travel – Page 2 – Bad Parenting 101

Atonement

It may have been a little unclear, but I was actually happily married until I posted Man Shopping a while back. Obviously, I did not paint a complete picture—I’m pretty sure everyone figured that out. Still, in the interest of domestic harmony, it probably wouldn’t hurt to throw a few compliments in my spouse’s direction right about now.

I would also like to mention my Undying Gratitude that he does not yet have his own blog. I hope he’s not in any hurry to get one, either. Over the years, I have unwittingly provided a great deal of fodder for retaliation.

What follows are just a few of the ways that he generously compensates for buying fröot juice on occasion.

Now that his parole papers are in order, he is the perfect travel companion.

That sounds WAY WORSE than it was. There must be two sorts of parole papers, because this was an INS thing; not a prison thing, as far as I know. Apparently, even if you are married to a US citizen, there is still a boatload of paperwork and a lot of wait time to endure before they let you come and go as you please–which is why I took my friend instead of my groom on our honeymoon.

Now that he has his paperwork in order, though, traveling with this guy is delightful. We are interested in many of the same sorts of places and adventures. More importantly, his attention span for lying around, traipsing about, or absorbing culture is almost exactly the same as mine. We can look and look and know precisely when to leave and get a tasty snack or go for a swim. Having traveled with a variety of other people, I know that this tidy alignment is not guaranteed. Not everyone knows when an intense experience on the streets of Phnom Penh might best be topped off with, say, a Richard Pryor movie and a little air conditioning.

I worried that children might mess with our travel groove, but now that they can tie their shoes and attend to their bowel movements independently, it is actually a joy to have them join us. Now, if only Mary Poppins could come along so we could have a date once in a while…

In truth, we might not be as well suited in terms of musical taste. But, over the years, we have learned that certain music should only be played in the others’ absence. Topping the audio blacklist: Bruce Springsteen, Cold Chisel, Joni Mitchell, and the soundtrack from Hair. I’ll let you sort out who likes which. Still, the fact remains that:

He appreciates good music, played well and played loudly.

Long before kids, my spouse worked in the audio industry, and consequently purchased a set of very, very nice speakers. He set up the living room so that the red velvet love seat was exactly centered between the speakers, facing them, with two more speakers behind. We put red light bulbs in the chandelier, turned the music up to 11, and voilà, the Red Room was born. The Red Room was awesome. It had a great run, too, though I suppose it caused its own demise by inadvertently producing our first kid. That was a particularly great night.

What followed were painful years spent listening to Sesame Street songs as quietly as possible, and struggling to find an inner zen-like happy place when Raffi songs were required. I’m surprised we survived that era.

Now that our oldest child is ten, however, with a blue streak in her hair and a pair of drumsticks to match, we have begun a practice of family karaoke night. I cannot begin to explain how charming it is to see our dainty seven-year-old belting out Hell’s Bells, while the spouse works the mixer and magically gets the lyrics to appear on the TV. He also wins for most enthusiastic musical performance. I might need to up my game a little, frankly.

Who knows, the full-fledged Red Room might even make a re-appearance, though I suspect we would have to cede some of the musical selection to the kids. There is probably a lot more Dev and Taylor Swift in our future than one might hope.

He has the ability to fix almost anything.

He has fixed the dryer, the dishwasher, the car, the shower…He is truly amazing. He can hook up any appliance, rewire the house, and frame a room.

There really isn’t anything amusing to say about this. It’s just awesome.

This has made me aim higher. I have been moved to unclog drains, mess around with the disposal, and even monkey with the color printer. Not always successfully, but still.

Now we get to the most important part.

On one particularly trying day, after many meltdowns, a lot of sass, and a series of eruptions of all sorts, one of my kids stuck a stuffed alligator in her pants at the dinner table. Since I was in a foul mood, I found the harmless incident much more annoying than necessary. My husband, on the other hand, took one thoughtful look and pronounced, “That’s a croc of shit.” It was impossible to stay grumpy.

