Oh, Yes I Did

And I'd do it again.

C'mon, I'll Race You to the Top

I developed an unexpected crush on the Eiffel Tower. I didn't expect it to sweep me off my feet the way it did. It was golden and lacy and mesmerizing. Every hour on the hour it twinkles, as if it's suffering from the most adorable, romantic case of goosebumps. If it's not on your bucket list already, I'd go ahead and add it now. It will not disappoint.

And if you're not sure when you'll get there, I'll help you cheat a little and give you a ride to the top. (No stair climbing required!)


Pretty amazing, no?

Prolly the Best $82.60 I Ever Spent

"I feel like starting a new life in France," Max said as we wandered the steep hillside town of Beynac on our first day. He said it, but I think we were all thinking it. The tiny cliffside town felt like another world, another time, and definitely another life. We spent the first half of our trip there and it was fantastic. Everywhere you turned, there was another castle or sweeping vista.  I'll let the photos do the rest of the talking.

There were other highlights, which I will write about when I have less jet lag and more chocolate. If you are anxious for it, send me a nap and a candy bar to speed things up.

Don't Worry, It's Not Contagious

The countdown to France is on. Ever since the fifteen minutes of frenzy when we bought our tickets, I've had the opposite of ADHD. I can focus only on France. Would you like France on your toast for breakfast? Toss me the France so I can change the channel. We're all out of France in the downstairs bathroom. When you go out, will you fill the car with France? Do you want a spoon or a France for that?

Ryan, the Travel Whisperer, has been reading the holy canon of Rick Steves, Frommers, and Fodors. He nudges me in bed while he's reading to share a tidbit, custom, or must-see. I find it mildly annoying, since I'm very busy, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the France.

At the bookstore, we picked up a french language learning program from the bargain bin. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea, but I'm still under-employed and the Rosetta Stone CDs cost 400 billion dollars. Our CDs only cost our dignity. As it turns out, the program we bought is nothing more than a very sadly written off-Broadway musical, featuring John and Jaqueline, two lovers brought together by their love of the french language. It wasn't completely worthless. We learned how to say "beige" in french. It's beige, pronounced bayzsh.

I've taken it upon myself to educate my family on french culture. I filled our Netflix queue with important french films, including The Pink Panther, Chocolat, The Phantom of the Opera, and The Bourne Trilogy.  I've encouraged everyone to temporarily stop shaving their legs and pits. At meal times, we serve french fries and Nutella. I've arranged french manicures for all of us the day before we leave.

The kids are excited, but not exactly suffering from my condition. They seem to be able to carry on with everyday tasks, such as completing a sentence that doesn't include France. I admit, I'm a little jealous. They seem to do it with such ease.

Lucy, a proud German, is disgusted. She ignores me when I greet her with a proper bonjour each morning, and rolls her eyes when I shake her paw with an enchanté. When she saw me reading My Life in France on the toilet, she promptly trotted out and took a crap on the living room carpet.

After this trip, I plan to return to my regular life and thoughts. I hope I will recognize them. My apologies if I've neglected any of your phone calls or Frances. Be patient with me, please. It's only a matter of France until this is over.

The Remedy is the Experience

Want to know the remedy for seeing too many gorgeous, ornate structures in Vienna? Visit the Hundertwassen Museum and home of modern artist Freidensreich Hundertwassen. Quirky, funky, abstract, and completely sincere, I loved wandering in his little world for a while. Even the floors aren't straight, but hilly wandering paths of brick. So cool.

His art and design made me think of someone else I know. One time my Max was looking out over the New York City skyline and sighed. "Why do all the lines have to be straight?" he wondered.

In the museum there is a quote by the artist: "The straight line is godless."

Seems like the hard questions are always answered in art.

(P.S. In personal news, I lost a big part of my job this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me in my new job search! Thank ya kindly.)

So American

When we were abroad (we love that line around our house, especially said in a snooty, self-absorbed, aristocratic tone), we frequently felt stupid.

Miscommunications because of our mono-lingual state were aplenty. There was the time our friend Tim thought he was ordering one ice cream cone, but was actually ordering one teeny tiny scoop of ice cream. Or the time Ryan was yelled at by the grocery checker because he needed to purchase a plastic bag for his items and had to figure it out via charades. Or the many occasions our friend Kristin apologized, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English," when what she meant was, "I'm sorry, I only speak English."

Communication in Europe was simplified by the fact that 83% of everyone we came in contact with knew English. And, yes, you can argue that English is the language of business and commerce and the future and that's why everybody learns it, etcetera, etcetera. BUT. It is extremely humbling to walk around in a foreign land, looking for rough translations of recognizable words, and trusting that if you can't figure them out, a random teenage passerby can likely help you out. You can't help but realize that while he spent his youth learning a small handful of languages, you spent your youth trying to save the princess at the end of Mario Brothers.  I'll say it now and I'll say it again, it is invaluable to spend some time as a minority.

