Get Out of Town

Three kinds of soup made and refrigerated or frozen. Check. Dark chocolate espresso brownies baked. Check. Sandwich makings in deli drawer. Check. Yard mowed. Check. House cleaned. Che....well, not so much. 

I love to travel, but I hate to get ready to go. I never get things to where I want them. The floors are dirty. The dining room table has become the Chicago outpost of Alabama Chanin's studio, by the looks of it. The yarn/TV room is a disaster. Oh, well. This is my last (scheduled) trip of the year, so maybe I will get organized when I get back. Of course, I never like to not have a trip on the horizon, so we will see!

I am looking forward to days by the lake, evenings by a fire, trips on ferries, hiking in woods, dinner with friends, knitting (or not), walking on the beach, and so on. 

Readying

...for winter...for departure...for whatever comes next.

One of the biggest challenges of life in the city is finding good, qualified, professional service people. It is one of the advantages that people living in smaller places have over us city-dwellers, I think. (My friends in Pennsylvania, where I grew up, seem to have a much easier time getting plumbers and electricians to show up than I do, but maybe that's anecdotal.) I spent all of yesterday afternoon waiting for a heating tech who wasn't coming. When I called, at the end of the time window I was given, it was clear I was being stood up. After several calls, we rescheduled for this morning. The guy came early--frankly, every bit as annoying as being late when you're not ready. I literally ran down he stairs with one shoe on (untied) and the other in-hand. The good news, though, is that he thinks we can eke out another year, maybe two, with our boiler. We shall see if that holds true come January!

On Saturday, I will be headed out to Washington. I travel a fair amount, and sometimes I get organized enough to have food prepped for my husband. Today I am cooking up big pots of mushroom barley soup and vegetarian chili. (Vegetarian options are good, because when I am gone, he is likely to eat three things: pepperoni pizza, orange beef, and steak.) I'll put a few containers in the fridge and the rest in the freezer and he can take what he wants. I also promised him a batch of extra dark chocolate espresso brownies. 

Mushroom Barley Soup

Last night's soup was a big hit. I am (almost always) loose about recipes, and big on improvisation. One of my favorite things to play around with is a roasted soup. Last night I peeled, cut up, and roasted the following at 400F:

3 medium sweet potatoes

1 medium onion

6 or 7 large carrots

5 garlic cloves

1 Honeycrisp apple

All tossed in a few tablespoons of olive oil and a little bit of kosher salt.

When they were soft and beginning to caramelize, I transferred them to a stockpot. I added three boxes of stock (two chicken and one vegetable, because that's what was in the pantry), two teaspoons of sweet curry powder, and a good amount of black pepper. I used a stick blender to purée it until mostly smooth. I tasted and added a bit more salt. When it was heated through, I served the soup with a dollop of sour cream (one could use creme fraiche or even Greek yogurt) and a drizzle of roasted pumpkin seed oil. Walnut oil would also be good. If I had had pears instead of apples, or squash instead of sweet potatoes, I would have used them. I tend to have root vegetables on hand at this time of year, and they make a great base to start with.

The afternoon will be consumed with packing, prepping my travel projects, and maybe some cuddling with my cat, Pitch. 

Making

I need several more lifetimes to do and see all of the things as I want to. I wish I'd have come to this realization sooner in my life, but there are several well-worn adages that address that very issue for good reason. 

I am about to head out to the Pacific Northwest for another workshop with Cat Bordhi. I am dithering about which projects to take, how many needles, etc. Since I have been bitten hard by the sewing bug, I also prepped an Alabama Chanin project to take along, a bucket hat. Today I printed out the pattern and stencil, cut the stencil into Mylar using a hot knife (a trickier process than I anticipated), cut the fabric, mixed up my fabric paint, and stenciled the pieces. 

I decided I wanted the stenciling to have a soft edge, so I sprayed the surface with water after I applied paint. I would try some other things next time, but I can work with this for now. If I am lucky, I will be wearing my new hat by the time I return.

This has been a year jam packed with baby knits, and at least one more to go since I found out my cousin is having a boy in January. Yesterday I sewed on the buttons for a pair of cardis for fraternal twin girls. I wanted the sweaters to refer to one another, so I used the blue stripes on both, and I chose buttons in the opposite colors for each. I wish the green buttons were truer to the yarn color, but they were the best I could find. The yarn is mine, Fleur de Fiber Amelie, a merino and silk blend. I know...why did I do that to the girls' moms?! They are soft and squishy and quite delicious, though, so I hope they don't mind the extra care of gentle washing and drying flat.

The house is full of the smell of roasting carrots, sweet potatoes, onions, garlic and apples, which will be whirled into soup. Fall is definitely in the air here. I always hope for a long, warm autumn, because, frankly, Chicago winters and springs (when we get them) can be dreadful. Really, fall is the only season I can count on enjoying. I'd feel more kindly toward summer if we had central air, but this summer, it got up into the mid-90s in parts of my house. Fortunately, we won't have to worry about that again for some months. It's always nice if it's mild through Halloween. Fingers crossed.

 

I am trying a new app for blogging. It's been more challenging to find one that permits picture sizing and links than one would expect. We'll see how it goes. The Blogger app was not helpful at all, and since I use my iPad more than the laptop these days, I need to find a good solution.

Running Stitches

Well, it's happened again. Months have passed. Things have happened that would have made great blog material, but I squandered many an opportunity. Sigh.

This past weekend I made my second trip of 2013 to Alabama. Up until now, I'd really only spent time in western AL, specifically Tuscaloosa, plus a few jaunts to Montgomery and Birmingham. This was my first foray to northern AL and the towns of Florence, Tuscumbia, and Muscle Shoals. I hope it won't be my last.

