Bourgeois Dilemma #8: Would you like the cheese course?

Good morning. I'm on a bit of a tear as february got away from me and I need to finish my travelogue as the month ends . . . tomorrow. Also have to go sledding and watch the red carpet, so time is limited.

In 1997, while Zimbabwe was a far and better cry from where it is today, the country was not widely touristed outside of vic falls and perhaps a few other places. we were traveling in the eastern highlands for several reasons: its accessibility by car to our friend's house in harare, its remote and gorgeous countryside (think montana with huge deposits of boulders left behind by long melted glaciers) its fly fishing - reported to be on par with scotland, and the kicker: a remote cottage in a national forest belonging to friends of our hosts which we were welcome to use.

We had planed to stay in a hotel that evening en route to the remote highland cottage and had booked at an old resort hotel that was developed in the days of cecil rhodes to approximate a grand resort. scanning the reviews prior to departure gave us the idea that this would be a romantic idly with walks along flower lined pathways, delicious meals in a glamorous dining room and comfortable accommodations that would provide a good foundation of luxury prior to setting off to rough it for a couple of days in the wilderness cottage. Now, the sojourn in the cottage had been scrapped due to the risk of traveling with no spare if we get another flat, we will be doomed. So we were eagerly anticipating a few days of r&r, rhodesia style.

Check in seemed fine. MSH apologized for the fact that we were late on account of the car trouble and as there were about four people at the front desk and no other guests that we could see, we received ample attention from the front desk staff. MSH tends to eschew bellman, not in the way that my father might so as to save the tip, but because he doesn't want to trouble them with carrying his bag. So we set off down the hall as directed to our room.

The hallway was without doubt the first sign that things were not what they used to be at Troutbeck. The lighting, the width and length of the hall, and the threadbare wall to wall carpet with an oriental-esque pattern screamed one thing and one thing only: the shining. All we needed was a bloody necked pair of twins appearing in a mirage at the end and I would have gone screaming off in the car to that cottage, spare or no spare. But we are glass half full people, so we stuck with it and went down to our room. Now, in my experience, I prefer to go UP to a hotel room, but the resort is built into a bucolic hillside, so we went down.

To say that the room left a lot to be desired would be a gross understatement. I am OK with threadbare and appreciate the chintz laden splendor of the bygone days of understated elegance as well as anyone, but this was more of a basement lair with a prevailing damp and a bathroom that had been renovated so as to strip if of any charm, to say the least. Years later, when I gave birth to my big girl in the un-renovated wing of Mt. Sinai hospital in NYC, I went in to the bathroom for that awesome first shower after childbirth and exclaimed this reminds me of the bathroom at troutbeck!

MSH is a resolute optimist, so we don't let things like yucky rooms in deserted hotels get us down. We changed into our evening clothes and headed down to the dining room - we were, in fact, quite hungry after the stress and exertion of the day and were looking forward to a proper meal. The dining room was at the far opposite end of the hotel so we had the chance to stroll in a proper old fashioned way to take our evening meal.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by the vision of a man in evening wear sitting in a huge rattan chair, Mr. Rourke style, behind a desk counting money into a money box. Not just a few bills, but hundreds and hundreds of bills. He was not able to bring himself away from this absorbing task though we paused in front of his station, so we continued in to the dining room. And a grand dining room it was. Hundreds of tables were set, awaiting 500 or so phantom guests. That evening, there were exactly four parties in the dining room including us. An older couple, a foursome including a man with a grapefruit sized goiter on the side of his face and a group of business men.

Given the small number of guests that night, they had given most of the staff a night off so there were two older men who were there to serve us. A vestige of the grander time, they were also in tuxedos, but it seemed from the aroma that they were the same tuxedos that had been worn by the dining room staff for several generations. You might recall from an earlier post that I have an acute sense of smell, so this type of olfactory stimulation has a particularly profound impact on my ability to dig in to a meal. No matter, as one does we ordered the four course prix fix and some wine and had a few laughs about the flat tire and the roadside crew.

The menu, it seemed, was decidedly rhodesian: blanched asparagus soup, lemon sole, salad and a neapolitan ice cream dessert. Given the benefit of the exchange rate and to make up for the near disaster of the afternoon, we had sprung for a wine from the top half of the wine list and were enjoying it quite a bit when the first course arrived under a silver dome.

