The Sofitel Budapest Chain Bridge during October Breast Cancer Awareness Month (parisbudabest.hu)
Since I am currently writing about my recent experiences in Central Europe, it feels appropriate and necessary to acknowledge and honor Evelyn Lauder, who was born in Vienna and died this month in Manhattan from complications of non-genetic ovarian cancer. Mrs. Lauder, a well-recognized champion for breast cancer research, was the driving force and constant presence behind the pink ribbon campaign for breast cancer awareness begun in 1992. www.pinkribbon.com
Evelyn Lauder (Getty)
For the past 50 years, Mrs. Lauder worked for the cosmetic conglomerate, Estée Lauder, a beauty products giant founded by her mother-in-law. At the time of her death, she was a senior corporate vice president.
But her real story, like so many others I heard while traveling through countries ravaged by War and Occupation, is about a frightened toddler fleeing Nazi-occupied Vienna with her parents and few possessions. Her father bartered some household silver for visas which got them to Belgium and, eventually, England. Authorities sent Mrs. Lauder’s mother, Mimi, to an internment camp on the Isle of Man while daughter Evelyn, separated from her parents, was placed in a nursery. It took more than two years for her father to raise the money, unite his family, sail to the United States and settle in Manhattan, where they established a successful clothing business.
Acknowledging Breast Cancer Month Worldwide, Vienna Photo by Arthur Serating
I have always known these many interesting facets of Mrs. Lauder’s life because she and her husband, Leonard, have been part-time residents of Aspen since we moved there in 1988. Although I do not know the Lauders personally nor move in their circles, they never met a stranger. The Lauders were friend-makers, generous not only in largesse but in time, effort and spirit. We watched as Mrs. Lauder bravely and quietly fought and conquered breast cancer (1989) and unsuccessfully battled ovarian cancer (2007). While her death was not a surprise nor shock, we Aspenites lost a good neighbor and that always feels very, very sad.
There are many Evelyn-stories being shared and told in Aspen now, but this is my favorite.
My dear Aspen friend, Luky, was diagnosed with uterine cancer in 1992. It was a frightening time for her. She was only 41 years old at the time and had been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease. One day, out-of-the-blue, she received a call from Mrs. Lauder, who she did not know nor had ever met.
“Luky, this is Evelyn Lauder,” she was told. “I understand from our mutual friend, Barbara, that you have been diagnosed with cancer. I want to know if I can help in any way.”
Luky, a gal who’s never at a loss for words, chatted briefly, discussing her illness, voicing her concerns. As the conversation ended, Mrs. Lauder said, “If you need anything, Luky, anything at all, I will help you. Just call me.“
Although Luky chose to have treatment in Louisiana, near her family, and is now very healthy, I have heard her tell that story over and over again. It was the call she desperately needed at a time when she was completely depleted and demoralized. And, during that period of her life, she always carried Evelyn’s “Good-will Card” in her hip pocket. If things go terribly wrong, she thought, I’ll call Evelyn.
It’s ironic, I believe, that I was traveling through Europe in October, a month recognized internationally as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pink ribbons hung everywhere, on jacket lapels, lampposts, at cosmetic counters, even on the Austrian Parliament Building in the city that Ernest, Mimi, and little Evelyn Hauser fled from in 1936.
If you remember, in the early Nineties, women’s health issues and breast cancer research still were plunked on America’s back burner. In 1992, after waging her own battle with breast cancer, Mrs. Lauder coupled her talents with her friend, Alexandra Penney’s expertise, and Charlotte Hayley’s ribbon idea to develop a campaign for breast cancer awareness. Starting as a personally-financed Lauder project, producing pink ribbon bows to be given at department store makeup counters as a breast exam reminder, the campaign rapidly morphed into so much more and has arguably saved thousands of lives. This year I picked up my pink ribbon, a reminder to have my yearly exam, at a cosmetics counter in Budapest.
The Worldwide Symbol for Breast Health
In an interview with the New York Times, shortly before her death, Mrs. Lauder spoke about the campaign, which took about three years to really give birth. “ When it launched,” she said, “it was so little known that some people thought it symbolized AIDS awareness.There had been no publicity about breast cancer, but a confluence of events — the pink ribbon, the colour, the press, partnering with Elizabeth Hurley, having Estée Lauder as an advertiser in so many magazines and persuading so many of my friends who are health and beauty editors to do stories about breast health — got people talking.”
