Tag Archives: adventure

How to Travel With a Shattered Heart

My friend has set off on a big adventure this week–her first real vacation after her divorce. She needed a teensy boost from the Cool Kids today, so we got on a chat thread. She had made it through all the logistics and teen dramaz and such and had gotten the whole crowd to their destination. Time to START HAVING FUN, right?

That’s when the sad whalloped her. She wrote, “Ashley, I don’t know how you did Paris after Richard. I really, really don’t.”

I told her the truth: “I cried every day of that trip, but that’s not the part I remember now.”

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That week in Paris on my own was my first trip to Europe without my darling. I had to take a Valium and a deep red wine for dinner to make it through the flight. I hid in the bathtub as soon as I got to my hotel. I cried when I unpacked my clothes because there were so many extra drawers and hangers.

Richard had always been the one to plan the flights and hotels. I just told him where I wanted to go and he made the logistics happen.

Richard held my hand whenever the plane took off.

Richard did all the metric conversions. I once told a guy at the ski rental place that I was 1.2 meters tall and weighed 700 kilograms because I did the math wrong. Before we left on that ski trip to Austria, I had looked at a map of the Alps and commented, “3000 feet? That’s not that high. North Carolina has mountains almost that high.” He explained that we were going to 3000 meters and that was quite different from North Carolina. Like permafrost and thin oxygen kind of high. Then there was that one time in Luxembourg when I ordered myself some wine with dinner…750ml of wine. So yeah, he handled the metric system.

Richard was in charge of safety when we traveled. There was that time he fought off a pickpocket in Amsterdam. And the time I jumped on the wrong train in Belgium so he jumped with me.

He read the maps and read the time tables and read the street signs.

I wasn’t just dead weight on our adventures. I was in charge of the itinerary, cultural enrichment, translations, communications, and food. Without me, he wouldn’t have known the story of why Athens was named for Athena instead of Poseidon. He wouldn’t have learned that he kind of liked modern art. He wouldn’t have known why people place small smooth stones on graves in a Jewish cemetery. I got him to try Indonesian rijsstafel and pickels on cheddar cheese sandwiches and retsina (don’t try that last one–tastes like Pine Sol). We made a great team.

So yeah, how did I manage that first trip on my own?

I remembered that, as much as Richard had done for me, I could still do it all for myself. I applied the lessons he had taught me. I shopped ticket prices and left on Christmas night to save money. I booked a nicer hotel than he would have, so I would feel safe and have a concierge to answer my questions. I studied the Metro map and learned the major streets. I checked my landmarks, like Sacre Coeur. I learned how to hail a cab and get over the expense. I thought about my own safety and skipped crowds at night. I bought a phone card so I could call home when I got lonely.

I treated myself because he wasn’t there to delight me. I learned to say, “je voudrais une crepe avec chocolate et banana” or something like that and then I ate a chocolate and banana crepe for lunch on the sidewalk. I reserved a ticket to see Swan Lake at the National Opera (and I fell asleep during part of the first act). I bought splits of champagne at Printemps food halls. I took a Segway tour of the sites (and drove the dang thing off a six inch curb into traffic while I was admiring a street sign for a place where Hemingway had lived). I watched “Gone With the Wind” dubbed into French and ordered a giant plate of French french fries for dinner in my room. I gave myself a pound of candied orange peels dipped in dark chocolate–he had always remembered that was my favorite.

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I still cried under the fluffy down duvet on my lonely bed at night, but I was crying in Paris, dammit.

So to my friend, when you are off on an adventure and realize that you are alone–here’s what I hope you will remember. That YOU who had all the good times with that other person? That you is still in there. That you still likes chocolate orange peel and Gone With the Wind. That you still enjoys wearing a killer pair of boots and strutting down a cobblestone sidewalk. That you will dawdle on a park bench in the sun. That you will ask a stranger to take your picture. That you will buy a necklace shaped like a star to remind yourself to shine.

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It’s true–that you will stand in front of Rodin’s “The Kiss” and you will feel your heart seize with grief for the kiss that will never be again.

