Of Eleventh Grade again

Not very often one gets to go back to high school in a good way.  I for one, hated high school.  I dropped out of at least three.  Was invited to not return to Clearwater Central Catholic School.  Probably best that we parted ways.

Fast forward 44 years.  I am at a business meeting in Phoenix.  I am meeting a woman that I have seen once in 30 years.  She was my disco buddy in the seventies.  She knew how to dance.  I knew how to hang around her.  She was all grace and style, I was all hang around her.  But, I had a car.  So a new friendship was born of admiration and motorization.  Two catholic gals on the town.

I can tell you what beautiful looks like to me, and it may not be what it looks like to you.  My friend Karisa had the coal black hair with curls of Sophia Loren and a shape like her as well.  She had her Spanish mother's eyes and her Italian father's verve.  She was talented in acting and in movement.  I was good at geometry and reading.

Our young relationship was shrouded in family controversies.  We retreated as all young teen do, into our teen world of music and sharing.  Then, she married and moved away.  I went to school, and school and school.

I remember her writing about a house and marriage.  I had no clue.  I was pursuing a Master Degree and working at the All Important Legislature of Florida.  We disconnected.

Then, I had a conference in Phoenix.  I called her and she made time for me.  She was as delightful and warming and fun as I had remembered.

This is not a poignant blog.  This is a reminder to say that old connections can be refreshed.  Old friendships still live.  What a wonderful evening we had today.  We shared food and stories and walked the cactus walk.  She told me of birds and cactus and the feeders and the moon.

We aren't in high school any more, but for a few hours, we were that young and that beautiful.  We definitely will meet again.

god

I am the kind of mother who touched her children every night and prayed to god in heaven to make them smarter, braver, stronger, and better than the way they were the day before.

I asked that they be kind and direct and courteous and love their parents.

I asked to make them better at what they love and put music in their hearts in the morning.

I prayed to make me a better mother, but if only one prayer can be answered, I wanted god to care for them.

I am the kind of mother that wept when they failed.

I shook when they are on stage and I gasped when the spaces of breath are too long.

I am the kind of mother who waited patiently for them to figure out the math.

I am the kind of mother who said wipe it up, I’ll make more.  It doesn’t matter.  Breathe.

I am the kind of mother who explained boys don’t get it as fast as girls and that the pamphlet forgot to say ask permission to touch anyone under any circumstances.

I am the kind of mother who said you can save yourself for marriage.  It is always an option.

I am the kind of mother who said you will need your brother one day don’t talk to him like that.

I am the kind of mother who cries secretly, fearing their future and praying I did enough.

of Bagheria Sicily, Italy

On our second to last day, we decide to follow a tour book.  Lonely Planet to be exact.  And since it is close and we have no other plans, we head out to the train station and catch a bus to Bagheria, Sicily.

Sounds rather exotic.  It is not.  It is 3 kilometers from the train station.  The signs direct you to the longest path possible, while the street turns right and would take you directly to the piazza of art on the bay.  This is the one thing to see in Bagheria.

Since we followed the signs, we walked 3 kilometers out of the way.  That is a lot of steps, in case you want to know.

fishing boats of Sicily

The signs eventually say Aspra, which is apparently the city within the City of Bagheria.  We walk though neighborhoods, rich and poor.  Sometimes feeling uneasy, sometimes bored.  Then, we pass a tower and the remnants of a the villa of a woman who died in 1118 and whose tomb is still maintained by the local officials.  The gardens have seen better days and the walls are crumbling around them.

The most interesting part of this trip is how the three of us handle the loser choice that was made to come here.  First, there was not much blame, other than it was my choice.  Second, we all judged the neighborhoods by the trash in the street.  Third, when the scenery is the same the entire walk, people get bored.  Fourth, when the walk is long, people bitch.  Uphill, downhill, whining.  Then, we see the sea!

This is Not Bagheria but I needed a picture so this is one of Palermo Bay

I have to commend my travel companions.  For they could have trashed me badly for picking something out of the book.  But they didn't.  They did make many comments on the scenery and the trash and the dog poop, which I might add is everywhere in large cities in Europe.

Watch where you step.  Watch how you hold your bag.  Words of wisdom no matter where you travel.

Anyway, we go  to the coast finally, and it is beautiful.  If we had not already seen the Amalfi Coast, it would be very beautiful.  But we had.  So ten minutes in, the guys are ready to leave, commenting on the trash in the water on the "beach" of rocks.  Trash is very apparent when there is no distraction...

Another metaphor for life...

