That’s because he sits around pretty well as opposed to riding around and, uh, mowing. He is an expensive piece of equipment.

Sitwell lives to sit around. In fact, just recently, he was one of the factors in the big lawn mowing fiasco that could only be accomplished by two men and a Sitwell mower. He sat out. They mowed with the John Deere push mower. And not well, I should add.

Please note that the grass has been mowed AROUND Sitwell. The mower needs his own mower.

As it turned out, the problem with Sitwell that time was his mower blade was bent, for some unfathomable reason, after a short drive with my 17-year-old son.

But after paying $398 to get the mower repaired and tuned up, I was dismayed, to say the least, when Sitwell decided to do another sitdown. After driving a mere 11 yards, the whole mowing deck landed flat on the ground bringing the mower to a screeching halt. That comes to about $36.18 per yard of mowing or $12.06 per foot of mowing.

I really can’t afford a Sitwell mower.

And because I was faced with another four hours of push mowing and raking because the push mower doesn’t have a mulching attachment, I was a wee bit put out. Okay, I am facing another business trip and tight deadlines, so I was even more than a “wee bit put out” when I called the mower man to come and cart Sitwell off to the hospital again.

Poor mower man. I reckon that this fellow doesn’t often encounter a woman as tall as I am in full dudgeon about her mower. After I gave myself the old “Robin, get a life” chat, I explained the reason for my pique—Sitwell is a slacker and I am tired of push mowing the lawn. This simply isn’t humorous anymore.

See, as you can see, Sitwell has a history of getting into trouble. He has no stamina at all. I need a mower with a bit more staying power—some umph!

Another Sitwell moment from history

Well, it also occurs to me that it’s come to this. I am now writing about my riding lawn mower as if it were interesting.

Signing off now to go get a life.

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But four inches in 24 hours seems a tad excessive. It certainly was for my luxurious New Dawn climbing roses.

Two of the three New Dawns were ravaged by the rains and 30 MPH winds. I would sit down and have a good, long cry, but frankly, I’m more cranky and confounded than sad.

I’m cranky because these trellises cost a pretty penny and weren’t really that sturdy to begin with. (Hear that J&P?) Okay, I’m also crabby that I didn’t have a real plan for these roses when I planted them. I was a novice gardener and didn’t know that New Dawn roses are NOT delicate plants, but are really dagger-spiked behemoths, even if they are pink.

And I’m confounded as to how to support these rampaging roses without unlocking the family vault and hauling out wheelbarrows full of money to throw at the problem.

I had planned to install a fence to support them until the fence experts told me a custom fence would cost me nearly as much as a new car. Then I wanted to build a trellis system until I had to acknowledge that I’m not designed for digging two-foot deep holes in hardpan Maryland clay. I could buy some dynamite, I suppose, but I don’t like fireworks either.

So I went for what I hoped was the easy, if not necessarily cheap, solution. After two years and four inches of rain since yesterday, I concede that the easy solution was not a long-term solution.

So here we are–me and my beautiful, devastated beasts. The rain has meant more than a bit of dampness. Now I have a real dilemma.

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I mean, it’s all well and good to be tall and green, providing all shorts of cooling shade and places for the bugs and birds. But if you can do tricks, like make berries and flowers to brighten things up a bit, you’re a really special tree, yes?

That’s why I like the Winter King Hawthorn. Many people have never heard of these trees. In fact, two seasons out of the year, in particular, the Fed Ex and UPS drivers, the electric company meter reader and whoever else wanders down our long driveway ask me what kind of trees these are. That’s because in those two seasons, the trees are putting on a show to grab your attention.

They are Winter King Hawthorns.

In the spring, the trees are covered in clusters of white flowers. In the fall, red berries hang on for weeks after the leaves have dropped, looking like tiny Christmas ornaments. They hang there until the birds devour them. This year, it was the Evening Grosbeaks that cleaned off the trees–and made my day!