My relationship with Alabama, like many relationships, is complicated. I first went down there for grad school, but realized that, since I wasn't interested in teaching, the program I was in wasn't a good fit. By the time I left, 10 months after arriving, I had developed a lasting interest in southern folk art, a passion for barbecue, and a deep, abiding love of greens: collards, mustard, etc. I'd also gained a deeper understanding of Southern attitudes, culture, and history. Complicated. Conflicted. Compelling.

Photo: My small collection of (mostly) southern face jugs. I find them quirky and charming. My husband finds them...not so charming.

I travelled to Florence specifically to take a one-day workshop at The Factory, the home base of Alabama Chanin. I have been a fan of Natalie Chanin's work for years, having first seen her years ago at an annual art festival in Northport, AL. This spring, I took a two-hour workshop with her at the Southern Makers inaugural event. After that teaser, I was eager for more, and I signed up for the workshop at the studio. (I would love to do the weekend workshop that is, coincidentally, happening on my birthday weekend. Hmmmm...) The Factory was what I hoped it would be: brimming with beautiful things, inspirational, and fun. The day flew. I want to make all. the. things.

I didn't have a lot of time for sightseeing, but I did get to do a bit of shopping in Florence. I quite liked the town's yarn store, Unraveled, and The Wine Seller was a great find. I got some sale t-shirts at Billy Reid to cut up for some Alabama Chanin-inspired projects. I drove by the legendary Fame Recording Studio in Muscle Shoals, and W.C. Handy's and Helen Keller's birthplaces. I fell in love with the pulled pork sandwich topped with hot slaw at Bunyan's Bar-b-que, and paid my respects to the departed canine souls at the Coon Dog Cemetery. 

If you're curious about hot slaw (which is the spicier, sassier Southern sister of Pennsylvania Dutch Pepper Cabbage), try this one: http://amccutch.home.mindspring.com/recipes/AlmostBunyansHotSlaw.html

I am headed out to the grocery store for the ingredients this afternoon!

A lesson I learn repeatedly on my travels is that there are interesting things everywhere you care to look. I love the quirky, odd, off-beat, unique, one-of-a-kind things you find if you wander far enough. 

Chicken Backs

At the age of 47, I am so very lucky to still have three of my grandparents alive and in relatively good health. (One of my grandfathers died with Alzheimer's 20 years ago.) My paternal grandmother is in a home, but she has a private room, gets around with the help of her cane or walker despite having fallen and broken her neck a few months ago. Seriously. At 88. Pretty amazing. I would say she's sticking around to spite some people, but she is the last of 14 children, so not too many people left to spite. My other grandparents are in their own home, still keep a vegetable garden, watch my cousin's 4-year-old, and, on a regular basis, crack me up.

Just this week, grandma sent a thank you letter for the hydrangea I sent for Mother's Day. Her letters are very stream-of-consciousness, with details missing that she assumes I already know or that my mom has filled me in on. Usually, neither is true, and the letters jump from non sequitur to non sequitur. This one was great:

Paragraph of cute stories of their great-granddaughter, Cora, helping in the garden. And then...
 "Aunt Betty (my great aunt) has a problem. They are telling her she needs a new toilet, but I don't believe them."

Another cute story of 4-year-old Cora telling my grandfather that he's too old to drive, even if it is for ice cream.

I have no idea how Aunt Betty's plumbing issues got in there, or why grandma fancies herself a plumbing detective, but that was all the information I was given. It made  me, my husband, and my mom, to whom I read the letter, laugh and laugh.

So, how do we get to chicken backs? Grandma was never one to waste. If we had a chicken barbecue, she would eat the backs while the rest of us got the legs. Nothing could go to waste. We once took a day trip to Great Adventure in New Jersey. After, we stopped at a diner and we bought a coconut cream pie to take home. Unfortunately, the baker forgot to add the sugar. None. This thing had no taste. Grandma could not let the food go to waste, and she ate that pie anyway. Quilts that were worn got new tops and were used as the batting for the subsequent incarnation. Usable clothing scraps were saved to be turned into patches for future quilts, or knee patches, or, rags, if that's all they were good for. Grandma never got the newest or best or first choice of anything, and I have never heard her complain much about it. So how does this apply to me? My life is very different from my grandma's. She left school in sixth grade and cleaned houses. I went to college, and even some graduate school, and I have been lucky to be able to hire people to help clean my house, on occasion. (I have deep seated psychological blocks about it--it is a huge guilt trigger for me.) Grandma has always lived within a few mile (12, maybe) radius. She was a farm wife who drove a tractor, but never a car. She has never had a dishwasher. She still has a manual wringer washtub to wash clothing. I have lived all over the place, driven in some of the most chaotic city traffic in the country, and my house had two sets of washers and dryers. And I would be a sad girl without my dishwasher.

Oh, chicken backs, yes, the chicken backs...So, now that I dye my own yarns, what do I knit with? The odd skeins, the ones with knots, the ones that aren't quite right. The ones no one else should have. I knit with the chicken back skeins. In the end, though, the things I make are just as lovely. So the color isn't what I originally planned, or I have to weave in some extra ends because of a knot or and under-plied section. Tomorrow the cutest little baby sweater is going to warm a new arrival in Estonia.

And, I am knitting myself a sweater with an entire weird batch of skeins. The color just came out all wrong--not bad, just not what it was supposed to be. I have gotten more compliments on it than almost any other colorway. Maybe I'll call it Chicken Back.

Who Am I?!

When I was in junior high, we had to take home ec. I was on a different path; I wanted bright lights and big cities, even then. I wasn't interested in those things my mom and grandmothers did: sewing, quilting, embroidery, gardening, cooking. I viewed them as weights holding me back. (Shop class, however, got my seal of approval. Go figure.) I never finished my home ec skirt, and I really didn't care.

