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My Brush with Royalty

Watching the royal wedding brought back memories from long ago, my one and only brush with royalty…
It was 1990, I was pregnant with my first child. I was working as a photographer in Washington, DC and my husband and I had gone to Florida for a business trip he had to take. A few months earlier, I’d contacted the British Embassy after having read about an upcoming garden party; I figured any self-respecting garden party would need a photographer so I pitched my services.
The charming press person at the time politely told me they had a photographer but would take my name for future events, should they arise. I figured that was the last I would hear from him.
Fast forward a few months later, to a dingy hotel room in Bradenton, Florida. My husband had to attend a carnival trade show because a product his company produced was being knocked off and pawned off as carny prizes. He’d hoped to persuade those power mongers (read with a wink) who operate carnivals to buy the legitimate product, rather than ripping his company off.
Now, if you’ve ever gone to a carnival, you can probably conjure up images of your average carny type: Seedy-looking men, missing and rotting teeth, grizzled faces. There’s usually an all-around feel of felons-freshly-sprung-from-prison about the place, coupled with the aroma of years-old trans-fat sizzling away in deep-frying vats awaiting a plunge from a 2000-calorie corn dog or maybe a fried twinkle, perhaps a grease-sopped funnel cake if you’re lucky.
Well, the difference between a carnival and a carnival trade show (at least 20-some years ago) is simply that the grease isn’t as old. Same creepy people, same vile food, same crappy products. So we were coming off a most relaxing day amidst the seedier element of society at Carny-ville, and were relaxing at the hotel when I decided to check our voice mail.
Back then we’d only recently acquired an answering machine. I know this sounds crazy, but they were newfangled devices then. Technologically-stunted as I’ve always been, I’d barely figured out how to check our messages on the thing before we left for our trip. And while gone, one morning before embarking on our carnival trade show expedition, I called home to see if we had any messages. Which was when I heard the voice mail from a Gareth So-and-So from the British Embassy, asking if I was interested in an upcoming event. He needed an answer immediately.
Of course I called back pronto. Remember, there were no cell phones back then. Wait, there were. When I worked on Capitol Hill in the 80’s I’d gone to a hair salon near the White House and remember seeing an Important Looking Man lugging a small suitcase in one hand, holding a phone receiver attached to the suitcase by a long coiled cord, with the other. This was back when offices had rooms devoted to housing gargantuan “mainframes” to operate computers. How far we’ve come in so short a time…) But making long-distance calls from anywhere other than home was a cumbersome process back then: using a calling card, you had to dial about 70 numbers without screwing up the number sequence and then get connected to some remote operator or bell tones, enter in another 20 digits and maybe then you’d be connected to your number. Amazingly I dialed through successfully, and got hold of Gareth before he’d found another photographer.
“Hallo,” he said to me in a gorgeous clipped British accent. I don’t care what one looks like, when you speak with that accent it erases all flaws instantly. I swooned over the phone. In a professional manner, of course.
“I have a job you might be interested in,” Gareth told me. I figured maybe another garden party, one of those things where women wear silly hats (Princes Beatrice, anyone?)
weirdly, don’t they look like the wicked stepsisters from Cinderella?
“His Royal Highness will be coming to Washington and there are several events for which we need a photographer.”
I tried hard to maintain my composure and not choke. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Needed me. Prince Charles, then the celebrated man of the hour, considered studly despite his jug ears (and yes, they are quite juggy). The embassy needed moi, go figure, to shoot the man (with a camera of course).
I tried to remain cool, as if often I was invited to be the official photographer of the world’s most famous royal (next to his then-wife Princess Diana).
I told Gareth I needed to check my schedule, and pretended to leaf through my sad-sack calendar, the dinky 4″ x 4″ one like you used to get for free at the Hallmark store (yep, electronic calendars were years away). And of course I instantly leapt at the chance, no doubt appearing pathetically excited and simpering about the prospect of this brush with British royalty.
I was, as I said, pregnant. At that time speculation abounded that Diana and Charles were going for a girl, and rumors were running amok that she was indeed pregnant. I pondered drumming up some small talk with Chuck about his pregnant wife (a presumptuous leap on my part), what with us having so much in common, I knew we were bound to be BFFs and all. Fortunately I opted out of that tack. Because it wasn’t long after that that we all learned that Charles had been clandestinely telling his extramarital fling Camilla he yearned to be her tampon or maxi pad or something equally abhorrent. Clearly he wouldn’t have been keen dishing on Di with me when he was fantasizing about being inside Camilla’s knickers (literally).
My husband never once wanted to come along on my photo shoots (particularly the dull ones, like the American Institute of CPAs; can’t blame him, though those CPAs were a lovely bunch). Even my Liz Taylor shoot he shunned. But he jumped at the chance to be my assistant for the royal visit.
Prior  to undertaking the job, we got a mini-lesson on dealing with the Prince–i.e. avoid dealing with the Prince. No handshaking, speak to him only when spoken to, that sort of thing.
I was told the Prince always had a group photo taken with his equerry staff (the cadre of helpers who travel with him everywhere to be sure someone puts the toothpaste on his toothbrush, that sort of thing). So we assembled the group amidst the splendor of the British Embassy, an elegant building filled with a vast collection of priceless artwork. I directed the men to line up in two rows, some seated, some standing.
“I need all of the men seated to place hands in laps,” I instructed them.
“Your own laps,” my able-bodied spouse interjected, to the horror of the embassy staff.
Silence hung in the air as I awaited the big man himself firing me from the job. But then instead, Charles placed his hand over his mouth and…snickered. It was a very royal sounding laugh, a ha-ha-ha rather than an all-out guffaw. But enough so that I knew the job hadn’t slipped through my fingers, and for my husband to this day to be able to stake his claim on having gotten Charles to chuckle.
Shame Charles and Di never did end up being our BFFs, no double-dating was in the cards, no naming each other our kids’ godparents. But we’ll always have Charles’ chuckle.