And now home to cook.  We have spaghetti from egg noodles that are "fresh" and new sauce from the Carrefour.  We have antipasta of salami, buffalo mozzarella and olives.  We have fresh bread and olive oil.  We have wine and most important, we have the digestive.

Licorice liquor.  It is is like licorice jet fuel.  And we  love the two sips.  We leave the half bottle behind as a token of our affection for the island. And we take the recipe book of Sicily so that we can make new memories at home.

Ciao Ciao Palermo and Bagheria.  Ciao Ciao!

of returning to work and things you wish you didn't have to do and not wanting to think about it too soon

The last day in Palermo brings great angst.  Last night, I dreamt of being back at work and having to tell my boss something he might perceive as unpleasant.  It was intermittently interrupted by loud music and this weird electrical sound outside my window.  But I digress.  (turns out the local primary school is outside my window and the wind instruments are playing.)

Today, we toured the Teatro Massimo, the third largest theatre in all of Europe.  To my great disappointment, it was built in honor of Umberto Primo, who has a statute gracing every harbor everywhere,  His statute here is large and prominent, surrounded by arches of the porto and by the sea.  Imagine my surprise to hear that he is displeased by the great theatre built for him.  He says Palermo is nothing and does not deserve such a theatre, and he never sets foot inside.

you truly have to be here to appreciate the immenseness

this is the ceiling and the painting are window that open to increase accoustics

Poor Umberto Primo.  For such a lucky man of war, he was an unlucky man of taste.  But fortunately, Al Capone did step inside.  Godfather III was filmed in the theatre.  In Spite of either of these two, the theatre is amazing.  Stepping inside is incredible and now that I know the King's box is available ( Umberto made it a public affair), I will not hesitate to try and book the best.  We have missed the opera, ballet, and other performing arts all by a day.  Such a poor planner I am.  And there are no last minute stand up seats in these theatres.  No these are for the noble, or at least those who can pay.

And in the boys will always be boys category, there is this duo who find the visual behind them hilarious.  It doesn't matter, 28 or 68, they all still have boyish humor!  Enough said on that!

We take off to see another piazza, not previously explored.  This is the plebicita, the parliament of yore.  The locals call it the "Champs Elysee " of the island. Regardless, it is a fine building with horses charging as if they would leave the building for the drivers. Hooves above your head, with brass green blazing their legs.  Down below, standard breds (or the Italian equivalent) trot through the street with carts behind.  These horses almost blind with blinders (sorry for the horse take on this) and hats, stupid beyond belief.  The traffic booming around, these horse take of trotting forward, and tour buses beside them.  I told my son, I would rather be a French dish.  I apologize for my perspective.  My horses have acreage and only one rider to respond to.  Theses poor guys, must go forth regardless of traffic, weather, or noise.  These horses are fed.  They have shoes, with wooden plates, I might add.  It is just a luxury in the US and not here.

Shopping.  Well, yes the last day should be about shopping.  We leave the piazza and head to the one wine store that I liked.  It turns out not to be a wine store, but a souvenir store.  Matters not, we buy the limoncello for our friends.  We buy balsalmic vinegar for those who don't drink.  We buy candy for those we aren't sure of.  We are thinking of you, not being here with us. And, while I am happy I can buy this for you, next time, I want you to come with me.

the monument for those who died because of the Mafia

science fair in a church of the 10th century

a pope in front of the cathedralle

our view from the deck

our veiw from the patio

I am thankful for Michele, our host.  He was most kind and most helpful.

I miss my husband, glad my daughter came, glad my one son came and thinking Lindsay could have made it, and the rest of you, we just need to decide to go!  Patrick, you live up to your Saint name. Our next destination is only one year away...

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Rising to Capri

We stayed up late trying ot book charters to Capri, an island off the Napoli Coast.  Corbett and I finally gave up and pronounced to Ted that we had to go in person.

We did and we made it!

But first, we kill an hour in a different part of Napoli.  We have a cappuccino and Corbett has a cheesecake and an orange Fanta.  We watch the students, mothers and business people cross and recross the piazza.  A very nice spot except for the cigarettes.  The outdoors is always full of smokers.

Eleven comes and we are on the fast "jet" to Capri.  It is really a giant catamaran to the island.  Forty Five minutes total.  We get off the boat and try and orient.  Then I see the funicolare.  Love those.  Up and up and Ted not feeling the love so much.  Heights he says.  But aww the view.

