Category Archives: Travel

Tunisian Turkey: A Feast to be Thankful For

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I love this photo. A typical street in Kairouan, Tunisia, scene of my Thanksgiving, 1987.

My final Tunisian post…the Thanksgiving conclusion of a pilgrim in a new land.

We’ve all read books (or blog posts, or magazine stories), or seen movies about Americans in foreign lands feeling horribly homesick at Thanksgiving. They go to the local markets, search for turkey (settle for partridges), substitute breadfruit for potatoes and learn that they can be thankful even without cranberries. Right?

My Thanksgiving in Northern Africa didn’t even come close to such menu approximations.

And that was just fine.

I think of this as “Tunisian Blue”.

As we entered the hotel restaurant – a hotel which was far more Tunisian than Hilton – we harbored no expectations that there would be any reference to Thanksgiving. Five days in Tunisia had taught us that anything American was verboten.

A street in Sousse, Tunisia.

Having just come in from a stroll through town, where the inexplicable phrase, “between the sheets,” was shouted at us by giggling teenaged boys, we also harbored no expectations that the waiters would be overly sympathetic to our plight.

We chose to be away from home for Thanksgiving: our expectations had been changed the day we signed up.

“So,” I figured, “if I’m not even bothering to recreate the pilgrim’s meal, how about I go for something local? Something totally different; something unforgettable.”

I learned that when there is no roast turkey to be had, you opt for paella.

It came: a platter of aromatic saffron-colored rice, peppers, mysterious meats and vegetables, and several whole, baby octopus.

I wasn’t prepared for the octopus.

My traveling companions had ordered ordinary things, like French Onion Soup. I had ordered Northern Africa on a plate.

And I ate every bite.

There are many things in my life to be thankful for. Many experiences I wouldn’t trade for the world. Thanksgiving Paella in Tunisia is one of those things.

A Thanksgiving feast, indeed.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

A friend of mine, along with her family, fixed a paella feast out on Orcas Island, Washington, last summer. I wish I’d been there! Isn’t her paella pan marvelous?!

In Which we Are Acosted by Scimitar-Wielding Melon-Salesmen

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This is post #3 about my high school trip to Kairouan, Tunisia. See the previous two posts for the full story!

Our last day in Tunisia was our most exciting. But not necessarily for a good reason.

We headed out to the camel market on our final morning. No, we were not looking to buy a camel, but we were searching for an authentic experience in Tunisian life – for this market, or bazaar, was a place of vast proportions and numerous opportunities.

Picture dusty rugs on the desert ground – aisle after aisle of them – with vegetables, fruits, trinkets, pots, pans, pottery, spices, leather goods, and drinks for sale. There were animals, too: goats and sheep and, I suppose, camels, though I think they were in a different part of the bazaar. I bought a baggie of saffron for my mom. I knew it was supposed to be the most expensive spice in the world, but here it was dirt cheap! I wish I had such a good source of saffron now.

It was hot in the open-air market, and aromatic. Cinnamon and peppers and sweat filled the air. And it was full of noises. Bleats and baas, the sounds of goat milk streaming into metal cans. The call of merchants selling their wares, the din of old and wrinkled women gossiping, of young men jesting, of children laughing and crying and playing in the aisles.

We walked down row after row, being jostled and beckoned to, and then, almost as if we’d planned it, all of us stopped – after being persuaded to by the vendors – to admire something that looked like cantaloupe.

My best friend and I stood at one rug, talking with the vendors. I say “talking with” but really it was more “talking at” – they didn’t understand us and we didn’t understand them. I think the phrase “James Bond” might have arisen. Other than that our communication was by smiles and gestures and thumbs up.

The rest of our group stood not two feet away from us at the neighboring rug.

We watched as the vendors cut into a melon with a scimitar – using that long, curved blade to slice through the melon as smoothly as if it were butter. We laughed and they laughed and we did our bit to promote good will and international peace.

And then, suddenly, one of the laughing and smiling salesmen at our rug jumped up and grabbed my friend around the neck. He held his scimitar to her throat – the tip just millimeters from her skin – and, unbelievably, laughed.