Categories: News

FREE BOOKS TO DISTRACT YOU WHILE YOU'RE HOME-BOUND!

Hey all!

First off, I think you need a Pippa picture right now. My pup Pippa has brought me great joy in this stressful time and I love to share her pictures on Instagram because, well, puppy! Even if she’s growing rapidly into a full-sized dog! So here’s puppy therapy for you:

By now I hope you are all staying home and avoiding being too close to others in an effort to slow down the spread of this awful Coronavirus. If you aren’t, I hope you will reconsider that because this is the real deal and maybe I’m more acutely aware of the sacrifices that medical professionals make since my youngest daughter is a medical student, but my goodness, what selfless humans doctors, nurses, EMTs, firefighters etc are. As the saying goes, they run into the fire when everyone else is running away. So please, please, please, consider staying home so that we can lessen the sudden onslaught of cases of COVID-19 which will be overwhelming hospitals and creating dangerous situations for those carrying for the sick.

And while home, maybe avoid an overdose of news because it ain’t too cheerful. I want to let you know I’ve got FOUR free books for you to help you escape all the grim reality. So please take advantage of them and ENOY escaping for awhile! I know, I know, it’s not a trip to Italy, or to a Jamaican beach, but for now, it’s better than watching the numbers of cases rise on the 24/7 news. 

Posting links below:

Book one of the It’s Reigning Men series, Something in the Heir, is free here:

Kindle

iBooks

Nook

Kobo

Google Play

Also Red Hot Romeo is free! A hot Italian, a gorgeous supermodel, and fabulous wines…what’s not to love?!

You can check out the first book in the Royal Romeo series for free here:

 

And Falling for Mr. Wrong from the Falling for Mr. Wrong series is free here:

Kindle

iBooks

Nook

Kobo

Google Play

Lastly, Skirt Chaser is now free!

Kindle

iBooks

Nook

Kobo

GooglePlay

 

And if you enjoy these books, there are plenty more in each series to read on and they’re very affordable at $3.99!

Nothing like a world emergency to clarify all of the most important things in your life. I’m so very grateful for my wonderful family, my adorable dog, a home with a roof over my head, spring weather so that we can at least be outside and enjoy the blossoming trees and listening to birds singing. I’m grateful for all of those medical professionals willing to put their lives on the line for us, and for the many reporters who also have risked themselves for reporting from Coronavirus hotspots, and experts being available 24/7 on many TV networks to answer questions from a nervous public. 

Our country has been through many awful things before, things that required far greater sacrifice, sending millions of our young people overseas to fight in dreadful wars. Staying at home is easy peasy in comparison. We can do this folks! Stay safe and thanks for staying home to protect the vulnerable, those who are immunocompromised, the elderly, and of course our medical care providers on the front line in this new and eye-opening war. 

Love you all and stay safe! ❤️

Categories: News

Traveling Outside My Comfort Zone

Several years ago I decided to break out of my comfort zone. Far, far out of my comfort zone. I’m the girl who thinks “roughing it” means no blow dryer. I am decidedly NOT a hiker, not a backpacker, and certainly not a very outdoors-y kinda gal.

