A note: This article was written by my husband, Brett, as a joke. He emulated my writing style and vented about me the way I always do about him. And then I read it and laughed and decided it was good enough to appear in the newspaper. My editor agreed. Enjoy!
“A.M. or P.M.?” I asked my wife, Julie, as we sipped our morning coffee. It was a lazy Saturday and we were catching up, preparing for the week ahead.
“What do you mean?” she asked. I pointed to the email she had forwarded to me the day before. “According to this itinerary, you are leaving for Miami on Monday night, at 8 PM, not on the 8 AM flight you told me you were taking.”
“WHAT?!” She ran to the computer to verify her mistake and then immediately got on the phone with the airlines. Julie was on the verge of tears. Now, not only was she going to be late for her beloved Saturday morning Spinagogue, but also she wasn’t leaving for her three-day junket until a full day into it. She’d arrive just in time to pick up the tab for the dinner she had just missed. She had no choice but to pay an extra $300 to secure seat 19F on the 6:00 AM nonstop.
Readers of her articles know that Julie prides herself on disorganization and last minute decision-making. Remember, she was “born this way.” But here is the funny thing: she is hyper-organized when it comes to getting out of town. She’s been known to book family-free getaways nine months in advance. This trip to Miami had been in the works ever since her friend Gaby announced last winter that she and her family were moving to Missouri. Before Gaby had even sold her house or packed a single bag for the Midwest, Julie decided that a sympathy sojourn was a necessity, a must-have that would save her friend from a life of utter misery. “We’re going!” she told me, trying her best to make it sound like a request instead of a de-facto conclusion. “We’ll make sure it’s not over a weekend.” She was already logged on to Expedia.com. “The kids will be in school most of the time I am away,” she said, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “It will be easy.”
My wife sleeps in late. Like everyday. She claims she's catching up from her days and nights of breastfeeding. Mind you, that was almost a decade ago. Julie is just not a morning person. In fact, she isn’t an afternoon or evening person either. Brunch and naps are more her style. But at 3:43 Monday morning, Julie was up and about.
Frankly, I was impressed. She proved that she could motor. She awoke without an alarm, dressed, brewed a cup of coffee and jumped in a cab within fifteen minutes flat. I promised not to take this personally. But Zoe did. She awoke at 6:30 and asked, "Did she leave? Already?" And with her big black “Puss in Boots” eyes and her tiny quivering lips, she declared, "It will be okay. We'll be a family again on Wednesday.”
“We’ll be a family no matter how broke or hung-over mommy will be when she returns,” I assured her.
Andrew and Zoe are fairly independent. They are intimately aware of their responsibilities, A-F day schedules, extra curricular activities, pick-ups and drop-offs. So it was a surprise to them that Julie left us two pages of notes to aid our stay-at-home adventure. “It makes mommy feel better.” I noted. “This way, she’ll be able to blame me for anything we didn’t do.”
I am entirely comfortable and capable of taking care of things around our house. Julie affectionately calls me her “house husband,” because shopping, cooking, cleaning, carpooling and generally having things in order keeps me sane. So the hour-by-hour, meal-by-meal breakdown my wife prepared made me chuckle. “Really, the kids eat dinner... every night?”
However, Julie was kind enough to leave several things off the list. Like the fact she had no gas in her car. I guess, in her world, SUVs run on rainbows and butterflies. And there were no instructions on how to comb Andrew's hair so he'd look good for his debut performance at the Fox Meadow Classical Cafe. "Dad, it’s in front of the entire fourth grade, so don't make me look like a dork!"
Julie also neglected to inform me that our cleaning lady was not coming on her regularly scheduled Tuesday, but rather on Wednesday. This happenstance threw the whole ratio of ready-to-wear vs. ready-to-wash smiley face sweatpants out of sync and added a late-night load of laundry to the list, since Zoe only wears one kind of pants these days. Disposing of the now moldy meat lasagna that Julie lovingly made two weeks prior would have to wait too. "Have Maria take care of that." Julie texted.
I couldn't. Nor could I leave the beds unmade on Tuesday. Even though I had an important meeting to get to in the city. The thought of a sink filled with pots, pans, bowls and dishes from Monday night's taco and pasta fiesta made me lightheaded. The least I could do was organize the mess for Maria. Perhaps I could stack things by size and color? I’ve done so before. Instead, I cleaned it all and missed my train. But at least I could think clearly again.
On Wednesday I was feeling a bit fatigued. And this is how I made a fatal error. I decided that designer cupcakes for the kids would be a just reward for having been exceptionally well behaved while mom was away. The candy-by-the-ton and the Entenmann’s chocolate loaf cake my mother-in-law provided just didn’t spoil them enough. But I forgot about the principle of multiple choices. More choices = more happiness. Rushing home from the city to pick the kids up from school, I didn't leave enough time to find the "right" cupcakes. Instead, I settled for two, fancy we-hate-those-kind-of-cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. In an instant, I went from "you are the best mother-father" to feeling like the dual role was one too many.
Tears flowed as the "I miss mommy" time bomb exploded. My tears. Now, I was on the verge. I had endured the kids’ anxieties and insecurities. Tickled their backs "like mom does" to help them fall asleep. Completed the list and then some. But one $3.50 dark chocolate cupcake brought me to my knees.
Just then, Julie sent me a text. With emoticons! Sweet relief was on the way home. While my wife had bonded with her best friend, got inspired about her writing and generally enjoyed her three days of freedom, I was here, holding down and decluttering the fort for her inevitable return. Which, by some divine interruption, was delayed, and so Julie waited past midnight for her 47-pound duffle bag to arrive on a separate flight. It too had its own itinerary and up-charge.
I missed my wife. I really did. Not because I had to fill in for her. Not because I had to supervise the electrician, or pitch in at the elementary school, or car pool for karate, Nutcracker rehearsal and Hebrew school. And not because I had to make beds, brush teeth or bathe babes. I missed her because she wasn't here to laugh at - or with - me.
I am looking forward to taking a solo trip to Miami someday too. I think I'll take a break from being my wife, by being my wife.
Brett Gerstenblatt makes frequent appearances as a character in his wife’s humor columns. Currently he is considering starting up a house-husband-for-hire service in Scarsdale.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, December 2, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
I Quack for Groupon
In the weeks leading up to Groupon’s IPO – which had its incredibly successful public debut Friday – there has been much talk about the magic (or lack thereof) that makes Groupon, well, Groupon. Is it their gorilla marketing campaign? Their ginormous subscriber list? A sales force that rivals in size the Red Army? Perhaps.
But, if you ask me, the quality that sets them apart is…ducks.
You see, the first time I used a coupon from Groupon was to take my family on an amphibious tour of San Francisco. Let’s get one thing straight here: I would not be caught dead on one of these boat-vans in my home city of New York, arguing that riding on an amphibious vehicle is akin to wearing a skort. Plus, as if the weird boat-van doesn’t draw enough attention to your lame posse, everyone riding this thing is given bright yellow “quackers” – kazoos shaped like Daffy duck lips - to wear around the neck and blow into when feeling enthusiastic. Which is often. (Quack once if you see the Ghirardelli chocolate factory! Quack twice for Pier 39! And Pier 40! For Alcatraz! Quack to the homeless man! Quack three times if you think the captain of your tour self-medicates!)