I don't have photos of this, but the buses and the trucks and the cars and the anything else traveling on the road of Capri are truly the bravest and most technical people I can think of.  Today, the buses were so close that we felt the breath of the other riders.  Ted said there was an extra three inches, but I did not see it.  And on our right, the cliff straight down.  Look across the photo above and imagine driving around the rocky protrusions.  The drivers inching forward, squeezing busses into fiat size streets, mirrors in, people gasping, and me - I am sure that I tried to suck my belly into my lungs to help the cause.  And even then, with no buses coming, the roads sidle the edge and the lady next to me is doing the sign of the cross (a catholic thing).  Her boyfriend tries to comfort her and I tell Ted, there are worse ways to die.  And then the experience is in the past, as we are out on the streets and taking in the island views.

In case you are wondering, men from America act like men from America even in Italy.  "Do you know where you are going?"  "of course!"  Do you want to look at a map?  "Well that is inconvenient, but if you insist."  Should I ask someone for directions, Ted says?  Well yes.  And then we turn 180 and head up the hill not down the hill.

 Nope, no directions needed at all, why do you ask?

Ana Capri

We walk the top of the island.  One of the tourist offering is a lift up the mountain in single chairs, like a ski lift.   Ted does not want to ride the swinging chairs up the mountain as the clouds are covering the top.  I am sure he just doesn't want to ride the solo swinging chairs.  He is accompanied by a woman from New Hampshire, saying "no way!"  Ted offers to stay and have a beer with her while the rest of us go up.  But we decide to keep walking.  We have to be back at the port by four thirty and Ted is worried about time.  We take a short cut through the town, following the lovely Italian ladies below.  The view is the perfect ending to another day in paradise as we are told boarding our catamaran back to Napoli.  But if I ever come back, the swinging chairs for me!

A perfect end to the day indeed.

of the return home

Knowing the end of the tour was near, the weather decided to make it easier for us to depart.  The gloomy skies, the drizzling rain, the wet walk to the metro.  They were all leading to a departure that might have been much harder in the sunshine.

check out December weather in Paris

The walk to the metro was wet and mostly silent.  Once again, I realize how much we walk when we are on vacation in Europe.  Our bodies grow stronger and straighter.  Our jaws relax and our eyes and ears perk up.  Leaving the different life will be hard on me.  Much less so for Charles my husband.  He is eager for American television and normal hours.

from the internet

Prior to our departure, we made an assessment of the room.  I longingly gazed at the Marriott the kind of hotel we save forever to be able to pay for stay and enjoy it.  It wasn't quite the same as staying with my daughter, who appreciates a good meal and a lovely dessert, but it was much appreciated that the concierge level had lovely wines to choose from and three English beers and lots of cheese to snack on.  They even had an equestrian magazine about Palm Beach to read.  Good bye 6 star life.

The good news about flying back is you fly all night and it is night when you get here, so you can go right to bed.  The weather was sodden in Tallahassee as well and we arrived back to a gray rainy weekend with miserable animals and more rain than measured in a few years.  The yard had turned a leafy compilation of moisture and sand washed from the hills above us.  The chicken coop cage floor was completely replaced with leaves and muck.  The pools of water around the house almost qualified as reflection ponds they are so long.

Wet, sodden, leaf laden, home is still home.  The bed felt fabulous, not because it is so much better than the 6 star hotel, but because it is mine.  All mine.  And there is something fabulous about going to your own spot.

www.boisemattress.com

Recently, a friend of mine lost his spot.

I don't know for sure, but I think he was living day to day.  Food might have been a luxury.  Then, he lost his car, his room, his bed, his spot.  It is very disconcerting.  Mostly, because the people who stay in that position long, tend not to recover.  They end up on the squares in Boston, Atlanta, Paris, San Francisco.  They end up near bus stations and highway exits.

So for me, coming home to appreciate my spot, allowed me a different perspective  with which to help him with a temporary spot.  And of course help climbing out of his position: a job, a car to borrow, a hotel to stay in for interviews in Orlando.

It is absolutely fabulous that we have the ability to travel to places of far away.  But, it is also important to cherish my earnings and help others who need a hand. No strings.  No judgement.

I hope soon that he has his own spot.  For I want him to feel like there is a special place all his too, at least his while he is getting back on his feet.

I am grateful for the gifts I have, for the ones given to me along the way, and grateful to have enough to share.

Happy New Year everyone.

Ahh the Vin Chaud

Well, apparently, it is an acquired taste.  Vin Chaud is a taste of hot red wine with a splash of cognac, usually a drink for winter occasions, such as Navidad.  When last in France, I toured several plazas, most often near the Hotel de Ville is the Navidad display of shoppes.  There are food vendors as well as sellers of wares, such as scarves and toys.  On this night, Patrick and I elected to go to the tourist dinner spot.  The dinner was so so, but the market was fun and the night was cool and we had a good walk.

