Oil and Water

Such a strange day....

It started out wonderfully with a beautiful Austrian breakfast. (And no matter how much you love the Manx, they cannot brew coffee like the Austrians.) There was fried ham, scrambled eggs, 8 kinds of bread/rolls, 3 kinds of jam, 2 kinds of yogurt, 5 kinds of cereal, soft boiled eggs, 8 kinds of cheese, and 9 kinds of prepared meats (like salami.) A dream come true after we've been subsisting largely on those cheese twists we retrieved from the Barn Dance and HOT POT Supper.

Then the big event began which we've come to Salzburg to attend, a conference called "Children and War, Past and Present." The keynote and opening address this morning was very moving--as I expect all the sessions to be--and about German children in 1941in a mental institution. These children were being systematically killed by doctors giving them drugs which caused a slow and painful death similar to pneumonia. The key and difficulty for the doctors was to make the paperwork show a death by natural cause. Anyway, the speaker told of one boy who was not mentally challenged, but was institutionalized because his father was Jewish.

So there I was imagining life for this young boy and his frantic efforts to contact help on the outside before he was drugged and killed, when a young woman came up the aisle to exit during the talk. She was about 22 and was walking with a jerky gait, and as soon as she passed us--we sat in the back--she collapsed and was caught as she fell by a young man. Everyone in the back hurried out, and the two men carrying the woman laid her on a bench. I took her head in my hands and spoke to her to see if she was conscious and when I did I saw her eyes were glazed over and unseeing. She was completely stiff. I thought she was dead. I found a pulse, so I didn't begin CPR, but I shouted for someone to call an ambulance. How slowly the world seemed to move. I could not detect breathing for over a minute, and, in hind sight, I should have begun breathing for her. But I didn't.

She did begin breathing on her own, and she regained consciousness after about twenty minutes. Still we waited for an ambulance. Several times the young woman opened her eyes and looked around, and I and an older Austrian woman gave her encouraging remarks about "being OK" and "help on the way,” but I do not believe she heard us. And she was so very thin. I just kept rubbing her thin leg and patting her. After a full 20 minutes had passed, she roused a little, and about then the rescue squad arrived. I heard her tell one of the men in a very stammering narrative that she remembered being very hot and having trouble breathing and was trying to leave the room but couldn't remember more.

She was taken to the hospital and will be fine. Something about circulation or blood sugar, and for the millionth time I wished my German were better so I could have understood more. We expect her to attend the sessions tomorrow.

After the rescue workers wheeled her away, I returned to the lecture but left again. So much to contemplate. The Austrian woman who had been so kind to the young woman saw me, and I slowly shook my head and said, "I thought she was dead." The woman nodded, and we both burst into tears. This kind woman then led me to the coffee table and poured me a cup of coffee, the universal cure-all. Such kindness.

My day continued with meeting the most interesting people from America and Europe, and hearing the most interesting papers about the real victims of war, the innocent children. I even asked 2 questions during the sessions, and they were pretty good ones, too!

This evening at a reception we had the privilege of hearing the award-winning Salzburg Boys Choir perform, and when they began singing "Down By The Riverside" with "I'm gonna lay down my sword and shield", well, I just began crying again. Such beautiful young boys, who, but for the grace of God, might have been born in the 1930s in this very city and been sent to a mental institution by the Nazis to be systematically killed.

Children and War. Kind of like Oil and Water. The two should never meet.

Manx Notes

Newest Member of
Douglas Town Band

Meet Rory, 8, the newest and youngest member of the Douglas Town Band, the longest established brass band on the Isle of Man. Rory has played the cornet for a year, but last week marked his public debut with the band. Watching Rory was such fun. He was so excited to be there, as were his many well-wishers who cheered him on and took pictures. Rory had a little problem keeping his place in the music, and the two women sitting by him kept helping him find it. So dear! (I just wanted to pinch those cheeks!)

And what an array of music they played! Tunes of the Sea was the theme for the evening and we heard such delights as the theme from “Pirates of the Caribbean,” Rod Stewart's “Sailor” (a song originally written by an IOM band), and a tune from a Mutiny on the Bounty suite. (Capt. Bligh married and lived on Man for awhile, and Mr. Christian, who led the mutiny against him, was from a well-known family on the island.) We also heard a fabulous trombone soloist (and I know a little about trombone soloists!) named Juan Wright.