No one in the souk looked up. No one worried or noticed or troubled about the gullible Americans and the scimitar-wielding melon-salesmen.

I stood, immobile, terrified, tongue-tied. The man smiled on and on, his gold-toothed grin so wide that I could see where his molars ought to have been. His friends, too, grinned and guffawed.

It felt like minutes passed but I suppose it was only seconds. Next to us, our traveling companions were unaware that anything was wrong, so mesmerized were they by a slick little melon-cutting exhibition going on at their rug. Bits of sweet, orange flesh flew in all directions.

And then, all of a sudden, the man released my friend. Spewing out words we did not understand, he pulled away his sword, still laughing, still flashing those golden teeth. So much laughter! So many broken melons.

It wasn’t until we headed back to the hotel, sometime later, that my friend’s aunt realized her wallet had been stolen.

It was all a diversion. And we fell into their trap perfectly.

But it makes for a great story.

Tomorrow: Thanksgiving on foreign soil…a pilgrim in a very unfamiliar land.

“Clementine! Mandarine!”

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This is the first of a few posts about my African Thanksgiving, 1987. I hope you can smell the Sahara and taste the mandarins as I did…

Many moons ago, when I was 17 years old and still fondly dreamed that someday I’d be a famous opera singer, I took a trip to Tunisia with my best friend, her mother and aunt, and another friend. That’s right: five women (three of them still in high school) headed to Africa for Thanksgiving. Don’t you always think of Northern Africa when you think about Pilgrims and pumpkins? Okay, I didn’t either, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

Lest you’re imagining us on a many-hour journey across the world, I hasten to inform you that I was living in West Berlin at the time, so really it was just a small hop south.

We arrived, along with a German-speaking tour group, in Sousse, Tunisia. From there we drove to Kairouan, where we spent most of our time. I remember seeing a sign along the route: “Libya, 10 kilometers” – perhaps not that exact distance – and thinking, “Oy! That makes me a little nervous.” Quadafi was causing a bit of a ruckus in those days and I had one of those, “I’m not in Kansas anymore” moments.

Those moments continued as we began to explore the town. We ditched the tour group (as none of us spoke adequate German to understand anything anyway) and struck off on our own. I was not accustomed to shops that sold hookas as casually as if they were tea pots. Nor was my friend. “Are those lamps?” she asked, curious as to the purpose of the curvy pottery. “No,” our other friend replied. “They aren’t.” We left pretty quickly after that.

This is the Mediteranean Sea from Tunisia, though not the exact beach I was on. Photo from http://www.panoramio.com.

We walked past that shop and headed to the Mediterranean Sea, no more than a block away. It was beautiful and almost empty, that beach. Sometimes we were the only people there. We collected tiny shells that we left in our hotel room to dry and which, by morning, had a residue all around them and on the counter beside them. I couldn’t figure out what it was. “Salt,” my friend’s mother said, and sure enough, as I rubbed it with a finger there it was: the Mediterranean, condensed on our countertop.

The thing I remember most is not the scent of the sea or the feel of the sand or the temperature of the water. What I remember is the Clementine seller. His was a constant presence every time we went to the beach. “Clementine, mandarine!” he would call with a sing-song tone, making both words rhyme. You could hear him coming from way down the shore. He would come up to us with a basket of mandarins, their tangerine-colored skins warm from the sun, and for a few cents we would buy them from him, choosing our favorites from amongst the dozens. Then he would shuffle off, calling his song to whomever could hear.

Even now, 24 years later, when I buy tangerines from the grocery store, I think of that man and I sing his lilting song. I can hear it as clearly as if he were here beside me now. “Clementine, mandarine, clementine, mandarine!” I taught my kids his song and we sing it as we peel and pop the juicy segments into our mouths.

Minnesota is a long way from northern Africa. But even here the memory of the soft sand in my toes, the aroma of the shops, the desert heat, and the clementine-man’s song, all conspire together in my mind, leaving my mouth watering for more than just fruit.

An Island Girl’s Memories

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I always leave Orcas with tears in my eyes.

Ever since moving away after 9th grade, knowing even then that Orcas Island would most likely never be home again, it’s impossible for me to leave the island dry-eyed.