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s those tourists that look like tourists, and on a duck tour there’s no question about it: you’re from outta town.
But, I rationalized, as I contemplated my computer screen’s daily deal a few days before heading out to the West Coast, no one in San Fran knows me. And for one day only, Groupon was offering the tour for 64% off. It was like getting three quacks for the price of one! What the hell. I went for it.
A week later, my family and I took a ride on a giant skort. And, as the captain blasted “We Are Family” from the speakers in his hindquarters while all of Union Square looked on and felt sorry for us, I smiled and waved like I was on the Popemobile. It was a quacking riot.
Therein lies Groupon’s true secret: they know the price of your dignity, and they undercut it every time.
But, if you ask me, the quality that sets them apart is…ducks.
You see, the first time I used a coupon from Groupon was to take my family on an amphibious tour of San Francisco. Let’s get one thing straight here: I would not be caught dead on one of these boat-vans in my home city of New York, arguing that riding on an amphibious vehicle is akin to wearing a skort. Plus, as if the weird boat-van doesn’t draw enough attention to your lame posse, everyone riding this thing is given bright yellow “quackers” – kazoos shaped like Daffy duck lips - to wear around the neck and blow into when feeling enthusiastic. Which is often. (Quack once if you see the Ghirardelli chocolate factory! Quack twice for Pier 39! And Pier 40! For Alcatraz! Quack to the homeless man! Quack three times if you think the captain of your tour self-medicates!)
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s those tourists that look like tourists, and on a duck tour there’s no question about it: you’re from outta town.
But, I rationalized, as I contemplated my computer screen’s daily deal a few days before heading out to the West Coast, no one in San Fran knows me. And for one day only, Groupon was offering the tour for 64% off. It was like getting three quacks for the price of one! What the hell. I went for it.
A week later, my family and I took a ride on a giant skort. And, as the captain blasted “We Are Family” from the speakers in his hindquarters while all of Union Square looked on and felt sorry for us, I smiled and waved like I was on the Popemobile. It was a quacking riot.
Therein lies Groupon’s true secret: they know the price of your dignity, and they undercut it every time.
Friday, September 30, 2011
The Same Me, Only Better
I want to live on Nantucket. Let me qualify that: part of me wants to live there. The artsy, romantic, writerly side of me is drawn to the moors, and the fog, and the endless views of blue water. This tiny island off the coast of Massachusetts inspires in me a sense of calm, of freedom, of anything-is-possibleness, like no other place in the world. On Nantucket, I would be a better writer, a better mother, a better wife, a better me.
On Nantucket, I would cook, and bake, and goshdarnit, I might even sew. I would grow my own vegetables in a garden I tended to myself and then can those vegetables for the long winter months. I would collect berries and make pies, preserving the leftover fruit as jam, in jars with those cute little fabric tops. I’d give this jam to people as gifts.
I would not watch The Bachelorette on Nantucket.
My weak-ankled children would ice skate, since that’s pretty much all there is to do off-season on Nantucket. Andrew would grow tough and broad, learning to breathe with a huge mouth guard attached to his palette, playing ice hockey and skating backwards. Zoe would join the championship figure skating team in winter, spending her summers surf casting for stripers off Quidnet.
On Nantucket, I would eat striped bass caught by my daughter.
I would fillet it on the beach with my bare hands.
On Nantucket, I would dress more J Crew and less Pamela Robbins. I would choose Sperry Topsiders as footwear in an un-ironic way, because they are practical. Not because they now come in metallic silver and gold. I would wear a bright yellow rain slicker as my every day outerwear, so that someone would notice me in a nor’easter and therefore be able to rescue me if a gale-force wind swept me down Main Street. (The rain jacket I have now is really cute. It’s from Barney’s. It’s like this wheaty-tan color, and has three quarter sleeves and that you can roll up or down, depending on how wet you want your arms to be.)
We’d get a dog, or maybe two. Forget my idea of a toy-sized, hypo-allergenic suburban fluffy puppy with a little “poo” or “doodle” in it (think cockapoo, goldendoodle, schnoodle, cavapoo). What we’d need in the New England wild is a pair of Portuguese water dogs, animals that swim the Atlantic surf with gusto, taking pleasure in long runs on the beach with us.
Speaking of which, I wouldn’t have to seek out opportunities for exercise on Nantucket, because my daily existence would just be so active. I’d bike to the market. (Don’t laugh.) And, even though I’ve never in my life tried this, I’m sure I’d be an excellent paddleboarder. Just for fun, I’d cruise through the marshes and bogs, boarding in Polpis harbor to investigate the native flora and fauna. In fact, I’m sure that I’d get so good at paddleboarding that I’d start taking sunrise yoga classes on a paddleboard, even though I am not a particular fan of a) sunrises or b) yoga.
What would my husband, Brett, do on Nantucket? The question is, what would he not do? He’d paint en plein air, whenever the mood struck and the light was right. He’d just pull over his truck and hop out, grabbing his folding French easel and pastels from under the tarp and dragging them onto the beach grass. He’d surf. He’d create. He’d distil his own vodka. He would not shave. He’d be.
As a pair, we’d certainly be well received, and not just as That Funny Jewish Couple Out In Eel Point. No, we’d have much more to offer the year-rounders than New York shtick.
Immediately, people would notice our keen intellect and diverse talents (I can write my name upside down and backwards, in script; Brett speaks a little bit of Dutch) and we’d be asked to apply our savvy to their Nantucket-specific conundrums. We’d be invited to lecture on someone’s yacht, and neither one of us would vomit. And, in that way, we’d endear ourselves to this community of fisherman and fisherwomen, restaurant owners and shopkeeps, bartenders and raging alcoholics, becoming as intricately woven into the tapestry of the island as cashmere is woven into a $2,000 Nantucket Looms blanket.
“So, why don’t we do it?” Brett asked for the thousandth time. We were enjoying a few beers at Cisco Brewers, while a local musician played guitar, Zoe already his biggest groupie. Andrew was playing lawn games with my father-in-law. The rest of us were inhaling a brick oven pizza made on site. “Why don’t we just move here already?”
“Because,” I said for the thousandth time.
I realize this argument is lacking in strength.
“Now is the time,” Brett pressed. “I’m in between jobs. You can write from anywhere. The kids will adapt. You always say you want to live here.”
Tons of excuses flooded my brain. I’d miss my mom. We love our house. The kids have friends in Scarsdale; I have friends. There’s no Bloomingdale’s on Nantucket. They don’t get the good movies on island fast enough, like that lame, quaint town in Cinema Paradiso. We just paid our temple dues, so we can’t leave for at least another year.
And, while all of that is true, or true enough, it doesn’t really get to the heart of the issue. For as much as I like to imagine that my heart belongs to Nantucket, it really beats right here. I grew up in Edgemont; there are still pictures of me in old theater production posters lining the high school hallway. I went to college upstate, moved to the city, and then settled in Scarsdale.