I had never heard of the Winter King Hawthorn before these trees arrived in my life. Six years ago I was a novice gardener and was hard-pressed to tell you if a tree was an oak or maple. But an enterprising and charming nurseryman convinced me that I needed not one, not two, but TWENTY of these trees, since they only grow to about 20’ to 35’ in height. He showed me a very unimpressive specimen in the nursery but dragged out books filled with pictures of flowering and berried trees to convince me to pull out my checkbook.

The first couple of years they after they were planted I wondered if they would even survive in the not very hospitable environment next to the driveway—hard clay soil, competing trees, a hayfield and a not very careful equipment driver of the hay harvesting equipment were all hazards.

Then we had summers with drought. Since the hoses can’t possibly reach that far and I don’t have a water tank on my farm pickup truck, I have shuttled bucket after bucket after bucket of water up and down the driveway to keep them alive. (I did not go to the gym those days, but checked off both cardio AND weightlifting in my daily diary.)

Now, six years later, only two of the trees have gone to the great forest in the sky. Both were victims of Rudy, our tobacco chewing farmer who harvests the hay.

Now that I know the trees will, indeed, survive, I feel more comfortable clipping a few branches to bring indoors. Today’s arrangement includes a small Southern Magnolia branch that was hanging too low and always got caught in my mower.

As beautiful and useful as these trees are—creating flowers and yummy berries for the birds—they can be dangerous. They put the “thorn” in “Hawthorn.” These thorns are nearly 2” long and are as sharp as needles. Flower arranging with these babies is not a feat for the faint of heart.

But oh, what a sight. It’s truly a king of trees.

Oh by the way…I see that the first two choices in the survey (upper right hand corner of this page)–blaming me for shopping in Switzerland or my men for ineptitude in mowing–have been running neck and neck. Frankly, I’m shocked. The survey closes in a couple of days. I have not starved the men, but the little bit of ribbing has done them good. And, by the way, I was also in Switzerland on business, interviewing humanitarian aid workers from the World Health Organization. So there. It was for a good cause. If you want to change your vote (or vote again), you can. Don’t make me the villain here!

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Today is a very bad transition day.

The Whining Part…

I had a great gardening weekend, but there are still about 20 things on my “to do” list that did not get accomplished. As a result, I had a fitful night’s sleep. Okay, maybe the raging case of poison ivy on my forearm that vaguely resembles what I imagine leprosy looks like also had something to do with not being able to sleep. But the point is that I didn’t sleep well, so I’m really in no shape to go to work. But my very mean and witchy boss (oh, that would be me!) made me show up anyway.

Then I had a mountain of data to organize and the data file wasn’t cooperating. I hate it when that happens. You know those people who are hooked on Sudoku? Well, if they had to deal with my data file issues, they wouldn’t be fiddling with flippin’ numbers in their free time. They’d be as far away from a computer and numbers as possible–like the far, far side of the garden.

And resting my diseased arm on the desk to mouse around that possessed data file is killing me.

But enough about my whiny little self. (Okay, not really.)

The Flower Show Part…

Last time I told you about how I overcame my flower fears. Several people confessed to similar flower issues and coping strategies. Linda grows orchids inside so she doesn’t have to cut her outdoor flowers. Elizabeth pots up tulips so she doesn’t have to cut the ones outside. Brenda goes flowerless and uses the old cat-will-eat-my-flowers-in-the-house excuse. Well, I thought I would show a little of what you’re missing if you don’t clip and bring in some of the floral bounty.

One of the kitchen arrangements right now is a profusion of tiny yellow roses from one of the two Monster Roses. No, that’s not really the name of the rose. I can’t even remember the name of this rose, but Monster Rose seems to suit.

I only love the Monster Roses in May, when they blooms like mad. They don’t have any scent at all, but the vision of all those yellow roses is a Technicolor dream. But since I have to hack at them eleven months out of the year with hedge clippers (and not gently), I didn’t feel guilty at all clipping off long branches to bring into the house.

As you can see, this Monster Rose bush hardly noticed the flowers were gone.

Although the tulips have now all faded, I managed to salvage a few last white ones to tuck into a small table arrangement with some bamboo sprouts.

