Miss Hargreaves

Some people make things up and then end up believing them.  My older brother is one.  Some can will something to happen, and within a short period of time, it happens.  A few times it's happened to me although I don't really believe I had anything to do with it.  Other people make up crazy stories and as the actions are created in their mind, they are happening in front of their eyes.  Such is the case with Norman.

Norman is the protagonist of the novel Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker, and along with his friend Henry creates an older lady named Miss Hargreaves.  The two of them were on vacation in Ulster and created her in the spur of the moment to pull the leg of a sexton.  Many details were added to their 'little' lie, and much to their surprise, along came Miss Hargreaves in the flesh to their town.

A little bit Pygmalion, a little bit Frankenstein, with a splash of  magical realism, this book was so much better than I'd expected!  I had heard of it several times from Simon at Stuck in a Book, and actually bought the book more than a year ago, but it wasn't until I moved here, and brought it along in one of my steamtrunks that I took the time to read it.  Something I regret now!  In his review he mentions there isn't a dull moment and he's absolutely write.  When you think of the premise, you wonder how will this excite me for 317 pages, but excite me it did!  I was moved, felt agony, happiness, sorrow and wanted more.  It begs the question: What would happen if one of your false stories came true?

I also love a good story about someone not quite on their rocker.  Look at the only five films I brought with me over here, films I can watch over and over again:  The Hours, Bright Young Things, Amelie, Grey Gardens and Strangers with Candy...if you have a similar love of people who find it difficult to make a distinct line between the real and the immaginary, I think you will love this book as much as I did.

And how about a clip, one that never gets old, that I like to watch at least once a month?

Como, Siberian-style

I have an American friend, who's married to an Italian and strategically lives in Como.  When both of us feel that need to speak with our own kind we seek each other out.  She lived in Vermont and was born in Long Island so we're practically kin!  We get together, drop our R's, say things like 'dude' (not really), and complain.  It's a lot of fun!  The fact that she's 50-something makes it even better!  I digress...

I went to visit her on Friday and Como was also in Dr. Zhivago-mode.  Stunning!  It didn't even look like the same place I visited a few weeks earlier.  I was ready for Laura to whip around a corner in a sleigh any second!

Milan, Siberian-style

We're in the middle of a weather system that has brought wind, freezing temperatures and snow from Siberia.  I couldn't be happier!  The past few days have beeen lovely with a constant light snow.  Today Milan was especially beautiful, blanketed in a few inches of fresh snow as the sun decided to peak out.  I almost always forget my camera but have been making an effort to bring it along always...so I can catch moments like this of the snow-line Santa Maria delle Grazie, the gorgeous 15th century church that houses Da Vinci's 'Last Supper' and the stereotypical Milanese on his phone.

Madonna di Campiglio

One of the things that fascinates me about Italy (or really Europe in general) is that if one travels two and a half hours one finds a new culture, language, cuisine and people within ones own country.  If I traveled two and a half hours from Rhode Island I'd be in New York, or maybe New Hampshire, but the people I'd find on the other side of the journey would pretty much be the same as the ones I from the beginning.  If I traveled eight hours I'd be in Maine, and although they'd probably be dropping a few more R's than I would, we'd still be of the same womb. 

Not so in Italy.  Travelling two and half hours from Milan I find myself in Madonna di Campiglio, in Trentino Alto-Adige.  The people look more German and sound different, an almost sing-song accented dialect, eat unique cheeses and speck from their valley, enjoy porcini mushrooms straight from the wood tossed with fatto-in-casa tagliatelle, and need I mention how different the landscape is from the smoggy plane of Milan?  The snow-capped peaks jut straight into the heavens from already gigantic mountains.  The air smells of pine and wood smoke.  The overall effect is breathtaking. 

I stayed with some friends there (over a month ago...I need to get better at uploading photos) that are 100 percent Trentini...who also cannot speak any English, which really put my language skills to the test.  If your learning a language and find yourself at that plateau I was talking about, I recommend staying a week with someone who cannot speak your language.  After an afternoon I felt myself improved, and after three days like I'd made a breakthrough!  I digress.

Our days were spent exploring churches with pagan origins high up on wooded cliffs over looking peaks and valleys, admiring their frescoes that had survived more than a thousand years...

visiting waterfalls frozen over during the winter months...

strolling down the chic streets of Madonna di Campiglio, where every Milanese would-be skiier is in head-to-toe Moncler (commencing eye roll sequence)...

and the best part, climbing the peaks in knee deep snow, on a day that was perfectly beautiful, ending the day with a local brew and sunburn!

That's Maurizio, our friend and guide.  A former professional Alpine skiier, who climbed in a T-shirt and was pretty much always half a mile ahead of us.

As you can see there wasn't much snow, but now I hear the mountains are full of it and I'm itching to make a quick drive up there for some skiing!  How lucky the Italians are!