This man has a knack for sanity-saving comments and for maintaining a sense of humor in the midst of parental hell.

Here is someone who suffered with me through one of the longest hours ever spent. We were watching a production of the Wizard of Oz for the second or third time–a production full of confused small people singing enthusiastically off-key, and mumbling endless and incomprehensible dialogue. To enhance our enjoyment, several lightly supervised boys in the row in front of us made fart noises and punched each other in the arm. Eyes politely fixed on the stage, my spouse leaned over and whispered: “Now we know the TRUE PRICE of unprotected sex.”

As I struggled to keep my composure, he mimed a samurai maneuver, slicing open his torso and extracting an organ or two. That gesture has become a very reassuring symbol of solidarity, and is especially helpful in situations where passing a flask might be frowned upon.

Thanks, pal. You can bring home a fifty pound bag of rice whenever you want.

Déjà View

This is the story of abandoning my family for two and a half weeks one summer to do something ridiculously selfish and wonderful. It is also about gelato, meltdowns, memory, and déjà vu. Have I mentioned that already?

Here’s how it started. A photography professor of mine leaned across the aisle during a lecture. She told me that she was taking a group of students to Italy during the summer. “You should come,” she said.

I laughed a little hysterically, to the point where the exchange became awkward, and we tuned back to the lecture.

Up until then, I’d only slept away from my four-year-old two nights of her entire little life, and those were spent on the floor of a friend’s house a couple blocks away–clutching my phone all night, just in case. And I’d never been away from my two-year-old. I had to lay down with her for an hour or two every night to get her to settle and go to sleep. Though I had weaned her at 18 months, she had taken to digging in my belly button as a replacement soothing mechanism. She picked at me with her tiny talons until I bled. Scar tissue, it turns out, is surprisingly sensitive, but I wasn’t sure how to wean a child from belly-digging.

There are probably a few people reading this that will roll their eyes and mutter in that superior way about sleep training. In my defense, I did try it with the first child. After several unsuccessful attempts on my own, after reading a pile of helpful books, I finally hired a sleep consultant, and tried again. My child cried and cried and cried and cried. She did not let up for naps; she did not let up for nights. She would doze off occasionally, only to wake up ten minutes later and start again. I let her cry and cry until there was a hole in my heart the size of Saskatchewan. So after THIRTY DAYS, I gave up. I didn’t even bother to try with kid #2. Now, how was I going to leave my spouse alone with such a mess?

With all of this in mind, I mentioned the Italy trip to my husband, so he could have a good laugh as well.

“Maybe you should go,” he said.

Best not to ask twice.

Strangely, despite the enormity of the impending separation, I didn’t freak out right away. I had childcare issues to resolve, packing crises, film and equipment to procure, and a research paper due upon departure. I worried about all of that instead.

Then I got on the plane…and cried for a couple of hours straight. Not demure little teardrops, either, but swollen, hiccoughing, snotty, sobbing. My apologies to the bewildered man seated beside me. Eventually regaining composure, I spent the rest of the flight listening to language lessons and, undoubtedly, murmuring along with the patient Italian lady in my headphones. Again, apologies.

The first couple of days on the ground were a blur of disoriented jet lag, a breathless march from church after church to museum after museum. Honestly, all I really remember about Florence is the gelato. Limone. Pesca. Caffè. Cioccolato. Shop after shop, fresh fruit piled high atop the frozen tubs, a little melty on the sides from the summer heat. In between scoops, I was having an out of body experience with some really fabulous twenty-year-olds. I was completely untethered.

On day four, we headed off to a monastery in Tuscany, where the landscape did something wholly unexpected: it became familiar.

I had already seen this place, on coffee tables, in ads, in my dreams. It looked exactly like it was supposed to look, and I was unable to see it as a foreign place. Even as I was wandering this countryside for the first time, it was already a memory, part of the landscape of my psyche.

