Category Archives: Adventure

Top Ten Reasons I Know I’m Not at Home

  1. No one complained about having sushi for dinner.

    Another word for "clean" is "sterile."

    Another word for “clean” is “sterile.”

  2. The sheets don’t have any cracker crumbs, Matchbox cars, wood chips, sand, or pee on them.
  3. It’s been 14 hours since I had to worry about the state of anyone else’s butt.
  4. I don’t even know which channel Nick Jr is on this TV.
  5. No alarm.  I get to sleep until I decide to wake up.
  6. The bathroom has been “Sanitized for My Protection.”
  7. I had a one-hour uninterrupted conversation with a friend.
  8. There are no cats to let in then out then in then out then in then out.  Then in.
  9. Surfaces.  All of the furniture, the carpet, the counters–uncluttered.
  10. No one kissed me good night.  And that makes me glad I’ll be home tomorrow night.

Hit the Road, Jacqueline!

I’ve got a bonus column over at Work It, Mom! today.  This one is about taking a trip by yourself, for yourself.  Here’s a sample:  

Whether you’re going on a big trip or a little jaunt, the important thing to remember is that you have the right to step out into the world and explore.  I’ve traveled on my own for years and I still get the jitters sometimes, but I get over it.  It’s worth it.  I repeat to myself, “Be not afraid.  Be not afraid.”  Then I go.  

 

Click on this vintage travel poster from my favorite destination to read more about it!

 

visit greece

Swiper, NO SWIPING

swiperSunday brunch at Norma’s in Le Parker Meridien.  It’s become a tradition for my sister and me when we go to New York.  

The waiter brings us a little amuse bouche of fruit smoothie in adorable tall shot glasses.  Highly collectible glasses…if you know what I mean.  (If you don’t, read my story A Red Marble Sink and you’ll understand why my sister gets nervous around me and labeled glasses.)  In a place that charges $15 for a glass of orange juice, the glass should come with it…right?

So I’m eyeing the cute glass when Gay gives me a blistering stink eye.  I jokingly slide it across the table towards my lap.

“Don’t.  You.  DARE.”

As we’re giggling about it, the waiter flits by and whisks the glasses off the table.

Gay snorts and says, “Ha Ha!  You’re too late!”

Aw, man.

A Red Marble Sink

My sister said that yesterday’s story about San Francisco reminded her that business trips can be fun.  And since she happens to be on one right now, I thought I would entertain her with another story about a time when I tagged along with her and we had us a fine time in the great big city.

fairmont lobbyThe first time Gay invited me along on a business trip was right after Fartbuster and I divorced.  After 10 boring years, I yearned for some adventure.  The American College of Surgeons held their conference in New Orleans that year…boy, did I luck out!   We stayed at the Fairmont Hotel–which is sadly no more.  They chose not to reopen after Katrina.  I’m lucky to have walked this Moorish style hallway for those few days back in 2001.

My sister is a world-class foodie.  Girl love to EAT.  We travel well together because she books the hotel and makes the dinner reservations and I research the fun little activities to do.  We also both believe in the sanctity of naps.

The first night we were at the Fairmont, I told her we had to go down to the lobby bar and try the namesake drink, the Sazerac.  Never heard of a Sazerac?  Me either, apart from in the guidebook.  It predates the Civil War and is arguably the first American cocktail:  “The defining feature of the Sazerac is the preparation using Peychaud’s Bitters and two chilled old-fashioned glasses, one swirled with a light wash of absinthe for the slight taste and strong scent. The second chilled glass is used to mix the other ingredients, then the contents of that are poured or strained into the first. Various anisettes such as Pastis, Pernod, Ricard, and Herbsaint are common substitutes for absinthe when it is not available; in New Orleans Herbsaint is most commonly used.”  Well, there you go.

I’ll be honest…a Sazerac is more distinctive than it is delicious.  I’m glad I tried it.  So glad, in fact, that after I gagged down the last drop of the concoction, I wiped out the glass with a cocktail napkin and slipped it into my purse.  Then I left a $20 tip to assuage my guilt.  My sister was MORTIFIED.  She hissed, “What are you DOING?  Put that back!  What if we get caught?”  I rolled my eyes and said, “This is New Orleans.  Do you really think this crime wave is going to make the news?”  She giggled but gave me The Look.  The big sister look, like she was going to tell on me.  I clutched my purse tighter.   Ten years of boredom and now I was on the loose in New Orleans.