Fast forward to college, where I was pursuing a theatre degree. We were required to put in mandatory crew hours, either in props, costumes, scene shop, etc. I tried hard enough to not annoy my costume teacher, primarily because I really respected her, but it was clear I did better in the scene shop. I learned to read scenic drawings, and I was given the role of crew chief my freshman year. I feigned toughness, and would climb huge A-frame ladders that were crowned with a vertical portion that went straight up, all the while hauling a lighting instrument with one hand. When I hit my mark, I would hook my leg around a rung, pull my wrench from my pocket, and hang the light. When I was done, I'd skitter back down and do it again.  I helped assemble rolling scaffolding that would become my workplace for weeks as I headed a paint crew. I ran band saws and table saws and miter saws, and, for the most part, I liked it.

Meanwhile, back in June Cleaverville, by necessity, my cooking skills were called upon. It was like they had always lurked under the surface. I came from a make-it-from-scratch background. TV Dinners were a rare treat. Brownies, cookies, and cakes did not come from boxes.  My talent in the kitchen is something that just emerged one day, like a hibernating bear, and I have put it to good use.

As I navigated my way through my arts career, I sought respite outside of the stresses of work. While no one in my family knitted (one grandma dabbled in crochet), knitting was always calling me. My neighbors (Pakistani girls who had been taught by an aunt who was Swiss and who married into the family) taught me a cast on and knit. I couldn't purl and I couldn't bind off. Finally, when I was in my late 20s and living in Chicago, I took a class that led me down the path to stash and fiber content and color, color, color.

I dabbled in hand stitching every now and again, but nothing serious. A few months ago, I became aware of the work of Richard Saja and his whimsical toile pieces. I was smitten. Starting with Vegas Elvis (meets Our Lady of Guadalupe) eating a big piece of bacon, I am creating my own Rock and Roll Toile of Fame. Elvis has left the embroidery hoops, and Bruce and the Big Man are on deck. David Bowie, Jack Black, and Annie Lennox await their turns in the wings.

Just recently, my focus has shifted to sewing...machine sewing. I had a Singer sewing machine (the treadle kind in a lovely wooden cabinet) that was in my bedroom during my teen years. When my parents split, mom moved some things to her parents' for safe-keeping, and unlike the hoarders found in her progeny, my grandmother strips away all but the necessary, and she gave the sewing machine to her brother, who gave it to his wife whom he later divorced, and she subsequently sold the machine out of the family. All the while, my grandmother had no idea how much I wanted the old Singer. At the time, I was living my life touring the country doing theater, so there was no place for me to keep it. After it became clear that my great-grandma's machine was never coming back, I set out looking for one that was similar, which I finally found an antique shop just a few blocks from my house. It's not the same, but it's close, and the price was reasonable. Now it's become my sewing totem.  Ever since it was delivered, I have been amassing patterns and fabric at a mad pace. I wash and iron the pieces, I sort, I cut, I sort some more. I have yet to sew (my electric Singer machine needs to move upstairs), but I have big plans.

I (heart) the Internet

So, as I wrote in my last post (way back in February!), I am subject to enthusiasms. I get on kicks. One of them for at least a year is an interest in traditional Icelandic lopapeysa. I have been pinning pictures and queueing patterns, and collecting Lopi and Lopi-esque yarns with the intention of making a stack of them. I took Ragga Eriksdottir's Craftsy class online (yea! knitting class sitting in bed in my pajamas!). I hope to vacation in Iceland with my husband, both of us sporting new sweaters. (2014, I'm looking at you.) The other night, I stumbled on a sweater I hadn't seen before and, when I added it to my Ravelry queue, I noticed that it was out-of-print in both publications in which it had appeared. So, off I set to the place of finding all things unfindable, Ebay. The Lopi gods were smiling upon me because the first, and I mean first, item that came up in my search was a book in which it was published. I could not hit the Buy It Now button fast enough. It arrived today, and although there is no publication date, the photo styling screams the 80s. This was confirmed by the only mark I have come across in the book so far, a note next to one of the patterns that says "Henry 1986." I presume Henry got one fabulous sweater more than 20 years ago. I wonder if he still has it.

This booklet is actually packed with designs I love. I could happily knit through the whole thing. Um, yeah, I'd better get on that. 2014 isn't all that far away...

Enthusiasms

Not too long ago, I developed a renewed interest in embroidery. I did some as a kid, but it never grabbed hold of me in a significant way. My mother was an avid cross-stitcher, and there were often threaded needles stuck into the arms of the couch where she had last been sitting, so you had to be wary. As of late, I have wanted to do more embroidery projects, whether it be stitching a pocket on an apron or embellishing a knit piece. I blame Natalie Chanin. Her techniques are so appealing and addictive and her aesthetic is compelling. I want everything to be reverse applique. I did some projects using her methodology a few years ago, and I think I am gearing up for some more.

As is my wont, I have been gathering my "props." I didn't really have a stash of embroidery floss, so I went about collecting some. Now I have a dilemma. I would like to keep the floss neat, clean and organized, and they are so pretty in their little skeins, see?

Winding the floss on these little plastic bobbins and putting them in this plastic box may be orderly, but it is so...plastic.

My mom has a big, wooden DMC box with little drawers, and while it works for her, I don't think it offers the visibility I would like. I want to be able to see all my colors without having to search through drawers. Winding the threads onto the bobbins is tedious, but not nearly as tedious as getting a knot when you pull out an end from skein the wrong way or, if you are being really fastidious, removing the labels, pulling out your desired length, then wiggling the labels back onto the skein. And it is a good TV watching project.  

I recently ordered (today!) some handwoven, hand dyed cotton fabric from A Verb for Keeping Warm out in Oakland, CA. I like them so very much, and I wish I could shop there in person and take classes with them on a regular basis. Alas, with 2/3 of the country between us, I have to rely on mail orders and their newsletter to get my fix. The fabrics are striped, and I am envisioning some inclusion of stitchery to make something special. I don't know what, don't know when, but when I decide, I will let you know.