Once the tulips and roses are dropping their petals, I’ll be bringing in some long branches from the Winter King Hawthorns that line our driveway. They are now in a profusion of white flowers.

There now, just thinking about the flowers has made me feel better. See what cutting flowers can do for you? Just like that it made my bad night’s sleep, disease-ravaged forearm and data nightmares disappeared. So get clipping!

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Other people, I have heard, experience the same phenomenon. It is the fear that if you cut the flowers in your garden, it will take away from the outdoor beauty. Who wants a bald, flower-free garden, right?

For me, the flower fear ran so deep that I would buy flowers every week, even in the summer, to use in the kitchen, family room, bedroom and bathrooms rather than cut the ones right outside my back door.

But I want my own fabulous flowers in the house, darn it. And I also want my garden filled with an abundance of flowers. In short, I WANT IT ALL!

Why can’t I have it all? Martha Stewart has it all. Oprah has it all. Heck, Angelina Jolie has it all. Angelina even has Brad Pitt! Heck, if she can have Brad Pitt, why can’t I at least have indoor/outdoor flowers? Is that asking too much?

Last fall year I decided it face my flower fears.

I added my own little cutting beds so that I could give myself permission to invite some of them indoors. I stocked up on tulip bulbs. Red tulips, purple tulips, white tulips, pink tulips. Tulips, tulips, tulips. I think I must have been a bit single-minded the day I was stocking up on bulbs, because I came away with about six dozen tulip bulbs and very little of anything else.

If my selections lacked in imagination I can’t say that the execution was especially stellar either. I managed to get about half of the tulip bulbs planted in October before freezing rain and demanding clients drove me indoors. The unplanted tulip bulbs languished in a bucket in the garage. Every time I walked past the bucket to my car the little florist in my head would say, “You’re horrid! You’re killing the flowers. You’ll never have flowers in your house. You don’t deserve flowers in your house!”

The little florist in my head is mean. And sometimes she says bad words.

Finally, one warmish day in February I headed outside with the offending bucket of bulbs and dug them all in. I had no expectation that they would grow. After all, fall is the time to plant tulip bulbs, not February. But at least it shut that miserable little florist voice down for a while.

Amazing, but true, all of the tulip bulbs, including the February planted bulbs, grew and bloomed. And I’ve been cutting and cutting to keep the house tulip-filled for about a month now. I have another bunch of summer blooming flowers all planted and will be inviting them indoors as well.

I still don’t have Brad Pitt. And that miserable little florist in my head still nags at me about my arrangements. But I believe you can say I have recovered from my flower fears.

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I suppose with all the travel this month I did, in fact, miss two full weeks of April in the garden. I’m seriously behind. I have little seedlings in the family room that I am desperate to take outside. I have blueberry bushes to transplant. Heirloom tomatoes are on their way from California. There is still some tidy-up work to be done.

Nevertheless, those plants seemed to have carried on without me. So here’s my April pictorial update.

The front flower beds are on the north side of the house, so they don’t get much in the way of sun. I’ve been trying to morph them away from traditional landscape plantings toward more of a true garden setting. It’s slow going as I experiment with plants that work…Oh, and find the time.

Solomon’s Seal, Azaleas and Impatiens

The azaleas have finally started to take off, as has the Solomon’s Seal. The hellebores are extremely gorgeous–So much so that I’m thinking of taking advantage of the hellebores sale from Hersonswood Nursery. They have two hellebores called Kingston Cardinal and Gold Finch that would be fabulous planted in a large group, especially since hellebores seem to like living here at Bumblebee.

Hellebores and Foo Dogs

The Dead Nettle (awful name/fabulous plant) around my adorable foo dogs is covered in little pink flowers. Tiny little plantlets are coming up around the plant through the mulch.

Dead Nettle and Hotei

I love the Dead Nettle so much that I planted a mass of it alongside the driveway–another shady spot. The whole area is in dire need of some planning and planting. It’s a very large area, which means a LOT of plants. I’m still scratching my head about how to tackle it.