Juan's Quintet, Sheean Prash

You have to admire the brass band culture found in the British Isles which embraces cutting out the unnecessary elements of a band—like the strings and woodwinds—and leaving just the good parts! (Just kidding!) This culture is intensified on the IOM which boasts seven local brass bands. 

We saw the Onchan Town Band several nights later. They are a younger group than the Douglas band, both in average age of the players and in years established, but they gave a spirited and strong performance. Many of the Onchan Town Band soloists were absent, so the band made a bold move in the second half by playing what they called Oom-Pah Songs and encouraging the audience to sing along. We sang and sang, and a few older ladies got up and danced, even pretending to lift their skirts (they wore pants) to the “Can Can.” The highlight of the evening for me was getting to sing the IOM national anthem as well as its unofficial national anthem, “Ellan Vannin”.

Bee Gees perform "Ellan Vannin"

Inspiring!

Dancing With The Stars, Part II

Our First Pot Luck
on the IOM!

We arrived at the Ceilidh Barn Dance and Pot Luck Supper a bit apprehensive at what we'd find. Could we Ceilidh dance? Would our pot luck offering of store-bought cheese twists pass muster? Taking deep breaths and glancing at each other, Hunt opened the curtain covering the doorway, and we stepped inside. Music and laughter filled the room. So far, so good.

We found one of the people in charge, and I asked where to put our food. She replied with a worried look, "You brought food?" "Isn't this a pot luck?" I replied with an even worried-er look. "No, this is a hot pot." Well, I did get the pot part right at least. And it could have been far worse, like if we'd brought food that couldn't be discretely hidden under a pew. So we discretely hid our cheese twists under a pew and covered them with a coat for good measure, and we didn't mention the war until much later in the evening.

 

Two 
Cowpokes

In the center of the large church happy children ran around wearing cowboy hats and toting pistols and bouncing balloons. It was marvelous. The pews had been pushed aside and were lining the perimeter and filled with adults talking and laughing. Most of the adults were in their 30's but there were older adults, too. Many of them wore western-style shirts and jeans.

 

 

The Calor Gas Band was already playing when we arrived. What shall I say? They were tremendous! They played traditional Manx music, Celtic music, and all kinds of well-known old-time songs ("Smile, Smile, Smile" for example), in their Manx Celtic style.


 
 

The Calor Gas Band

 

  

 

The music stopped, and the caller announced that it was time to form a large circle with the men in the inside facing their partners. When he began teaching what we know in Texas as the "Patta' Cake Polka," I knew we were home free. We could Ceilidh dance--at least at this level. Their version began in slow motion nearly, and it worked up to a breakneck speed with everyone zooming around the circle. Such fun. And we actually danced one dance called "Cumberland Basket," which has a wonderful and exciting "basket" move: 

Cumberland Basket

Since we paired up with an older couple and since Hunt neglected to wear a kilt, we simplified this move thus: Head couples come to center of square, men taking two hands, women taking two hands. All circle running clockwise and screaming, "BASKET!"  

I am surprised this couple joined in on our running and screaming, but they did, and and it was hilarious: part mayhem, part madcap, total fun!

The hot pot meal was mid-evening and was, by definition, a 1-pot affair, this one a beef stew with carrots and potatoes and thick, dark gravy. Delicious, plentiful, and very hot! In addition we had mushy peas (which look like green peas that are mashed into a thick, gruel-like consistency with small, recognizable pieces remaining) which were quite good. Hard rolls and butter. Naturally Hunt broke the rules and sneaked a few cheese twists from under the pew to eat with his hot pot.

Then more dancing. More fun conversations with the residents of Man (including the vicar and his wife who hail from America!) And suddenly our Cinderella evening ended so we gathered our cheese twists and stole away into the night, smiling all the way home.

 

 

Dancing With The Stars

We are a bit apprehensive about attending the barn dance tonight.

First of all, it is a pot luck supper as well, our first on the island, and we are worried that our store-bought cheese twists might look store-bought. I've spent hours in the local grocery store trying to devise a plan whereby I wouldn't be exposed for the home-cooking-poser I am, but I couldn't think of anything to cook. At home I'd buy Sam's meatballs and cover them with Bertolli Pasta Sauce and just smile quietly if people said they liked it. (Once I was asked for my recipe, and before I could answer, the woman said she'd trade me her grandmother's brownie recipe for my meatball recipe. I agreed, of course, and typed up my recipe mentioning Sam's meatballs, etc., but feel pretty bad about it sometimes, especially when the moon is full.) Anyway, I am repackaging the cheese twists in the plastic bowl a salad came in, and I think I might get away with it. I'll try not to mention the war.

