Once upon a time, before the year 2020, in a land far away, I found myself trapped, stuck in a tiny space and desperate to escape, but . . .
Miss Footloose
Miss Footloose
I hail from the Netherlands and grew up eating lots of Gouda cheese, riding a bike to school, and not wearing wooden shoes. Having adventurous Dutch genes, I married an American Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya, East Africa, in an odd if humorous 10-minute ceremony that fortunately has stuck so far. My man is a development economist and I follow him around the world and watch him toil running projects that assist business and agricultural enterprises in developing countries. I have cooked, shopped, mothered, traveled and written stories in Africa, Asia, Europe, the US and the Middle East. I'm an expat writer not living in paradise (like Peter Mayle or Frances Mayes). I do not drink wine from my own grapes or tend my own olive groves. I have, however, visited my butcher's bedroom in Palestine, eaten fertility sausage in Kenya, and almost landed in prison in Uganda.
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My French village is not in the guidebooks. It’s not swarming with sweaty tourists in shabby shorts. So what’s so special?
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Culinary crisis in an elegant restaurant in Rome: Not even a free lobster the size of a small dog could appease this miserable couple.
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As an expat, dealing with creepy things in a foreign country can be an adventure.
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Cooking disasters, anyone? I was once faced with a culinary fiasco of mystifying proportions while living in an African village.