Side Garden Birdhouse and Foam Flower

A few years ago my then-early-teenage son took it upon himself to whack down a small tree by the driveway with a machete. Typical boy. I left if there as I pondered what to do with the side garden. When I saw this birdhouse from Walpole Woodworkers, the little lightbulb over my head went off.

Unfortunately, the foam flowers that I planted there last year aren’t as robust as I had hoped. Perhaps they are like the hellebores and just need some time to settle in.

Green lawn and hay field at Bumblebee

Then there’s the lawn, which you heard about before. This is the view from the front of the house. Although you read a lot about lawns not being practical, when you have this much room, a lawn is a very practical thing indeed. If we ever need to have an impromptu football game, there’s room to pass the ball. And I can cut it in less than an hour when I have a working riding mower. Since there’s not a chance that I’ll ever be able to garden all this space, a pretty green lawn works quite well and gives us a nice view up the hill.

After the drought last summer the lawn looked hideous. But with aeration and seeding in the fall–and a good amount of rain this spring–it has bounced back quite nicely.

Back in the Colonial garden, the veggies are thriving. I’ve also been cutting tulips and putting them all around the house.

Herb Garden with Columbine

The herb garden is a bit mangy, but it’s still early. The columbine that I started from seed didn’t do much last year. But this year the columbine is EVERYWHERE. I had forgotten that I tucked a couple of little seedlings in the herb bed last year. But this year–here they are!

And last, but not least, the compost bins are currently under a canopy of Dogwood. Yes, that’s my clothes line. And yes, I use it.

Well, so there you have it. There are a couple of other photos of the Colonial theme garden from the last post if you want to see more.

That was a bit of a ramble, but it gave me a chance to spew out all the photos.

And as you can see, April was here because it left behind the evidence. I hope I don’t miss May!

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Think about it. People love a garden. They drive for miles to visit parks so that they can enjoy the luscious green and sniff that fresh air. Botanical gardens in nearly every major city and plenty of smaller ones attract thousands of visitors each year yearning to gaze upon the beauty of the flowers. (Millions on the days I’m there!) People are instant friends with vegetable gardeners in their offices who bring in baskets of their bounty to share. (“Zucchini anyone?”) They buy gardening magazines by the bazillions. They’ll slow down as they drive by to admire the gardens they pass on the way to work.

Cutting Tulips in the Bumblebee Garden - April 2008

And although most folks dutifully march outside to mow the lawn on Saturdays and maybe even do a bit of weed whacking to keep the home owners’ association Nazis at bay, few people actually rush home from work to deadhead their dahlias and turn their compost. I’m talking about creating the kind of garden that makes people want to linger. At least not the people that I know.

So why don’t more people actually create their own oases of beauty at home?

Lettuce and Veggies at Bumblebee - April 2008

When visitors see Bumblebee the first thing most people usually ask is, “How much time does all this take?” (I suspect they’re also wondering, “How much does she spend on this gardening hobby of hers?”)

I used to believe one of the biggest hurdles for most people is time. The desire is there, but most folks just can’t seem to work it into their schedules because we’re just too darned busy working to buy things. After all, the time gurus tell us that as Americans, in particular, we are possession rich and time poor.
Climbing Roses at Bumblebee - April 2008

But wait a minute. Think about this little nugget from the 2006 Time Use Survey conducted by the Bureau of Labor Statistics.

On an average day, nearly every American age 15 and older–a whopping 95%–had several hours of leisure activity. Men had 5.7 hours of leisure time and women had 4.9 hours of leisure time. (I won’t even go into that glaring disparity right now.) That’s every single day. But for both men and women, half of that leisure time activity was spent watching television!

That means that most U.S. men and women are spending close to three hours of time watching television every single day!

Well, that explains it. Or at least part of it.

Sure, not everyone is as hepped up to sweat in the sun while ruining their manicure as I am. And not everyone has the space to garden. Some people are not able to manage the physical demands of gardening. A whole lot of people have no idea even how to get started since most of us no longer live near the grandparents, great grandparents, aunts and uncles who were traditionally our garden mentors. And I recognize that gardening on a grand scale can be costly, although there are plenty of budget alternatives to beautify the yard.