Back to the Avignon tour.

Notre Dame Avignon

From Ile De LA Barthelassee

Dusk is upon us on the Rhone

The day is over, yet there is so much untold.  Family discussions, tour directions, street debates, sights too detailed to describe.

And yet, there is nothing normal about an American family touring the lovely sights of Avignon.  Squabbling or not, most Americans never see the centuries old buildings or the Rhone.  They do  appreciate the hot water limitation or carrying your trash out every day.  They do know the limitations of the city roads.And they do know how much a taxi is over a metro ticket.

It is the same here.  Though we haven't talked to any farmers, I am sure you would hear the price of gas or replacement parts.  The city folks are smoking on the doorsteps and waiting for the metro to get where they live far away from the city center.

But here, there are no tips.  People have healthcare.  They have a living wage.  Not an impressive one, just one to have a roof and food. We have seen several homeless and we have seen beggars.  We have also seen the scams and that is another issue to address. Bur for the most part, the streets are clean (except for the dog stuff which is an issue all its own).  People feel safe around the streets, I know I did.

And the trip is what it is supposed to be: a vacation of the brain from the metronome of everyday life.  Patrick said to me, " Mom, it is nice to see you in a different space and relaxed,"   and he said I was not so paced and wound up.

The funny part is that he told me what he does not like about Europe is how laid back it is.... hmm seems like there is a contradiction somewhere.

The second day of Valencia

The mercado of our little area called Rufaza is the most impressive agricultural thing we have seen.  It was like going to the county fair and seeing every booth selling food.  Olives, onions, fish, pork, vegetables in mounds and separated into today's and the discount yesterday piles.  An amazing arrangement of freshness and almost reverence of food.  People are careful as two euros here and there will quickly add up.  And many of the people here buy daily or every other day to have the best ingredients at the cheapest cost.

Just down the street is an American store, complete with Rice Crispies and Cocoa Puffs.  I did not see Twinkies, but I sure thought about it.  They did not have SPAM, but I am sure that I saw deviled ham cans.  Juxtaposition comes to mind.

Did you know that the Europeans do not refrigerate eggs?  Look in the freezer and you will look for hours.  They are on the shelf next to the other weekly deliveries.  Nor do they stuff the chickens with anti-biotics and totally unexpected, they chop them (your chicken) in front of you.  After walking isle after isle of varying green lettuces, herbs, striped purple eggplants, reddish/green tomatoes bigger than your fist, olives of every sort and color, jamon or hams and sausages, cheeses and pastries, we entered the pesca mercado.  Oh my goodness, the fish and shrimp of the world are here.  The colors of pink and deep oranges and whiter than white fillets.   Huge fish heads set upright on the ice to identify the fillets below.

The salmon and pink trouts of the Alaska waters on the ice as well.  Charles walked the aisles torturing the vendors as he wasn't looking to buy, he was looking to compare to Florida fish. We walked and walked looking at cuddle fish and squid that fill a bucket.  The variety, the complexity, the opportunity to choose is amazing.  I am sorry that I could not take pictures for you.  The vendors do not like their photos taken.  And yet down the street is the market that puts these fine offerings in little plastic packages to make it convenient to shop.  The local Winn-Dixie or Publix if you will.  I regret only my choice of leather footwear for the day.

No wonder Spain is a retirement destination.  For three euros you can make a healthy meal and live two blocks from the Mercado and fifteen blocks from the waters that feed you!

Back at the apartment to put away the purchase of tomato, eggplant, onion, pepper, garlic, parsley, more prawns and wine.  Perfect beginning to a meal than will be made tonight.  Or that was the plan.  We take a quick siesta, or at least I do.  Charles sleeps in the other room as the technica has come to fix the hot water.  A new nozzle installed, I awake my prince and we decide to head to the Palicio Magnifico.  Charles picks it for the name.  Turns out is is the local courthouse.

We are heading that direction and Charles is still talking about paella so we head to look at restaurants and we finally settle on El Palacio de la Bellota very near Charles' chosen palacio.  The waiter turns out to have a mother from Kansas and speaks English with ease.  He is so sweet that we go in.  One glass of wine and a plate of traditional Valencia paella with rabbit and chicken later, we are stuffed.  Had I been with girlfriends, we would have stayed and drank wine and talked about Kansas, but Charles doesn't really want to linger in bars or hang around longer than needed.  There is such a big difference in the European way of eating, visiting and lingering and the American fast food mentality.  And maybe that of couple and girlfriends.  He thinks the $40 is expensive, oh what he doesn't know about eating out!  So spoiled by me cooking and buying the wine.

first bite

I did get him to wear a scarf with colors finally!

