It's Not Such a Small World After All

We now accept the idea of the small world as fact. Communications technology, airplanes and global business have shrunk the planet to such an extent that we can be everywhere, stay in touch with everyone and feel real citizens of the entire planet.

This is a great concept, and for most of my life it's proven to be true. The world blows back to its old, unwieldy proportions, however, when you're living 5,000 miles away from parents who both end up in the hospital in the same week.

Dad's surgery, tomorrow, is a standard procedure and has been planned for weeks. It would be nice to be there, but wasn't necessary. Mom's in the hospital with undefined heart problems and had to go through an angiogram today. Fortunately, she's just emerged from the procedure and all is fine.

The angst, fear and uncertainty of the developing situation meant I spent a weekend contemplating the distance between us and wondering if I should do something dramatic to get home. I'll admit, the distance isn't that much by global standards. This situation is far, far worse for my Australian friends living in London. It only takes two more hours to fly London-St. Louis than it does to go New York to LA. But from here you have to deal with limited schedules, changing planes (nobody flies direct to St. Louis any more) and eye-watering fares.

The expat life is great for planned travel. In fact, most expat friends of mine agree that we spend more quality time with our parents than friends who live in the same cities with them, because we tend to go on holidays and more concentrated time together. But dropping in for a quick visit is certainly out, and getting home without advance planning is possible ... but a real strain.

This is a situation that more and more of us will go through in this supposedly shrinking world. In a global economy, most of us not "lucky" enough to be born in the massive cities of the world will move away from home, and most people on the senior executive track will get transferred around the world. Most of the time this is exciting, and technology makes the distances evaporate. But not always.

Today, St. Louis is very, very far away.

Old Man River Keeps Rolling Closer

I am a child of great rivers. The mighty Mississippi and and the vast Missouri came together a few miles from my home, at a stretch of water running almost a mile wide in spring flood. I watched with awe as the building-sized floodgates blocked the streets of downtown St. Louis and water lapped up the stairs of the arch, and remember many a story of riverboats slipping their moornings and meeting their doom in the dangerous eddys and debris of the muddy water. You simply couldn't grow up with something so powerful without giving it a hell of a lot of respect.

So why, I ask myself, didn't I think about this when I invested my life savings into a house just 150 yards from the Thames?

Because for my entire acquaintance with it, the Thames at Datchet has resembled nothing so much as a river by Disney. Perhaps 50 yards wide, clear, slow flowing and relatively shallow, you'd practically swear that the picturesque canal boats were on a hidden track, sailing down river from the Windsor Castle ride. A Missourian didn't even register this as a river, frankly. It's a well-manicured creek.

Creek no longer, an ever-rising Thames is now churning past the village at threatening speeds, carrying the grim promise of the havoc it's already wreaked upstream in the Cotswolds. I'm checking the Environmental Department's flooding website several times a day to see if the "Flood Warning" status has ratcheded up to "Flood Imminent". (Without additional rainfall, the flood crest is supposed to catch us later in the week.) I walk down to the river twice a day to watch the water's progress up the bank. I've researched how to make my own sandbags and have planned what can be carried upstairs. I am trying not to think about the average £30k per home that flood damage costs, the four to six months people have to move out of their houses and the risk of disease that comes from the raw sewage that swirls through the flood tide.

Whose riverbank is lower and will flood first? Mine, or the Queen's?

I think our luck may hold. While the river's rise has been precipitous, I figure it still has a good five feet to go before it tops the crest of the hill sloping from river up to village. To my eye, the opposite bank looks a little lower, meaning that the water might flood into Windsor Castle's hay fields before the village. (Then again, considering the embankments were built in the 19th century, I wouldn't be surprised if Queen Victoria's engineers were instructed to do exactly the opposite.) In theory, we're protected by the Jubilee River extension, an artificial channel that can be raised or lowered to moderate levels in the Thames. And finally, my hopes were raised by speaking to a local whose mother remembered the last big flood in the 40s, when the my street remained a dry island while both the riverbanks and the village green flooded. (Evidently there are natural springs under the green that spew forth at saturation point.)

That lessens my fear a lot, but I'm still very wary. I'll be on tenterhooks until the flood surge rolls past us later this week. So I'll continue watching, waiting, preparing ... and praying it doesn't rain any more.

On Harry Potter and Communal Culture

When I was a child, mass media and communal culture were the same thing. It feels like yesterday to me, but those were the dark old days before cable and the internet. The media world was a much smaller place, and we gathered around our televisions for communal events that seemed to engage the majority of society. Watergate, the American ice hockey win at the Lake Placid Olympics, the final episodes of "Happy Days" and "Mash". Major television events brought us all together for a simultaneous experience, which we then discussed for days afterwards.