The night got even sillier after that when we asked the doorman to get us a taxi.  We clambered in the back seat and Gay said, “Take us to the French Quarter, please.”  The driver turned his head and said, “You IN the French Quarter.”  We started giggling harder and I said, “Well, take us to the nasty part.”  He drove two blocks to Bourbon Street and let us out on the curb.  Five bucks to go 2 blocks.  At least it was sprinkling so we could pretend that was why we got a cab.

Like I said, I love traveling with my sister.

red marble sinkThe next night, she got us a table at Broussard’s.  While we were getting ready, the two of us ended up in the bathroom at the same time, brushing our teeth.  Probably to get rid of the taste of Sazerac.   I spat.  She spat.  I looked her in the eye and said, “When we were growing up in that trailer, did you ever in your life think that one day we’d be spitting toothpaste into a red marble sink at the Fairmont Hotel in New Orleans?”  

She spat again and considered for a second.  

“Yes.”  

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.  

That’s the thing about my sister.  She works HARD for the privileges that she enjoys in life (and shares so generously).  If you asked her what she wanted to be when she was in second grade, she said, “A doctor.”  By about fourth grade, she had settled on being a surgeon.  She never lost focus.  She watched Daddy operate on cats and dogs, and sometimes scrubbed in to assist.  She sailed through college with a double major in Chemistry and Biology.  Finished Vanderbilt Medical School with zero loan debt.  Worked her internship and residency as an Army surgeon.  She scaled every rung on the ladder to get to spit into that red marble sink.  

When Gay was still in high school, she met with the guidance counselor about applying for colleges.  She told the counselor that she planned to go to medical school.  That dingbat said, “Oh, being a doctor is hard.  Why don’t you be a nurse and marry a doctor?”  

Oh.  Hell. No.  

You better believe that lady got a talking to.  I guess my sister did take a little bit of the counselor’s advice–she did marry a doctor.  Eventually.  

God Says “Duh” To Me

Half a year after Richard died, I visited San Francisco for the first time with my sister, Gay, and our sister-in-law, Beth.  Gay was there for a conference.  Beth and I were there to stay at the Palace Hotel on someone else’s expense account.  Man, they have plush robes at that hotel. Nicest robe I ever almost stole.  Also a sauna, town cars at your disposal, a brunch buffet with everything from sushi to crepes, a concierge every 20 feet.  We were living high on the hog that week.  I don’t know how I’ll ever come back down to the Sleep Inn between the interstate and Sonic.

One morning, Gay had meetings to attend so Beth and I were on our own to navigate the city.  We decided to do some sight seeing up on Nob Hill (because you can’t get lost if you keep going uphill!).  My friend, Gleam, had a thing for labyrinths and had told me much about the labyrinths at Grace Cathedral atop Nob Hill.  

haringNow….I’m not normally one for church.  At least Grace is an Episcopal church–they don’t make me itch and twitch quite as severely.  I’m a church tourist, at best.  Grace, however, quickly became one of my most favorite spaces I’ve ever had the privilege of visiting.  I found real sanctuary there.  It’s a welcoming congregation.  The first chapel I stepped into remembered thousands of lives lost to AIDS.  The “Life of Christ” altar by Keith Haring is surrounded by symbols of many faiths and a simple circle for people like me.  This was Haring’s last piece of art.  He died two weeks later from complications of AIDS, in 1990.  

grace-2005

When we were there that October of 2005, the main aisle had been decorated with a genuinely soul-lifting art installation.  This tiny thumbnail is the only record of it that I could find (because 2005 is like the Jurassic Period of the Internet).  Translucent ribbons swooped from the ceiling, suspended by invisible wires.  Hues transformed from deepest red toward the altar to pale sunshine yellow down the aisle.   The floating fabric sculpture reminded me of a fiery spirit, 100 feet long.  The motion of it, the color, the space inside it–all took my breath away.  While Beth explored the side aisles, I slipped into a pew and sat quietly, just so I could share the same space with the fiery spirit.  That’s when I began to cry.  I missed Richard so deeply.  He and I had spent many an hour exploring the cathedrals of Europe.  Now I was learning to adventure on my own.  

