts students are busy in the nearby kitchen, turning them into what is a now-legendary buffet. This year, for example: fresh green salad, root vegetables(prepared in various ways, from roasted to pasta sauce, casseroles), beans, pasta (yes, made of local grains), beef (roast, prime rib, meatballs), chicken, pork, albacore, ling cod, quiches, soups, breads, dairy and non-dairy ingredients and spreads, herbs, etc. Oh, and local ice cream for dessert.

      But great food began before dawn when organizers and those who were tabling arrived to set up. Besides the much-appreciated coffee and tea were scones made with Camas Country grains and their gluten-free teff bars. Soon granola, Lochmead milk and Nancy's kefir appeared, and local bagels with Nancy's cream cheese and local hummus spreads. And then a big pot of locally-made Chai. As one who was up before 4:30 a.m. to get there, I was especially grateful. (I attended with Debbie Duhn, publisher of Take Root magazine, a sponsor who also tabled.)

Impressions

      I was really struck by some of the changes in the local food world, comparing this year's event to the first one. For starters, the aforementioned pastries made with all-local ingredients were not available back then. Nor would a gluten-free option have been offered.

      The local food “movement” is definitely not a fad. It's serious business and our communities are stronger for it, both economically and in food security. It continues to evolve at an impressive pace, especially when you consider that it involves sizable pieces of land, and seasonal crops and other food sources (fish and animal cycles).
      A few things that were not workshop topics, but addressed at the Oregon Food Bank table were various ways low-income folks are able to access more fresh food each year, and how rural communities are wresting control of dismal and disappearing food systems through community organizing, like FEASTs (Food, Education, Agricultural Solutions Together). New community gardens and programs that teach folks of all ages how to grow and process their own food crop up each year.  Kids are being introduced to fresh foods at school, and sometimes even grow it themselves in the school yard, then enjoy it in the cafeteria. What will the state of our country's health look like in coming decades because of these important changes?

     Among workshop topics offered this year were ones that were barely if even considered nine years ago: food sensitivities/allergies, food hubs, regional branding and social media.

Leaders in the Field

     Keynote speakers were Danielle and Alex Amarotico, owners of StandingStone Brewery and Restaurant in Ashland. They're doing lots of innovative things and talked about how they've learned to encourage ideas and innovations by their employees and how they've adjusted their hiring practices and employee support to enhance creativity. They also talked about challenges and “failures” that became valuable lessons and stepping stones. It was an impressive presentation and since we had enjoyed our first meal in Ashland at Standing Stone last October, I was especially interested.

Food Allergies

The first workshop I attended was Navigating the Dietary Restrictions Market. It was a little surprising there were no farmers on the panel, but they may be included in the future because those who want to certify such things as gluten-free grains are required to use separate farm equipment and follow certain cleaning standards.

      On the panel was Mandi Bussell, owner of Bussell Sprouts, and who created alternatives to cheese because their first child had a a major cheese allergy. Huge challenges for businesses like hers are the ever-changing definitions and requirements for labeling products. Label changes are very expensive. Interestingly, she's discovered that if you use the word vegan, it turns a lot of people off and they walk away or won't buy the product, even if they tasted it and liked it. Hmmmm. That comment had me examining any prejudices I might have without even realizing it.

      A chef on the panel, Ben Nadolny, said if you have food allergies, you should always let the restaurant know when you make your reservation. Most chefs have options to offer that might not be on the menu. Ask. Don't think you are limited only to what you see on the menu. Good chefs want to work with you because they want their guests to be happy.

      Another panelist introduced a unique concept that is about to be beta-tested in numerous restaurants. She's nutritionist Xena Grossman who joined the panel via Skype (something else not used 9 years ago!) from California. She has developed a computer program (not an app – yet) called Menu Genie for restaurants to help you navigate food sensitivities by entering them online before you see the menu so you'll see only the dishes from which you should choose. Grossman's goal is to price her software as affordable as possible so it will be used widely. Naturally, there are—and will always be—challenges and “speed bumps,” but this program could make eating out a far more comfortable experience for people with food allergies, from mild to serious, and can save both customers and restaurants a lot of time and frustrations. Learn more and watch (maybe even help) this project grow and spread at her website. 

Cycles of Success

      Hundreds of business relationships have been born at the Local Food Connections over the years as new farmers and businesses discover this unique opportunity. It would be interesting to learn about every single story.

      It was at one of the first LFCs that I met a young couple who came to find local vendors because they were planning to open a brewery/restaurant in Corvallis. Their goals seemed ambitious, especially when you consider how wobbly the economy was at the time. My concerns about their potential success proved unfounded, though. Nick and Kristen Arzner have done quite well with Block 15 and have since opened Les Caves, as well!

      Maybe Nick and Kristen will be keynote speakers at the Local Food Connection one day. And maybe you'll happen upon that announcement when you go to their website to check out food allergy options.

      It could happen.