Did I…“settle” by picking a life that is so predictable, so similar to the way in which I grew up? Sometimes I wonder. But each time, I come to the same conclusion. Nope. I chose to live here above all other places, even Nantucket. Although I entered the main office at the Nantucket Middle School once in the late 1990’s and asked if they had any job openings for English teachers, I was relieved when they said no, and I never followed up by submitting an actual application for the following academic years. Instead, I applied to the Scarsdale school district.
Oh, I talk a good game, and I can fantasize with the best of them. But let’s be real here: what’s so great about living on an island with three lighthouses and no traffic lights? Sure, it’s got gorgeous vistas, but what a schlep. I mean, Nantucketers have an entirely different definition for away games at the high school than we do. Think Somers is far? Try Martha’s Vineyard. In January. I can barely make it to rec basketball at Fox Meadow; you think I’m putting Andrew on a plane to Chattam to compete?
And, by December, the gray weather really starts to wear on one’s psyche. As a diversion, there’s only so many sailor’s valentines one can make out of shells before developing a pirate’s accent and a permanent twitch.
“I have the perfect idea,” I said to Brett. “Let’s compromise. Summers on Nantucket, and the rest of the year in Scarsdale.”
“Great. So the solution is to have two houses?”
It makes perfect sense. After all, the same me, only better, already lives in two homes: the real and the imagined. And for a while, anyway, I guess that’s how it will stay.
On Nantucket, I would cook, and bake, and goshdarnit, I might even sew. I would grow my own vegetables in a garden I tended to myself and then can those vegetables for the long winter months. I would collect berries and make pies, preserving the leftover fruit as jam, in jars with those cute little fabric tops. I’d give this jam to people as gifts.
I would not watch The Bachelorette on Nantucket.
My weak-ankled children would ice skate, since that’s pretty much all there is to do off-season on Nantucket. Andrew would grow tough and broad, learning to breathe with a huge mouth guard attached to his palette, playing ice hockey and skating backwards. Zoe would join the championship figure skating team in winter, spending her summers surf casting for stripers off Quidnet.
On Nantucket, I would eat striped bass caught by my daughter.
I would fillet it on the beach with my bare hands.
On Nantucket, I would dress more J Crew and less Pamela Robbins. I would choose Sperry Topsiders as footwear in an un-ironic way, because they are practical. Not because they now come in metallic silver and gold. I would wear a bright yellow rain slicker as my every day outerwear, so that someone would notice me in a nor’easter and therefore be able to rescue me if a gale-force wind swept me down Main Street. (The rain jacket I have now is really cute. It’s from Barney’s. It’s like this wheaty-tan color, and has three quarter sleeves and that you can roll up or down, depending on how wet you want your arms to be.)
We’d get a dog, or maybe two. Forget my idea of a toy-sized, hypo-allergenic suburban fluffy puppy with a little “poo” or “doodle” in it (think cockapoo, goldendoodle, schnoodle, cavapoo). What we’d need in the New England wild is a pair of Portuguese water dogs, animals that swim the Atlantic surf with gusto, taking pleasure in long runs on the beach with us.
Speaking of which, I wouldn’t have to seek out opportunities for exercise on Nantucket, because my daily existence would just be so active. I’d bike to the market. (Don’t laugh.) And, even though I’ve never in my life tried this, I’m sure I’d be an excellent paddleboarder. Just for fun, I’d cruise through the marshes and bogs, boarding in Polpis harbor to investigate the native flora and fauna. In fact, I’m sure that I’d get so good at paddleboarding that I’d start taking sunrise yoga classes on a paddleboard, even though I am not a particular fan of a) sunrises or b) yoga.
What would my husband, Brett, do on Nantucket? The question is, what would he not do? He’d paint en plein air, whenever the mood struck and the light was right. He’d just pull over his truck and hop out, grabbing his folding French easel and pastels from under the tarp and dragging them onto the beach grass. He’d surf. He’d create. He’d distil his own vodka. He would not shave. He’d be.
As a pair, we’d certainly be well received, and not just as That Funny Jewish Couple Out In Eel Point. No, we’d have much more to offer the year-rounders than New York shtick.
Immediately, people would notice our keen intellect and diverse talents (I can write my name upside down and backwards, in script; Brett speaks a little bit of Dutch) and we’d be asked to apply our savvy to their Nantucket-specific conundrums. We’d be invited to lecture on someone’s yacht, and neither one of us would vomit. And, in that way, we’d endear ourselves to this community of fisherman and fisherwomen, restaurant owners and shopkeeps, bartenders and raging alcoholics, becoming as intricately woven into the tapestry of the island as cashmere is woven into a $2,000 Nantucket Looms blanket.
“So, why don’t we do it?” Brett asked for the thousandth time. We were enjoying a few beers at Cisco Brewers, while a local musician played guitar, Zoe already his biggest groupie. Andrew was playing lawn games with my father-in-law. The rest of us were inhaling a brick oven pizza made on site. “Why don’t we just move here already?”
“Because,” I said for the thousandth time.
I realize this argument is lacking in strength.
“Now is the time,” Brett pressed. “I’m in between jobs. You can write from anywhere. The kids will adapt. You always say you want to live here.”
Tons of excuses flooded my brain. I’d miss my mom. We love our house. The kids have friends in Scarsdale; I have friends. There’s no Bloomingdale’s on Nantucket. They don’t get the good movies on island fast enough, like that lame, quaint town in Cinema Paradiso. We just paid our temple dues, so we can’t leave for at least another year.
And, while all of that is true, or true enough, it doesn’t really get to the heart of the issue. For as much as I like to imagine that my heart belongs to Nantucket, it really beats right here. I grew up in Edgemont; there are still pictures of me in old theater production posters lining the high school hallway. I went to college upstate, moved to the city, and then settled in Scarsdale.
Did I…“settle” by picking a life that is so predictable, so similar to the way in which I grew up? Sometimes I wonder. But each time, I come to the same conclusion. Nope. I chose to live here above all other places, even Nantucket. Although I entered the main office at the Nantucket Middle School once in the late 1990’s and asked if they had any job openings for English teachers, I was relieved when they said no, and I never followed up by submitting an actual application for the following academic years. Instead, I applied to the Scarsdale school district.
Oh, I talk a good game, and I can fantasize with the best of them. But let’s be real here: what’s so great about living on an island with three lighthouses and no traffic lights? Sure, it’s got gorgeous vistas, but what a schlep. I mean, Nantucketers have an entirely different definition for away games at the high school than we do. Think Somers is far? Try Martha’s Vineyard. In January. I can barely make it to rec basketball at Fox Meadow; you think I’m putting Andrew on a plane to Chattam to compete?
And, by December, the gray weather really starts to wear on one’s psyche. As a diversion, there’s only so many sailor’s valentines one can make out of shells before developing a pirate’s accent and a permanent twitch.
“I have the perfect idea,” I said to Brett. “Let’s compromise. Summers on Nantucket, and the rest of the year in Scarsdale.”
“Great. So the solution is to have two houses?”
It makes perfect sense. After all, the same me, only better, already lives in two homes: the real and the imagined. And for a while, anyway, I guess that’s how it will stay.