Today, this campaign has exploded into fundraising projects, the congressional designation of October as Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and the creation of the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, funded by $330 million in donations, $50 million from Estée Lauder and its partners. www.bcrfcure.org
We may have lost Evelyn Lauder but that little Pink Ribbon will endure, continuing to be a worldwide symbol of women’s breast health.
Joyeux Thanksgiving from the French Friday with Dorie gang.
CROQUANTS, VERY POPULAR IN FRANCE, DELICIOUS WITH TEA OR ESPRESSO
Yes, Thanksgiving is a North American celebration but what’s unique about families and friends gathering to enjoy traditional foods and the company of others? The first Thanksgiving meal probably occurred in 1621 between the colonists and the Wampanoag, the Plymouth colony Indian tribe. Sans dishwashers, Cuisinarts, Convection ovens and TV Football, I might add. It became a national American holiday in 1941 and is arguably our favorite holiday. If the scales be damned, Thanksgiving could even become a two-fer. In Canada it is celebrated in October, coinciding with the Fall harvest. (I just received greetings from my Canadian friends and will return the favor, if not the meal, in October.)
To celebrate this holiday of largesse this week, we created a potluck of recipes at FFWD. Cook’s Choice. See what others picked at http://www.frenchfridayswithdorie.com/
Such a simple-to-bake, simply delicious French cookie, a platter of Croquants
For Le Jour de Merci Donnant, I decided to bake Croquants, a popular French cookie. Easy to make. Sublime to eat. A crunchy combination, really, of sugar (white) and nuts (I used the traditional salted hazelnuts/almonds combo.). I first tasted a Croquant at Berthillon, Paris’s most famous glacier, when it was served with my Chocolate Noir ice cream. Discovering that Dorie could help me duplicate this tasty treat is a real bonus! At Christmas I’m even going to add tiny slices of dried cherries to make them look more festive for my holiday cookie platter. This cookie begs for variations, I think.
A Midwestern Tradition – Chex Mix – There Are Not Words to Describe How Addictive This Is.
Since, after all, Thanksgiving is a North American holiday and reeks of tradition, I also made gallons, yes, gallons, of Chex Mix yesterday. I know! I know! There is nothing nutritious nor healthy about Chex Mix. That pound of butter I used in the Mix shouts heart-unfriendly. It’s during these times that I bless Julia Childs. She loved butter. Then there’s Paula Deen. You gotta love Paula.
I cannot remember a holiday season in my Manchester, Iowa, home without Chex Mix. God Bless my Mom, a lady who never let butter-anxiety get in the way of delicious baked goods. My defense to this treat is that I only make it at Thanksgiving and, most importantly, my son-in-law and I bonded over my Chex Mix. Now is not the time to test loyalties.
Chex Mix and the Holidays – my Iowa family’s tradition for more than 60 years.
Hopefully, you, like me, have much to be thankful for this year. This is a day devoted to just that – giving thanks for family, friends, and loved ones. Happy Thanksgiving.
This week I am in Aspen, tying up the last-minute details on my condo’s re-model, in anticipation of Winter’s skiing rentals. I’ve traded my apron for a tool belt and couldn’t join the other Dorista’s to make the past two weeks’ recipes, Spiced Squash, Fennel, and Pear Soup and Braised Cardamon-Curry Lamb. Sound delicious. Check-out those recipe results at http://www.frenchfridayswithdorie.com/.
What I did make, however, was Stone Soup (Spur-of-the-Moment Vegetable Soup, carrot version, via Dorie, p. 74). For those of you who do not know this folk tale, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stone_soup.
I know what George is thinking. “Is this REALLY part of my Job Description?”
I made two different versions, one with chicken and served as is, just chopped and sliced. The other, I pureed, plunking a dollop of sour cream on top. Then I started prowling the 143 condo units here at The Gant, to find George, who has headed The Gant’s Engineering Department since my arrival seven years ago.
George has been my Go-To guy (and, everyone else’s) and there is nothing he cannot fix nor replace nor install nor tear apart and re-build. He’s done all that and more for me. He’s what you would call, a “Keeper”, a very nice guy. But, here’s his best-kept secret. George hailed from Guilford, Maine, where he owned a restaurant called “Flatlander’s”. He’s an extraordinary Chef who has been donating and sharing his culinary talents for the eleven years he’s lived in Aspen. So, it’s not-for-nothing that I chose him to taste my Stone Soup.
Everything in my ‘fridge went into my soup pot: carrots, onions, celery, Yukon potatoes, and yams. Garlic and fresh ginger were the spices-of-choice. Chicken broth, my base. After separating out the to-be-pureed batch, I tossed in slivers from half a roasted chicken.