Never in my life have I wanted to learn or speak another language. My two years of French in middle school consisted of the same five worksheets and the same five episodes of French in Action, the french equivalent of Sesame Street. I passed both years with flying colors and without even the ability to order soup du jour at a restaurant. And I was completely okay with that.

However, as I wandered around Warsaw, Vienna, and Prague, I was overwhelmed with the urge to know another language. I wanted to be able to communicate, to tell the man that he dropped his paper, to  overhear what the girls at the tram station were complaining about, to ask the old woman in the square where to find the best loaf of bread.

Since I didn't know another language, I felt myself offering the far lesser next best thing, a bad French and/or Italian accent. In a crowd, I'd find myself uttering, "Eskoosee, eskoosee," or sometimes, "par-doan, par-doan." Other times, we'd be wandering a cobble stoned street and I'd unknowingly be mouthing "shockolot" over and over again.

Forget the fact that we visited neither France nor Italy. There is no reasonable explanation for this.

Snap, Crackle, Pop!

In Vienna, at an evening concert, during a cello solo, I figured out my entire life. I sat in the beautiful, nearly-full hall and let the music wash over me. Earlier in the concert, I had been a little transfixed on the giant chandelier in the middle of the room. I had a great view of it from our spot on the front row of the cheap seat section. During some of the especially boisterous songs, the chandelier swayed a little and turned. I realized that it must be the sound waves moving it and I was self-pleased to have noticed such a clever detail.

I guess the sound waves were moving me too, because my thoughts started turning and turning, and as the cellist performed, I began to see everything with stunning clarity. Everything that has been bothering me about myself, my world, my circle of family and loved ones, was unraveled and untangled from my thoughts, released from my heartache, and completely solved. The ones that have no solution, and therefore don't require my personal worry regime, were released to fly away. Everything was going to be fine, I realized. Within myself. Without myself.

The cellist continued. He looked as if he were performing open heart surgery on his instrument, he was so thorough and delicate and ambitious. And my heart, the one that has felt torn and heavy for months, finally seemed to be weightless and whole again. It was amazing.

And then.

There was a sound. A crackle.

Then quiet.

Then another crackle.

It came from behind. I looked over my shoulder to see a blondish, twenty-something woman digging in her giant handbag. Craaaackle. Crackle. CRACKLY-CRACKLY-CRACKLE-CRACK! I had to wonder---did she not know that we were sitting in a concert? And furthermore, that I was in the middle of figuring out my entire life?

It was the sound of stiff paper bags that I figured were holding individual Viennese pastries or brownies or other delicious sustenance. Now, I'm sympathetic to the spontaneous need for a snack, especially when it involves Viennese pastries, so I decided to forgive and forget.

But then.

Crackly crack crack crackle crackle CRACKLE crack cracklecracklecracklecrackle.

I looked over my shoulder again. I watched her remove a handful of little paper bags from her purse. And what she started pulling out from them was not an assortment of petit fours, or even a delicious frankfurter, but a bunch of cheap, wooden toys to play with and show off to her friend, crackly, crackly, crackling all the while. I was aghast, which is the Viennese translation of the American English word "pissed."

In the meantime, the brilliant cellist at the opposite end of the hall, played and played while tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. And the handbag hedonist kept crackling her stupid paper bags. It was like dueling banjos, except for the lack of banjos.

I decided to pull out the Glare. Yeah, that's right, the Glare. Some of you probably didn't even know that I have a Glare, but that is because I use it with great discretion, only in moments of true need. (Because I am generally a non-confrontational pansy.) However, I summoned the Glare, affixed it to my face, and peered into the black soul of the woman with the cheap toys who was ruining the song, the concert, and also my entire life.

Crackly crack crack crackle crackle. Crackle CRACKLE crackly crackly crack.

Within twenty seconds, the Glare had done its work. She looked up, her eyes met mine, and she read my face. She looked down and within a quick crackle or two she was silent.

The Glare had done its work. I put it away as the cellist crescendoed into the final measures of the song. I tried to settle back into my Zen-like state. I tried to review all the beautiful truths I had discovered. I tried to remember all that I had moments before figured out.

But I couldn't. Everything was a tangle again. The song ended, the crowd erupted into applause, and the chandelier turned and swayed. My mind was still searching as one truth bobbed up to the surface, perfectly clear and brilliant. It was: This is what you get for buying the cheap seats.

I Interrupt This Blogging Slump...

...with happy photos. Many happy photos.

Like this one. This is Ollie and I'm in love with him. And don't accuse me of just falling for his looks; the boy has a great personality, too.

Here we are loaded in a minivan headed to New York City. That's James and DeDe along with my boys. James says it looks like I'm trying to show off my wedding ring in this picture.

We had an amazing few days together. We toured Washington DC, New York, as well as the mushroom capitol of the world. We spent most of our many hours of driving time playing "Hot Seat," asking each other deeply personal questions. 

Here's the boys club. Aren't they cute?

Let me now interrupt this blog post to point out a disturbing trend I've noticed. It seems that my last born offspring is slowly, inexplicably, morphing into Richard Nixon. What the?