But more importantly, we are apprehensive about Ceilidh dancing. It is not only hard to pronounce (KAY-lee) and spell, but it seems it may also be terribly difficult to do, what with the men twirling their partners around and around until the ladies' feet leave the floor.  We've been watching YouTube clips of people who are really good Ceilidh dancers, hoping to pick up a few tips, and our fondest hope is that these people do not attend tonight.

We also feel we've a great deal riding on our performance tonight. We gave Sequence Dancing a shot and failed miserably, and we think our failure was a bad reflection on America. In our defense we didn't know we were trying Sequence Dancing. The event we attended advertised as “Dancing For All Abilities.” To you and me that means “dancing for all abilities,” but here on the Isle of Man is means “Sequence Dancing That You Competed In As A Child And Still Want To Enjoy With Other Serious And Former Competitors.”

I had never heard of Sequence Dancing before last week, but it is BIG here, in England, in Australia, in New Zealand. And it looks oh, so fun. Couples dance in a circle moving counter-clockwise around the floor in predetermined movements. That means when the man takes his partner's right hand and twirls her, all the men take their partners' right hands and twirl them.  Not to do this means you've made a mistake and calls into question, in my mind, the bit about "dancing for all abilities." 

Do Not Attempt This At Home

Sequence Dancing For
 All Abilities

So there we were, thinking we were in the “all abilities” category which obviously we were not.  But when they finally announced waltzing, we stood. Yes, we could do this! And we did, with as many flourishes as we could add, too, to show them that these Americans are not strangers to the waltz.

The very nice couple in charge offered to have us come to a lesson the following evening, and we did. We arrived a bit early and sat in on a children's dance class. To explain our presence, the instructor's husband announced to the children, “This is a couple who has come all the way from America to see you dance. So do your best!” There is nothing like having an audience to get the adrenaline going, and these kids began racing around the floor to the corner where we sat. They stayed there, dancing for us, until they were “nudged” along by the next couple. We were as amazed at their ability as we were worried that their feet would find a purchase on ours. We smiled and smiled as they glided by, and they smiled back enthusiastically. It was tremendous fun.

A Quick Glance To Our Corner

Another Accomplished Couple

Our lesson following the children's class turned out to be a private lesson. The teacher said we should start with the waltz. I countered, “But we already know how to waltz.” “Yes,” she smiled graciously, “but we do not do a pivot here.” “But we learned to waltz in Vienna,” I added helpfully. “Yes, I could tell.” And then it hit me. Our waltzing was wrong. We had to forget everything we had learned in Vienna and begin again, this time with no pivot.  Oh dear.

We did our best. We really did. But it is hard to teach old dogs, etc., etc., and when we appeared 6 nights later at the big event, we had forgotten every dance she had taught us. We are sorry, America, and we hope that our homemade cheese twists and our attempts at Ceilidh dancing tonight will do a little to rebuild the damage we've done here. If not, I'm going to have to resort to my Australian accent for the remainder of our time on the island and travel incognito.

Wash Day Blues

Switching from our delightful hotel to our new self-catering guest house on the Isle of Man has its advantages and its disadvantages.

Advantage: We have a refrigerator in our room and access to a kitchen.

Disadvantage: We've had to say goodbye to those memorable breakfasts.

Advantage: Our bay window has a view to the Irish Sea.

Disadvantage: Our bay window has a view to street lights all night.

Advantage: No maid arrives at an early hour to clean the room.

Disadvantage: No maid arrives.

But the biggest advantage to living in our new abode is that it has a washer and dryer. Goodbye laundry in the sink, hello laundry in the...well, laundry in the mystery machine.

I have not trusted foreign washers since my debacle in 1983 between a washing machine and Hunt's entire collection of sweaters.  We were living in Germany, and my German was sketchy, so I carefully translated the pertinent words on the machine into English.  It came time to choose the water temperature.  Not COLD, WARM, or HOT like a proper washing machine, but just a series of numbers.  So heck, I chose 90.  Nearly the temperature of the human body.  What harm could that do?  Well, who'd have thought all those numbers were in Celsius?  Not me, certainly.  And sweaters washed at 194 F are not happy sweaters.  And husbands having all of their sweaters ruined are not...well, you know the rest.  A coolness between us was inevitable.