But for quite a lot of people, it’s mostly a matter of preferring to watch “American Idol” or “Dancing With the Stars.” Ultimately, it seems, Americans are making choices to tune out rather than to engage and create beauty right outside their own backdoors.

Sadly for them, these choices won’t amount to much at the end of their days. Our lives are defined by the choices we make. Some of us will know all the winning strategies to be the “Survivor.” And some of us will have lovely gardens, islands of peace, to share with friends and loved ones.

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I returned home from a week in Geneva, Switzerland, on Wednesday night. As I came down the long and winding driveway, this is what I saw.

My husband and son had mowed the lawn.

Actually, it didn’t look so much as if someone had mowed the lawn as if some large lawn-eating monster had CHEWED the lawn and spit it back out.

The grass was cut to about three different heights–scalped, medium and skyscraper.

Tufts of tall grass sprang up here and there from the rest of the lawn like little green islands.

Impressive quantities of cut and drying grass were left long swaths.

Whole areas of the lawn were left uncut altogether.

Now, you may wonder if Harry and Ben were trying to:

a) Impress on me that I should continue to do all the lawn mowing chores and/or
b) Punish me in a way that I would find exceptionally painful for going off to Switzerland and leaving them here to care for my two little dogs.

They say it was neither of these reasons. They swear that the mowing fiasco was a result of too much rain, a broken riding mower and heat. (Apparently it’s blazing hot here in Maryland in April.)

So, while my bags were left packed in the bedroom, I headed out yesterday and spent FOUR HOURS repairing the ravaged lawn. Yes, the riding mower was broken, but I managed nicely with the little push mower. And yes, I did insist that Ben help rake, although he continued to mutter that the lawn looked perfectly nice the way they had cut it.

There’s nothing like having to mow an acre of grass with a little push mower after a 10-hour flight to make you feel needed.

HOW BAD IS IT? VOTE AND LET ME KNOW.

Tell me what you think. Am I over reacting? At the top right hand side of this page in the Totally Unscientific Survey Center, you can vote for how bad my beautiful lawn looks after a week in the care of the two men in my life. Cast your vote now!

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I will, in the absence of horticultural stimulation, satisfy myself with some observations from my visit.

Today is Sunday. The Swiss very sensibly take Sundays off. Stores and most restaurants are closed as friends and family stroll about and, presumably, relax. The tourists are forced to forego their shopping exhertions and focus, instead, on behaving like the Swiss, puttering in parks, playing giant games of chess, sitting in cafes sipping strong coffee or window shopping among the closed shops.

I dawdled over breakfast and the newspaper, feeling quite tired from my travels, work, lengthy sightseeing walks and, of course, the time change.

Although I grouse about the price of the hotel, it is quite nice. They put on a very comprehensive and stylish breakfast that is included in the cost. I have never had such wonderful yogurt, even in Amsterdam or Greece, where I raved about the yogurt. If you ever travel to Europe, please eat the plain yogurt. It is divine and absolutely nothing like you will get as plain yogurt in the States.

After attending to a few housekeeping chores (such as washing my socks in the sink), I headed out to catch the bus down to the old town.

There are few taxis here in Geneva. Those that are available are expensive and must be secured at one of the rare taxi stands around town. As a result, even the most well-heeled visitors at my hotel are advised on the location of the nearest bus stop and provided with bus/tram schedules and free passes to use for unlimited transportation during the length of their stay.

On leaving the hotel and chatting, yet again, with the doorman, I am reminded of how the Swiss have surprised me with their friendliness. Everywhere you go, people say hello and good-bye, so your day is a succession of “Bonjours,” “Au Revoirs” “Bon Weekends” and “Bon nuits.” On the bus, passengers always pile their purses, backpacks and shopping in their laps so that someone can take the seat next to them. And pedestrians with no intention of taking the bus will hold the bus door when they see someone running down the sidewalk to catch the bus.