Of course, the world is a much bigger place these days, and mass media has split us into hundreds of cultural subgroups pursuing our own viewing or reading fragments at the time or place of our choice. This has been oft written about and is nothing new. This weekend, however, Harry Potter had me contemplating the joys of what we lost.

The seventh and final Harry Potter book was a communal cultural event like those old days. It's as if those scores of alternative options fell away, and for a brief space in time huge numbers of people were focused on the same thing. I felt a little thrill of inclusiveness as I bought the book Sunday morning, looking around me to see that every shopping basket in sight had its own copy. And though I spent much of my weekend alone, reading, that sense of inclusiveness continued. All over the English speaking world, people of all ages were doing exactly what I was doing, linked in the strange contradiction of the mass pursuit of an essentially solitary activity.

As ever when I get a good book in my hands, I plough on at speed. I was finished, satisfied and cried out, by noon today. And no doubt tomorrow the discussions will start, at least amongst those who had the time to immerse themselves for one marathon session. And for a few more weeks we'll have the joy of cultural togetherness, as people join in reviews, discussions and the mutual joy of a story well told.

Then we'll all return to our fragmented world, where only one in 20 of your friends ever seems to have seen or read the same thing you did at the same time. While I wouldn't necessarily want to go back to those days of limited media, I do thank J.K. Rowling for bringing back even more of my childhood than just the enjoyment of children's stories. Such simultaneous cultural sharing won't happen again, I'd wager, for a very long time.

Le Gavroche Earns its Stars

I have been fortunate to eat at several Michelin single-starred restaurants. Each was a magnificent experience. Last week I entered the world of two star dining and learned what I'd really be doing if I won the lottery: eating at places like Le Gavroche once a week, clogging my arteries and killing my liver while having a sinfully good time.

Le Gavroche is one of the grand old establishments of London dining, now celebrating its 40th year. It is very French, very restrained and very luxurious. The food is exquisite, naturally. But the main difference I noted between one star and two was the presentation. This was food as art.

We started with a few delicate canapes laid upon the beautifully laid table. Crisp linens, abundant silver and glass, a different silver sculpture of an animal on each table. (We had a very proud bull staring at us throughout the meal.) Next came the amuse bouche, courtesy of the chef: one perfectly seared prawn on a scoop of mango chutney. Then on to the starter. I couldn't resist the "artichoke Lucullus". After all, I've never been in a restaurant where they featured a dish dedicated to the most famous gastronome of ancient Rome. Had to be done. It was a circle of artichoke heart, topped by thin slices of fois gras, that topped by a dome of chicken liver mouse, dotted around the outside with shavings of black truffle. You have to work mighty hard to integrate that many luxury ingredients into one dish. I was worried that this monument to excess might be a bit too rich, but it was done with an amazingly light touch, and all those intense flavours managed to stay distinct, yet melt together at the same time.

Frankly, I could have stopped there and called it one of the best meals of my life. But the main was still to come. In fine French style, all of our dishes arrived at exactly the same time, covered with gleaming silver domes that were whipped aside with military precision, at exactly the same time. My veal chop with garlic mash and a bit of vegetable on the side sounds simple enough, but the flavours were extraordinary. The meat was so tender it practically fell to pieces on my tongue, and the sauce was so flavourful it had probably been reduced for many hours. The vegetables were so beautiful it was almost painful to eat them. Imagine a small, flat-topped cone that resembled nothing so much as a tiny circus tent. In reality, it was spinach mouse moulded into shape, with perfectly symetrical slices of carrot making the stripes.

Even Lucullus himself might have had difficulty moving on to dessert at this point. Though we passed on a third course, my gracious hostess ordered petit fours with the coffee, so out came an almost guilt free plate of tiny but perfectly formed cakes and cookies. Add the champagne we started with, the white wine with the first course and the superior Burgundy with the second, and I'll admit it ... I was officially useless for the rest of the day. All I really wanted to do was curl up and take a very contented nap.

In addition to the food, I have to mention both the service and the surroundings. The staff are abundant but subtle. They manage to pull off that very difficult balance of being so attentive that you never need anything, but so non-intrusive that they're never a bother. The dining room is like a very luxurious home, with some of the thickest carpets upon which I've ever walked. I suppose this is part of the secret to maintaining quite a low buzz of conversation, despite the crowded room.

And how much did this culinary orgy cost? I have no idea. The combination of a sophisticated hostess (I was being treated by a PR agency) and those sensitive waiters meant that I never saw a menu with prices. The one peek I had across the table showed £45 against one of the entrees, so let us assume that two courses, wine and coffee is probably pushing £100 a person.

Thank God for expense accounts. And let's hope he doesn't let me win the lottery, because doing this regularly just would NOT be good for me.