It was, in fact a blanched asparagus soup. quite blanched. two sad spears of pale asparagus floating in a pool of off white water in a huge bowl. tepid and completely inedible. we each took a bite, grimaced and washed it down with a glass of wine. the bus boy came to remove the plates a while later and luckily didn't seem to notice that the level of the soup in the bowl was more or less unchanged and that the asparagus spears were still floating there. luckily, he was happy to relay our request for another bottle of wine, which was going down a lot more easily than to food. the fish course, it goes without saying, was also inedible. and the salad greens seemed to have been flown in from england rather than just picked fresh out of a garden that had to be there, just around the corner.

We returned each plate to the dutiful busboy pretty much untouched, though MSH did a better job than I did at managing a few bites in a valiant effort not to insult these poor people, working diligently to serve an elegant and proper english meal in the middle of zimbabwe. the dessert was the crowning glory: a freezer burned melange of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla slivers with stale cake in between and a viscous strawberry compote over top. Even my starving sweet tooth couldn't manage it.

Our primary waiter returned after the busboy took another full plate back to the dining room to inquire as to whether everything was alright.

Waiter: Sir, I see that you are not eating very much, is everything alright?

MSH: Oh no, everything is fine. you see, my wife and I are just not very big eaters!

An absurd statement. This was in the era of our fattest fat times, those early married years when his family's habit of dessert and my family's habit of runny cheese and crackers before dinner merged to create our perfect union and packed about 10-15 pounds on to both of us. The plentiful wine that we enjoyed on the terrace of our first rental didn't exactly help.

The sweet earnestness with which MSH answered this inquiry was so endearing, the spectacle of the inedible food and the eeriness of the palatial empty dining room with its chandeliers and table after table set with china, silver and linens so overwhelming that I was overcome with an violent need to laugh. Were we in a more typical bustling restaurant setting, I might have been able to get away with it. But the echo factor here would have come in to play and the last thing I wanted to do was make a scene and further insult the very sweet waiter and his team. so i tried to stifle the laughter and conceal it under a fake coughing fit of sorts, which of course only made it worse. . . .and before long I was reduced to a silent shaking spasm of laughter so intense that i had tears streaming down my face. thank god, MSH had the brilliance to order a third bottle of wine which was able to quell the fit. we hesitated for a minute when offered a cheese plate, as we had just claimed a lack of appetite - thankfully we accepted the offer and within minutes a platter of the most delicious cheese and bread was before us. consistency be damned, we dove into that cheese plate and had to restrain ourselves from licking the plate clean at the end.

later than night, after MSH had chased off someone who seemed to think that our french doors were the entrance to their room, we resolved to leave the hotel we had rechristened YUCKbeck. Happily, we had the cover of the "car trouble" which gave MSH the requisite reason we were checking out a day early (some people might have been straight up and informed the manager that the room was dank, the food inedible and that we had a break in attempt over the night, but that's not how we roll).

I went back on line to see if Troutbeck was even still in business and noted that it is - trip advisor welcomed me to write a review of the hotel which I refrained from doing as the data is too aged. But that piqued my curiosity and I noted one recent review from LaurelHouse103 from West sussex. All these years later, his experience was quite similar to ours though they've obviously opened up the menu options a bit and cleaned the rooms. Lovely setting but disappointing service does not match it's $180 price tag...

I guess, should we ever have a reason to return, we'll book somewhere else.

Bourgeois Dilemma #7: Fix-a-flat, zimbabwe style

(continued from last week)

Wumpa wumpa wumpa wumpa.

um, i say under my breath in a sort of whisper, I think we have a flat tire. My Sweet Husband, typical of his species, does not have an overdeveloped appreciation for commentary from the shotgun position. one wonders, at times, why do they call it "back seat" driving - did the women used to ride in the back?

anyhow, it becomes evident even though I don't repeat myself, that something is most definitely off in the vehicle and so we pull over to find that in fact, the left right tire, or tyre, is indeed punctured and flat.

now I will go on record at this stage so as to say that my suspicion at that moment, and for all the years since, is that the flat tyre is a result of the fact that MSH has overcompensated slightly for the driving on the wrong side of the road factor and has, in fact, been driving OFF the wrong side of the road for the trip off the main highway to see the oldest stone paining in sub saharan africa at diana's vow. it's not really his fault, it's a crap road and the disorientation factor on account of the wrong sided driving is not insignificant. add to that the adrenaline and posttraumatic stress factor of the momentary belief that his beloved was carjacked, and I guess you cannot blame the guy.

the theory that is spawned at that moment, circa 4PM on the side of the road in the middle of, well, in the middle of nowhere really, is that the purported carjackers had pierced the rear tyre. we don't push too hard on this one, as if we do we might draw the obvious conclusion: if you want to rob someone of their vehicle, giving them a slow leak so that they get a flat tyre 100 kilometers or so up the road might not be the best way to do so. we go with it, and drive on a bit to a flat piece of the road with the hopes of quickly addressing the issue. What I don't know until later that evening is that MSH is quietly scanning the horizon for some sort of dwelling, imaging us cozying up perhaps with the local pharmacist reading poetry to each other by the light of the kerosene lamp, in his rondavel hut.