Friday, June 24, 2011
How not to relax on your vacation
1. Book a massage.
The first thing I do after reserving a room at a resort is call their in-house spa and make a reservation for a treatment of some kind. The second thing I do is stress out about a) the exorbitant fee and b) the choices available. Do I want Swedish, deep tissue, hot stones, lavender and honey, or one that wraps me head-to-toe in cellophane like a modern day mummy? For 50 or 80 minutes? Will I be taking a mineral soak along with said massage? Have I heard about their one-of-a-kind rain tunnel? No? It’s a must!
Fine, fine. I tell them to sign me up for all of it, as long as I have a female masseuse who doesn’t hurt me.
In fact, if she barely touches me, that would be perfect.
Because, here’s the thing. I don’t even really like massages. I’m only there to lounge in a terrycloth robe and drink tea infused with jasmine while reading my book to ambient musak.
I put the date on my calendar and wait.
2. Prepare for the massage.
Upon check-in at the hotel spa, I am told that the 20% gratuity will be added to my bill so that I don’t have to worry about tipping anyone. Great.
Only, how do they know that I’m going to like my massage that much? What if it isn’t that enjoyable? Then I’ll have to speak to the manager and try and get a refund and I really don’t like conflict and then I’ll be more stressed out than I was walking in the door.
So I’m sure I’ll love it!
I am led around the corner and introduced to the keeper of the keys. She takes me to my locker and presents me with the much-anticipated terry robe. She tells me that, as a part of my mineral soak, I can walk around the pool areas and water-treatment rooms, some of which are co-ed. “You can wear your bathing suit or go naked, that is up to you.”
Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t really like to be naked. Even just around myself, I prefer to be clothed.
I am not one of those ladies who can dry her hair in the locker room with a towel around her waist, her boobs just bobbing around, gossiping about which trainer left for a better job at another gym.
Add strangers to the equation - including men, for goodness sakes - and a bathing suit is definitely called for. The style I have packed for today is a full-coverage black one piece with ruched sides and a self-skirt. This bathing suit is larger than most of the Kardashian’s wardrobe.
I adjust my ginormous Lycra wet suit and tighten the belt on my robe. I’m ready for my mineral soak.
I am led to a row of bathtubs, one of which is filled with suds. Next to the bath, there is a plate of strawberries, orange slices and three cucumbers. I am told that the cucumbers are for my eyes.
I have to wonder why there are three of them.
This doesn’t relax me.
I am directed to get into the bath and to sit sideways. “The minerals affect your ability to sink – they tend to make you float right out of the bath!” My tour guide explains. So, although the tub is over six feet long, I have to smush my body in the top corner, keeping my legs sort of folded underneath me, and hook my right arm around the metal rod running the length of the tub. “You good?” She asks. I try to give her a thumbs-up, but don’t want to move my hands for fear of floating away.
She leaves me to my “peaceful” soak. I cannot really put my head back, because when I do, my legs shoot up and break the surface like Shamu at a Sea World show. I have trouble reaching the cucumbers, but manage to put them over my eyes. They sting. I now cannot grab a strawberry since I can’t see it because I have burning cucumbers on my eyes.
Did she say she’d come rescue me in 10 minutes? Or was it 15?
This is fun.
I hold on tight to my fetal position and try to think heavy thoughts.
You are the Titanic, sinking, sinking, down, down, down.
Not working.
Eventually, my tour guide reappears, and I say a little prayer of thanks to the heavens. “Alright, then, time to move to the rain tunnel!”
Now that’s an understatement if ever I heard one.
Twenty or so rain jets arranged in a grid greet me from the ceiling. Twenty or more greet me from the sides, and another 10 or so sit underfoot. It’s designed like a human car wash.
More directions come, but this time they get lost in the loud current. “Use the loh on your ske to cle,” is what it sounds like to me. She hands me a jar of exfoliant and makes circular motions around her arms. I nod, scrub and then head for the tunnel.
As I walk through the punishing storm, I feel like Forrest Gump in Vietnam:
“One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath.”
When I emerge, my sinuses are clear but I can barely stand upright.
“Now you need a steam,” the tour guide says, meeting my tsunami-ed form at the other side. I nod and shake the rain off me like a Labrador, starting at my head and ending with a really satisfying butt shimmy.
Then I enter the glass-tiled fog.
Ah. Eucalyptus. Steam. I sit. Peace at last.
Until I try to breathe and realize I can’t.
There’s no air in a steam room. So now I think I’m dying. And the more I try to breathe, the harder it becomes to do. I’m sucking at hot, heavy, mint-scented clouds that won’t budge. I’m on the verge of having a really good panic attack.
It must be 400 degrees in here. My skin is going to start melting off.
I try to see through the fog to read the temperature on the wall, only I can’t see past my outstretched hand.
This place is like a giant glaucoma simulator.
My grandfather had glaucoma. Now my aunt does. I start worrying about genetics.
And suddenly, I “see” it: this is what my future will look like! Blurry around the edges, everything encased in mist.
I have to escape this chamber of horrors.
I pull the door of the steam room open and take a giant gulp of pure, non-eucalyptus infused air.
Step 3. “Ready for your massage?” My tour guide smiles.
I waddle behind her, fully submissive now and prepared to face my fate. I have lost the feeling in my lower extremities, and am numb everywhere else.
Bring on the hot stones.
The first thing I do after reserving a room at a resort is call their in-house spa and make a reservation for a treatment of some kind. The second thing I do is stress out about a) the exorbitant fee and b) the choices available. Do I want Swedish, deep tissue, hot stones, lavender and honey, or one that wraps me head-to-toe in cellophane like a modern day mummy? For 50 or 80 minutes? Will I be taking a mineral soak along with said massage? Have I heard about their one-of-a-kind rain tunnel? No? It’s a must!
Fine, fine. I tell them to sign me up for all of it, as long as I have a female masseuse who doesn’t hurt me.
In fact, if she barely touches me, that would be perfect.
Because, here’s the thing. I don’t even really like massages. I’m only there to lounge in a terrycloth robe and drink tea infused with jasmine while reading my book to ambient musak.
I put the date on my calendar and wait.
2. Prepare for the massage.
Upon check-in at the hotel spa, I am told that the 20% gratuity will be added to my bill so that I don’t have to worry about tipping anyone. Great.
Only, how do they know that I’m going to like my massage that much? What if it isn’t that enjoyable? Then I’ll have to speak to the manager and try and get a refund and I really don’t like conflict and then I’ll be more stressed out than I was walking in the door.
So I’m sure I’ll love it!
I am led around the corner and introduced to the keeper of the keys. She takes me to my locker and presents me with the much-anticipated terry robe. She tells me that, as a part of my mineral soak, I can walk around the pool areas and water-treatment rooms, some of which are co-ed. “You can wear your bathing suit or go naked, that is up to you.”
Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t really like to be naked. Even just around myself, I prefer to be clothed.
I am not one of those ladies who can dry her hair in the locker room with a towel around her waist, her boobs just bobbing around, gossiping about which trainer left for a better job at another gym.
Add strangers to the equation - including men, for goodness sakes - and a bathing suit is definitely called for. The style I have packed for today is a full-coverage black one piece with ruched sides and a self-skirt. This bathing suit is larger than most of the Kardashian’s wardrobe.
I adjust my ginormous Lycra wet suit and tighten the belt on my robe. I’m ready for my mineral soak.