Highland Fling, Part Two

Ok, shall we try again?

Years before we ever met Uncle Matthew or Lady Montdore, before Linda or Cedric, Nancy Mitford wrote Highland Fling.  Nancy was only 26 (I better start working) when she wrote the book and in it she tells us the life of the upper class and Bright Young People, something she new well.  Many of the characters would later evolve into the famous characters the world would fall in love with.  It stars Albert Memorial Gates, from whom Cedric 'descends' - Cedric was a character I always wanted to read more of in Love in a Cold Climate- a Victorian-obsessed aesthete, painter and ex-patriot recently returned to England from a stay in Paris.  Our other star is Jane Dacre (an early Linda) a typical gal of the Lost Generation who loves to be rebellious to, even though she love admires dearly, her parents.  The two of them join Sally and Walter Monteath, who have been asked by rich relatives to care for guests in a castle in the Highlands.

A heavy book this is not, but filled with laughable scenes between the four 'Bright Young' ones and the more traditionally-minded, old-fashioned aristocrats it is.  Although Nancy was, in reality, of the younger set, she tells her story honestly.  One evening older Mr. Buggins sadly recounts to the younger ones that before the War he had a promising artistic career but felt it his duty to serve his country during the War.  His best years were spent fighting and now he lived a somewhat dire existence.  He was just one of the countless other similar cases.  The divide must have been great during this generation, but I wonder what Nancy's friends and contemporaries thought when they read this scene back in 1931?

Overall I loved it.  I really enjoyed and related to Albert, not as flamboyant as Cedric but equally as comical.  It wasn't at the same level (perfection) as The Pursuit of Love but it has a close running with it's sequal.  I'm so glad Capuchin Classics has decided to reprint this gem, just another to add to my Mitford addiction.

And why, you may ask, have I chosen to show Prada's collection along with this discussion?  I felt it so apt for Albert; the long coats, sunglasses and trousers would be something I can see him lounging about the Highland grounds in, or whilst trying to discover another Victorian treasure in the endless attics.

Highland Fling by Nancy Mitford

Just wrote the longest review of my life about Highland Fling by Nancy Mitford and LOST IT ALL as I was adding the finishing touches!!  I HATE BLOGGER!!

I'm so angry I can't even think of re-writing it.  Nevertheless I loved the book, compared it with the others, how it was a milder version of her later more famous works.

And described how Albert Memorial Gates would most certainly be wearing the latest Prada collection.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bed to throw myself and cry on!

The Hay Wain

'The Arrival of the Jarrow Marchers' by TC Dugdale

I'm sick in bed, but over-the-moon because I can spend the day giggling whilst I read 'Highland Fling,' Nancy Mitford's first-hand account of the Bright Young People of her time.  I will talk about it more fully once I've finished but this little quote struck me as so modern, so applicable for our time:

To 'The Hay Wain' they went.  Albert felt battered with fatigue and longed for his bed.  This time they approached their destination by means of a fire-escape, and when they had successfully negotiated its filthy rungs, they found themselves in a long, low, rather beautiful attic.  There were rushes on the floor, pewter and wild flowers (which being dead, slightly resembled bunches of hay) on the tables, and the seats were old-fashioned oak pews, narrow, upright, and desperately uncomfortable.

A waiter, dressed in a smock which only made him look more like a waiter than ever, handed them a menu written out in Gothic lettering.  Ten or twelve other people were scattered about the room, none of them were in evening dress.  They all looked dirty and bored.

Mitford wrote this in London in 1931, but easily this could be Brooklyn 2012.  A place where C.C. Blair the younger could spend hours talking with the barman about the bitters made-in-house, or we could retire in the early hours for a night cap.

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And on the subject of Bright Young People, I realized that at this moment many of my nearest and dearest have blogs of their own, a way for me to keep up with them while I'm on the Continent.  Something Miss Mitford would surely have loved while she was in Paris.

My kindred-spirit, soul-sister, St. K., has a lovely blog with a juxtaposition of images only she could create, and that with few words can create a world for us she only knew was in our deepest of hearts:  Strange Fruit

Her other half, Micah, another dearest of mine has put his clever thoughts from our sauna conversations into writing, while reading and sharing his experiences from the books of 'Le Monde 100':  Man is Men

Miss Jenna has escaped her post as an elementary school teacher in Brooklyn and run for the hills.  The hills of the Great North West to be exact.  She shares her lovely forest and field experiences here:  Flushing the Noun

Anzelina followed the Oregon Trail and found solid gold: her husband now!  She gives us wonderful bits of this and that from Portland that make her eye so unique and captivating: Scattergoods Creative

Sarah blows me away every day with the blog posts she creates.  Not only are they desperately beautiful, interesting and one-of-a-kind, but they are consistent.  I'd love to know what she takes to turn out such creativity:  The Wolf of Insignificance