I, on the other hand, am very optimistic because I know how to change a tire. it wasn't my dad - for whatever reason his automotive training did not extend beyond the stick shift lesson and a copy of his texaco charge card. my tire changing skills were hard fought on a dead end "camping" trip in corsica with the daughter of my college summer italian host family and her horrific boyfriend. after 4 days in a tent at a camp sight crowded with french and italian people who's long hair clogged the drain in the communal shower; more bowls of corsican fish stew than one can imagine (it was the only item on the menu we could afford) and an ill fated ferry trip to a secluded beach that was actually covered in dried seaweed, ending in a bar and ultimately hitchhiking back on a sailboat, I was desperate to get off of corsica and back to florence where I could be ALONE. So on that trip, as we raced along the winding cliff hanging hairpin turn roads in a fiat uno, I was particularly able to feel the flat tire as I had assumed a crash position of sorts lying on the back seat with my feet on the left side of the car and my arms on the right so as to brace myself when the car went over the cliff. the flat tire came alongside a road perched atop a cliff (no guard rails in corsica) just at a moment when it became clear to me that if we didn't get back to Ajaccio that we were going to miss the last ferry back to italy. I moved to the tire and the jack and activated changing with a speed and strength otherwise associated with women pulling burning cars off of their children. My efficacy in completing this task prompted massimiliano to inquire if I had experience as a rally team member. If I had the nerve, i would have replied to him with the truth that was in my heart: no, but if i have to spend even one more hour with you that I have to, I am going to hurl myself over the edge of this cliff.

But we are in Zimbabwe in 1997, a far cry from Corsica in 1987. And the vehicle is of a high-end sort with a spare tire compartment and organized in a meticulous fashion that for some unknown reason I associate with the pantry of an English country house. In fact, it is so neatly packed that at first we don’t recognize the hydraulic jack – we are looking for the two-piece metal manual kind. So we are rather deep into the boot trying to sort this out when the first person comes up the road – a young man in a mechanic’s jump suit leading a pair of yoked oxen on a rope. Clearly it is not an everyday occurrence to have an American couple in a range rover with a flat tire there on the road, so as the minutes pass, a variety of people who might have otherwise been walking home (from where, I have no clue) aggregate there on the side of the road to watch us deal with the flat tire.

The best way to for me to stay out of trouble with MSH in a situation like this is to act as a conduit for information and/or instruction prepared by authoritarian figures or third parties, as opposed to interjecting my own opinion. So my role is to read aloud from the manual is a clear and loud voice so that MSH can execute the changing of the tire/tyre. This surely adds to the spectacle that entrances the road side gathering: jump suit man; a man riding a bicycle carrying a long pole; a set of twins with a cow; and an older man in a suit carrying a brief case who seems to have some level of authority and respect from his assembled peers.

What’s curious about the situation as it unfolds is that the gentlemen watch with keen interest but offer no help. Perhaps it’s my command of the manual and MSH’s manly swagger as he lifts the spare and uses the automatic bolt tightener. At the end of the operation, I read from the manual slowly and steadily:

Now, release the pressure valve on the hydraulic lift slowly and steadily

MSH pops open the valve like he’s cracking open a can of beer and the vehicle lurches down onto the spare with a loud WHABOOM.

Our gentlemen actually break out into a quiet round of applause and the man in the suits declares: GOOD

And in fact, it was. We pulled off of the side of that road after a perfect photo op: me with the gentleman next to the repaired vehicle – in our album from the trip on the shelf in the living room to this day. The sun went down almost immediately thereafter and we flicked on the headlights and headed off to our resort hotel destination tired but triumphant having no idea as to the adventure that was to unfold as the evening progressed.

Bourgeois Dilemma #6: American Express accepted here

Just about 14 years ago almost to the week, my sweet husband and I had the chance to take two weeks off and travel in South Africa and Zimbabwe, hosted by some dear and very generous friends who were living in Harare at the time. It was a spectacular trip that we remember so fondly. The first leg was in Zimbabwe and was planned to include a sojourn in a remote cabin in the northeast highlands – to mix some fly fishing in with visits to ancient stone paintings and the like.