Leaving Orcas is a process because it is, of course, an island. This means that you need: A) lots of money and a private plane or B) – the far likelier option – to take a ferry. A Washington State Ferry, to be exact. This means that you must arrive – at least in tourist season – at 10:00a.m. for the 3:15 ferry. This is because, as the only real option on and off the island, if you don’t arrive soon enough to claim your place in the ferry line, you will be stuck paying for yet another night at a hotel (if there are any vacancies), or driving your brother-in-law nuts when you drive back up the very same driveway from whence he waved goodbye to you several hours earlier, thus prolonging the inevitable teary last look as the ferry turns the corner, heading to Anacortes and The Main Land…aka, reality.

Just pulling away from Orcas.

Islanders know to arrive early. Tourists are warned, but they don’t always heed the warning. I remember one time a few years ago, in the height of summer, waiting in the ferry line with three cranky kids in the back seat. One woman had the audacity to walk up to my window and say, “Would you mind trading places with me? I have a plane to catch in Seattle and won’t make it if I don’t catch the next ferry.”

I about slugged her.

I refrained from calling her names and telling her all the things flying through my head – not the least of which was, “How on earth do you even think that a car can get out of line and TRADE places with you?” – and instead mustered my patience (and my teacher voice) and said, “No, not with three kids to keep happy for what would then be another five hours.”

Sometimes kids make great excuses.

I love standing on the deck of the ferry and watching the red-roofed Orcas Hotel grow smaller as we chug away from the dock. I mean, I don’t LOVE it…in that I hate that I’m leaving…but I love the ferry. Though, to be sure, I didn’t love it nearly this much when I actually lived here.

The Orcas Hotel, taken from the ferry boat.

One time, heading to my sister’s on Orcas for my college Christmas break, I was forced to spend the night on the mainland because the ferries couldn’t run in the high winds. My other sister had driven me to the ferry dock and dropped me off. It hadn’t occurred to either of us that I’d be stranded. It takes some pretty fierce winds to stop the ferries running. This turned out to be a terrible storm. The main power cable to Orcas was ripped out by the waves and my sister had no power for nine days. Thank God for wood stoves. I made my brother-in-law chocolate chip cookies (the mandatory toll for my prolonged visits), which I fried like pancakes on that stove. Gave me something to do.

The view from my ferry as another ferry pulled in to the Orcas landing.

For years I still thought of Orcas as home. I mean, I grew up there – spent the first 15 years of my life on its beautiful shores. Somewhere along the line Minnesota came to be home and Orcas Island became “the place where I grew up”.

And it was a wonderful place to grow up. Full of “only-on-Orcas-Island” events and moments. I remember telling a friend in college about one of those “only” things. She turned to me and said, serious as you please, “You grew up in a different world than I did, Gretchen.”

I had been telling her about visiting the orthodontist. Now, if you had to see the ortho for a routine check-up, you could go to your dentist’s office on one certain day a month right there on Orcas and get your business done.

BUT, if you had to actually get your braces on, or off, or had some other big reason to see him, then you had to go to his office, in Bellingham, WA. You could take the ferry like any normal person. OR…you could take the Tooth Fairy Flight. That’s right. A chartered plane called the Tooth Fairy Flight would come to the Orcas Island airport and take you and the other lucky saps who had to go see the orthodontist for some serious dental work, over to the mainland. It was terrific: an airplane ride, plus you got to miss an entire day of school, hang around downtown Bellingham ALONE, and fly in a plane like the rich kid you weren’t.

And if you can’t imagine such a thing, then you’ll understand how my friend felt.

Exiting the ferry on Orcas.

Mostly, though, growing up on Orcas was…normal.

As normal as a place can be when you get there via airplane or ferryboat, which, for me, was very normal indeed.

How I Became a Cruise Director and Neglected to Bring my Camera

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So I am learning that I ought never to trust my own memory. I was convinced – so convinced that I left my camera at home – that, when attending the Laura Ingalls Wilder Pageant in Walnut Grove, Minnesota, they do not allow cameras.

I was wrong.

They do allow still cameras…just not video cameras.