For days, I couldn’t make a picture because all of the photographs had already been made; making another would be superfluous. I focused on the long, lazy dinners–completely unknown to the parents of small children–the carafes of house wine, the late night walks filled with fireflies, frogs, and stars. I focused on the warm camaraderie of young strangers, who asked questions such as, “What is childbirth like?” “What are your irrational fears?” “Who do you secretly, shamefully lust after?” Or, “If you had to eat someone here, who would it be?” Those questions don’t often come up at pre-school potlucks. It felt so good to contemplate anything besides bowel movements, discipline, and sleep deprivation.

Since I would never forgive myself if I went home empty camera’d, I figured it was time to shoot something. And because I couldn’t make a new picture of the landscape, I tried instead to make pictures that looked like what I could see in my head. I attempted to capture on film my memories that were not really memories, that were not really mine.

After I returned to the States, I stumbled upon a passage that put this sensation into words:

“The very colors of the place had seeped into my blood: just as Hampden, in subsequent years, would always present itself immediately to my imagination in a confused whirl of white and green and red, so the country house first appeared as a glorious blur of watercolors, of ivory and lapis blue, chestnut and burnt orange and gold, separating only gradually into the boundaries of remembered objects: the house, the sky, the maple trees. Even that day, there on the porch…it had the quality of a memory…” excerpted from The Secret History, by Donna Tartt

A very belated thank you to those of you who made that trip possible. I had a strange and wonderful time.

What happened to my jet-setting lifestyle?

Businesswoman Waiting on Airport Runway — Not me. Also, not my photo.

It recently occurred to me that I might never step onto a plane with perfectly coifed hair, a single leather bag, and jaw-dropping heels. Women like that never bump into anyone or drop anything. They are never running to make connections, a bit sweaty and wild-eyed, with plastic bags dangling from their forearms. They are never hit on the head with something poorly stowed in the overhead compartment.

No, they simply glide onto their flight, murmuring amiably with the attractive stranger seated beside them, perhaps gesturing with an adult beverage.

For years, I kept hoping I would evolve, so the moment of my epiphany hit me pretty hard. After boarding a cross-country flight not long ago, I heard myself hailing a flight attendant because I had forgotten my special back pillow in the airport lounge. Egads. Have I really gone straight from new, incompetent travel mom to pre-geriatric without stopping? That hardly seems fair.

For the record, I took ballet for years, followed by modern dance and a long stint of yoga. I can stand on one foot for an eternity. I can ride a bike, do an elbow stand, a head stand, and a cartwheel, though none of the above is advised after a glass of wine. So how come when I enter an airport I look as if I were cast in my own personal slapstick comedy?

I imagine this is largely due to a variety of personal failings, but there are a number of forces conspiring against me.

1. Security.

Though I have settled down considerably since my teenage years, authority figures continue to make me very, very nervous. I even get a little clammy when asked for ID in the grocery store, so imagine my demeanor as I go through security. No doubt this is why I am often the target of ‘random’ searches, and have had dangerous items like artichoke paste, Chapstick, and electrical tape seized. Thank goodness someone is looking out for wily people like me, though. You probably didn’t even know that world domination was possible, armed with soft lips and duct tape’s travel-sized cousin.

And where exactly are you supposed to put your ID and boarding passes between checkpoints? It’s nerve-wracking (and feels foolish) to stow them in my carry-on and let them roll through security without me. If I hold them, I’m afraid I’ll set them down and forget them when I tie my shoes and re-stow my laptop. Please don’t suggest pockets. Girl pockets are stupid. They are for show only. No decent wallet fits in a girl pants pocket, and even if you manage to squeeze the ID card in solo, it’s not like you can sit down afterwards.