Then you will realize that you have another first kiss coming.

And that you that is still in there, that you that has gotten you through every awful thing in your past, that you will think of your future, and smile.

The Memory Keeper

It’s pouring tonight and I can’t sleep, so I took my magical notebook and sat by the tree to listen to the rain.

Fred and Ginger, Innsbruck Austria

Fred and Ginger, Innsbruck Austria

This adorable pair smiled down from the top of the tree. Their names are Fred and Ginger (because they make such an elegant pair) and I bought them many years ago on a rainy night like tonight in Innsbruck, Austria. I chose them for their clumping big feet and his crooked smile. They are the hopelessly dorky and clumsy embodiment of how I felt when I went skiing in Austria. We were really there for Richard, who was a double black diamond, ski backwards down the mountain with no poles kind of athlete. I have been skiing exactly twice in my life: for the first time on a fraternity trip to Boone, NC and for the second time on the Stubaier Glacier 11,000 feet above Innsbruck….where they had the Olympics. Let’s just say it was inelegant. I prefer sports that include oxygen.

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Jumping Johannes, Salzburg Austria

This is Johannes, also from Austria. One year, I got a stomach bug on our Christmas trip. I was sick as a dog from Griffin to Gay to Atlanta to DC to Berlin to Salzburg. I crashed into the clean white sheets of a hotel room. The white plaster walls glowed with Teutonic cleanliness and order. I slept for a few hours and when I woke, Richard had returned from his explorations with a dinner from a schnitzel cart owned by a Bosnian family. He brought me soft cheese, flatbread still warm from the oven and an ice cold Diet Coke. I ate a bite and came alive again. The next morning, we wandered into a church square just in time to hear the carillon play “Silent Night.” The whole square stopped and listened as the notes rang out across the cold, clear air. That carol was written in Salzburg. The joy that I felt in that moment, feeling alive again after all that sickness, comes back to me when I see Johannes. I bought him in that square.

 

A pilot from Munich, a bell from Salzburg, Pere Noel from Paris

A pilot from Munich, a bell from Salzburg, Pere Noel from Paris

On that same day in Salzburg, we were exploring a part of the city wall next to the cemetary where Mozart’s wife is buried. We rested in little turret and discovered a bell hanging there. I asked Richard to take my picture pretending to ring the bell. And you can guess what happened next. I tugged just a little too hard and the damn thing went CLANGALANGALANG across the city. Oops. So I bought that little beaded silver bell to remember that moment.

And yes, there’s a black velvet Elvis painting on the tree, too. I found him in Maine, on our last trip together. My family has a black velvet Elvis that makes the rounds every few years at Christmas. G got him last year!

The Queen of the Ball, Munich Germany. The Frog Prince, New Orleans. The Cat King, Luxembourg.

The Queen of the Ball, Munich Germany. The Frog Prince, New Orleans. The Cat King, Luxembourg.

This elephant? She’s my favorite on the whole tree, of the hundreds of stories I remember every year. I found her in a shop in Munich and it was love at first sight. She was part of a pair, with a bull elephant in white tie and tails. I couldn’t afford both–she was almost $50. Richard used to tease me about my ornament mania as I collected them on trips. I knew he would give me hell if he saw how much this one cost. I gave him hell about smoking–but on this cold night, I said, “Why don’t you go outside and have a cigarette while I finish up here?” The owner of the shop spoke beautiful English. As soon as he was out the door, we shared a good laugh at men and the excuses she had heard to get them outside. I treasure this belle of the ball because she is so happy to be herself, so sure of her beauty, not in spite of but BECAUSE she is an elephant.

Putting her with the Frog Prince and the Cat King is new this year. I like it. With my old fake tree, I bent limbs and made her a little stage of her own. With a real tree, I had to find a sturdy limb to hold her, up high and off to the side in case Carlos or the cats brought the tree crashing down.

Grandmama Eunice's bell. Pink sand from Bermuda. A Star of David from Prague.