So, though I’d love to give you all a guided tour of this, the 35th annual pageant, to show lovely photos of the actors and marvelous sets, I can’t.

However, I can at least explain a few things.

I, as most all American children born in the last half of the 20th century, grew up reading (and watching) Laura Ingalls Wilder. Laura’s “Little House on the Prairie” books, first published in the 1930’s, quickly became part of the American persona. The television show in the ‘70’s probably helped, but even so, they were loved from the start.

Living as we do in Minnesota, we’re smack dab in the center of Laura’s world. Walnut Grove, a mere hour away, is just one of the several places one can find Laura Ingalls events. I have not toured her other sites – though my nieces have – but even the other places aren’t too far, as long as you’re willing to drive a bit.

Walnut Grove is the site of Plum Creek, Nellie Oleson, and the Ingalls’ dugout house. While Nellie isn’t around anymore, the creek and the dugout site is, though the dugout itself has long since fallen away. There’s a museum, and, during the pageant weekends, parades, look-alike contests, and other Ingalls-related activities.

Photo I found on their website. Laura and her family!

The pageant itself (located outdoors on a gentle hillside) is fun for the whole family, though know this: it will be a late night. Attendees are recommended to arrive early – 7:00ish – even though the show doesn’t begin until 9:00. This is wise. Though there will be a little “down time” as you wait, it gives ample time to get through the one-ticket-taker opening, to use the facilities, scope out your place and, if you choose “general seating” with your own chairs, to get set up and perhaps even eat a picnic dinner.

General seating is great if you have young children, as they can run around the hillside a bit if they get antsy during the show.

The Souvenir Program is a well-written historical archive of the pageant itself but, more importantly, of the Ingalls’ story. It’s full of stories and photos about the Ingalls and their friends.

This was my third time attending the pageant and I was able to go this year courtesy of the Plum Creek Library System which charters buses and brings – for free – busloads of people to the event. There were, at one person’s count, 36 buses at the event on Saturday and approximately ¾ of the people attending were there for free, courtesy of their local libraries! I think that is awesome. I was asked to be the “Cruise Director” for the Worthington and Adrian bus and I’m so glad!

One note of warning about the pageant in general: Unless you A) bring your own porta-potty or B) don’t drink anything for approximately a day before attending or C) run willy-nilly at intermission, uncaring who you knock down in the process, you will have to resign yourself to either standing in line for far too long or to missing part of the program when you or your child is in need of the facilities. Just don’t miss the first two scenes of Act 2…skip out at the end of Act 1 instead, if you must, or wait until the fire has been put out…hint, hint.

There are still two remaining weekends in the three-weekend pageant schedule for this year, so if you’re interested, there’s still time! Visit www.walnutgrove.org or call (888)859-3102 for information.

Yes, There is a Fourth of July in Bangkok.

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You know that elementary school joke: “Is there a Fourth of July in England?” Of course there is! It just isn’t Independence Day for them the way it is for us here in the US of A.

I’ve spent holidays in some unique places. Thanksgiving in Tunisia (let’s just say there was no turkey for dinner), several Christmases in West Berlin, Easter in Paris, and The Fourth of July in Thailand.

Spending your country’s independence day in a different country is bizarre. You feel patriotic and guilty, both at the same time. Kind of like when I traveled to the USSR in high school and all I wanted to do was chew gum…and I hate gum. It was this tenuous connection to the USA – something that made me feel American…as if I needed reminding when all around me was the Cyrillic alphabet, furry hats, and borscht.

When the Fourth of July rolled around in Bangkok the summer of 1989, all of the American ex-patriots were invited to the American Embassy’s front lawn for a down-home American picnic, complete with hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob, and ice cream. There were games, too: three-legged races and tug-of-war. And, at the end of the day, fireworks.

Let’s just say that the American embassy in Thailand doesn’t have a very big fireworks budget.

But, that being said, that afternoon and evening stand out in my mind as one of the most memorable Independence Day celebrations I’ve ever had. Being away from home made home all that much more special.

