PARIS ITINERARY 10:05 AM Like a couple of truffle hounds, we set out for the Gare de Lyon and board a train to the nearby village of Melun. What erudite adventure does this day hold, you wonder? Art and Architecture? Music and Theatre? Um... no. This is the last day of the Chocolate Salon, held in a castle called Chateau Vaux le Vicomte. And so it's all good. We're rattling our way into the countryside, prepared to familiarize ourselves with the historic Vicomte and his tragic relationship with Louis XIV, but secretly, a [View Full Entry]

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I am absolute crap at taking videos, so you can imagine my surprise at capturing this scene of the Concert-Gebouw at night. We were on our way home, looking for a tram, when we stumbled upon it. I hope it works on your computer, since it's worth viewing, it really is. An hour before, sitting at dinner, Ron and I were discussing what we felt were the "bests" of our month in Holland. For me, it was easy. I loved riding my bike, even in the rain, down the smaller canals beside Marianne's house. These weren't the glamourous canals of the [View Full Entry]

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Dear Ms. Jacobs, I am a Canadian, Jewish, and living in a small canal house on the outskirts of Amsterdam for the month of October. Searching the shelves for something to read, I came across your book, A Safe House, Holland 1940-1945. Immediately, I picked it up and read it from cover to cover. Your true story, so vividly told, sent me first to the city of Amersfoort, where you and your mother sheltered four Jews during the Nazi occupation. I wasn't looking for your particular house, but needed to get a sense of what it might have felt like for [View Full Entry]

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When you travel with a Ron, you get to hear a lot of music. I could trot out all my favourite adjectives and tell you about Katarina Garcia, lilting her way through a set of Sefardic melodies, making us forget that we were sitting on hard chairs in a Dublin public library. Or Slaid Cleaves, who transformed a monastery kitchen on the Dutch side of the German border into a roadside bar on the dustiest patch of south Texas. Or I could confess to a moment of such intense identification during an Idan Raichel concert, where I sang at full throttle [View Full Entry]

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Some couples have a favourite song but we have a favourite joke, and it goes like this: A man visited a farmer and noticed a large and handsome pig, hopping about on three legs. "I see you have an unusual pig," said the visitor, "but I can't help wondering what happened to his other leg." To this, the farmer replied: "This is indeed a wonderful pig. When a fire broke out in the barn, he came to my bedside and woke me before my house burned down." The stranger was impressed but still curious. "But what about the leg?" he wanted [View Full Entry]

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Marianne is a darling. She has given us her little house, with all the comforts we require, and even in her absence we are beginning to get the hang of Amsterdam living. (Of course, there have been some slip-ups. This morning, for instance, I mistakenly added buttermilk to Ron's coffee and it took us a long time to figure out why it was curdling so ferociously.) So our goals have been modest: to fit in as best as we can, take care of ourselves in every way, and have a good time. We decided to start with bike etiquette. Ron is [View Full Entry]

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Our Dublin synagogue is sparsely furnished but has all the requisite parts. The wooden floor is worn, the pews creak, the prayer book has its usual heft. Most comforting are the faces: I am introduced to Max, wearing the face of my Uncle Buddy. Hillary is my Mom’s friend Ethel. Together, we flap the pages of our prayer books, weave back and forth in prayer and song, pretend that we are tuneful when we’re not. We fast. So here’s what’s different: The synagogue is at an undisclosed location, so we tell the taxi driver we’re going to a community hall. There [View Full Entry]

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"Snouts in the Trough!" screams the headline of the morning paper. Meanwhile, we are more than comfortably settled in Dublin, and have been told that Ireland is also struggling with this global recession. On the streets this is not apparent, at least not judging from the hordes of shoppers and party-goers that we waded through last night. In our hotel room, I am in a quandry: which pillow should I order from the Pillow Menu? Should I go for The Relaxer, ideal for those who wish to settle down to a good book? Or should I experiment with the Night Flight, [View Full Entry]

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“Be courageous,” Gabriel says to me, at three already deeply in love with words. He gives me a sidelong glance before plunging a forefinger into a bucket of fish roe, scarlet up to the knuckle. That is how our last morning began: a happy grandmother, standing on a wharf, modeling courage but not feeling brave. It has occurred to me that I am cutting myself ruthlessly adrift, after 35 years of non-stop mothering. I must have liked it, I tell myself, and the truth is I have, though not every single bit. So now that the last step-chick has flown the [View Full Entry]

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