Grandmama Eunice’s bell. Pink sand from Bermuda. A Star of David from Prague. Scots Presbyterian from Charleston SC.

That blue glass bell? Daddy was warned not to touch it when he was a boy because it was old then. The ceramic Santa is from Paris. He always hangs sideways and seems a little judgy. I bought the Star of David in Prague to remember how I was moved to tears in the empty synagogues of the Jewish Quarter. Not every memory on the tree is a happy time. I have an angel that I bought in the gift shop of Johns Hopkins, and a little nest of robin eggs that reminds me of a quilt that hung on the wall in the chemo room there. It had the line from Dickinson:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

 

That tiny white church near the top? It’s another memory that needed to be remembered, not for joy, but for solemnity. It’s one of the first ornaments I collected–when Fartbuster and I went to Charleston, South Carolina for our honeymoon. The church is Scots Presbyterian. During the Civil War, the church donated its bells to be melted down and turned into ammunition. After the devastation of the war, they decided to leave the bell towers empty as a silent reminder of all that had been lost. A quiet memory.

Well. I could go on. But it’s after 1 a.m. and tomorrow is a busy day.

May the memories that visit you at this time be quiet ones, filled with reminders about how wide the world is, and how welcome you are to explore it.

She Pushed Me

10712475_10204160137356691_7861090945178605088_o“Hey, she pushed me!”

“Ashley’s using my hairbrush!”

“STOP IT!”

“Get OFF of me!”

That’s how my sister and I talked to each other when we were growing up–the way sisters do. Now that I’m back home from a fantastic Adventure Girls trip to San Francisco, I’d like to report that my sister pushed me. AGAIN. A couple of times.

1782499_10204160137556696_6295599819005434958_oMonday night, she pushed me out of a cable car. It was her idea to take a nighttime cable car trip to see the city lights in the first place. We got on the Powell Mason (or Powell Hyde? I dunno, she’s the one with the sense of direction) and rode up and over the hills of San Francisco. From one end of the line to the other. When the car was crowded, we stood inside the glassed compartment. But at the first chance, we got some seats out in the open air. Vivi kicked her feet against the side of the seat and stuck her boots out into the wind. I sat there next to her, ready to grab her by the collar in case of sudden stops, untoward jostling or…earthquake.

Gay said, “Come stand on the running board and hang on.”

Me? With my sensible purse and imperious shelf of matronly bosom? Why, I don’t even color my hair anymore and I am wearing Dr. Scholl’s shoes for goodness sake.

But she pushed me.

I hung my ass out in the wind and it was GREAT. I couldn’t stop grinning as we sailed up and over, down and around all those wonderful hills. When I looked out over the Transamerica Pyramid all lit up in orange for the Giants’ World Series win, I got that deep seated feeling of joy in my heart–that place where my sense of adventure lives. All because my sister gave me a little push.

And Vivi? Vivi got to see her mama being bold. She got to see two women having fun in the wide world.

My big sister isn’t one for limits. I had decided to change my grand plan of renting a car and taking Vivi to see the redwoods on our last day. It was just too much hassle. Instead, we rented a tandem bike and set off around the marina. Gay went off to her surgical conference to earn some CME hours.

Then right when Vivi and I were getting saddle sore, I get a text: “Want to rent a car?”  By the time we got back to the house, Gay had us a car and a Plan. We took off over the Golden Gate (and Lynrd Skynrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” happened to be playing on the radio) and up into the woods. Muir Woods, to be exact.

10712561_10204160136796677_596909291184890860_oI would have been happy to walk along the wooden boardwalk under the giant sequoias, but Gay decided–in her flipflops–that we should go for a little hike. We went up to the top of the valley on the Canopy trail so we could look down from the tops of the giants. I never thought I would be teetering on the edge of a gorge filled with ancient redwoods, but my sister pushed me and there I was.

