Here we come a caroling

I'm totally stealing this blog post idea from Lisa, but I decided not to clog up her comments with any more links and just post them here! She talked about favorite Christmas carols yesterday, and of course I was off and running. So, here's a bit of drive-by caroling for you. It's a little scattered, but isn't that kind of how life is at the moment?

I mentioned hearing "Noel Nouvelet" at Gail's son's high school concert Tuesday night and the memories it brought back of junior French class. We learned carols in French then had a French caroling party, which ended up at one of the student's homes for hot apple cider and holiday treats. I was extremely shy in junior high and high school, and this is one of my best school memories ever. I felt comfortable participating in this activity whereas I was normally terrified of going to activities away from school with classmates. I felt a part of it, included, and it's a warm memory indeed.

I got to thinking about these beautiful songs, and I entered the youtube video spiderweb. Because you know it's like a spiderweb--once you climb in, it's hard to climb back out.

I remembered another one we sang--"Un Flambeau, Jeanette, Isabelle!"--and found this lovely harp guitar performance. (I'm not sure I've heard of a harp guitar before. Looks like it was built in 1915. What a beautiful instrument!)

I can't hear this song anywhere, ever, without getting little chills.

Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle
Un flambeau, courons au berceau.
C'est Jesus, bonnes gens du hameau,
Le Christ est ne,
Marie appelle
Ah! Ah! Que la mere est belle
Ah! Ah! Que l'Enfant est beau.



Let's see how well my retention of the four years of French class is:

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabelle
Bring a torch, come see what is here.
It's Jesus, good people of this village
Christ is born
Mary is calling
Ah! Ah! How beautiful is the mother,
Ah! Ah! How beautiful is the baby.

And now for the official translation. Huh, not bad!:

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella
Bring a torch, come swiftly and run
Christ is born,tell the folk of the village
Jesus is sleeping in His cradle
Ah, ah, beautiful is the Mother
Ah, ah, beautiful is her Son

That was fun. There's are more verses, but I'll let you look those up yourself.

Here's a performance of "Noel Nouvelet." I don't recognize this group (Anuna?), but they remind me of Celtic Woman. This is the way we sang it. Solemnly, that is--not that we looked this good. :) Some versions are more upbeat.



And for a recent favorite, "If it wasn't for the Night," from my favorite singer/songwriter, David Wilcox. I couldn't locate a video or song play, but you can link to the full lyrics here. Here's just a peek.

... Even then somehow in the bitter wind and cold
Impossibly strong I know
Even then a bloom as tender as a rose
Was breaking through the snow
In the dark night of the soul
In the dark night of the soul

If it wasn't for the babe
Lying helpless on the straw
There would be no Christmas day
And the night would just go on ...

Last year, my brother sent us a recording of my five-year-old nephew singing a Chanukah song, over and over and over and over ... until finally, you hear my brother whisper in the background, and he quits. Cutest thing ever.

Chanukah, with what do we celebrate? With gifts and games and candles bright!
Chanukah, ohhhhhh, what a miracle! Only enough oil for just. one. night!

The world "oh" got longer each time, as well as the definition between just, one, and night. (Couldn't find the specific lyrics, so this might be a slight paraphrase.)

Thanks for taking a stroll with me. I hope you're hearing (and yes, singing along) with all your holiday favorites, too.

Tag, you're it, and warm wishes for a very happy Christmas, Chanukah, or whatever you happen to celebrate in your neck of the woods!

Movie meals

I'm not sure where that title came from. It just popped into my head and seemed like a good alternative to "Food for thought," and it works here.

I've seen two holiday offerings at the movie theater in the last two weekends, and being the movie fanatic I am, I had to comment.

Four Christmases and Nothing Like the Holidays ...

I had low expectations considering the mediocre reviews each received, but was pleasantly entertained by each one. Tonight's, however--Nothing Like the Holidays--took first.

Four Christmases was entertaining. It was fun. I laughed out loud several times. I cringed a few times. I got slightly sentimental maybe once. (I can't remember for sure on that last thing, really, so it must not have been huge if I did.) I like Reese Witherspoon. I like, um, whats-his-name ... good grief, I've forgotten his name, but you know, the MALE LEAD. He played against Jennifer Aniston in The Breakup. Him. In one scene, he did a pretty funny spoof on the nativity story. (May lightning not strike my head for saying that out loud.)

Nothing Like the Holidays and Four Christmases shared many of the same elements. Families, in all their insane glory, getting together for Christmas. Obnoxious sibling rivalry and hi-jinks. Unfathomable parental actions. Love, in the end.

But I have to say, I like a movie that makes me think and teaches me a little something I didn't already know about the world.

I already knew this, but I re-learned that people who talk on their cell phones in movie theaters are idiots.

Yeah, they really are. Don't do it. Just. Say. No. And I didn't even learn that from the movie. The one I paid to see but couldn't hear in one of the most critical scenes--the scene where you learned why one character was the way he was. I may never learn because I COULDN'T HEAR HIM TALKING OVER THE IDIOT ON HER CELL PHONE!