2. The age of carry ons vs. the world’s tiniest bladder.

Is it possible to remain properly hydrated without anxiously boring a hole in the seatbelt sign, waiting to make a break for the toilet? Sure, I go before I board the plane, but everything about using the airport restroom is a nightmare. Oh, how I miss my bag-checking days. How can I squeeze into the ludicrously undersized stall and close the door without dropping something in the toilet? My latest trick is to set my backpack atop my top-heavy roll-y bag while dropping my trousers, only to topple the tower with my knees when I sit down. Everything scoots out from under the door, ramming some irritable/delayed/altitude-assed traveller on the shin. Nobody likes that. If you have ever seen a bride-to-be trying to use the facilities in full regalia, you might have some inkling of what is happening behind my door. But brides have attendants, so there the similarity ends. Not that I want an extra person in there with me; I just want the disabled stall. Or iron kidneys.

3. Annoying dietary restraints.

As a gluten-intolerant person unable to digest red meat, food is also an issue. I should mention that things are better these days, thank goodness, and I feel privileged to be able to purchase the $12 packet of hummus so I won’t starve en route. But that’s not going to help me when I land in South Dakota at 11 pm. I need to bring a loaf of my sad cardboard bread or a bag of rice cakes wherever I go, which is hard to squeeze into my carry-ons after laptop, camera, clothing, reading material, journal, toiletries, and bottle of water. My bags are so over-stuffed that looking for a set of headphones could take twenty minutes and a complete reorg. How do you cram stuff in so it is possible to access what you need–without revealing your entire personal life to the folks sandwiched on either side? Oh, well. They probably saw it all when my bag was searched at security. Nothing will surprise them now.

4. A bad back.

Never mind that I have a few good stories–including breaking up a fight and ‘exercising’ in an ‘unorthodox position.’ A bad back is a poor traveling companion, no matter how it happened. I simply can’t survive a long flight without my orthopedic pillow. Wish that thing deflated, or somehow collapsed to fit in one of my bags. No can do.

So here I am, dragging a suitcase, a backpack, my ID and boarding pass, a pillow, a bag of rice cakes, and usually a couple of kids as well. I’m probably looking for the restroom. Maybe you could think kind thoughts, and try not to stare.

Iceland Did Not Suck

I just got back from the trip of a lifetime, so you probably won’t feel all that sorry for me, despite the fact that I am waking up every day at 4 a.m. I toss and turn for 45 minutes or so–just long enough to really start annoying the spouse–then drag myself out of bed and stare at the wall, waiting for the kids to wake up. They have jet lag, too, so this doesn’t take nearly as long as one might hope.

Though cranky and somewhat incoherent, I do manage to muddle around somewhat successfully until about 4 p.m, at which point I give up and let the kids watch Project Runway reruns ad nauseum. Meanwhile, I push myself to multitask; I try to think about dinner magically appearing while simultaneously staring at the wall.

In a burst of inspiration, I have decided to try to use the extra comatose hours I now have each day to do a little writing. Staring at a blank computer screen is not that much of a stretch.

Let’s start with Iceland, then.

As you may have gathered from my post title, going there did not suck, and someday I will wow you with amazing stories about the days and nights I spent in Reykjavik and beyond. At the moment, though, I am still mourning my departure. In fact, in order to pry myself out of that country I had to make a list of the things I would NOT miss, which is all I am prepared to share at the moment.

THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT ICELAND

1. The midnight sun is unbelievably awesome but no love will be lost on the 4 a.m. sun. Reykjavik is nestled much closer to the North Pole than anywhere I have ever visited, and I was eagerly awaiting the impossibly long days. But, I did not fully comprehend that there would be no darkness at all, or how that would feel. The sun sets and sets for hours and hours, burning across the horizon line; teasing. There is a buzz of anticipation, like when you throw something up in the air, and you don’t see or hear it hit the ground. You keep looking, stomach in a lurch. Likewise, I kept waiting for the moment when a breath of shadow would bring relief and the capacity to sleep. I had a sleep mask. I had melatonin. I had ambien, but even when I dozed off, I simply could not continue to do so for a reasonable number of hours when all visual indications were counterintuitive. With my temporal clues turned on end, I was actually widest awake at all the wrong times. Of course, now that I am home, I am still a mess. It gets dark here, but I still lie wide awake, waiting for the sun to finally drift out of the Icelandic sky.