We wanted to go to the beach–she found Muir Beach. Vivi played in the cold water of the Pacific for the first time. I picked up striated rocks I had never seen before and old shells tumbled by the sandy waves. 10623298_10204160136516670_2485446281195265282_oWe had to leave before sunset to get the car back, but Gay was already ruminating. “Next time, we come PREPARED to hike! We’ll stay until sunset! We’ll…”

She busted it back to San Francisco through evening traffic. Didn’t even need the GPS for directions. I was ready to get Vivi back to the apartment. Gay assured me there was time for one detour.

Our route was so circuitous that I was sure she had gotten lost. Then she turns up a hill so high that it looked like a wall in front of us. She starts giggling. “Ready?”

Ummm…for WHAT?

fixed gay darkI couldn’t even BREATHE. She floored that little Kia and we shot straight up into the air. Both of us leaned forward instinctively, as if we could urge the car up that precarious angle. Gay had her face pressed so close to the windshield, I snorted, “You look like Aunt Eula!” That got us tickled.

When we made it to the top, she slowed to a crawl so I could look out across the vista of lights and down into the bay. The three of us paused there in that moment, the whole world spread out below us. Vivi squealed from the back seat, “Whoa!” when she had been getting whiny about dinner just seconds earlier. Aunt Gay said, “See, Vivi? You gotta trust me!”

She hit the gas and pushed us over the edge of the hill. It was so steep and dark, it actually looked like the road had disappeared beneath us and we might sail out straight to Alcatraz. We hurtled down Taylor Street as the lights of the city whizzed by our windows. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I couldn’t quit clapping like the Mama in “Nutty Professor”–Herc-a-LES, Hercales!

Gay popped me on the leg with the back of the hand and asked, “When are YOU going to learn to trust me?”

I trust her. My sister pushes me, and I let her, because I know she’s also the one who would never let me fall.

Thanks, Gay. I love you.

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They’ve Seen My Boobs In Greece

Sunbathing in Crete

Soaking up the sun

Now THAT’S how you write a title.

We’ve been swimming a lot this summer because Carlos is tall enough to touch the bottom of the shallow end on his tippy toes.  Vivi is a fish.  Finally, an hour in the pool isn’t a constant vigil to make sure no one dies.  I can even sit in the inflatable recliner while they entertain themselves.  And if a nice glass of wine sits in the cup holder on that recliner, who am I to say no?

Last week, Vivi wanted to play horse and pull me around by my foot while I rode in my “carriage.”  Again, who am I to crush her dreams?  As she towed me around the deep end, the water kept flipping the loose top of my swimsuit up over my belly.  And I kept jerking it down.  The first time it happened, I felt a real moment of panic for a second–my BELLY was out in the OPEN.  Every time the pale wobbly skin peeked out, I rushed to cover it back up.

Imagine the horror.  My very own skin, exposed.  In front of…my children?  In…my own pool? Right out there…behind an eight-foot privacy fence?

What the hell?

Seriously…what the hell was I ashamed of in my own space among people who have actually occupied that belly?  What do I have to hide?

For the 10 years that I was with Fartbuster, I didn’t put on a swimsuit.  Not even in my dad’s pool.  His dad’s pool.  No trips to the beach.  No afternoons at our neighborhood pool.  I felt like I was too hideously fat to be able to wear a suit.  For Pete’s sake…I wore like a FOURTEEN.  Monster.

As soon as we split up, that summer, I put on a raggedy old black one-piece and crept into Daddy and Gay’s pool.  By myself.  And I stayed under the surface.  It felt great.  Cool water on a hot July day.  It also felt great to reclaim that part of my life.

I got used to the feel of the sun on my skin again.  There was more skin there than there had been in my youth, but it was MY skin and I got OK with it again.

A few summers passed in conservative black one pieces.  Sturdy suits.  No frippery, all function.

Then along came Greece.  Richard and I had been talking about it for a while.  He knew it had been #1 on my bucket list since I was a girl.  Flights got cheap, the vacation days built up.  We decided to go for it in the summer of 2003.  Our first destination was Crete for some beach time and archaeology.

Do you know what people do on the beaches in Greece?  They avoid tan lines.  They are right up there with Brasilians in their hatred of tan lines.