Beth had been giving me my space, but we eventually came back together and talked about what to do next.  I felt like I was holding her back, but there was one thing left to do at Grace.  I trusted her enough to risk making a fool of myself.  As we stepped out into the afternoon light, I turned to her and confessed, “I want to walk the labyrinth.”  

She was game.  Beth’s not usually one for any kind of mumbo-jumbo–she was totally humoring me.  “You’re going to need to explain it to me.  I don’t want to screw it up.”  I told her what I knew of them from Gleam, who had made a pilgrimage to Chartres with the last of her strength.  Cancer took her the next year.   

Here are the instructions for the Grace Labyrinth:

The labyrinth has only one path so there are no tricks to it and no dead ends. The path winds throughout and becomes a mirror for where we are in our lives. It touches our sorrows and releases our joys. Walk it with an open mind and an open heart.

Three stages of the walk

  • Purgation (Releasing) ~ A releasing, a letting go of the details of your life. This is the act of shedding thoughts and distractions. A time to open the heart and quiet the mind.
  • Illumination (Receiving) ~ When you reach the center, stay there as long as you like. It is a place of meditation and prayer. Receive what is there for you to receive.
  • Union (Returning) ~ As you leave, following the same path out of the center as you came in, you enter the third stage, which is joining God, your Higher Power, or the healing forces at work in the world. Each time you walk the labyrinth you become more empowered to find and do the work for which you feel your soul is reaching.

Labyrinth-HorizBeth and I chose different starting points and began our walk.  We had the place to ourselves, which let me let go of some of my inhibitions about doing something so mystical in public.  I focused on the soles of my feet and the contact they shared with the ground, just like in Buddhist walking meditation.  I felt safe in the maze.  Not rushing, just doing.  The rhythm of my steps did help me let go of the details of my life.  I felt the grief slip away, the anxiety abate.  My quieting mind sloughed away the months of grief, the months of worry, winnowing it all down to the real question that weighed down my heart.  The question I wanted to ask of God when I got to the center of the labyrinth:

“Is Richard OK?”

I know he can’t be here.  I know he’s not here.  I know I can’t know where he is.  But…is he OK?  

That’s when God said DUH to me.  Not in a mean way, more in an “of course, sweetie, bless your heart” way.  It wasn’t a thunder thump of a DUH.  I was open to what was there for me to receive and the gift that I received was a simple, quiet knowledge that Richard was beyond all the hurt.  I was the one who was hurting, but I could set down my worry about him.  That’s the burden I left in the center of the labyrinth.  

On my exit journey, I did experience Union.  I felt empowered to do the work for which my soul was reaching.  Healing myself.  I smiled a lot on the way out.  

The story of the labyrinth came back to me this week because every time I’ve tried to write a word about anything, my mouth is filled with ashes and grief for my friend, Chris.  Last week, Chris’ beloved daughter died suddenly, leaving two beautiful and bright children whose hearts could be broken forever by this.  I worry for Chris because no parent should have to lose a child and Chris has had this happen to her twice.  Both of her daughters have gone before her and that’s not fair.  There are no words for what it is.  

In the autumn of 2005, when I was sunk in grief and learning to live in the world again, I got back from San Francisco and began to plan my solo trip to Paris.  Chris, Gleam, and the rest of our writer bunch cheered me on.  The week before my trip, we gathered together for my bon voyage dinner.  Chris presented me with a soft blue beret and scarf to keep me warm in Paris.  She had knitted it from the leftover yarn from her grandson’s blanket.  The son of the mother who is gone now.  The blanket, the beret, the boy–they’re here.  The beloved is gone.  

I hope that grief, even a grief this abysmal, can be like the labyrinth.  A path we all walk, in our way, that teaches us to receive what we need to receive and empowers us to continue the work for which our souls reach.  

If you pray, pray for Chris and Wayne and Amy and Charlie and Emma.  May they find some peace on this journey.  