I am led to a row of bathtubs, one of which is filled with suds. Next to the bath, there is a plate of strawberries, orange slices and three cucumbers. I am told that the cucumbers are for my eyes.
I have to wonder why there are three of them.
This doesn’t relax me.
I am directed to get into the bath and to sit sideways. “The minerals affect your ability to sink – they tend to make you float right out of the bath!” My tour guide explains. So, although the tub is over six feet long, I have to smush my body in the top corner, keeping my legs sort of folded underneath me, and hook my right arm around the metal rod running the length of the tub. “You good?” She asks. I try to give her a thumbs-up, but don’t want to move my hands for fear of floating away.
She leaves me to my “peaceful” soak. I cannot really put my head back, because when I do, my legs shoot up and break the surface like Shamu at a Sea World show. I have trouble reaching the cucumbers, but manage to put them over my eyes. They sting. I now cannot grab a strawberry since I can’t see it because I have burning cucumbers on my eyes.
Did she say she’d come rescue me in 10 minutes? Or was it 15?
This is fun.
I hold on tight to my fetal position and try to think heavy thoughts.
You are the Titanic, sinking, sinking, down, down, down.
Not working.
Eventually, my tour guide reappears, and I say a little prayer of thanks to the heavens. “Alright, then, time to move to the rain tunnel!”
Now that’s an understatement if ever I heard one.
Twenty or so rain jets arranged in a grid greet me from the ceiling. Twenty or more greet me from the sides, and another 10 or so sit underfoot. It’s designed like a human car wash.
More directions come, but this time they get lost in the loud current. “Use the loh on your ske to cle,” is what it sounds like to me. She hands me a jar of exfoliant and makes circular motions around her arms. I nod, scrub and then head for the tunnel.
As I walk through the punishing storm, I feel like Forrest Gump in Vietnam:
“One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath.”
When I emerge, my sinuses are clear but I can barely stand upright.
“Now you need a steam,” the tour guide says, meeting my tsunami-ed form at the other side. I nod and shake the rain off me like a Labrador, starting at my head and ending with a really satisfying butt shimmy.
Then I enter the glass-tiled fog.
Ah. Eucalyptus. Steam. I sit. Peace at last.
Until I try to breathe and realize I can’t.
There’s no air in a steam room. So now I think I’m dying. And the more I try to breathe, the harder it becomes to do. I’m sucking at hot, heavy, mint-scented clouds that won’t budge. I’m on the verge of having a really good panic attack.
It must be 400 degrees in here. My skin is going to start melting off.
I try to see through the fog to read the temperature on the wall, only I can’t see past my outstretched hand.
This place is like a giant glaucoma simulator.
My grandfather had glaucoma. Now my aunt does. I start worrying about genetics.
And suddenly, I “see” it: this is what my future will look like! Blurry around the edges, everything encased in mist.
I have to escape this chamber of horrors.
I pull the door of the steam room open and take a giant gulp of pure, non-eucalyptus infused air.
Step 3. “Ready for your massage?” My tour guide smiles.
I waddle behind her, fully submissive now and prepared to face my fate. I have lost the feeling in my lower extremities, and am numb everywhere else.
Bring on the hot stones.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Wandering Jews
Setting: The Ritz-Carlton hotel, San Juan, Puerto Rico, April 2005. My husband, Brett, and I were lying by the pool, enjoying the early evening breezes and thinking about what to have for dinner.
“Do you hear that?” Brett asked, pointing towards a terraced area to our right. A party was beginning on a second floor balcony tucked around a corner and just out of our sight line. We could make out some laughter mixed with the sound of silverware clinking on china. Then a cacophony of music floated across the courtyard and down towards the beach.
“It’s probably the same group that we heard last night,” I shrugged. “A big wedding or something.”
A mournful -- yet surprisingly upbeat -- whine of violin and clarinet in a minor key wafted along the shore.
It reminded us of somewhere we were not.
“Isn’t tonight the second night of Passover?” Brett asked.
It was, come to think of it.
And so, we sneaked over to take a look. Eavesdropping through the glass windows and into the taffeta-and-gilded ballroom off the pool area, we saw hundreds of people milling about, preparing to sit for dinner at long banquet tables. With the Klezmer band as our witness, we confirmed what we already felt in our hearts: this was one heck of a Passover seder. And we were missing it.
It turns out that, centuries after making it out of Egypt, crossing the Red Sea on dry land, living in the desert for 40 years, and entering the Holy Land of Israel, Jews have continued to wander for Passover, just for the fun of it.
Who knew?!
Apparently, this is not news to a good deal of modern orthodox Jews. Just ask the coordinators at Totally Jewish Tours (totallyjewishtours.com), your one stop, full-service, Glatt Kosher guide to traveling the globe for Passover.
This year, you can choose your preferred Pesach locale from several resorts in Florida (obviously, duh), like Boca or Palm Beach. Do you like to golf? Then maybe the Arizona Biltmore is for you, with its two 18-hole golf courses and an 18-hole putting course. As a bonus, this hotel boasts an authentic desert surround, in case you want to, you know, reenact part of the story of the Exodus or whatever. Feeling more adventurous in your religiousness? Then I’d go for Split, Croatia. And, if luxury is what your Passover is all about, then, by all means, do it in Capri, Italy. Stay at the Tiberio Palace, where the entire hotel will be ordained kosher for Passover. The website boasts, “Noted for its extraordinary natural beauty, splendid panoramic views, Blue Grotto, and warm climate, it is without doubt one of the most sought after destinations among jet-setters,” and – dare I add – gefilte fishermen.
If you happen to be a New Yorker who wants to stay local for the holiday but are tired of the same-old, same-old at your Aunt Ethel’s in Brooklyn, then I say head out for Mexicana.
Passover a la Mexicana.
You heard that right, my Hebraic compadres. Rosa Mexicano is hosting its 9th annual Passover a la Mexicana, offering Pesachdik-ish, Sephardic-inspired additions to the regular menu as a part of their “Flavors of Mexico” program for the week of April 18th.
Enjoy crisp corn tortillas filled with corned beef and cabbage, or the higadito de pollo para tacos, which, loosely translated, means chopped chicken livers. Perhaps you are more of a fan of lengua de res a la Veracruzana, a spin on traditional beef tongue. And what seder table would be complete without grandma’s caldo de pollo con bolitas? (Figure it out yourself, chicken soup lovers.)
Six years have gone by since that fateful night in San Juan. Six years of predictable Passovers at home, hiding the afikomen for our children, opening the door for Elijah, and letting my dad lead us out of Egypt quickly so as not to dry out the apricot chicken awaiting us in the oven.
But not this year. Oh no. This year, what my Passover needs is lots of sun and surf. My Passover needs a hot stone massage and several Pina Coladas mixed in with the occasional macaroon.
It just so happens that one of these Glatt Kosher tour groups is running a week-long Passover Party at a hotel I’d love to visit. Call it beshert. Call it stalking. Call it what you will. Sure, the tour group is completely sold out of spaces in their program, and sure, there’s no way my family and I would even qualify to be a part of such a group since we’d be snacking on bagels, pretzels and rice cakes between meals, arriving at the table with suspicious crumbs in the corners of our mouths. But I’ve seen their website, and now I’m kind of hungering for their famous all you can eat BBQ buffet and lavish tea room. Not to mention the renowned day camp and midnight dessert extravaganza.