2. Taking a shower at our apartment in Reykjavik. Iceland has about 130 volcanoes. Consequently, they use the hot water and steam from geothermal hot springs to heat homes and generate power. There is absolutely no need for water heaters. That is fantastically green and fabulous, and there are some marvelous side effects: the pools, geysers, steaming landscape, and all. Meanwhile, the hot water from the tap smells overwhelmingly like sulphur. Imagine taking a shower in that. Steamy, rotten-eggy nastiness, streaming over your head. Possible upside: whence emerging from the bathroom after a lengthy spell, no one is quite sure if you have taken a particularly malodorous dump or merely washed your hair.

3. Vegetables? What vegetables? There is very little that grows in Iceland. No trees, for example. Or nearly none. This is the source of the only Icelandic joke, according to the internet. (i.e., “what do you do if you are lost in the forest in Iceland?” Stand up.) Visualize stark, stoic, volcanic peaks rising sharply out of lava fields like Scandinavian relatives. Throw in some glaciers. In the other direction, fjords, the ocean. There are sheep–lots of sheep–and a multitude of mullet-sporting horses, but no foliage. A chocolate bar is therefore less expensive–not cheap!–and much easier to find than an apple, for example. I spent $3 on a half-rotten onion. One dinner at a lovely, well-regarded, jaw-droppingly expensive restaurant, I was initially thrilled to find a single mangy-looking strawberry garnishing my plate. It tasted like dust.

Ah, the memories.

As the rest of the world is starting to stir, the remaining list items will have to wait for another day.

Another love letter to New York

There are a few things I truly dislike about New York, and I encountered most of them between 5:30 and 8:00 a.m. the day I arrived. Stubbornly anti-cab, I spent the bulk of that 150 minutes on frigid platforms, awaiting imaginary trains, and–much later–pressed into a rush-hour train car with my great piles of luggage, sandwiched firmly between Freakishly Annoying Man and Mr. Clearly Shat Himself. It is difficult for me to remember now, days later, but I had been so tired and hungry and cold that it seemed better to stay on that godforsaken train than battle the crowds and wait for the next one.

But then I suddenly emerged in sunny Brooklyn, around the corner from my old apartment. I am wearing my scarf and ready for an adventure.

I love this place more than is really possible.

Being here is just as much about being in the past as in the present, and if I close my eyes, I am right back there in Central Park on the last day of my first year of teaching. The Neville Brothers are there, too, and a lovely police officer asking us to please move a bit farther away so he won’t have to look into our coolers and confiscate our revelry.

My dear friend Alan is there, around the corner, throwing the key out the window and waiting for me to walk up. He has a new mix tape, a new book, and a new way to look at the world today.

I am riding the train to work in the morning, darting off to throw up in the garbage cans and race back to reclaim my seat–a subway miracle. I am wandering around the west village again, wondering why they keep reorganizing it so I can never find Arthur’s Tavern. I am running late, running for trains, running out of steam, running amok.

I am meeting acquaintances for drinks, unfamiliar with bars with no signage at all–only really there if you know where to look. I am ordering the wrong thing, I am wearing the wrong thing, I am likely saying the wrong thing, but it is ok because there is room for everyone.

Things have changed, of course. It’s no longer MY city. I can no longer eat bagels, and the Kentile Floor sign refuses to light up. But the city is still full, magical, and heart-stopping. There are flirty barista boys and Indian restaurants so bedazzled it is impossible to stand up. There are secret notes written on tickets; there is King Kong; there is the most exquisite pair of shoes I have ever laid eyes on. There is Alan Rickman just yards away, and row after row of Brownstones, huddled together against the elements. And there is a cafe playing an album I haven’t heard in so many years, resurfacing things long unfelt and unthought, seemingly forgotten. It is all still here.

I remember why I moved. I do. New York can be a desolate and unfriendly place, even soulless. A person has to expend so much energy looking out for herself that little remains to offer others.

Once safely nestled back on the West Coast, however, only the stardust lingers.

Oh, to go back. I can’t wait.

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