Craftsmanship is the Highlight of Italian Shopping

Whether you're in a small, privately-owned craftsman's shop (of which there are many), or in a large store, you're never far from the craftsman's workbench in Italy. This remains the country of the carefully hand made. And despite a cavalier attitude to some other areas of life, Italians are also obsessed with quality when it comes to the goods they produce. A pair of shoes, a leather bound book or a Parma ham will all receive the same loving attention to detail.

It's unsurprising, then, that I love to shop in Tuscany. Having just returned with a suitcase pressing luggage limits due to an abundance of shoes, handbags and cured meats, I thought it worth sharing a few of my favourite tips.

South of Florence, in the centre of the Chianti district, you'll find Falorni Macelleria. This temple for carnivores sits on the picturesque town square in Greve-in-Chianti (which is worth a visit for its charm alone). Falorni is a traditional butcher's shop, specialising in prosciutto and sausage, much of it from the wild boars that rome the area. About six years ago it was featured on the weekly American news magazine CBS Sunday Morning, and it's been expanding ever since. Now double the size of my first visit and generally packed with American tourists, it still offers remarkable quality, luscious smells and a huge variety of items pre-packaged for easy transport to your picnic on the Chianti hills beyond.

Not too far from Greve is another shopping pilgrimage point, this one as popular with Japanese and Chinese as with Americans. Prosaically named "The Mall", the cluster of designer outlets sits in a modern strip of buildings incongruously placed in the middle of countryside more typically seen behind Renaissance Madonnas.

The Mall features seriously big names: Gucci, Ferragamo, Tod's, Armani, Valentino, La Perla. This is not a place for finding anything cheap. But if you have been contemplating buying any of these labels at full price, or even at moderate discounts, you'll find deep cuts here. Tod's loafers that retail for 250 Euros, for example, are on offer for 125. And I saw a lovely Gucci croc skin bag marked down a remarkable 2,500 euros. It could have been mine for just 2100. I bought some shoes. I passed on the bag.

I did buy a handbag, but one with a rather less showy label. The Scuola di Cuoio (leather school) is located at the back of Santa Croce church, in some of the old cloister buildings. The Dominican Friars first established the school after WWII to give orphans and poor children a chance to learn a trade. Their work became so esteemed that the school started selling its work, and 60 years later it is one of the best shopping tips of Florence. The quality here is the very finest, everything stiched and stretched on site using the best leathers available. Designs are mostly classic. Prices reflect the size and quality of the item, so are more expensive than some of the stuff you're going to get in the markets, but are far below designer costs. They'll emboss your name or initials on anything you buy. And, of course, if you're in the mood for something unique they'll make you whatever you want on special order.

Finally, a nod to the many stationers' shops in Florence (and indeed throughout Italy). Hand printed stationery, marbelised paper products and leather bound blank books and photo albums are the typical goods found here. If, like me, you were the kind of kid who found the promise of an empty notebook to be the best part of returning to school in the autumn, then these shops will be an Aladdin's cave. There are some chains, such as Il Papiro nationally and Signum in Florence. But do look for the family-owned shops with the workbenches in back, which are still common. The variety here is often greater and they'll be able to emboss what you buy while you wait.

Another Tuscan Holiday Fades to Memory

It is a universally acknowledged truth that time speeds or slows in direct proportion to the amount you're enjoying yourself. Thus I remember one algebra test of my youth that lasted at least three days. And thus last week's long-anticipated holiday to Italy seemed to take about two hours. The nicely browned colour of my skin and the dent in my debit card both reliably inform me that I've been gone for a week. But the brain is reluctant to grasp that reality.

We returned to our favourite rental spot, the Villa Pandolfini, for the fifth time and after a break of two years. That set the tone for the whole trip. A return to reliable highlights from past visits, taken at a relaxed pace and interwoven with a lot of pool time. This is one of the glories of having visited a place many times; the need to see the sights falls away, allowing you to just bask in the atmosphere of the place.

We took in a bit of culture. It's impossible not to, when you're living in a 14th century villa, a wander through any town takes you past remarkable architecture and a pop into any church brings you face-to-face with Giotto, Lippi, Della Robbia, etc. But we didn't purposely seek anything out. We left the Uffizzi, the Accademia and speed touring through hill towns to the other tourists. The aggressive culture hunters were there in force. I haven't seen so many American tourists, in fact, since before 9/11.

Beyond the pool, our focus ended up on gentle wandering (two trips to Florence, one to Siena, one to Greve in Chianti, a stroll through the ceramics festival at Montelupo), shopping and dining. I'll provide separate posts on the latter two activities in coming days, with some specifics future visitors may want to note.

Now, the work email box and a busy week of conference calls and meetings looms before me. It will, no doubt, take about a month.