The Rest of the Story

Oh, and I almost forgot. I also had eye surgery in November, which also accounts for some of my absence. It was altogether unpleasant (one of the bonus side effects: motion sickness), and unfortunately, was not quite successful. I am facing the possibility of a repeat on one eye sometime in the future, but it requires some serious consideration. I did not tolerate some of the anesthesia and/or pain meds well, which contributed to the overall misery following the surgery. And it was no fun. And it might not work-- again. And it took longer for my eyes to heal than I expected. And my eyes itched like crazy for weeks. And I hate IVs. But, I also hate the issue I would like to correct, so it's a toss-up.

So, back to swag! When I was in Tallinn, I visited two yarn shops. One was packed to the gills with imported novelty yarn. Now, I don't want to get all yarn snobby here--novelty yarn has its place if you want to make fuzzy monster feet baby booties--but I was not about to drag furry nylon home in my already bulging bags. The other shop was tucked in to a little street very near the opera house. They had a tiny loft where they kept the "local" goods: some yarn that looked a lot like Kauni (which was no where to be found on my stops) or Aade, which is very Kauni-like. (Lots of "handicraft" or gift shops had some yarn and often some felting wool. If they had yarn, it was always Aade, but they might only have a colorway or three.) This was similar and may, in fact, be Aade. (It was not labelled.)

I also picked up some naturally colored wool that the clerk told me was produced in a small mill locally. At least that's what I think she said. Her English was limited, though it far, far surpassed my measly six words of Estonian (four of which I have since forgotten.)

In an interesting coincidence, I found some naturally dyed yarn in a lovely handicraft shop (one of my favorites) that was make in Viljandi. I purchased several skeins, as well as a pair of lovely hand knit mittens (knit with the same yarn) and the book Ornamented Journey. The yarn was actually dyed by a friend of my friend, and we tried at the last minute to arrange for me to travel to Viljandi to see her operation, but it didn't work out. Next time!

I also picked up a copy of Designs and Patterns from Muhu Island. Hoo boy. It is a huge book in every way--size, weight, and content. It is so exquisite. I hemmed and hawed since it was so large, and I knew that I would be schlepping it around all day in Haapsalu, again the next day when I walked from my hotel to the train station, in Tallinn on the tram to my next hotel, and home to the US, but after I visited the table the third time (and the woman working the table gave me that nervous smile that told me I was verging on stalker weirdness), I decided to take the plunge. You should read Kate Davies's synopsis here because she captures its essence well.

So if you're keeping track, you will note that I was, by the end of my visit, quite a pack mule: all the yarn in the last two posts, the two books described (plus a copy of Ornamented Journey in Estonian, which I bought before I saw an English translation later), as well as a lovely, lovely cookbook my friends gave me, written by the owner of the cafe I dined at three times in Haapsalu. Yes, it was that good, and it was charming as all get-out, and if I could transport it--and the darling waiter who, by my third visit was giving me the same look as the book lady--here to my neighborhood, I would.) Plus there were chocolates, textiles, domino sets that featured knitting motifs, juniper utensils and cutting boards, a juniper wood mug (it was a "thing" so I got one), sleeves from a super cool store called Naiiv, some fancy schmancy stockings from designer Kristina Viirpalu, and three Haapsalu shawls. (I will try to get photos of the shawls that do them justice. Maybe this week, when it's supposed to get a little warmer again.) I was masterful in my packing, both in planning ahead to allow room and in getting it all back home without having to pay extra bag or overweight fees! A number of the items were holiday gifts, so I'd gotten a good jump on my Christmas shopping. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Gone Girl

And then, POOF!, she was gone. Wow, where did the time go? I guess other things just got in the way: dyeing, travelling, house guests, the holidays, and now it's almost Valentine's Day.

One of the big things that happened in my blogging absence was that my yarn was featured in Anne Hanson's Fall Into Full Color Club. The yarn she selected was Aries Oceanus, and the colorway was a grayish, blueish, reddish, greenish, iridescent purple called Abalone. It was a multi-step dyeing process, so there was a good deal of depth to the color. It was a lot of fun to do, but it was also quite challenging. 700 skeins is a lot of skeins when you are the only Yarn Zombie in the Craft Dungeon! It was so nice to get such great feedback from Anne's club members, and it was an amazing opportunity to get Fleur de Fiber into so many new hands.

So, I know I promised swag pictures from the trip. So, remember how I mentioned that within four hours of landing I found a city bus to my hotel, took a shower, figured out how to get to the harbor on the tram, and had Finnish wool in hand? This is what I got. There is a mitten kit and some sundry skeins from the vendor at the outdoor craft market that happens--get this--every day down by the harbor. I hear it even goes on in winter, so long as the crafters can set up. These are some hardy people, but I was happy to be there buying wool in summer, thank you very much. I am from the northeast and I live in Chicago, so I am average hardy for a resident of the Lower 48, but I prefer not to do outdoor shopping in winter if it can be avoided.

On my second day in Helsinki (my only full day, actually), I found a yarn shop down by the harbor in a little mini-mall of shops geared to tourists. I picked up these two skeins of hand dyed yarn. Helsinki is very, very expensive, and I remember thinking that these were pretty spendy, but I don't remember what I paid. It was at least 25% more than you would expect to pay in the US, but it was vacation yarn, and that doesn't count, right?