I didn’t think I could go the Full Monty, but I was willing to take The Girls out for a spin. Unfortunately, you can’t just put the top down when you’re wearing a sturdy one-piece.  This adventure called for a BIKINI.  Yipes.  Because at this point in my life, I was still wearing a FOURTEEN.  And Richard loved me nonetheless, go figure.  Luckily, by that late date, the tankini had been invented.  I got myself one (and some SPF 80 sunscreen for the girls) and off we went to Greece.

I slid into my nautical striped tankini in the hotel outside Xania then made my way down to the water.  It was a Tuesday morning, not crowded at all, but I was still nervous about the unveiling.

Here’s what I learned on that beach.  We Americans think that only the hot people sunbathe topless.  Nope.  Everybody does it. Y’mom and them.  Errabody.  I looked to my left and there sat a German couple in their 70s, letting it all hang out.  Not even sitting on a towel.  To my right, another pair, maybe Dutch, maybe 50ish.  Flapping in the wind.  I was The Hottie on that beach…and it didn’t matter.

I wiggled out of that top and slapped some SPF80 on The Girls.  I tried to act like it wasn’t the first time they had seen the light of day since the 1970s.  After a while, after I realized that nobody gave a damn what my boobs looked like or which way they were heading, I forgot all about it and just had a lovely day at the beach.

With no tan lines.

I discovered that, the less swimsuit I wore, the more comfortable I felt with my body.  Even a few days later on the weekend, when the real hotties showed up, I was OK. I let the girls out to play in Crete, Santorini, Mykonos.  The Greek Islands Boob Tour of 2003.  We should have sold t-shirts but no one would have worn them.  A few weeks after we returned, I went to the beach in Maryland with my brother and his family and I remember thinking, “GAH!  This suit is so hot!  Let me outta here!”

So how did I end up 10 years later, hastily hiding my white belly from my children in the safety of my own backyard?

Well, that’s a story for the therapist’s couch.  Regardless, we’ve been swimming so much this summer that my old Mom Suits have begun to disintegrate.  That means…it’s time to buy a swimsuit.  The other day, I read a story by Jenny Trout called “I Wore a Bikini and Nothing Happened.” It’s an entertaining tale with a surprise ending–no one was struck blind and the sky did not rain toads when she dared to wear a bikini in public.  Imagine that!

I did imagine that.  My bikini came in the mail today.

GULP.

I’m going to put on a little Greek music, throw some lamb on the grill, and see if I can’t recapture some of that woman who let it all hang out in 2003. I apologize in advance for any toads that rain from the sky!

Let Her Go

Let Her Go.

Let Her Go.

I went into Vivi’s room after she was asleep to pull the covers up on her shoulder and tuck Pengy under her chin.  I pushed a curl behind her ear.  So tiny, this girl.  The girl who is already asking me how old she needs to be before she can go to camp.  It’s becoming real to me, after all these years of watching her grow in baby steps–there will come a day when she goes off on an adventure without me.  There will come a night when she falls asleep, with Pengy tucked under her chin, and I will be somewhere far away.  She already wants to go.  And I will let her go.

All this camp talk got stirred up because Vivi and I took a little road trip this weekend to deliver our friend Abigail to three weeks of camp at the Duke TIP program.  Duke’s Talent Identification Program is a place for gifted teens to find their tribe.  Abigail’s mother Rachel and I met at a similar program–Governor’s Honors–back in the summer of 1985.  Rachel is one of the Elephant Painters.  When she found herself trapped by an impossible scheduling conflict, I jumped at the chance to take Abigail on this adventure.

I adore Abigail because she’s funny.  When I asked her if the students were allowed to leave campus, she said, “Oh, no.  They freak out if we even talk to a stranger walking by on the sidewalk.  They’re real worried about…wandering prodigies, I guess.”  Within 30 seconds, she and I had turned this into an improvisation skit.  I growled in my best police radio static voice “BOLO, we got a 1600 SAT on the loose.  Subject was last seen wearing a Doctor Who shirt and skinny jeans.”