Now all I need to do is convince Brett, overpay for airfare, get waxed, and totally bail on my extended family!
I may not be orthodox, but that doesn’t mean I won’t know a rockin’ seder when I crash it.
To paraphrase the Haggadah: Next year, in Israel. This year, perhaps, in Miami.
“Do you hear that?” Brett asked, pointing towards a terraced area to our right. A party was beginning on a second floor balcony tucked around a corner and just out of our sight line. We could make out some laughter mixed with the sound of silverware clinking on china. Then a cacophony of music floated across the courtyard and down towards the beach.
“It’s probably the same group that we heard last night,” I shrugged. “A big wedding or something.”
A mournful -- yet surprisingly upbeat -- whine of violin and clarinet in a minor key wafted along the shore.
It reminded us of somewhere we were not.
“Isn’t tonight the second night of Passover?” Brett asked.
It was, come to think of it.
And so, we sneaked over to take a look. Eavesdropping through the glass windows and into the taffeta-and-gilded ballroom off the pool area, we saw hundreds of people milling about, preparing to sit for dinner at long banquet tables. With the Klezmer band as our witness, we confirmed what we already felt in our hearts: this was one heck of a Passover seder. And we were missing it.
It turns out that, centuries after making it out of Egypt, crossing the Red Sea on dry land, living in the desert for 40 years, and entering the Holy Land of Israel, Jews have continued to wander for Passover, just for the fun of it.
Who knew?!
Apparently, this is not news to a good deal of modern orthodox Jews. Just ask the coordinators at Totally Jewish Tours (totallyjewishtours.com), your one stop, full-service, Glatt Kosher guide to traveling the globe for Passover.
This year, you can choose your preferred Pesach locale from several resorts in Florida (obviously, duh), like Boca or Palm Beach. Do you like to golf? Then maybe the Arizona Biltmore is for you, with its two 18-hole golf courses and an 18-hole putting course. As a bonus, this hotel boasts an authentic desert surround, in case you want to, you know, reenact part of the story of the Exodus or whatever. Feeling more adventurous in your religiousness? Then I’d go for Split, Croatia. And, if luxury is what your Passover is all about, then, by all means, do it in Capri, Italy. Stay at the Tiberio Palace, where the entire hotel will be ordained kosher for Passover. The website boasts, “Noted for its extraordinary natural beauty, splendid panoramic views, Blue Grotto, and warm climate, it is without doubt one of the most sought after destinations among jet-setters,” and – dare I add – gefilte fishermen.
If you happen to be a New Yorker who wants to stay local for the holiday but are tired of the same-old, same-old at your Aunt Ethel’s in Brooklyn, then I say head out for Mexicana.
Passover a la Mexicana.
You heard that right, my Hebraic compadres. Rosa Mexicano is hosting its 9th annual Passover a la Mexicana, offering Pesachdik-ish, Sephardic-inspired additions to the regular menu as a part of their “Flavors of Mexico” program for the week of April 18th.
Enjoy crisp corn tortillas filled with corned beef and cabbage, or the higadito de pollo para tacos, which, loosely translated, means chopped chicken livers. Perhaps you are more of a fan of lengua de res a la Veracruzana, a spin on traditional beef tongue. And what seder table would be complete without grandma’s caldo de pollo con bolitas? (Figure it out yourself, chicken soup lovers.)
Six years have gone by since that fateful night in San Juan. Six years of predictable Passovers at home, hiding the afikomen for our children, opening the door for Elijah, and letting my dad lead us out of Egypt quickly so as not to dry out the apricot chicken awaiting us in the oven.
But not this year. Oh no. This year, what my Passover needs is lots of sun and surf. My Passover needs a hot stone massage and several Pina Coladas mixed in with the occasional macaroon.
It just so happens that one of these Glatt Kosher tour groups is running a week-long Passover Party at a hotel I’d love to visit. Call it beshert. Call it stalking. Call it what you will. Sure, the tour group is completely sold out of spaces in their program, and sure, there’s no way my family and I would even qualify to be a part of such a group since we’d be snacking on bagels, pretzels and rice cakes between meals, arriving at the table with suspicious crumbs in the corners of our mouths. But I’ve seen their website, and now I’m kind of hungering for their famous all you can eat BBQ buffet and lavish tea room. Not to mention the renowned day camp and midnight dessert extravaganza.
Now all I need to do is convince Brett, overpay for airfare, get waxed, and totally bail on my extended family!
I may not be orthodox, but that doesn’t mean I won’t know a rockin’ seder when I crash it.
To paraphrase the Haggadah: Next year, in Israel. This year, perhaps, in Miami.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Silence of the Iberian Ham
A few weeks ago, I wrote an article about two Type A–ish people (namely me and my husband, Brett,) traveling abroad and trying to strike the perfect balance between hitting all the major sites and just chillaxing with the natives. This second option is not always easy for us to do and is something we call “living among the Romans.” (If you want to know why, read the first article, entitled “When in Rome.” You can find it, and all of my other articles, archived at http://julie-ontheverge.blogspot.com. Shameless plug. But if you are reading this online, you've already gotten there!)
So, I’m going to pick up where I left off. Brett and I had been in the lovely city of Barcelona for four days now, and still we had not really dined among the Spanish. We had eaten some nice meals, yes, but always with the sense that everyone around us was also a tourist, brought to the same destination as recommended by a similar guidebook, reading off an English menu and relaying their orders to English-speaking waiters.
But not this night, oh no. This night would be different! By declaring it with an exclamation point, we felt that the statement just had to be true! This night, the guidebook would not be consulted. The hotel concierge would be blown off. Brett and I were going rogue. We were dining on a hunch, determined to infiltrate the real Barcelona, the one that the Spanish didn’t tell the Americans about.
Because, by day four, we had this sinking suspicion that the Spanish were, in fact, keeping stuff hidden from us. Maybe there was this “official” list of great restaurants that the board of tourism was releasing to the rest of the world, and then, maybe there was this special list for Spaniards to enjoy in peace.
Or maybe, just maybe, we were completely paranoid and delusional.
In either case, we were off to dinner.
Cuines Santa-Caterina, in the Born district of Barcelona, was our destination. Right away, we loved it. We were greeted in Catalan, seated in the cool, open-market space, and handed menus in Catalan.
Now that’s more like it, Brett and I agreed, high-fiving each other like the lame Americans we are. We consulted our menus greedily. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t read a word. It all looked so yummy.
Our waiter came over and stared to speak to us in Catalan. We nodded and tried our best with broken Castilian Spanish to make it clear that we had no idea what he was saying. I consulted the wine list. Pinto or Rosado, I wondered? Which was the red wine? Must be Rosado. Tinto, I concluded, would be white. Yes. Based on my own limited knowledge of Spanish wines, I then ordered a bottle of somethingorother from the list. The waiter paused, unsure of my order. Then he smiled and made grand hand gestures; we smiled and pantomimed back. Satisfied by something I showed him from the menu, he scribbled on his pad and walked away.