Rant over.

From the movie ...

I learned some fun stuff about Puerto Rican holiday culture. Maybe stereotypical, maybe not really the norm, but how would I know? Still cool. In one scene, the Parrandas, the families go door to door on Christmas Eve singing, playing music, gathering up all the other neighbors and parading to a party together--one they've cooked and preened for and planned all year. It brought a genuine tear to my eye. It wasn't the least bit sad; it was just beautiful. We don't have enough of that kind of thing in our lives.

Everyone kept talking about drinking coquito. Todd and I were still trying to figure out what it was as we ate dinner after the movie. I see from another website that it's a drink made from coconut milk and rum. Not a fan of coconut, so I'll probably be passing on that.

Four Christmases had a neat, tied-up happy ending. Nothing Like the Holidays was more slice-of-life. Some things resolved, others were hinted at, yet others left you hanging. I'm one of the weird ones who really loves slice-of-life stories. Happy endings are nice, but kind of boring. Slice of life is, well, more like real life. (Remember, I'm the one who didn't like cartoons as a kid.)

So, anyway ... I've mostly forgotten about Four Christmases, and I had pretty much forgotten about it an hour after it ended. I think Nothing Like the Holidays will stick with me for a while.

If you want to see a holiday movie and can only pick one, I'd say go with Nothing Like the Holidays.

As it turns out ...

... I use the phrase "as it turns out" way too many times when I blog in the wee hours. :) I'll try not to do that again.

A few mispellings (EDIT! MISSPELLINGS!!! HAHA!), too! :-O Two points for those who want to point them out in the comments.

When in St. Helens

Sorry for the delay. It takes a while to upload more than 200 photos to Flickr, tag them, add descriptions, and watch them a few times while sighing and reminiscing. I've also been getting actual work done on my manuscript and query letter, by the way.

Where were we? Ah, yes, we were on our way back from Wales to Preston.

Monday morning after Wales, I slept. That afternoon, I forced myself to get up, get out, and at least attempt the public transportation because I knew without it, I'd be sitting alone in a hotel room the better part of two weeks. I managed to catch the bus in front of the hotel, ride into Preston proper, walk and shop a bit, and locate a Costa Coffee where I drank hot chocolate and waited for Todd to retrieve me. It was enough for my first day alone in England.

I discovered my favorite new store that afternoon. Marks & Spencer is like a mini Target, with a little bit of everything. They have a food section with all kinds of prepared items and basic groceries. A tourist's paradise for food on the cheap! I stocked up on scones (which were quite good, but very different from the more homemade variety), peanut butter and bread, and of course, dark chocolate digestive biscuits. Oh, and my favorite new beverage--diet sparkling orange juice. I've searched for it since coming home to no avail. I guess I could mix diet Sprite and OJ for the same effect. Ryan assures me he's been mixing OJ and Mountain Dew for years.

It also turns out English marshmallows are slightly different, and I like them. They're a little on the dry side, and that's just how I like my marshmallows. I brought home a bag from M&S--a mixture of pink and white sugarcoated yum!

We ate in a restaurant that evening that looked pleasant enough from the road and had open fires and friendly servers. Against the recommendation of a friend pre-trip, I ordered a hamburger because I really wanted to know what all the fuss was. She thought someone told her they were boiled, and that they were not good, but it turns out they are broiled. I'm no stranger to broiled hamburgers cuz that's how we got them growing up, but this was a rather large broiled burger that sunk in my belly like a stone. The fries were good, though, as they were most everywhere. It turns out the restaurant was part of a chain called Embers, only each one also has its own unique name. For the record, that was my last hamburger until I returned home.

The next day, I set out to ride the bus, then train, to Liverpool. Unfortunately, some crazy person chose that day to make a bomb threat, and the trains shut down for a few hours when I was approximately 10 minutes away from Liverpool by train, but no telling how long by foot or bus. We were put out of the train at St. Helens. St. Helen's what, you may ask. I dunno. Just St. Helens. It was not a tourist destination, but it turns out this was one of my favorite afternoons. I wandered, picked up a few books in some charity shops, bought the best shopping bag ever for 99p, and ate lunch in a restaurant I'm pretty sure hadn't seen any tourists before or since.

Carol's was a tiny little place, but the menu looked safe, affordable, and left little up to interpretation. Or so I thought. I learned a lot about dining in the UK there.

The waitress for this four or five table dining room asked what she could get me after I seated myself. I ordered a Diet Pepsi (which arrived with the requisite three ice cubes), and I thought I'd order my food after I perused the menu. I believe I was meant to order my food at the same time as my drink, but the waitress finally did return. I'd decided on a "jacket"--a baked potato on this side of the pond. You could choose a topping: chilli (always with two l's there), tuna, beans, or cheese.