The next yarn acquisition was in Haapsalu. There was a yarn vendor at the street fair, and she had these thick, squishy, sheepy skeins of yarns for sale. The colors were heart-breakingly saturated. I have it on good authority that the Nancies (Bush and Marchand) also stashed some. In Haapsalu, I also bought some lace yarn. It doesn't photograph particularly well, and, frankly, is not all that exciting. It is yarn that is about what it becomes, not what it is. Also, the yarn used to make the shawls isn't from Estonia. I could have passed it over as there is already some stashed, but I was there, it was there, and, well... (To be continued...)

The Passage of Time



So much to look at in Tallinn. Even the architecture agrees.



I can’t believe it has been over a month since I returned. I had intended to get all my posts about the trip up quickly, but it has been hard to wrap it up. Writing the last posts means that the journey is well and truly over and I want to hold onto it as long as I can. So many expectations were exceeded and so many surprises unfolded, it was almost too fabulous to be real.



Front Side of the Haapsalu Train Station.



My last few days were spent back in Tallinn. I walked from my hotel over to the old Haapsalu train station, which no longer sees trains, but instead serves as the bus depot. (The station played a role in Dr. Zhivago, a film I shamefully have not yet seen.) Bus travel is a very organized, civilized way to move about in Estonia. The buses are clean, timely, and economical. While I was en route, my friend called to make sure I was set getting from the Tallinn bus station to my hotel. I assured him I was fine. The night before I had looked up tram routes and costs on my iPad, so I was pretty comfortable that I would be able to manage the short trip. I had read that trams cost 1 Euro if you pre-purchased a ticket from a newsstand, and 1.6 if you paid on the tram. Once you had a ticket, there was a machine in which you validate your ticket with the time the ticket was used. Good to go, right? When we arrived at the bus station, a depressing Soviet-era building, it was under renovation, so all operations (ticket booths, rest facilities, etc.) were in temporary quarters outside. Rather than try to find a newsstand in the chaos, I just decided to pay the extra money on the tram. I made my way to the correct stop with no problem, and a tram arrived fairly quickly. Then things got sticky. I muscled my large carry on up the steps, and  approached the enclosed area where the driver was located. There was a little metal drawer in which to deposit your money, which I opened, slipped in 2 Euro coin, then closed the drawer. The driver turned around and started to yell in Estonian, and none of the words she used was one of the six in my vocabulary. I said sorry, shook my head, raised my hands in the international indication of “I have no idea what’s going on here,” said sorry again, and smiled. With that, she slammed the drawer holding my coin open. I shook my head again, smiled somewhat more apologetically, and closed the drawer, hoping she’d just take the money and give me my ticket. I didn’t know if she wanted exact change, but I was happy to front the Estonian transit system a few extra cents just to get past the misunderstanding. Again, she yelled and snapped the drawer open. I looked around for someone who might understand, but no one wanted to involve themselves in my little kerfuffle. So, feeling the pressure of others waiting to just get on the dang tram, I took my coin, moved back and…I just sat down. I had the presence of mind to remove the hat I was wearing. (“She’ll never know it’s me without the hat!” I convinced myself, somewhat concerned that the ticket inspectors who do random checks were waiting for me at the next stop.) I kept my head down until my street, and I got off, never having paid. I still don’t know what the issue was, and when I saw my friends that night, they had no idea either. So, Estonia, I still owe you 1.6 Euros. Oh, and I never rode that tram again. The tram became my nemesis. I had to cross the track every day at least twice, and I was certain that the nasty woman driving the #2 was gunning for me.

The universe smiled upon me and granted me a touch of respite because my hotel upgraded me to a business class room (on the side of the hotel that doesn’t face the tram tracks!), and all was well with the world. I stayed at the Domina Il Marine, which was formerly a Soviet era factory. The building was interesting, and the pictures of the long-gone workers in the hall reminded me of the seat and sash factory my grandfather used to work in. (As I type this, I just realized that I must tell my friend what my grandfather did. My friend is VP of international manufacturing for a company that makes safety equipment (safety belts, seats, airbags, etc.) for the travel industry. I never before thought about the connection between my friend's business and my Pop Pop's trade, however separated by distance, years, technology, etc.)



The Gate I Entered Every Day

 The hotel was a five minute walk to the Paks Margareeta (Fat Margaret) gate into the old town, and for the next three days I wandered nearly every street within the walls. I spent a lot of time looking at the ground so that I didn’t fall on the uneven streets. (I did eventually fall, not on old cobblestones, but new ones. Of course. The bruise on my knee has just faded, but the scars an my knees and finger are an impressive plummy shade.)

On Monday night, I had a last dinner with my friends at a lovely restaurant in the old town. It was bittersweet, the culmination of my time with them, knowing my friendship with my old high school friend had grown to a new place, and having begun to form a new friendship with his girlfriend. Saying goodbye was a little hard, but he and I agreed that our average of seeing each other once every ten years going forward was wholly inadequate. We’re going to work on that. A few tears were shed, but they were both for the joy of a great few days together and confirmation of a teen friendship that has grown into a mature, mutually supportive relationship, and for the pangs of saying goodbye.

 

Olde Haansa

 The next days of wandering on my own were filled with taking photos of doors and windows, moments savored sipping cappuccinos in cafes, and handicraft stores scoured for souvenirs. Glasses of wine were sipped deep within the walls of the city, pastries were savored in patisseries, and elk and wild boar eaten at the Tallinn equivalent of Medieval Times, The Olde Haansa. (I bought into the idea thinking that it was a tourist trap, except that it was really, really tasty, and the honey beer was excellent.) I found a book of knitting stitch patterns in a used bookstore. It is in neither Russian nor Estonia, but Czech, I believe. I found a small, delightful yarn store that had yarns milled in the country. (Another yarn store in a nearby mall yielded lots of non-natural, foreign yarns.) I also found naturally dyed yarns in a handicraft store that became one of my favorite haunts. They had exquisite needle felted sculptures, fine mittens, and books. I think I went back three times. (I promise a post of all crafty swag will follow.)