That’s the kind of kid Abigail is.  Love.  Her.

But four hours in the car with a wandering prodigy and a seven year old tornado required some compromise, especially since some dumbass (ahem…me) has recently given Vivi the “Frozen” soundtrack.  So we came to an agreement–Abigail and I got to talk about books and music and angst and TV and movies and poems and nerves and books again for 15 minutes.  After our time was up, we listened to Vivi belt out “For the First Time in Forever.”  Then Vivi went back to reading her book for another 15 minutes while Abigail tried to convince me that Benedict Cumberbatch really is the most beautiful creature in the world and I tried to get her to admit that he looks like his parents were first cousins.  Then Vivi sang “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”  We talked about life in the small town and life in the big city.  Abigail told me that she was nervous about her time at camp.  I told her that I had felt the same way before GHP.  We talked about anxiety and coping and remembering that EVERYONE feels that way in a new situation.  Then we hit the Play button and Vivi sang “Let It Go,” complete with dramatic flourishes and hand gestures.

It’s time to see what I can do
To test the limits and break through
No right, no wrong, no rules for me I’m free!

Let it go, let it go
I am one with the wind and sky
Let it go, let it go
You’ll never see me cry!

We stopped at a roadside peach stand in North Carolina so I could introduce Abigail to the wonders of Blenheim ginger ale. As we stretched our legs with a browse around the peanut brittle, peach cider, and fireworks, all three of us were humming “Let It Go.”  Abigail bemoaned, “I can’t show up to a COLLEGE singing THAT SONG.”  She feared that humming a Disney song might give her roommate the wrong impression, a faux pas that no number of Marvel Comics references could erase.  Lose all her cool points.

Remember that feeling?  That overwhelming excitement about joining a totally new group of people to do a totally new thing?  The chance to redefine, putting forth a curated version of your best self?  I do.  But the curated version of myself that I present to others and my authentic self have gotten a lot closer together over the years.

It’s funny how some distance
Makes everything seem small
And the fears that once controlled me
Can’t get to me at all!

The bottle opener for the ginger ales was mounted by the exit door.  I popped mine in the curve and with a twist of the wrist, the cap fell down into the receptacle.  I stepped aside so Abigail could open hers.

She froze. “I…don’t…know…how that thing works!”  She was truly flummoxed.

I said, “And they let you into GIFTED CAMP?  Girl, please.”  I talked her through it and she got the top off her Blenheim.  We stood there in the hot parking lot and each took a long slug of spicy ginger ale.  And winced.  Blenheim is HOT.  She loved it.  It made me so happy to introduce her to something new, to be part of her world getting a little larger.  To show her that it’s not the end of the world when you have to admit you don’t know something.

Let it go, let it go
And I’ll rise like the break of dawn
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone!

After Abigail got settled in her dorm room with her new roommate, Vivi and I said our goodbyes and headed back to the car.  I took Vivi’s hand and said, “I’m a little sad that we have to leave.”  Vivi, in her second grade (almost) wisdom, said, “Well, we got her to the right place, got her the right kinds of snacks, put all her clothes on hangers, met her roommate, got them a trash can…now we have to leave so she can do the rest herself.”

“You’re exactly right, Viv.  I guess I’m partly sad because it makes me think about the day when you’ll go off to camp and I’ll have to leave you to have your own adventures.”

She squeezed my hand.  And started asking how many more years until she can go to camp just like Abigail.

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What’s #1 On Your List?

go do them

Yep.

You should.

And you CAN!

What’s the number one thing on your bucket list?  Mine used to be “Be someone’s mother.”  Check!  “Go skydiving.”  Check.  “Sail the Greek Islands.”  Kinda Check (it wasn’t a sail boat!).  Right now, my number one adventure dream is to see the Northern Lights, preferably from one of those glass igloos in Finland.

I’ve learned four essential principles for crafting a bucket list over the last 13 years.  Click on this sweet kitten in a bucket to go over to my post at Work It, Mom! and get to the bottom of the bucket!

bucket kitty

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