When I asked if I could have chilli and cheese, the waitress's eyes got huge. "Chili and cheese?" she said. "How unusual!" I nodded and smiled and wondered what I'd gotten myself into. It arrived, though, looking much as it does when I order the same thing in Texas. Tasted good, too.

I decided on a scone with cream and jam for dessert, and the waitress returned a few moments later to inform me they were out of cream. I said that was fine, I'd just have it plain. I wasn't feeling like a huge fan of jam with no cream that day. "No butter?" she asked. I shrugged and said, sure, I'll have butter. I was already feeling pretty risky after having chilli and cheese on my jacket, but why not live on the edge, right?

Before I knew it, the waitress was rummaging behind the counter for another scone (they were packaged, but not too bad) and she said something about her daughter and then I lost her.

After I ate my scone (spread with butter, of course), I waited for a while, wondering how to pay. Finally, I went to the counter and asked if I should pay there. She said yes, and rang up my total, and I decided to be brave at that point and admit all my ignorance at once. I had no idea whether or not I was supposed to tip. The guide books advise that tipping is not consistent in the UK as it is here--15-20% of the bill for dining--and not expected in many places. The trick is figuring out where, and if so, what percentage. Ten percent seems to be norm, more or less. When I asked what was customary, the lady shrugged and said it wasn't expected, but I handed her a one pound coin (probably about 10% of my total) and she giggled.

Then I asked whether anyone had ever ordered chilli and cheese on their jacket and she said, "NO, never." I told her where I come from, you don't get one without the other.

At that point, the only other customers in the place, an elderly couple sitting by the counter, jumped in. "Oh," said the wife, "You're an American! I love Americans! They tip everyone, and they're always, 'Thank you!' and 'Have a nice day!' and they're just so nice!" She continued to rave about how well she and her grandchildren had been treated on four trips to the states, and I basked in her warmth. I'd been feeling a little lonely and isolated up to that point, and it was a welcome change.

Her husband began telling me stories of serving with Americans in the Korean and Viet Nam wars and a place called Burton Wood where the American soldiers shipped in and out or stayed when they were injured. ("Buh-ton Ward! Ward, like ward!" he said, banging the table when I couldn't understand his pronunciation of wood, smiling all the while.) He told me of American soldiers who always had candy in their pockets for the local children, and ones who married the girls and spirited them away to America.

His wife said he'd tell me stories until I told him not to, so I finally did when I felt it was time to leave. They gave me directions to a glass blowing museum, and I wandered over there for a bit and finally made my way back to the train, which was running again, and back to Preston.

And as it turns out, the waitress had been telling me how her daughter was happy because she'd already spread my scone with jam when they realized they were out of cream, so she got to eat it when I ordered it plain ... with butter.

I thought I was going to tell you about York in this post, but I guess that's for another day. That also means no Flickr link. Instead, I'll show you two of the five photos I took those two days right here. (I was resting my shutter finger after Wales.) No worries, I took plenty the next two days.

The first is St. Helens City Hall. The second is the war memorial in the square, with the first batch of what I'm sure became many, many more poppy-decorated crosses and arrangements. Armistice Day was a huge occasion while we were there, and the poppy is the symbol of rememberance. I have a particularly embarrassing story to share about this very thing while we were in Edinburgh.

Next stop, York.

Wales weekend, part troix

Packing up and leaving our wonderful B&B was sad, but we knew other wonders awaited, so that we did. We headed out for a drive around gorgeous Snowdonia National Park with a stop for an hour or so in the village of Beddgelert.

This little village was named for the legendary hunting dog of Prince Llywelyn the Great (the one King Edward later routed out). The prince was an avid hunter with a (also legendary) castle in the area. One day, Gelert, his dog, did not appear for the hunt. When his master returned, he was greeted by the site of Gelert with bloody jaws and fur. Finding his son's nursery with upturned cradle and blood everwhere, but no baby, he assumed the dog had attacked his baby son and was brokenhearted. He plunged his sword into Gelert's heart, killing the dog, then heard a baby's cry as the dog died. He flipped the cradle to find the baby, alive and well, and a wolf the dog had killed protecting him. Llywelyn was struck with remorse. To show his homage to his brave dog, he buried him outside the castle walls and marked the grave.

According to this site, legend and reality were quite mixed up, especially considering the cairn marking the grave is less than 200 years old, and this act would have happened in the 13th century, but it still makes an interesting story and likely keeps the little town (whose name means "Grave of Gelert") in business.

On the other hand, it's pretty high on charm alone. We enjoyed it and never even saw the grave. We wandered a bit and walked a little way up one of the many public walking trails around Snowdonia. I managed to cull my photos down to *only* 109. This day held some of the most breathtaking views of our trip, as well as architecture and landscape you might picture in your head when you imagine a place like Wales. It was that perfect.

Hope you enjoy them. Of course, I've posted a few here if you don't have time to look. (Or maybe to tempt you.)