Kristina Viirpalu Boutique



Intrigued by the knit motif on the front windows, I ended up in the Kristina Viirpalu Boutique. Viirpalu is known for incorporating tradition Haapsalu knitting techniques into contemporary clothing. She pairs the knitwear (diaphanous gowns and the like) with tailored coats and super funky accessories. I nearly had a come-apart caused by some boots that I would have had to wear as earrings to get home as there was no more room in my baggage. In the end, I opted for some super-funky printed socks that are also one of her signatures, and at 24 Euro, were much cheaper than the 750 Euro boots.



The boots (center) that were not to be mine.



Three days spent wandering about were perfect. I had my bearings, I was seeing things in minute detail, and I wasn’t rushed. I could wander and think, have coffee, think more, knit some, rest, go out and wander again. There are places I didn’t get to, and the list grows as my interest in Estonia continues to build. I am really and truly ready to go again at any time for any reason. And this time, tram lady, I am going to have more than six words at my disposal! (I'll also have correct change.)

A Story With a Lot of Holes

Haapsalu is synonymous with lace knitting, and the delicate, intricate shawls that share their name with the town were in full display on the second day of the White Lady Days Festival. There were vendors and demonstration booths highlighting not just knitting, but bobbin lace, crochet, some forms of weaving, and embroidery. The festivities began with a choreographed tribute to the shawl and to the master knitters of the town who make them. The centerpiece of the event was a knitting competition, where knitters were given a complicated pattern (with plenty of nupps, of course), needles, yarn, blocking sticks, and just two hours to see how far they could get. No, yours truly did not throw her hat into the ring. I was thrilled to see many young knitters taking the challenge and, ultimately, doing quite well.

Nancy Bush was one of the judges for the event, as were many of the master knitters. Siiri Reimann, one of the authors of the stunning Haapsalu Shawl and Haapsalu Scarf books was a significant presence, too. My favorite photographic subject was Linda Elgas, Grande Dame of Haapsalu knitting. This woman's face was amazing, and those hands...hands that have knit thousands and thousands of nupps.



Siiri Reimann (left) and Linda Elgas



It seemed like this event was largely attended by Estonians and maybe some people from Scandinavian countries, and perhaps a few other eastern European countries. Based on listening for English and then accents, I am guessing there were just a handful of Americans there, Nancy Bush, Nancy Marchant (who is an American living in the Netherlands), and I may have comprised the majority. I certainly knew Nancy Bush on sight, and I had heard of Nancy Marchant, so I just marched myself up and introduced myself. While Nancy B. had lots of official tasks, Nancy M. and I were able to sit around and observe the knitting, share yarn business insights, and become acquainted. I really enjoyed her, and hope to catch up again while she is here in Chicago for Vogue Knitting Live. While we didn't get to speak much, I have gotten a very nice email from Nancy Bush, too, and it would be lovely to spend a few moments sharing impressions of the day with her, as well.

Many of the Haapsalu Shawl Masters



Lace Samples Blocked from the Competition. Knitters were given two hours to complete their swatches.



I has several moments of "I cannot believe I am here, in this place, this place I am clearly meant to be." I felt comfortable, at peace, and connected in a way that was visceral. It is the same kind of inner peace I get at a Springsteen show (different circumstances, same internal reactions) or when I am at on of Cat Bordhi's annual retreats in Friday Harbor. I do not pretend expertise in lace knitting that extends farther than, yes, I have knit some, but my fascination with it the meanings behind the patterns, and the ways that these patterns can be extrapolated into current fashion (just wait till I get to Kristina Viirpalu in Tallinn) get me excited.


I picked up several new books, piling on the pounds knowing my carry on situation was getting trickier bu the moment. One book, dedicated to just the motifs of Muhu Island is so inspirational. I could spend years just focusing on it. (In the end, I had 20 or 30 pounds of books alone! Yipes!) I got a bit of yarn, though the yarn used to make the shawls comes from outside Estonia. I also got a few trinkets, juniper wood items, and hand dyed Estonian yarns that are more rustic.



Pottery that I would have loved to bring home, but alas, no room.

Haapsalu really did take a big chunk of my heart those two days, and I would very much like to return someday.

Am I Really, Truly Here?

We loaded into the car Saturday morning to drive to Haapsalu, just about a two-hour trip from my friends' house. On our way in, we stopped at a small museum dedicated to Swedes who lived in Estonia. The centerpiece of the exhibit is an embroidered wall hanging that depicts the important events in Swedish/Estonian history. The whole place was homespun and charming, and our host was enthusiastic to show us around.

Somewhere along the way, I mentioned that Nancy Bush was going to be in Haapsalu. (The Internets told me so.) I told my friends that she was a knitting author who was primarily responsible for bringing Estonian knitting, specifically Haapsalu lace knitting, to the attention of American knitters. She was, I explained, a bit of a knitting celebrity. Despite our best efforts (and to my friend Stig's great disappointment), we did not manage to find Nancy on Saturday. (I suppose this entry could have well been titled "Confessions of a Knitting Stalker," though stalker has such negative implications. As it is, my mother has accused me of stalking a certain male rock star, to which I reply, "It's not stalking if I pay him to see him.")

