As the Amtrak Empire Builder moseyed up the westernmost side of Seattle, I tried mimicking its sound. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. My tongue hit the roof of my mouth, closely matching the noise of the slowly moving train. Departing exactly on schedule at 4:55 pm, we glided past the Smith and Columbia Towers, reaching the Olympic Sculpture Park moments after 5:00.

On a recent Friday afternoon, car keys in hand, I kissed my husband goodbye and prepared to drive to a movie screening. A wave of worry suddenly overcame me. What if this were the last time we’d ever see each other?  Walking back into the kitchen, I looked him in the eyes, and uttered three trite but true words, “I love you.” Smiling back at me, he replied, “Love you too.” 

Today’s blog, Ten Tips for Travel with Kids, is a photo montage with commentary that captures some highlights of that trip. Together with my amazing husband, we entertained our granddaughters for eleven days. In what our son aptly named “win-win-win,” we had barrels of fun with the girls, they had a blast with us, and their parents flew to Marrakesh to have fun on their own.

During my growing up years, my parents had a sheet metal shop in Brooklyn, close to the docks and the Battery Tunnel that connected our borough to Manhattan.  Every year, as the December holidays approached, gifts began arriving from suppliers.  The best of all the gifts was a box of Comice pears from an orchard way on the other side of the country.  Although the docks provided us with a year-round supply of luscious fruits from all over the world, those holiday boxes of pears were bigger, better, and juicier than any other pear, bar none.  

Seattle lost a great man last week, when Chef Thierry Rautureau died on October 29th. Only 64 years old, he succumbed to pulmonary fibrosis, an autoimmune disease that scars the lungs, making breathing difficult.

Early morning is Avi’s favorite time to walk, before the sun rises and begins baking the ground.  But on October 7th, he just wasn’t feeling motivated to walk.  After ten minutes, he called it quits.  That saved his life.

My husband’s birthday present to me this past summer was a Fall mushroom adventure.  He found Travis online and arranged a private tour for the two of us. 

Boomy. Gizzy.  Doody.  Tsilly.  These aren’t the giddy babblings of a toddler, learning to speak.  They’re a sampling of the names of friends and relatives who populated my early life. 

A trip down memory lane.  What does that evoke for you?  Visiting your childhood home?  Reconnecting with a friend from high school or college? Or meeting with someone you haven’t seen in fifty-five years and feeling like time has stood still?

Have you ever noticed that it’s harder to capture something in a few, carefully chosen words than to express yourself without limits?  In April, I took a 3-session class called “How to Review Everything,” with Misha Berson, the former art critic for the Seattle Times. 

We got the news about a week ago. Eli was dying.  No longer taking food or liquids, her body could hold out for a few hours, days at most, and then she’d be gone. 

We were packed and ready to go on a 3-month adventure in Israel. My checked luggage included three Global kitchen knives and two slim-profile, Epicurean cutting boards. I imagined the apartment we’d rented in Tel Aviv, one block from the Mediterranean, as a gathering place for new friends to mingle and share ideas. After daily shopping at the large, outdoor market, Shuk HaCarmel, where fresh fruit, fish and spices abound, I’d cook and write every day.

I am not a “dog person.” When I walk down the street, I smile at babies and delight when I see young children in their colorful outfits.  Dogs?  I barely notice them.  And yet, married to a veterinarian, our house has been a home to both dogs and cats.

While you’re living your best expat life, the people you’ve left behind welcome your calls. But when the phone rings at 3 am, or pings with a new WhatsApp message, the Left Behind’s (LB’s) first thought is NOT “I can’t wait to hear what my expat is up to.”

For the past five years, my house bulged with evidence that two little girls frequently spent time here. Just beyond the foyer, a child-sized artist’s easel features a roll of paper on one side, a chalkboard on the other.

I’m a sucker for beauty. My husband is too. So, in anticipation of our son and his family moving far away, and to mitigate the sadness I knew would set in after they left, I arranged a mini-retreat for us in Skagit and Whatcom counties, just a few hours north of Seattle.

Nothing converts you to one-piece bathing suits faster than an oops moment. If you’ve ever worn a bikini, you know what I mean. You’re swimming along when a wave or inadvertent push results in a generous side-boob viewing, or worse, total exposure.

My father was a slave. It took Germany fifty-seven years to make reparations for his suffering. It’s time to start reparations for the descendants of American slaves.

Until his liberation by the US Army, my father was a slave laborer at Mauthausen, a category-three Nazi concentration camp. Mauthausen’s policy, according to JewishGen, an affiliate of the Museum of Jewish Heritage, was extermination by work.

If you’re going to get sick, and I mean really sick, enough to land you in the hospital, think about this: July 1 is around the corner, and on that day, medical students fresh out of school start their clinical rotations at hospitals and outpatient clinics, first year residents are promoted from “intern” to second year resident, and at teaching hospitals all across the U.S., everyone in training is given responsibilities they’ve never had before and feel unprepared to handle.

My parents named me Mindy Ellen Stern, and I never changed it. In Ashkenazi Jewish custom, the dearly departed are deeply honored by naming a newborn after them. Thus, an American Joe carries the spirit of a late European Yosseleh, Susie is named after Saraleh, Faye and Faith are modern versions of Faygie, which actually means “little bird.”