Wow, that was challenging! I sighed, letting some of the tension from that exchange leave my body. This was not going to be easy, Brett and I agreed, but the experience would be well worth it in the end. Of that, we were certain. We gave each other the thrums up signal, like the lame Americans we are.
Our waiter approached and, before I could find any words in any language with which to object, opened for us the bottle of pink wine that I had apparently ordered.
“You ordered rosé?” Brett barked.
“Uhm?” I answered. “I guess?”
“But we don’t drink rosé!” He reminded me, a little too harshly, I thought.
“Well, tonight we do!” I said, smiling nervously at the waiter who now sensed our international trouble in paradise. (It doesn’t matter the language, you call tell when a married couple is not getting along, si?)
I took a taste and nodded to the waiter. “Bene.” The waiter bowed and left.
I was so freaked out I had stared speaking Italian.
“It’s not bad,” I said, trying another sip.
“Whatever. Let’s just order,” Brett said.
Three times our waiter approached and three times we sent him away. “Not yet,” I said. “Uno minuto mas.” There. That sounded more like Spanish.
Back to the menu we went. Since the menu was divided by both region (Mediterranean, Asian) and food type (vegetables, meat, fish, rice), some of it was easier to read than others. Gyoza and ebi maki, for example. Other words jumped out at me at random, like “foie,” “calamari,” and “pimientos,” but not one dish in total was translatable. “Hamburguesa amb salsa de bolets” meant that I’d be presented with a hamburger with some kind of salsa on it, right? But exactly what was that salsa going to be? There was just no way to know. And, further, what was this Fideua, sitting there all by itself under the charcoal-oven/pasta categories?
Brett and I were starving in a fine dining establishment, incapable of ordering a meal.
Our waiter sensed this and swapped himself out for an English-speaking waitress. The phrase “Hello, may I help you?” never sounded so pretty as it did that evening.
Our new waitress started to help us translate the menu line-by-line. Then, in mid-sentence, she paused. “Wait. You don’t have English menus?”
“”You have those?” Brett asked. “Great! Bring ‘em on!”
Within five minutes of receiving them, we ordered our meal and relaxed. We were getting a few different tapas and the Oven-roasted Iberian Pork for two. My goal was to eat pork with every meal while in Spain, and so far, I had managed this feat quite easily.
“Do you think that’s enough?” I asked the waitress.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, yes!” But she didn’t elaborate.
“Perfect.” For the heck of it, I even ordered us a half-bottle of real red wine.
Oh, how quickly we had returned to out natural state as helpless American tourists! And how happy we were about it.
The apps were nice, the red wine red, the crowd Spanish. We were digging Santa Caterina.
The waitress came by and gave us a lovely dish that we were sure we hadn’t ordered, of matchstick fries and new potatoes with two dipping sauces. We inquired. “Oh, yes, that’s yours. It comes with the pork.” Then she started pushing items aside on our table to make room for the main course.
Drumroll, please.
From the kitchen emerged a sizzling cast-iron tray of substantial proportions. The entire restaurant – noisy, crowded, high-ceilinged – fell silent in the presence of this dish. There was a collective intake of breath as the Oven-roasted Iberian Pork for two was brought the length of the restaurant and then laid before us.
Imagine a pig, and then cut it in half. Then imagine all the ribs on one side of that pig, seasoned to perfection and broiling in pinkish brown loveliness right under your nose.
It was simultaneously the most glorious and most repulsive thing I have ever laid eyes on, much less consumed.
Brett raised his eyebrows and grabbed a fork. I watched as he sunk the tines through the crackling skin and then pulled away a tender, moist bit. He kept pulling, until a nice pile of bite-sized morsels lay in front of us.
“Well done, Clarisse,” I said, trying to sound like Hannibal Lecter. “You have silenced the Iberian Ham.”
People were staring. We didn’t care. People were whispering, pointing. We didn’t care. We had found our way into the core of Spanish culture, and we loved eating its heart out.
So, I’m going to pick up where I left off. Brett and I had been in the lovely city of Barcelona for four days now, and still we had not really dined among the Spanish. We had eaten some nice meals, yes, but always with the sense that everyone around us was also a tourist, brought to the same destination as recommended by a similar guidebook, reading off an English menu and relaying their orders to English-speaking waiters.
But not this night, oh no. This night would be different! By declaring it with an exclamation point, we felt that the statement just had to be true! This night, the guidebook would not be consulted. The hotel concierge would be blown off. Brett and I were going rogue. We were dining on a hunch, determined to infiltrate the real Barcelona, the one that the Spanish didn’t tell the Americans about.
Because, by day four, we had this sinking suspicion that the Spanish were, in fact, keeping stuff hidden from us. Maybe there was this “official” list of great restaurants that the board of tourism was releasing to the rest of the world, and then, maybe there was this special list for Spaniards to enjoy in peace.
Or maybe, just maybe, we were completely paranoid and delusional.
In either case, we were off to dinner.
Cuines Santa-Caterina, in the Born district of Barcelona, was our destination. Right away, we loved it. We were greeted in Catalan, seated in the cool, open-market space, and handed menus in Catalan.
Now that’s more like it, Brett and I agreed, high-fiving each other like the lame Americans we are. We consulted our menus greedily. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t read a word. It all looked so yummy.
Our waiter came over and stared to speak to us in Catalan. We nodded and tried our best with broken Castilian Spanish to make it clear that we had no idea what he was saying. I consulted the wine list. Pinto or Rosado, I wondered? Which was the red wine? Must be Rosado. Tinto, I concluded, would be white. Yes. Based on my own limited knowledge of Spanish wines, I then ordered a bottle of somethingorother from the list. The waiter paused, unsure of my order. Then he smiled and made grand hand gestures; we smiled and pantomimed back. Satisfied by something I showed him from the menu, he scribbled on his pad and walked away.
Wow, that was challenging! I sighed, letting some of the tension from that exchange leave my body. This was not going to be easy, Brett and I agreed, but the experience would be well worth it in the end. Of that, we were certain. We gave each other the thrums up signal, like the lame Americans we are.
Our waiter approached and, before I could find any words in any language with which to object, opened for us the bottle of pink wine that I had apparently ordered.
“You ordered rosé?” Brett barked.
“Uhm?” I answered. “I guess?”
“But we don’t drink rosé!” He reminded me, a little too harshly, I thought.
“Well, tonight we do!” I said, smiling nervously at the waiter who now sensed our international trouble in paradise. (It doesn’t matter the language, you call tell when a married couple is not getting along, si?)
I took a taste and nodded to the waiter. “Bene.” The waiter bowed and left.
I was so freaked out I had stared speaking Italian.
“It’s not bad,” I said, trying another sip.
“Whatever. Let’s just order,” Brett said.
Three times our waiter approached and three times we sent him away. “Not yet,” I said. “Uno minuto mas.” There. That sounded more like Spanish.
Back to the menu we went. Since the menu was divided by both region (Mediterranean, Asian) and food type (vegetables, meat, fish, rice), some of it was easier to read than others. Gyoza and ebi maki, for example. Other words jumped out at me at random, like “foie,” “calamari,” and “pimientos,” but not one dish in total was translatable. “Hamburguesa amb salsa de bolets” meant that I’d be presented with a hamburger with some kind of salsa on it, right? But exactly what was that salsa going to be? There was just no way to know. And, further, what was this Fideua, sitting there all by itself under the charcoal-oven/pasta categories?