The Stone Soup with Chicken was so hot, George stepped outside for a cool-down.
Caught in the Act – Complimenting me on “just the right spices”.
George took his job seriously, trying the chicken version on the porch, it was steaming hot! I think he favored the pureed version, which he said was flavored perfectly, because he had two bowls. This Stone Soup teams perfectly with a Sterling Vineyards “Merlot”, 2008, which we drank, off-camera. Although George had clocked out, he still maintained his standards, after all!
Oh, yes, another good thing about him? George is a very Good Sport.
At a dinner party fifteen years ago, a close friend, also a talented plastic surgeon, said to me, “You know, Mary, if you’re going to get your eyes “done”, better sooner than later!”
Although I’ve never gotten my eyes nor anything else “done” – I’ve earned these wrinkles, after all – I did take note of his remark. There isn’t a face cream I haven’t purchased nor a wrinkle remedy I haven’t tried.
Recently, in Budapest, the Hungarian women shared a secret about an only-in-Hungary product called Helia-D. “This is a cream that defies laws of cosmetics,” a pamphlet says. “Without a single penny spent on advertising and marketing, this product is increasingly popular among women of 24 different countries.”
The Helia-D Cosmetics Line, a well-kept Hungarian miracle.
What’s important to know, however, is that the Helia-D Cosmetic line can only be bought locally, in Hungary. It’s a sure bet that American women are suckers for products that their hometown girlfriends and neighbors can’t buy. If it reduces a few wrinkles with its sunflower stalk extract, so much the better.
There were 20 North American women in our Budapest city tour group and I’m pretty sure we greatly depleted the inventory by the time we climbed onto our bus to continue to Vienna.
My SNAP this week is the website where any Helia-D product can be ordered. Here’s proof that in the Age of the Internet, nothing is sacred:
Does it work, after just two weeks? The jury is still out. But, every night, as I’m slathering the cream on my face, the memory of it makes me smile. That is a very good thing.
WARNING: This Blog Post deals with female nudity. If you’d rather not read “nude” material, please return another day.
Still here?
When my globe-trotting friend, Ardyth, discovered I was stopping in Budapest during my recent European travels, she urged me to take advantage of that city’s thermal baths. “Don’t miss experiencing the famous Gellért Baths,” she suggested. “Be sure to have a massage. Don’t leave Budapest without doing that.”
The Gellért Spa’s main hall, gallery and glass roof, built before WWi in the Art-Nouveau style.
It’s no secret that the world’s largest thermal water cave system,170 caves containing 80 geothermal springs, lies under Hungary’s capital city. Seventy million liters of 21-78 degrees Celsius water (that’s 82-172 degrees Fahrenheit) gushes up daily from natural springs.
Since I live part-time near Las Vegas, a city touting many amazing spas/pools, why do that in Budapest? I don’t know how to swim, my bathing suit is 30-years old, and, at my age, I practice camouflage-mode. I really don’t “do” swimsuits and pools.
Besides, there’s enough to see in Budapest, I thought, with its UNESCO World Heritage Sites, Danube cruises, Szechenyi Chain Bridge, markets and monuments, without pausing to “take a bath”.
I returned my bathing suit to its moth balls.
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BUDAPEST: After discovering, despite my activity-list, I still had a free afternoon in Budapest, I decided to Spa. It helped that Linda, who’d I just met, was also game. I must admit to being relieved at having a partner-in-bathhouses. Linda, being from California, had packed her bathing suit and, thinking I could improvise, I grabbed my t-shirt and shorts. Clutching a handful of Forints, the Hungarian currency, we hailed a taxi and headed for those famous Gellért Baths:
The Good: “This was definitely a unique experience, a “Hungarian water world,” of sorts,” she remembered, in her recent e-mail.
The Bad: “But, it was as if we made a wrong turn and ended up at a state prison,” she lamented.
The Ugly: Personally, it was intimidating for me to walk into an alien, albeit breathtakingly beautiful, environment and be greeted with a chilly reception, the afternoon’s precursor. During the entire four-hour visit, not ONE person smiled or was kind. Must be a Staff Rule.
I’m a skeptic as well as a coward and suggested re-hailing the cab. But Linda, already charging into the gorgeous main hall, with its Art-Nouveau glass roof, had found the check-in office. We got the most uncooperative young woman we’d yet encountered in Hungary. (Our Budapest city tour guide had warned us about this.) It took 15 minutes and countless heavy sighs from her, to purchase, “The Works”. We had no idea what “The Works” (our translation) cost but were told it included everything.