Our friends offered their vehicle – standard issue range rover, and off we went into the wilderness. MSH at the wheel as in his typically manly fashion he had braved the avis in the Johannesburg airport and had a grip on driving the manual transmission vehicle on the wrong side of the road.

We had one stop before we took off into the woods, to cash some travelers checks in town. Now, if you are quick at math you might have calculated that the year was 1997. And yes, ATM machines were in abundance even in Harare. But my sweet husband was convincing as he prepared his departure checklist that travelers’ checks were de rigueur for global travelers, based on his experience, which was not insignificant. So as we boarded SAA flight 34, MSH had tucked into the inside pocket of his brooks brothers travel blazer our passports, boarding passes, and a slim pleather wallet with about $1,000 in American Express Travelers’ checks.

Parking in downtown Harare at this time was a relatively free form affair that involved finding a parking space minder and paying him to keep watch over the car. MSH pulled in to a spot and made the necessary arrangement, leaving me in the car to add a layer of protection over our belongings and the car itself which stuck out a bit in town.

At the time I had a mere 5 years of new york city under my belt, but I knew better than to look as if I didn’t have full command of the situation so I slid over to the driver’s seat and tried to look as if I would be fully confident pulling out of that parking space at any moment. I kept watch on my erstwhile protector as he made his deals with other parkers and moved about his territory. It was probably a typical day in Harare that morning – fairly bustling. And to say that a blond lady in a big range rover sitting and waiting in the car was a bit high impact might be an understatement.

At one critical moment I noted my parking attendant walking in to an adjacent alley with another fellow and there was just something about their manner that didn’t sit right with me. I kept my eyes peeled as my protector came out and approached my vehicle while his pal circled around to the rear left. This was at a moment in Zimbabwe where it seemed as if the country would be a beacon of hope for sub Saharan Africa, so there was no inherent threat. But, something about their demeanor and their motions set off alarm bells with me so I decided the most prudent thing to do would be to get out of there. This was an impulse easier conceived than executed, as I had not actually been behind the wheel of a car in the land where one needs to drive on the left and shift on the left.

Luckily, i possess an excellent command of the stick shift courtesy of my father who’s idea of teaching his children to drive shift was to ferry his 1980 volkswagon fox (a car which seemed to have an extra ton on it) to a t stop with an incline of about 19% grade and to shout GO FIRST GEAR NOW RIGHT TURN WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU as the gears ground and the car slid perilously backwards down the hill with the motor racing and your sweaty palm sliding off the shift knob while your feet worked the clutch and the gas in a frantic seesaw.

My reptilian brain summoned this skill as I lurched off into the busy downtown street chanting left side left side left side under my breath and trying to acclimate my left hand to the familiar sequence of movements from 1^st gear to 2^nd into 3^rd and then back down. Complicating matters were the relatively high proportion of traffic circles and the local custom of using a form of the game of chicken to enter and exit the circles as opposed to the YIELD that I was reared on. Never mind the fact that I was just driving, concentrating on the mechanics of the car and not so much where I had come from or needed to get back to.

Split screen at this moment would show MSH in the bank cashing his checks. Not a transaction handled at the walk up counter, but an operation involving three offices and a series of stamps at each stop. He might very well have been the last person to cash an American express travelers check at the national bank of Zimbabwe, with its three shiny atm machines in the lobby, but the bank manager and his assistant and the assistants assistant made the most of the transaction, throwing in some extra stamps and signatures for good measure.

Triumphant with his $200 cashed into $Z35,000 (forgive the fact that I don't remember the actual exchange rate and really forgive the fact that I cannot bring myself to dwell on the great tragedy that is Zimbabwe, who's currency no longer exists so horrific its plight as a nation), MSH emerged from the bank to note that the car, with his wife inside, was gone. To this day, I am not entirely sure how high his blood pressure might have spiked but luckily, before he stroked out, I reeled around the corner, threw open the passenger door and shouted GET IN, an order which he promptly obeyed.

And then we were free, flying up the highway paved by money Mugabe had stolen from the people of Zimbabwe to make his commute faster, and off into the mountains. We did enjoy the rock painting cited by the guidebooks en route, and then shortly thereafter, a rhythmic wumpa wumpa wumpa caused me to murmur I think we might have a flat tire.

Up next: fix a flat, African countryside style.