So I decided to walk across part of Switzerland and Italy. With a backpack. In the woods. Alone. With 3 shirts, 1 pair of shorts, 1 pair of pants, 1 skort, 2 pairs of socks, 2 pair of underwear, and not much else. My backpack weighed around 18 pounds. I did not bring a blow dryer (but I’m not gonna lie: I thought long and hard about it). Did I mention I was going to be hiking? All day long? For weeks on end?

The original plan was to walk/hike along the Via Francigena—a pilgrimage route that spans from Canterbury, England, to Rome, best known for Sigeric the Serious, Archbishop of Canterbury, who walked the length of it in the 10th century to receive his papal vestments in Rome. I was going to walk part of it for the better part of a month (it takes 3+ months to walk the entirety).

Why would I do this? It’s complicated. But let’s just say I had just been looking for an interesting place to take a very long walk, to do something just so not me, and when I found out about the Via Francigena and realized it went through a good swath of Italy (including Tuscany, which I adore), which is one of my happy places, I was thrilled to do it—hike by day, pasta and wine by night—what’s not to love?

Well, I sheepishly admit that for me, it was the hiking bit that wasn’t to love. I mean I was okay with it. Ish. Hiking up into the Swiss Alps was spectacular. The picture of me with the St. Bernards was taken at the Great St. Bernard Pass at 8,100 feet—after hiking to the top, enjoying breathtaking views along the way. This is where Napoleon’s army invaded Italy, and partly follows ancient Roman roads. The Hospice at the top (where I stayed) has been in existence since 1049 (founded by St. Bernard of Menthon), and became famous for its use of St. Bernards in rescue operations (think: the famous barrel of brandy on their necks).

Hiking down from the St. Bernard Pass into Aosta was just beyond beautiful, with the cheery clang of cowbells punctuating the wind song coursing through the hills and valleys.

But there were parts of the hike that were just super boring—like I could have been hiking in the woods behind my house rather than in Italy. And I kept thinking, I’m in Italy and I could be in, say, Florence, rather than walking in 100-degree heat on a fire trail schvitzing my butt off while depleting my rapidly dwindling water supply, or along a busy roadside, foraging berries, only to look above the branch I just ate blackberries from, only to see a dirty diaper dancing from the thorny branches. Yummmm…

I was hearing the siren call of Italy loud and clear, and it was calling to me, big time, rather than resorting to listening to my iPod for the fifth time in a row, thoroughly bored with my own company. The deal-breaker was the road-walking part of it.

Walking for miles on 2-lane roads in Italy with broken glass, trash and doggy doo lost its appeal for sure, and one day when I was leaving a town during rush hour and was crossing a traffic circle and rolled my ankle and the weight of my backpack threw me into the circle (had there been a car coming I’d have been a goner) kind of helped me decide to adopt a Plan B. Don’t get me wrong: I am in serious awe of people who will hike 15 miles a day for 3 months to get from Canterbury, England, to Rome. But I recognize that is so not in my wheelhouse. 

I just read The Sun Is a Compass, the most amazing book about a couple who trekked 4,000 miles over six months from the Pacific Rainforest to the Alaskan Arctic.

I decided to find my way to Florence, where I parked myself in a hostel for a while, then rented a tiny Panda smart car and drove toward Rome, staying for a couple of nights in a real castle that had been in the same family since the 11th century. The lovely owner gave me a tour; I even got to walk the drawbridge. The castle walls were pockmarked with divots from cannonball hits from wars over the centuries (some cannonballs were even used as wall decorations in the gardens). It was actually kind of a spooky place to be alone at night, but it was a fun and interesting experience.

I ended my trip by meeting my husband in Rome then training it to the glorious Amalfi Coast. Prior to his coming, I Facetimed him in my closet and gave him explicit instructions of what to bring for me in a real, live, suitcase,

After weeks of no make-up, no blow dryers and hand washing my undies and socks nightly in hostel and pilgrim facility sinks, I was probably a little too excited for real clothes. But I was also thrilled to be with my husband—I found it to be very lonely to be out there alone in the woods, occasionally lost. Argh! Getting lost was the WORST, because it would sometimes add a mile or two to what was already a 12+-mile walk for the day. 

I cherish the experience, and it was good to learn that just like how I already knew I detest cilantro, I already  knew I wasn’t a hiker or an outdoorsy girl, and it reaffirmed that I’m super fine with hotels and airbnbs and even hostels—and restaurants and amazing history to immerse myself in as well. It was super cool to find myself occasionally walking on Roman roads, and to imagine the history that preceded my treading on them, but I was more than happy to find myself back in civilization with the comforts of, well, civilization!

Read more about my adventures here:  Via Francigena

Categories: Jenny Gardiner, memoir, relaxation, travel