But I think the best Fourth of Julys were spent on Orcas Island, growing up. Their budget – supplemented by tin donation cans at every island store all summer long – was a million times larger than the Thai embassy’s. Orcas Island had – and still has – the best fireworks I’ve ever seen.

When the sun goes down, round about 10:00 at that latitude, the people of the island – along with a gazillion tourists – line Eastsound Bay and wait patiently for the show to start. Out on tiny Indian Island (only slightly less unpolitically correct than its former name, “Jap Island”) – with fireboats floating at the ready – the pyrotechnics are about to begin.

Now, Orcas Island is an upside-down horse-shoe shape, and Eastsound Bay is at the top of the inner part of the “U”. All around the bay, then, is island and hills – big hills – hills which would be called mountains around here in Minnesota. Indian Island is an itsy-bitsy island just at the head of the bay, which can be reached at low-tide if you’re booted up and keep a wary eye on the rising tide so that you don’t get stranded. It’s the perfect spot for fireworks, as any accidental fire is contained on the island, and you have this amphitheater surrounding it with space for hundreds of viewers, both on land and by sea.

So, picture this: you’ve shimmied across a narrow rock path to get to your favorite place on the beach. In the dark, no less. And now you’re sitting on a promontory, hearing the local YMCA campers singing campfire songs at the top of their lungs (the sound traveling across the water), hearing waves lapping a few feet away, and watching the star-strewn sky for the explosion of fireworks.

There are probably 25 boats out on the bay, sitting quietly at anchor.

Occasionally the sound of laughter or popping of champagne corks comes faintly toward you, but nothing too obnoxious.

Then comes the first burst of color, the BOOM of powder, and the echo of it all ricocheting off the mountains.

Explosion after explosion, reflected on the water, in our eyes, in our hearts.

Now THAT, my friends, is how to spend the Fourth of July.

Happy Birthday, America.

Oh, the irony! 23 years after my summer in Thailand, my husband went to Bangkok for a few days…and took these next shots! Needless to say, the hotel across the river had a way bigger fireworks budget than the US embassy…

You Can Take a Girl to the Midwest…But You Can’t Make Her Talk Right

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When I moved to the mid-west there were several things I had to get used to. 1) The weather 2) The absence of the ocean 3) The language. There were probably more, but I can’t think of them right now. Either that or I’ve repressed them because they were too traumatic. Either that or I have gotten so used to them that they don’t feel weird any more.

So…1) The weather.

Growing up in Washington and Oregon for the first 16 years of my life, and then spending my four years of college in Eugene, OR, rain was just a given. Rain came often, drizzling its way through the day and into our ears, insinuating itself into our daily lives so that umbrellas were third appendages that sprouted periodically from our hands and wet socks were par for the course.

Every car in the PNW contains at least one umbrella.

Here, on the other hand, I’m not sure I’ve used an umbrella, ever. I have one or two – that haven’t been destroyed by my children, that is – but I just never use them. If it’s raining, I run for it. Here it rains in BATCHES. Two inches here, half an inch there, maybe even five inches other there. Very different from the day-long drizzles I’m used to.

In the Pacific Northwest, by the way, no one has rain gauges. Well, not nearly as many people as do out here, anyway. Rain is just part of life out there…why would I want to gauge my life in a tube? It’s far too depressing.

The view from my home, growing up.


2) The absence of the ocean.

I miss oceany things in the grocery store. I miss briny scents as I drive into town. I miss views of headlands and sprawling acres of gray, undulating seas. I miss the tides giving rhythm to my day.

When I first moved to the Duluth area, well-meaning people said to me, “Lake Superior must make you feel right at home.” Now, I know I’ve whined about this before so I’ll spare you my soap-box. Let me just say this: Lake Superior is awesome. BUT IT IS NOT THE OCEAN. For many reasons.

‘Nuf said.

3) The language.

There is much which could be said about this topic. I’ll restrain myself for today and say only this: to me, “lunch” means a noon-time meal of sandwiches or macaroni and cheese, for example, combined with a glass of milk, a banana, and possibly a cookie if I’m feeling reckless. “Lunch” does not come at any other hour of the day, nor is it accompanied by the words, “a little”, nor does it consist of sweet treats such as tea ring, coffee cake, or ginger snap cookies.