After the imbibing and the degustation, we head out in the cold for our long walk home to the Valencia apartment.  The bath is a bath, with a hand held shower, so it takes some adjustment for the spoiled Americanos who have it all.  We learn to conserve and do more with less and appreciate the smallness of our apartment, the completeness of our space and the limitations that come with luxury expectations.

The three flights of stairs are harder after dinner and the count of unmarked doors more challenging.  But back here in the night, thousands of miles from home, we are grateful for the opportunity.  And tomorrow, maybe we will see a different Valencia.  Buenas Noches, bonne nuit and good night.

of the Trip to Valencia Spain

As quickly as the City of Madrid rises with tall towers of buildings and balconies, it disappears into disparate industrial areas laden with cargo containers.  And then, in a small clearing is a beautiful little horse arena with jumps and grassy field.  No horses, not even a discernible barn, but any hunter knows the ring and the painted standards holding the jumps.

The train ride to Valencia is on the fast Renfe and it is barreling through the countryside so fast that the rows of plowed fields look like painted canvas.  The olive groves still bear the grayish green colors and dark wood trunks.  In rows, neatly plowed and scraped, the trees emerge in a somewhat random way in the countryside. 

 There are lots of green acres with a sudden patch of trees, then back to green acres or plowed dirt. Spain has a lot of pine trees and sycamore, though I don’t know if they would call them that.  The pines are tall and lean like those of Colorado.  The sycamores are very large with leaves that are the size of a plate.  The leaves of course are falling on the ground now, colors drained from their palettes.

Once in the hills, the green fades and it looks like the hills of San Bernadino, with sage brush and tumbleweed like bushes.  The lushness is no longer in the color, but the textures that the land shows.  There are many mesas, with tree tops and then wide open spaces.  The valleys peak at us between the hills and ask us to admire their verdant life once more.  It is somewhat like Madison County, Florida in that they are driving John Deere Green tractors in the fields, but nothing like Madison in the way the fields are tilled and then lined with little olive trees and grape vines.  And the few animals we see are mostly sheep, where Madison has cows. 

The soothing vistas and the waving train motion have put Charles to sleep and he is missing the transitions as we head east to the coast. 

The train lull is hard to resist and most don’t.  There are long stretches blocked from view by the tunnels and walls of the rail.  Combine that with the silence that is on this particular train, and you have a siesta in the making.  As a matter of fact, I feel the call now.

Alas, the child in front of me started running his truck across the tray and the man behind me takes a phone call (and had the most obnoxious ring tone).  The couple next to me debates something in Spanish that I can't understand, but it involves her ring, her jacket and the bags in her hands.  Perhaps too short a shopping trip?

We arrive at the station and have no phone to call the new landlord.  We take the walking trip, suitcases in tow under the tunnel and out to the streets. We find the place and ring ring, no answer.  Off to the streets (did I mention suitcases in tow) to find a cafe with wifi.  The lovely cafe of senyoreta-magdalena-valencia not only had wifi, but an English speaking  attendant with a lovely attitude.

She was so helpful.  We finally got a hold of Joan (pronounced John) thank you Google hangouts - I still have no phone..... arghh

Joan was lovely and apologized for being late and told us he needed more time while he cleaned the apartment.  We went off walking and saw the bull ring and the main streets and the plaza.  The central plaza is set for Navidad and even has an ice skating rink.  Back at the pad, Charles needs to lie down for a moment with a very large Goya book.  Two hours later, I go to meet Patrick Higman.  I leave Charles sleeping away.

Patrick meets me in town center, and I cry.  Yep, not even ashamed one little bit.  I was so happy to see him.  It feels so great to see someone and hug them when you haven't in a while.  Had the same feeling for my baby girl when she returned from her treks of Europe.

We walked back to the flat (did I mention four stories high with timed lights that go out if you don't make it in 30 seconds?).  Charles is still asleep.  We rouse him up and stroll through the streets of Valencia.  No restaurant seems to meet the requirements of all three of us.  So like usual, we head to the store and buy food and head back to cook at the flat.  The guys choose chicken.

Happy to see his boy

Patrick looks great

Our little flat

It was a lovely reunion with lots of Patrick stories.  Tomorrow we go see his college life, a tribute before he leaves it.  I am sure that he has lots more to share and has grown more than we will know. Surely, we were not so worldly at his age.  We had just figured out how to drive cars.  Amazing generation that knows the world, tolerance, and maybe acceptance.  So glad to have time with Patrick in his own world.