Vendor Selling Smoked Fowl

The White Lady Days or White Lady Festival is an annual event named for the town's most famous legend. In short, it is a tragic tale of boy meets girl, boy sneaks girl into the cathedral dressed as a choirboy, boy and girl successfully manage said deception for a couple of years, then boy and girl are put to hideous, painful deaths upon discovery of their misdeeds. Girl then shows up as an apparition in the cathedral window during August's full moon. (There is even a lace pattern depicting her in the window.) There are craft and food vendors, singers and dancers, a large-scale outdoor pageant that begins at 10:30pm, bands, and the like. I will admit that I did have a hard time wrapping my American brain around the notion that people were buying and eating all manner of meats, cheeses, and fish that was sitting about unrefrigerated and open to the elements. I did not see anyone dropping dead in the streets, however, so it must have been fine. (While most things were smoked, it was still pretty warm out, and it did give me pause before tasting any samples. Clearly, I survived.) My friends took me to the most charming cafe in an art gallery on the main street. This place was so delicious, so delightful, that after we had lunch, we returned a few hours later for...CAKE! And, after my friends departed for home, I went back a third time, where I was greeted as a regular customer and treated to...FREE CAKE!!! (I ended up eating there one additional time before leaving town. Fortunately, my friends gave me a gift of the cafe owner's cookbook, which I am madly, passionately in love with. It is so charming and features two of the best things I are while I was there. In fact this was her second book, and I located her first book through a Russian bookseller, and it should be making its way to me soon.)

A Charming Building. A Former or Current Bakery, Perhaps?

Haapsalu is a delightful seaside town. The likening isn't quite right, but it shares certain characteristics with New Orleans. There are lovely frame buildings with charming details, but many are in disrepair. There is that essence of decadent decay that I quite love. The streets twist and turn, and the cobblestones threaten to reach up and trip you. Each time you walk the same street, something else beckons your attention. I quickly fell in love with the place.

This building reminds me of Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop in NOLA.

A lot of attention and capital has been dedicated to the promenade along the sea, and it is stunning. The walkways are lovely, and the views are magnificent. Apparently, in winter, this very shallow part of the Baltic freezes, and you can drive across from Haapsalu to a neighboring island.

The gem of the promenade is the Kuursall. This building, with the nearby band shell, and its lacy, gingerbread trim was the perfect backdrop the the Haapsalu Lace Day on Sunday.

I would be cheating you if I didn't give the Lace Day its own entry. There are pictures of lace, and ladies who make lace, and contests for making lace that deserve to be highlighted. My apologies for stringing you along. but the day was so full of "pinch me" moments that you deserve to see as much of them as I can fit in here.

Leaving Helsinki

Day 2, Helsinki: After the concert, I made it back to my hotel thrilled to have been at what was instantaneously a legendary show and a bit sad that I knew I'd be leaving town the next day. I'd gotten just the tiniest taste of Helsinki, and I really enjoyed what I saw, even through my jet-lagged haze. I would love to return.

In the morning, I decided to muscle my bags on the tram to get to the ferry terminal. What I didn't know was that the tram stop is some distance from the terminal, is in the middle of a construction wasteland with lots of barricades, rubble and gravel, but no signage.  You would think that I would be able to see the water and ships in the distance, but the nondescript buildings on the horizon blocked any view that might have been had. I finally reached the proper place covered in dust and somewhat worse for wear. Thank goodness for my compulsion for being early, because it left room for the wandering, and the ferry left six minutes prior to the published departure time. If you ever go to Helsinki and plan a ferry ride to Tallinn, spring for a cab. I certainly will next time.

A couple of glasses of wine on the trip over helped soothe my jangled nerves, and when I arrived in Tallinn and was met by my friend, I was relaxed and ready to go.



Tallinn

My time in Estonia began with what would become a familiar refrain: "Would  you like to go have cake?" Cake was a catch-all phrase for dessert and having it was a frequent activity. Desserts in Estonia are lavish in appearance, but are a bit lighter than what we're used to. Cheese-based cakes (cream cheese, ricotta, farmer's cheese) are prevalent, but are lightened with gelatin. I saw not one cupcake anywhere, whereas we can't seem to escape them. I also learned that decaf isn't an option, and so I just ordered a plain old cappuccino, not my normal double tall, non-fat, decaf cappuccino. This is a change I have maintained. It's so much less fussy. 

We went to a rooftop cafe at the Radisson which gave me a great view of the city. After that, he drove me all around, giving me a "greatest hits" tour: the Song Festival grounds, the Presidential Palace, the historic area full of wooden houses that are being renovated by ambitious homeowners, old Soviet housing, fascinating woodland cemeteries, the television tower that played a large role in the country's move toward independence, around the Old Town, and then out to the golf course where they live. Everyone should have friends who live in such a magnificent setting. Sitting on a deck in Estonia with a view of the Baltic knitting lace is the way to go, trust me.

On Thursday, we (my friend, his girlfriend, and I) toured the Old Town together, stopping in several museums (adorable, tiny ones consisting of one room, art museums, and, most charmingly, the puppet theater museum, which was very, very sweet.) We ate lunch in the square, at a restaurants that specializes in modernized Estonian cuisine. We climbed up to Toompea, the high part of the upper city. We stopped in at the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. We walked and walked up and down twisty, uneven streets until I was  completely turned around. Fortunately, I would have three days on my own the following week to redi reorient myself and redisccover, which was good, because I was already intrigued and charmed by the place.

On Friday, I was given a choice: go for a hike or go eat cake. Um, cake please. We went to Kadriorg Park, to a charming cafe. Kadriorg was built and named for Peter-the-Great's wife, and is a beautiful part of the city. It was a great couple hours spent with me asking a hundred questions about Estonian life, and my friends inquiring about current events and life in the States. (My friend was a foreign exchange student at my high school, and has travelled extensively in the US (even living here for a time after), and he shares my interest in politics, so there was much to talk about. And shake our heads about. And commiserate over.)

We went to the Kumu, the large art museum. The building is interesting, and I did enjoy some of the collections, especially the room full of busts. After another day in the city, we headed back to relax at the house before going out to eat at a casual seaside restaurant. It was lovely--the air smelled briny and crisp--and the simple grilled fish I had was delicious. I loved the cucumbers they have in Estonia. They're small, nearly seedless, and have dark, bumpy skins. They were so very, very tasty, and I wish I knew what the variety was. One of the appetizers we had was pickles with sour cream and honey. Odd, and yet so good. I also tried herring in various forms, and confirmed that I am just not a fan. I don't think I was in a single restaurant that didn't have multiple preparations of it on the menu.