So I faced the Isle of Man washing machine head on.  I wouldn't fall for the old Celcius/Fahrenheit switch-a-roo.  Been there, done that.  But major decisions in life still had to be made.  What does that little snowflake mean?  And who washes barbells in a machine anyway?  Should I risk an extra rinse even though the icon indicates my clothes will ignite? 

I punched several buttons and hoped for the best.  And besides the fact that my clothes were held captive inside a locked machine for almost two hours, all turned out pretty well.  (Except who would have thought the '160' on a dryer meant MINUTES?  What are these people thinking?)

On Tenter Hooks

Keeping the
Traditions Alive

Meet Paul Desmond, a fish monger for 33 years and the current owner of Moore's Traditional Curers. Moore's is located on the Isle of Man in the fishing port of Peel and has been traditionally curing Manx Kippers for over 100 years. When I say traditional, I mean curing them by hand. They split the herrings along the back from head to tail, gut them, and soak them in brine. Then they hang them up on tenters. (The tenter stick is a strip of wood, about 3 feet long and 2 inches wide, and fitted with a row of right-angled sharp hooks along each side. Each split fish is hung tail down on a pair of hooks so that it remains open when exposed to the smoke.) After the herrings are attached, they hang them on racks, and smoke them in big kilns employing the same smoking technique used in the 19^th century.

Feeling anxious?  Perhaps you
are "On Tenter Hooks"
Like the Kippers!

Smoked Kipper:  A Breakfast Delicacy

Smoking herring this way is not an easy task. Standing with the feet about 48 inches apart, each perched on opposite walls of the kiln and dangerously high above the floor, the curer constantly shifts the tenters to ensure the kippers are cured evenly. This means watching the weather, wind direction, fires, and the fish themselves. The smoke makes breathing and visibility difficult, and the curer rushes to complete the tasks inside the kiln as quickly as possible. It is an smelly, oily, smokey job. The result? Perfection.

Moore's Traditional Curers

 Paul no longer needs to work, but he chooses to do so because he loves it. He also wants to keep this Manx tradition alive. Paul has 1 son, and he has chosen a different career from his father. Moore's Traditional Curers will someday pass along to another owner, one, we hope, which will embrace the traditions of a century and keep the hand-curing process alive.

Humbled at the Queens Pub

She carefully sprinkled vinegar over her chips, opened the mayonnaise packet and squeezed it onto the plate, and did the same with the ketchup.  Then, holding the knife with her right hand and spearing a single chip with the fork in her left, she painstakingly applied equal amounts of mayonnaise and ketchup with the tip of the knife.  First one, then another, one by one until she enjoyed them all.

And to imagine that I once thought I knew how to eat chips.

The Isle of Man

Today's breaking news on the Isle of Man is about window panes smashed by vandals in the capital city of Douglas, a kindergarten teacher who has 4 sets of twins in her classroom, and the unhappiness of the locals over the changes in the public bus timetables. Imagine living in such a place.

The Manx are fiercely proud of their history, and rightly so. It is fascinating:

    *Settlement of the Vikings beginning in the 9^th century and their establishment of Tynwald, the oldest parliament in continuous use

    *Struggles between Scotland and England over possession of Man (including a raid by Robert the Bruce!) with the English winning out in the 14^th century

    *Democratic Self-Rule since 1866 with a dependence on the British Crown

    *Internment camps for POW's and Enemy Aliens during both world wars

Today Man enjoys a resurgence of traditional Manx Celtic music and dance. They rely largely on the tourist trade. They know how to smoke a mean kipper.

I love the Isle of Man. I have heard it described as magical, and it is. Something akin to the Shire in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings with its gentle life and happy inhabitants. I may never leave my garret apartment facing the Irish Sea. Well, except to go buy more kippers.

And so the story begins...

The Offending Pajamas

No Accounting for Taste

In the wee hours after we arrived on the Isle of Man, we were awakened by several drunks in the hotel hallway. I walked out to find the culprits and discovered Otis, a man in his late 50's, speaking in a loud voice to two other people. I asked them quietly if they could please whisper. “WHAT?” Otis bellowed. I repeated my request, approaching a little closer. Otis looked at me, back at his companions, again at me, and then made some fairly disparaging remarks about my pajamas. MY pajamas. A man named Otis. Well, I only have this to say to you, Otis, “Never, never make fun of a woman's pajamas lest she post a picture of you and your white shirt on her blog. Never.”