If you have information regarding this problem, please let me know. I'm officially concerned.

Anyway, back to the trip. We had a great time and looked forward to it for so long, I'm completely sulky now that it's over.

It's impossible to tell but I promise it's true, minutes after this photo was taken, Ryan did an AMAZING toddler impression. It was an oscar-worthy performance. Even Ollie liked it.

Here's one last shot of me and my brother. I'd like you to know that I didn't pin him down, sit on him, or threaten to beat him up once during his visit. And likewise, he didn't call me a fat cow. We've really grown since we were nine and six.

It was so much fun being together. However, I've been thinking about it and I've determined that it was NOT long enough, and I demand a do-over!

Who's with me?

Would You Like to Come Over for Meatloaf and Four Hours of Vacation Photos?

Guess what? This one time Ryan and I went out to dinner with a couple and afterward they invited us to their house. When we got to their house, we toured it (very nice) and ended up in their home office where we somehow ended up looking through two (TWO!) of their tropical, exotic vacation photos.

At first, I didn't realize what was happening because I was genuinely interested, but a half-hour in I felt pure fight-or-flight panic. I can only handle so many photos of palm trees and exotic flowers from places I've never been. Not to mention all the swimsuit shots. Want to make things instantly awkward? Whip out photos of you and your spouse without real clothes on and show them to friendly acquaintances. Um......how do you respond to that? "Wow!" "Neato." "Huh." "Are you on steroids?"

The situation had snuck up on us. I realized that we were really in for it, AND WE WERE. I think it took two hours, but luckily it only felt like thirteen.

Hey! All this talk of vacation photos reminds me--I recently took a vacation! And it was wonderful! And wouldn't you like to see some photos?

Oh good!

Here are my parents at Valley Forge. Aren't they magnificent?

Here is a door at Valley Forge, at the George Washington Memorial Chapel. I really like this door. (Oh my gosh, she's showing us photos of DOORS! We're in for trouble!)

And here are my parents inside of a door. See? We've come full circle.

This is a little hut at Valley Forge. I wanted to go inside and ask Hansel and Gretel to come out and play with me.

This is during our private tour of the nation's capitol building. That's my nephew Alex in the middle leading the tour.

The cherry blossoms were in full splendor. Here's my mom and the boys in what was supposed to be a "silly" photo. For some reason, Max is uncooperative in photos these days. He's posing as the Statue of Liberty, which is not silly at all.

I thought it would be a good opportunity for a family photo, but again, Max was non-compliant and refused to smile at the camera. I'm emitting verbal threats through that gritted, half-smile.

He still didn't want to cooperate, so I vetoed him from the photo.

Hey, do you recognize this? It's Julia Child's kitchen! (Which is so strange. I had no idea she lived in a Smithsonian museum.)

How about one more look at those cherry blossoms before we leave this part of the vacation?

Alright, you've reached intermission. How are you feeling? ("Wow." "Neato." "Huh." "Are you on steroids crack?")

Let's begin the second week of vacation, shall we? Travel with me to enchanting Hilton Head Island, off the coast of South Carolina. This is the view that was greeting us from our hotel room.

And this is what we woke to the next morning.

If Ryan's career as a professor ever fails, he should pursue being a travel agent. He hooks us up with the best accommodations. And if you're not already using Priceline to book your hotel rooms, you should take a moment and kick yourself in the shin and/or locate a blunt object to pound your head against.

I'm going to spare you any awkward photos of us on the beach at this point. You're welcome.

One day, we took a day trip into Savannah, Georgia. I have wanted to go there for quite some time. I have a fascination with the South, born of Mark Twain novels, Flannery O'Connor short stories, and the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. I've always thought of the South as that girl you spot on the first day of school who looks completely different from anybody else you've ever met and exudes a coolness and swagger that makes you secretly want to be BFFs with her, even though you're pretty sure she's a little nuts. Or maybe even a lot nuts. But, still.

Savannah is enchanting. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Book lovers, prepare yourself. We happened upon the most amazing used bookstore. Cover your keyboard, lest your drool causes it to short out.

We all walked away with a found treasure, although I managed to find one of the only new, full-priced books to purchase. Some would call that a rare talent. Ryan would call that one of the only things he truly doesn't like about me.

We spent another day back on the beach and then bid farewell to this lovely slice of heaven. Bye, heaven! Love ya! 

We made our way up to sweet, sweet Charleston, South Carolina. Oh my, what a delightful city.

Here's Charleston's old super-creepy prison. Most people died 2-3 months into their sentence because the conditions inside were so poor. I told Max I was going to send him there if he didn't start smiling in photos.

Didn't work.

We wanted to stay and eat more fried green tomatoes, Coca-Cola chicken, coconut cream pie, and banana pudding, but we had to say goodbye.

Congratulations! You've made it to the end of my vacation photos! Thanks for your attention. It really wasn't so painful, was it?

Hello?

{Ahem} Hello?

Is anybody there?