Seaside Cafe

 The next day, I was planning to say goodbye to my friends and take the bus to Haapsalu, but they decided they wanted to take me there and spend the day, which was a bonus. In Haapsalu, things were about to get yarny...

Journey



Bruce.

Sometimes circumstances align in ways too perfect to seem random. After two years of trying to arrange a trip to Estonia with false starts, cancelled workshops, and the like, things came together in such a remarkable way that it was clear that this was how it was supposed to be.

First off, I found out a few years ago that a high school friend who had grown up in Sweden now lived in Tallinn, Estonia. He was surprised when I told him how interested I was in the culture, specifically the history of knitting, of his adopted country. An invitation to visit was extended. I set about trying to find a knitting tour or gathering to base my trip around. I thought I had found a group of Irish knitters who were going to be going, but that fell apart. Then I found an Estonian pair (one of whom, coincidentally, was a friend of my friend) who were putting together a workshop.Then that disintegrated, delaying my trip for at least a year. When the Springsteen Wrecking Ball tour was scheduled, I decided that I really wanted to cross seeing Bruce play in Europe off my bucket list, and I could tie that to a trip to Estonia. I tried for tickets to the shows in Gothenburg, Sweden but got shut out. When tickets went on sale for the last European show in Helsinki (a short ferry ride from Tallinn), I went for that. The tickets I got were not good seats, but I had them. I was going. I cleared the dates with my friend, and then discovered another knitting workshop that would be starting the day after the concert and would include a trip to Haapsalu. Perfect. Beyond perfect. Then that got cancelled. Undaunted, I decided I was going anyway. The ability to combine my loves for Springsteen and knitting...how could I not?

I took this trip alone. It raised a few eyebrows when I told people that's what I was going to be doing. I'm quite comfortable traveling by myself, and while going abroad to two countries I had never been to before, and whose languages I did not speak (save six recently learned words of Estonian), might have been somewhat intimidating, I was excited to face the challenges that Finnish trams and Estonian menus might present. (I should add that this was my first trip to Europe, so my choice of destinations was a little unconventional, I suppose.) And, I was going to visit with my friend for part of the trip, so I did have someone in the region should things get crazy.

I left Chicago at 3:30pm on July 29, landing in Helsinki at 8:30am on the 30th. I took a bus into the city, checked in at my hotel, had a shower to wake myself up (despite an Ambien, I hadn't slept on the plane), hopped a tram to the market square, and less than four hours after wheels down, I had Finnish wool in my mitts. I spent the day just wandering around in a bit of a jet-lagged haze. Something you should know about Helsinki: street names are on teeny, tiny little signs on corner buildings, and are in both Finnish and Swedish. Streets seem to change names at every turn, and there are a lot of curved streets. The map I had was not consistent in its use of either the Swedish or Finnish, and with my addled brain, I got a bit lost. Getting lost afforded me the opportunity to see some interesting streets and architecture that I wouldn't have otherwise, and I eventually got myself to a place where I could find a tram back to the hotel. At dinner, I had an incredibly delicious alcoholic Finnish blueberry cider. Yum. I retired to my room to watch the Olympics in Finnish. (It was fascinating to watch it when the focus isn't constantly on American athletes and teams, and the coverage isn't all wildly overproduced and interspersed with heart-tugging stories of personal triumph.)

On Tuesday, I had only two items on the itinerary: eat at Wellamo, a restaurant I had found on line and whose sign was too charming to pass on, and see the concert. I took the tram to the central area of the city and walked over to the neighborhood where Wellamo was supposed to be. The address put it in the middle of the block, but it was nowhere to be found. After asking someone, they directed me to a steep set of stairs at the end of the block. I descended. It was clear from the waiter's reaction that he was not used to American tourists finding the place, and certainly not on their first day open after a month's vacation. Despite the adorableness of their sign and the great reviews, it was just okay, and it turned out to be one of the few disappointments of the trip. I later went to the market building which was brimming with food stalls that had far more interesting options. Oh, welll, next time, and there WILL be a next time. I did a bit more wandering and shopping (I happened upon two yarn shops yards from one another, and more hand dyed yarn was procured), andwas walking toward another shopping area when I stumbled on a large group of people waiting in front of the Hotel Kamp, the poshest hotel in town. Judging from the number of familiar t shirts, I knew that I had come upon the faithful: those hoping for a glimpse of Bruce. When you travel alone, with no real schedule or firm agenda, you can do whatever you please, so I waited, too. I ended up next to a member of the Finnish press, and we chatted a bit. She shared snippets of stories from other times she waited to get celebrity shots, and I identified band members for her as they came out to their cars to head to the venue. After all the other band members' cars left (a production that takes the planning of a military operation, it seems), Bruce eventually came out of the hotel. He graciously signed autographs and shook hands around the entire line, which had grown to several hundred people. Somehow I had managed to stay at the front in a really great location, and was able to get a couple of fabulous snaps. After he got in his car to head out, the photographer showed me some of her best shots, one of which was in the paper the next morning.

The concert was, in all respects, amazing, and lived up to every expectation. There have always been tales of four-hour shows, but they were never actually true. Never, that is, until that night in Helsinki. After doing a 35 minute acoustic set for the general admission crowd (some of which I heard from outside), he and the band did a 4 hour 6 minute show: no breaks, no phoning it in. And, there was a full moon over the stage once the sun finally set. I couldn't have asked for a better night.  

Please note: Blogger is being evil about spacing and photo placement. Sorry for any weirdness that may result. Weirdness of content is solely mine.

(to be continued)