In addition, “dinner” comes at approximately 6:00 p.m. and NOT at noon. (Except on Sundays, of course. Then it comes at noon and is the big meal of the day with an evening meal of popcorn or something else easy on Mom.) So if you want me to get to your house for a noontime meal, do not be calling it dinner. Or, conversely, don’t be surprised if I miss lunch at your house if you insist on calling it dinner. Unless, of course, you want me to miss it, then call it dinner to your hearts content.

“Supper” is a weird word that is rarely used in the Pacific Northwest. It’s known…but it’s suspect.

I’ll leave my tirade at this for now, but know this: I have much to say about “borrowing” me your pencil. My eyebrows are furrowed as we speak…

Reality ‘aint so Bad

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I am in SLC, fresh from EUG, heading to MSP and ultimately FSD.

Yes, I’m traveling. Alone, this time. No kids to keep an eye on, no dollies in tow, no Dora-the-Explorer suitcase trundling along behind my curly-headed child, stuffed with drawing paper and pencils and toys and snacks and used Kleenex.

It’s quite nice to be alone.

It’s also a little bit lonely.

I LOVE the rhododendrons and azaleas that abound in Eugene. I tried to grow one here in MN...it failed.

I’ve been in Eugene, Oregon for a friend’s wedding. The wedding was lovely – outdoors, not too big, not too long, delicious cake. My friend and her smiling husband drove away in a 1947 (or was it ’48?!) fire engine and it was cute, quaint, and perfect.

The happy couple.

But Eugene held more than my dear friend’s wedding – it held family, friends, and innumerable memories.

It was 20 years ago exactly that I graduated from the University of Oregon. I’d been back to Eugene once, five years ago, but that was just for 36 hours and I was too distracted to spend much time on campus. This time I was able to walk around leisurely, gaze at the new buildings and old, and enjoy the atmosphere. I didn’t feel 18 again – no, the gray in my hair doesn’t allow for that fantasy – but I enjoyed myself immensely…perhaps BECAUSE I didn’t have to rush back to my dorm room and cram for a final exam.

My old dorm!

There’s nothing like a reunion – with old places or old friends or family. I was able to see many family members who graciously drove down from Washington to see me, and I met my new great-niece. She is, of course, adorable. I also saw my Eugene relatives and I had the privilege of staying with my aunt, which felt like coming home as I spent a lot of time with them over my college years. I think that I spent every single weekend at her house for at least the first 6 weeks of my freshman year. Mom and Dad were still in Germany, so my aunt’s home was a gift for a homesick kid.

The U of O.

I also saw many college friends – some of whom I hadn’t seen in two decades – and was reminded of their quirks, their ways of speaking, their wonderful laughs. We sat outside at a restaurant along the Willamette River watching ospreys, river rafters and each other.

I am so glad to know these people.

The Willamette River in Eugene, OR

Now I have to return to reality. To dirty clothes and dirty dishes. To unread piles of mail and a garden that has yet to be planted. To irritable kids and sticky kisses.

I’m ready to be back. Bring it on.

The Matthew Knight Arena - just built within the last couple years. Phil Knight - a U of O grad and of Nike fame - gave the money for the arena in memory of his son who passed away.

If you ever watched the movie Animal House...this is where it was filmed, at the University of Oregon. (Not that I'd necessarily recommend it!) Food fight, anyone?


The University of Oregon is the only university whose mascot is a Disney character. Legend has it that a couple decades ago Disney got cross about it and said that the U of O couldn't keep using the duck. They went to the archives and found a snapshot of the then president of the university shaking hands with Walt Disney himself - and that was the proof that he had agreed to the mascot's use. I must say, I prefer the U of O duck over any other Disney character! GO DUCKS!

The Sioux Falls Falls!

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Last fall my family and I took a little jaunt over to Falls Park in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The Sioux Falls – on the Big Sioux River – are a many-layered falls, with something to be found for everyone on the vast grounds. Picnics, history, sand castles, water…outdoors…it’s fabulous.

It had been several years since we’d been there and my kids didn’t remember it at all.

They LOVED it.