At the get-go it was apparent my shorts and t-shirt were verboten. I could rent. (You must be kidding!) Or, buy. We headed for the adjacent bathing suit store. Suspecting a tall, good-looking, blond California woman has purchased more beach apparel than I ever would, I looked to Linda for guidance. She glanced at me, scanned the rack and grabbed a suit. I surrendered the rest of my Forints to the clerk. In 1981, my last suit purchase, I chose black. Visualize a brown and orange one-piece, strung with wooden beading, made in China. That’s the new Me.
One of the Gellért Spa’s Thermal Bath Pools, Budapest, Hungary.
This is when the real problems began. We walked into the Spa and showed our passes. The door man, who did speak English, demanded towel money.
“What?” Linda said. “We already purchased our tickets.”
“I know, but now you must purchase a towel for 886 forints ($4 American dollars) each,” the door man insisted.
“You mean these tickets don’t include towels?” Linda inquired, incredulously.
“No, they don’t,” he replied.
“Well, how are we going to get dry if we don’t have towels?” she asked, now fuming.
(This is when he gives her a “that’s the point” glare!)
“Well,” she says, “we are not paying for towels.”
If you remember, I’d already blown $250 on laundry at a Warsaw hotel. Heck, four bucks a towel, that was chump change. But, Linda, a successful entrepreneur, was not having it.“My perspective was that a deal’s a deal,” she told me. “I mean we were told it was all-inclusive pricing, right?”
Okay, no towels.
We were greeted inside by Mrs. Stern Matron #1.( I instantly realized most of the female spa-goers were wandering around in the buff, which left me uncomfortable, mortified, and squirming. I am not proud of my inhibitions.) She wrote 4 p.m. on a clipboard, handed us each a white sheet and pointed upstairs. Rather clueless, we suspected 4:00 pm was our massage time.That would give us two-hours in the baths. We climbed the stairs to change into suits.
Already, I’m thinking, “I am going to kill Ardyth.”
We leave our possessions with Mrs. Stern Matron #2 who locks them in cabinets but keeps the keys. Clutching our sheets (everyone else has towels), we head for the thermal baths. I picked the pool with the least number of nude women and navigated from hot baths to cold dips to saunas to steam rooms, keeping my head down and using my sheet as a towel.
Linda liked the thermal baths but soon headed for the swimming pool where she got kicked out for not having a swimming cap. (Let’s not even discuss her purchasing one.) She returned to the hot baths, totally unconcerned and uninhibited by all the nude, primarily older women, who were in the baths. No one talked, smiled or laughed, except us.
At 4pm, we left our wet gear with our unfriendly matron who loaned us keys to get our underwear. After wrapping ourselves in our sopping wet sheets, we headed for our massages. My masseuse led me to a room and was immediately miffed at having to provide a “dry” sheet. Using gestures, she told me to totally strip and get on the table, face down on the sheet. I do not remember much about the 40-minute massage. I do remember that I was cold, totally naked, uncovered, bare-assed and interacting with a stranger who never murmured a word to me, not even in Hungarian.
Really, I am going to kill Ardyth.*
Linda’s experience was far worse. She did not even rate a room. “My massage was unique,” she told me,“in that the masseuse left the curtain open and I was eye-to-eye with a woman who was hooked up in some kind of neck constraint in what, I’m hoping, was a therapy pool “
“And, will you ever forget the rock music (American) playing in the background?” she asked.
Following our massages, wrapped back in our sheets, toga-style, we couldn’t re-claim our clothes, get dressed and exit fast enough. We did delay our get-away ten minutes to help a young American woman, a honeymooner, who was gifted “a spa afternoon” by her new husband. We left her in tears.
Wonder how that marriage is going.
We found a cab, returned to our hotel, and headed for the bar, where we drank our Supper and ate free peanuts.
“Didn’t you feel like we might be expelled at any moment?” Linda asked me.
If the Gellért Baths are about sophistication and being cosmopolitan, I thought to myself, I’m just not there yet. It’s going to take some real work!
There are morals to this story:
1.Inhibitions or not, I fervently believe women over sixty should keep their nudity to themselves and not share it with others.
2. Principles or no principles, if you’re going near water, take a towel. Sheets are non-absorbable.
3. Travel leads you down many memorable paths and provides an inordinate amount of pleasure, fun and experiences.
*My friend,Ardyth is still alive. No one enjoyed this story more than she.