Wordless Wednesday — Time to Grow

Thoughts on growing from three wise men who always maintained a connection to childhood:

 

I’m youth, I’m joy, I’m a little bird  that has broken out of the egg.
James M. Barrie 

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.

C. S. Lewis 

Being born in a duck yard does not matter, if only you are hatched from a swan’s egg.
Hans Christian Andersen 

Newly hatched baby gecko

Newly hatched baby gecko

 

I hope you grow today.  

 

Petanque

Today’s writing prompt was “If you had a time machine and you could return to one point in your life, where would you go and why?”

My first reaction to this game is always, “What’s the POINT?”  It’s silly to think that I could go back and change a major event in my life.  The whole skein unravels if I tug on one thread and I like where I am now.  Even with sadness that I’ve known, how could I push it away without pushing away the gladness?  Would I go back to that day in grad school when I first laid eyes on Fartbuster?  Or to the day I found out he was cheating?  Why?  If I weren’t that broken-hearted person I became because of loving him, I wouldn’t have been on the side of the highway that morning that I met Richard.  And he wouldn’t have had me beside him when he died.  I can’t have one without the other.  It’s all one life.

Maybe I could revisit a time in my life when I had a clean house and nine hours of sleep a night, but I would undo the tired joys of having two people who light up when they say “Mama!”

As I was pondering this, my friend Robin sent me a Wendell Berry poem:

No, no, there is no going back.
Less and less you are
that possibility you were.
More and more you have become
those lives and deaths
that have belonged to you.
You have become a sort of grave
containing much that was
and is no more in time, beloved
then, now, and always.
And so you have become a sort of tree
standing over the grave.
Now more than ever you can be
generous toward each day
that comes, young, to disappear
forever, and yet remain
unaging in the mind.
Every day you have less reason
not to give yourself away.

~ Wendell Berry ~

(The Sabbath Poems, 1993, I)

“Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away.”  So where would I go in my time machine?  I don’t want to undo anything, but there is one time I wish I had said Yes instead of No.  When I held myself close instead of being open.  A small sadness but one that has stuck with me.  Here’s when I would go now that I have less reason not to give myself away:

Paris.  December 28, 2005.  A chilly gray morning in a small park by the Eiffel Tower.  It was the third day of my solo trip to Paris and I had my feet under me.  I’d seen the view from the top of the Tour back when I was 21 and in Paris for the first time.  So that morning, as a widow waking up to the world again, I avoided the crowds and barkers near the base of the attraction and walked farther away.  To get some perspective.

My hands were jammed into the pockets of my black cashmere coat, the one I bought just for that trip so I could look more French and less American.  A red and yellow crushed velvet scarf warmed my throat.  Just a woman, walking in Paris.  On her own.

Boule.kugelI stopped to watch a group of elderly men playing petanque.  It’s like bocce or lawn bowling, but French.  There’s one small ball in the middle of the sandy court and each player throws larger metal balls at it in the hopes of tapping the “jack.”

They chided each other after bad throws.  Their laughter billowed in clouds in the frozen air.  Their heads were covered with black wool berets.  They rubbed their hands together to keep them warm and blew hot air into them while they waited turns.  They whooped like little boys and clapped at a masterful toss.  They argued among themselves over the close calls.  

They were busy enjoying each other and didn’t seem to mind that I was watching them.  I watched them for several minutes as my still feet grew colder and colder.  It was time to get back to walking before I froze in place.  I pulled my camera from my messenger bag and took a few snapshots of their game.

Then, in the way of French men who love all kinds of women, even the sad and dark, one of them signaled to me to come over.  I smiled broadly but didn’t come any closer.  Another grandpere turned to me with a friendly wave and invited me to join the game.  I laughed out a “Non, merci!”  

Then I continued my walk.  

That’s the moment I would return to.  I would say “Oui, s’il vous plait!  Merci!”  I would let myself be welcomed.  I would let myself be awkward and silly.  

I would give myself away.  Un petit cadeau.  

Here’s a gift for you to share with someone today.  

wendell berry tree with poem

 If you’d like to read other “time travel” stories, check them out over at My So-Called Glamorous Life.