If you haven’t been recently – or ever – get on over to Falls Park. It’s a lovely way to spend an hour or three – (the kids wanted to spend 4 or 5), it’s free, it’s pretty, it’s fun!

Sioux Falls!

There's even a little bit of history to be learned when you visit and explore the remains of the old buildings on site.

Something for everyone at the falls!

Climb the tower (or ride the elevator!) for a fantastic view!

The view from the tower.

Again with the view.

Nothing like basking in the spray of a waterfall!

Seine Fishing in Southwest Minnesota

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Hard at work.


I was driving home “the back way” today, as I do always now that hwy 60 is being worked on, and I took the dirt road past Lake Bella rather than the tarmac. I love going that way because it’s much more scenic and one is apt to see eagles as opposed to semis.

Team work.


As I drove past the lake, I had to brake and back up and turn onto a side road, for there in the water at the edge of the lake were fishermen. And not just any old fishermen. Seiners.

Half a mile of net...organized and at rest.


They were standing in the shallow water at the edge of the lake, mending their nets. They had not gotten the work done they’d wanted to that day, as the nets proved to have issues.

Mending the nets.


Needle work.


Scott Deslauriers, Steve Schmidt, and two other guys they’d hired just on a part-time basis (and who chose to remain anonymous) were mending their half-mile long net there at the edge of the water. The Daily Globe had an article about these guys last fall. They’re fishing for Common Carp – the kind of carp that most people around here DON’T want to catch. The kind of carp that, if you catch one, you’re not allowed to throw back into the lake because they’re so unwanted.

The second day. He went all over the lake, banging with a stick on the side of the boat...to stir up the fish, I suppose?


But these guys want them. And so do their customers.

The second boat - out of three. He was on one side of the lake, the boat with the stick was on the other...and the nets were laid.


The net, spread out.


And just exactly who are their customers? Kosher restaurants and groceries in New York City, as well as Asian markets, where they sell the fish live. All of the fish travel to NY in a “live tank”, which, when you think about it, makes total sense as anything with the label “kosher” has to be killed in a kosher way in order to be, well, kosher – so no one else but a rabbi can oversee the death of these fish!

Hauling in the net.



Tightening the nets.


Scott said that as soon as he gets his load of fish, he’ll head down to Omaha, Iowa, and the fish will be on a semi truck within hours of leaving Lake Bella. Within 28 hours of leaving Omaha, they’ll be swimming in New York City.

The fish had a little to say about this activity.



It's a long process, tightening the net...


But, before that could happen, they had to get those nets mended and the fish caught.

The nets narrowed and the fish roiled.


Throwing out the small ones.




Tightening the noose.



So, hoping for good news, I stopped by again the next day. Three times, in fact. They probably thought I was a deranged stalker.

That day brought good luck. Between 5 and 6 thousand pounds of good luck. Which, at an average weight of 7 pounds per fish, makes approximately 850 Common Carp heading to New York City.
I asked how they get 6,000 pounds of fish into the live tank and Scott said, “With a load this small we’ll hand-dip them into the tank.”

There a big guy, thrashing around.


Not exactly a job I’d relish. In fact, the truth is, I’d be incapable of doing any of what they do – it takes a lot of muscle and a lot of silent working.

I’m too wussy and I talk too much.

Narrower and narrower...



And the net is cinched.


Scott and Steve – who only talked when I asked questions and never offered information otherwise (though they didn’t seem to be irritated by me and were perfectly friendly) – were hoping to seine again the next day, which, as everyone around here hates the carp, came as exceedingly good news.

Hauling the catch - all 6,000 pounds.


Several cars and trucks stopped along the road during the time I stopped to watch the seiners. It’s not every day that we see such things, you know. In fact, one old timer with whom I struck up a conversation, said that he remembers seeing them seine in the winter, way back when. “They’d cut a big hole in the ice and thread the nets down in and do it that way,” he told me. I had trouble picturing how that would work, but I’ll take his word for it.

A stick marks the spot.


How about that? Little old Lake Bella, Minnesota…providing food for Passover to the Orthodox of New York.

You just never know what’s going on right around your very own corner, do you?