Most people around town wear sensible shoes, although you don’t often see sneakers or other athletic shoes except, as in the rest of Europe, on the American tourists. The fashionable women often wear boots–ankle high to knee high–with short skirts or slim slacks. The women always wear their clothing close-fitting and it is rare to see anyone overweight.

When you do see someone heavy, it is nearly always an American. I hate to admit being ashamed of my fellow citizens, but when I see my fellow Americans ordering ice creams or pastries when they are already bursting from the seams of their bluejeans and toddling off in their Nikes, I do cringe. I have to wonder if circulating some comparative photos of Europeans and Americans might not shame us, as a country, into mending our ways. But then, the global flogging on other fronts hasn’t worked either, has it?

Here you see somewhat more colorful clothing that you generally see in Paris or even Greece, although I still wouldn’t call the clothing colorful. Most women and some men wear elaborately tied scarves with their coats and jackets and usually when they shed their outdoor clothes as well. These serve a practical as well as fashionable purpose, especially in April, since the weather is quite changeable and you never know when you’ll need an impromptu headcover to protect you from a rainshower or cold breeze.

This fashion is actually very typical of European cities and even among some people in large U.S. cities.  Seeing the practicality of such a fashion I make a point of packing two or three of my favorite scarves when I travel. In fact, this is one of the luxury purchases I allow myself when I visit foreign cities–the memento of a scarf. I have an enormous black silk scarf I purchased years ago in London for a small fortune I couldn’t really afford, but that I’m glad I did, and that I still treasure today. I have a Hermes scarf of a circus scene–another small fortune–that I wear and am extremely careful to keep track of. And I have scarves from Amsterdam, Paris and Greece that I discover and wear again when looking for travel fashions that remind me of vacations I will probably never be able to take again. I haven’t yet found one here in Geneva yet, but the search will continue.

Yes, I have enjoyed the shopping. I confess, I went for a second visit to the food basement at Globus yesterday afternoon. The small produce section displayed exquisite salad greens–raddicchio, ramps, watercress. There were picture perfect artichokes arranged by size, so beautifully formed I could cry thinking of the splayed and stringly chokes they try to sell back at the Safeway in my small rural Maryland county. There were bunches of neatly tied bunches of oblong radishes. There must have been 40 varieties of olive oil and small bowls and bread for tasting.

Perhaps before I leave I will muster up the courage to take some photos of the windows of the numerous chocolate shops. There seems to be, for some reason, a fashion of shaping chocolates like small bugs and Geneva garbage cans. Yes, garbage cans. Perhaps the idea of the juxtaposition of otherwise icky things such as bugs and garbage with exquisite chocolate appeals to the Swiss sense of humor. When I find chocolates shaped like bumblebees, I will know I have found the place to make my gift purchases!

As I’m writing, I’m sitting in the stylish lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel where a group of four beautiful and fashionable thirty-something women have been laughing and chatting. A rakish 40-something fellow just joined them and engaged in a ritual of cheek kissing all around–kiss, kiss, kiss, three for each woman, alternating cheeks. He quickly snuck off to order a bottle of champagne that is now being poured in beautiful stem glasses.

I wish I were close enough to hear what they were talking about. I find that after all these years I still understand just enough French to have a vague sense of what people are saying and maneuver my way around, but not enough to carry on a proper conversation. I feel a bit left out.

There aren’t many street food vendors here–at least in chilly April. Really, it’s not necessary since there is a “tea room,” coffee shop or patisserie on every street block. Happily, Starbucks has not yet conquored Europe and has only a small presence in Geneva, albeit an apparently popular one. It is always crowded.

The street food vendors I have seen sell made-to-order crepes of Nutella, cheese or ham. There is also ice cream, which people seem to buy even in the coldest of weather. The most frequent item on the restaurant menus is perch filets, apparently from Lake Geneva. I ordered these tiny and tender filets in my first lunch here and was transported by them. I can understand their popularity.

