Wine With Wanda

9/11: Let Love Lead

As an American and native New Yorker, 9/11 is more than an anniversary to me. It was the day that I became painfully aware that no place is immune from the evil that exists in the world. Perhaps I was naive, and even arrogant, to think that something so horrendous could ever happen here in my country, in my city. 

I woke up on that sunny September morning optimistic and ready to face the world and in the 27 minutes that it took for me to reach my office, little did I know that everything had changed. The Towers had been hit. I returned home confused, terrified, and angry. And, 12 years later when I think of that day, those feelings bubble to the surface. All that was truly lost that day can never be measured - so many innocent lives forever gone and so many broken hearts left behind. I still cry when the names are read every year during the 9/11 remembrance ceremonies. Epecially when I hear the name of my high school friend, Todd Isaac.

I was terrified to fly after 9/11 and had resigned myself to perhaps never getting on an airplane again. But almost a year after 9/11, on a sunny August day, I met a tourist from Ireland who stole my heart and we embarked on a whirlwind romance. One afternoon we held each other as we looked at the hole in the skyline where the Towers had stood and said a silent prayer. Before Garry returned home, he presented me with a photograph of the Towers of Light. He had purchased it from a street vendor but had signed it on the bottom  "4 Wanda with love". He had wrapped the framed picture in a full-page newspaper ad touting discount airfares from NY to Dublin on Aer Lingus. At that moment, I knew that I had to see him again - fear of terrorism would not stop me from following my heart. So in October of 2002, I took my first flight since 9/11. I was scared but I learned that if you let love lead you, fear takes a backseat. Garry has since passed away but that framed photo of the Towers of Light still hangs in my bedroom as a tribute and a reminder that light and love have the power to transform the darkest moments and spaces.

Dedicated to the memories of Todd Isaac and Garry. 

Life is Sweet in Provence for Writer & Artisan Ice Cream Maker Elizabeth Bard

While I Provence, I was thrilled to discover that I was staying just a few miles away from Elizabeth Bard. The talented author of the memoir Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes resides in the charming village of Céreste where she and her husband Gwendal have recently opened an artisan ice cream shop - Scaramouche.

Is there anything Elizabeth can't do? Just like her writing, the ice creams and sorbets at Scaramouche are original, vibrant, and delicious. I shamelessly sampled her entire inventory - Basil, Saffron, Pastis, Lemon Verbena, Lavender, Rose Geranium, Sheep's Milk Frozen Yogurt, and many more beautiful flavors. I ate a fair amount of ice cream during my French vacation and I can honestly say that Scaramouche was the most delicious. The freshness and excellent quality of the natural local ingredients combined with artisan techniques put it in a league of its own.  If you find yourself in Provence, treat yourself to several scoops of Scaramouche artisan ice cream. And, be a doll and FedEx me a pint or two!

PS. Before moving to Provence, Elizabeth lived in Paris and several years ago I had the chance to interview her about her favorite places in the City of Lights.


images courtesy Scaramouche & Elizabeth Bard

It Happened in Spain: Heartbroken & Homeless on New Year's Eve

Toledo, Spain. I arrived here in the fall of 1992 to study. I learned much more than I had anticipated.

"Is our apartment on fire?" It was painfully obvious from the thick plumes of smoke billowing in the dark sky of Toledo, Spain but I demanded confirmation from my roommate. It was the very early morning of December 31, 1992 and our year ended in a most dramatic fashion. We returned home in the wee hours to see the off-campus apartment that we had just rented about 2 weeks prior go up in flames. When the bomberos finally showed up in their fire engine they were able to extinguish the flames but everything within the apartment was destroyed. I had no money except for a few pesetas in my pocket, no clothes except for the outfit on my back, and no passport to legitimize that I was who I claimed to be.

I knew from previous experience that studying abroad would have ups and downs but nothing prepared me for such a rock bottom moment. Perhaps, if I had returned home after one semester as originally planned I could have avoided this catastrophe. But I was in love with Spain, and more importantly, deeply in love with a green-eyed waiter who promised me the world. So, I begged my parents and my college for permission to stay another semester. Of course, I did not reveal that romance was the reason for my zeal but I proposed an elaborate research project that I insisted would take my academic career to the next level and could only be completed if I could fully immerse myself in Spanish culture for a full school year. How could I know that my green eyed guapo would unceremoniously dump me on the very same day that I received the official notice from my college that my request had been granted? And, that just weeks later my remaining happiness in Spain would literally go up in flames? Homeless and heartbroken, what a way to start the new year.

The party must go on and my Spanish friends convinced me that I still had to celebrate New Year's Eve and could deal with the fallout from the fire in a few days. I remember sitting sadly in a corner all night wearing borrowed clothes as the music blared. I knew that I was blessed to have not been in the apartment when the fire happened but I was too involved in my pity party to care about the festivities around me. Finally, the midnight countdown began. I tried to choke down a few of the twelve grapes that Spaniards traditionally eat in the last 12 seconds of the old year but every part of my body just felt weak. 3, 2, 1, Feliz Año Nuevo!

The first few days of 1993 were a frenzy of angry and worried calls from my parents demanding that I come home and unsympathetic lectures from my college's study abroad director. After all, they had advised me not to move out of the official student residence - a  sturdy (and I suspect virtually fireproof) former convent from the 17th century. Sad but still stubborn, I decided to stay in Spain. I spent a week or so sleeping on a friend's sofa until I humbly returned to my old room in the residence.

Somehow, documentation was produced that enabled me to get a new passport. My Spanish friends showed me incredible kindness and collected money so that I could buy new clothes and essentials. Care packages and letters of support arrived from friends and family in the U.S. Slowly, my broken heart began to heal, the smoke filled nightmares stopped, and amazing things began to happen. My Spanish language skills were better than ever thanks to having to recount the story of the fire countless times. I won a local karaoke contest and that led to me being invited to sing at a local jazz club. The school year ended and I tried to convince my parents that I should stay in Spain and become a big star but I packed my bags and returned home more confident than ever.

I've celebrated New Year's Eve in many different ways since 1992 but nothing has ever compared to that fateful night in Spain. I did not get the new year I wanted or expected but what I needed. Thankfully, there have been no more fires but many moments where I had to muster the strength to start over. And, I know that each time you get to start over is a reason to celebrate. Happy New Year!