I confess, I ordered cheese fondue during my dinner out with clients on Thursday night. It is featured on many Swiss menus. It was served bubbling in a handled crock and placed on a flame alongside the obligatory long forks. A simple basket of crusty bread was provided for dipping, although we had the option of also ordering some potatoes or meats. The bread was plenty and Mitul, one of my clients, indulged to the point where he felt horrid by the end of dinner. It was very good, if simple.

Mitul insisted that the fondue is now purely served for the sake of the tourists, but I’m not so sure. I noticed that the stores carry dozens and dozens of fondue sets in addition to fondue crocks. I find it hard to believe that the tourists alone are buying all this fondue paraphernalia!

Well, the attentive server here has kindly brought me a glass of wine, so I suppose I’ll close the laptop and indulge a bit.

Au revoir. Bon soir. Bon nuit.

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The Flower Clock is regularly replanted with 6,500 plants to cover the 16-square-foot surface. The configuration of the flowers and numbers regularly changes. You can see other Flower Clock configurations here. This season’s clock is planted with primroses and numbers scattered outside the typical circular bounds. Yes, the clock is accurate.



The Swiss planted the working floral clock in 1955 as yet another reminder that all visitors are required to purchase at least one watch prior to leaving Switzerland. Other reminders include the picture on your hotel room door key, all displays in all hotel lobbies, all banners on all light posts around town, names of famous watch brands atop all the tallest Geneva buildings, even clockwork innards springing out from all the animals on the local children’s carousel. Every other store sells luxurious bejeweled watches and all Geneva residents are required to wear at least one Swiss-made watch. If one cannot afford an expensive Swiss watch, there is always the Swatch watch, of which there are plenty.

Since winter is just now releasing its grip on the poor watch-making Swiss, I had to entertain myself with pursuits other than strictly horticultural ones. In other words, I went shopping.

In Geneva’s Old Town, the Vieille Ville, there are tightly packed galleries, cafes and boutiques that cater to highly specialized tastes. There is an antiques store that only sells scientific instruments. In one sparsely decorated gallery hung a couple dozen 8” to 12” animal sculptures made from raffia, twigs and other natural materials. Antique print and bookshops abound. Occasionally you’ll stumble across a more contemporary gallery, such as the one that sells some sort of robot prints. (I didn’t get it.)

I finally headed down to the main shopping district on the Right Bank, where I stumbled onto Globus, a multi-story department store. Good thing, too, since I needed a new umbrella. My Wal-Mart Totes umbrella busted on the first day of my visit, leaving me a bit soggy. But while I was there, I ambled down to the basement where the gourmet foodstuffs were displayed. Why do the big stores always put food in the basement? Have you noticed that?

Anyway, I found some very nice teas, including a beautiful hibiscus tea that will probably taste like dirt. I also found some tiny little mixed flower teas in beautiful mesh bags. If I didn’t know they were teas I would think I was supposed to plant them.Oh, and I picked up a couple of Swiss chocolate bars just in case there was a food emergency in my hotel room.

Since I had walked approximately 1,115 miles already today, I decided to sit down for a while on a boat cruise of the lake. It was a lovely 50-minute tour during which I understood not one word of the recorded narration. I didn’t care. The sun had finally come from behind the clouds, the air was warm and my feet were tired.



There is more rain ahead and the hotel concierge, Francoise, tells me I must make the most of the day tomorrow before the rains return in earnest on Monday. So I really must go and work on decoding the shower faucets now. After three days I am still using the trial and error method to regulate the water temperature. Apparently you need a Swiss engineering degree to operate Swiss plumbing. To complicate matters further, they seem to operate on the VTS (Variable Temperature System), which requires that the shower water temperature fluctuate +/- 10 degrees while you are standing under the stream.

My clients have all rushed back to the States for soccer games, baseball games and to frazzled mothers of infants. They, apparently, are at a different life-stage than I am. I can linger, but I’m all alone. My guys could not get off from work or school to play. And while I miss my guys, my little dogs and my garden, I’m not really suffering too badly. And there are always the chocolate bars I have for such emergencies.

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