Brett and I were starving in a fine dining establishment, incapable of ordering a meal.
Our waiter sensed this and swapped himself out for an English-speaking waitress. The phrase “Hello, may I help you?” never sounded so pretty as it did that evening.
Our new waitress started to help us translate the menu line-by-line. Then, in mid-sentence, she paused. “Wait. You don’t have English menus?”
“”You have those?” Brett asked. “Great! Bring ‘em on!”
Within five minutes of receiving them, we ordered our meal and relaxed. We were getting a few different tapas and the Oven-roasted Iberian Pork for two. My goal was to eat pork with every meal while in Spain, and so far, I had managed this feat quite easily.
“Do you think that’s enough?” I asked the waitress.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, yes!” But she didn’t elaborate.
“Perfect.” For the heck of it, I even ordered us a half-bottle of real red wine.
Oh, how quickly we had returned to out natural state as helpless American tourists! And how happy we were about it.
The apps were nice, the red wine red, the crowd Spanish. We were digging Santa Caterina.
The waitress came by and gave us a lovely dish that we were sure we hadn’t ordered, of matchstick fries and new potatoes with two dipping sauces. We inquired. “Oh, yes, that’s yours. It comes with the pork.” Then she started pushing items aside on our table to make room for the main course.
Drumroll, please.
From the kitchen emerged a sizzling cast-iron tray of substantial proportions. The entire restaurant – noisy, crowded, high-ceilinged – fell silent in the presence of this dish. There was a collective intake of breath as the Oven-roasted Iberian Pork for two was brought the length of the restaurant and then laid before us.
Imagine a pig, and then cut it in half. Then imagine all the ribs on one side of that pig, seasoned to perfection and broiling in pinkish brown loveliness right under your nose.
It was simultaneously the most glorious and most repulsive thing I have ever laid eyes on, much less consumed.
Brett raised his eyebrows and grabbed a fork. I watched as he sunk the tines through the crackling skin and then pulled away a tender, moist bit. He kept pulling, until a nice pile of bite-sized morsels lay in front of us.
“Well done, Clarisse,” I said, trying to sound like Hannibal Lecter. “You have silenced the Iberian Ham.”
People were staring. We didn’t care. People were whispering, pointing. We didn’t care. We had found our way into the core of Spanish culture, and we loved eating its heart out.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
When in Rome
Nine summers ago, my husband Brett and I traveled through Italy with my brother and some friends. For the second and third weeks of this 3-week trip, my friend Lisa and her husband, Jon, joined us. They arrived, unpacked, and promptly slept off their jetlag. Then they slept some more.
By the third morning of what we viewed as our friends’ complete lack of get-up-and-go-ness, Brett and I started to get anxious. We sipped our cappuccinos and examined our watches from the courtyard below their room. Time was a-wasting, and there were ruins to see! According to Frommer’s, there were at least 17 churches to visit, several important, historical walking tours to amble, and a whole lot of pasta to consume. There was no time to vacation on this vacation…didn’t they understand that?
“Holy Ceasar, get the heck out of bed!” We would groan under our breaths. And then we would scribble a note for them and slink off to do our own touring.
On day four, we made a group decision to rally en masse, and we headed toward the Vatican. The pope was addressing the public; we could watch him glide by in his Popemobile and bless us in several languages. It didn’t seem to matter that we were Jewish in the face of so much Catholicism. When in Rome, Brett and I decided, best to just go with it and meet the Pope. After all, the guidebook recommended it highly, rating the activity with a full star!
As the group of us stood in St Peter’s Square that morning, Lisa and Jon made a decision. They were blowing off the Papal address. Nor were not going to see the Sistine Chapel with us afterwards.
“But…what are you going to do, then?” We asked, guidebooks in hand, mouths agape.
“Live among the Romans, I guess,” they shrugged. And then they disappeared behind some columns, Michelangelo-less.
Lisa and Jon returned to our villa that evening with stories of cafes and bicycle rides, markets and more markets. I had images of them cruising down stone alleyways, honking the horns on their bikes a la Life is Beautiful, or splashing each other with water from the Trevi Fountain in Dolce Vita-filled bliss.
Then they cooked a glorious dinner with fresh, local ingredients. Several bottles of Chianti were consumed.
There was something to this notion of living among the Romans, Brett and I later determined, though we were still not ready to give up our Frommer’s. But the catchphrase and its meaning took hold in us over the years. Indeed, whenever we found ourselves enmeshed in a culture and its ways, we would recall it, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. Visiting cheesy waterparks on the Jersey Shore? Brett and I call that “living among the Romans.” Eating clam cakes and “milk chowdah” in Narragansett, Rhode Island? Doing what the natives do; simply living among the Romans.
Which brings me to Barcelona.
Brett and I had the great fortune of visiting this lovely city a few weeks ago, in celebration of both my upcoming 40th birthday and the completion of my doctorate. We went in full-on Julie and Brett style, with guidebooks in hand, articles cut from recent magazines (with sections underlined and highlighted), and inside info from Gwenyth Paltrow’s website, Goop. We had a Master Plan, a day-by-day itinerary.
We gorged ourselves on Gaudi, poured over Picasso, and marveled over Miro. We followed every guidebook suggestion about where to eat, and were “rewarded” for this by being seated next to Americans and British at every meal. Everyone around us was reading off of an English menu and ordering the same three items.
It was a little bit depressing, truth be told. I mean, I had come to Spain to, you know, see the sights. But hadn’t I also come to see Spanish people…doing their Spanish people stuff? What was that, exactly? The guidebooks just didn’t say.
One event on our list of “musts” was to dine at a tapas bar called Inopia. On her website, Gwenyth writes that she would “fly al the way to Barcelona just to eat” here. That endorsement would have been enough, but Inopia also comes with major kudos from Frommer’s, from my friend Debbie, and also from a recent magazine article. So, getting into the spirit of Barcelona, we headed out for a late dinner, arriving at 10 pm.
Just before the taxi pulled up to the restaurant, I noticed a woman desperately trying to flag down our cab. Her arms were waving madly and she was jumping up and down in her platform sandals, three companions by her side. At that moment, I had this weird vision. For one, I knew that she was an American tourist, like me. I just sensed it in my bones, in that “I see dead people” kind of way. Also, I knew that she was in this section of town just to dine at Inopia, probably hearing about it as I had from several sources. Plus, I imagined that she had bought those white skinny jeans she was now hoping up and down in at Scoop in New York City, in anticipation of this upcoming trip to Barcelona. And that, further, she had totally planned the night’s ensemble imagining herself eating the world’s best patatas bravas while showing off her trendy look.
What concerned me was the apparent distress accompanying this woman’s whole look. Hadn’t she just eaten a great meal? Why was she so hell-bent on getting into my cab? But there wasn’t time to answer these questions. She and her friends faded into the darkness as our cab sped past them and stopped on the next block.
I shrugged off my disquieting vision and hopped out in front of Inopia, where couples stood waiting. While Brett paid the taxi driver, I approached a man taking names and asked how long the wait would be. We were prepared to wait in line for perhaps an hour just to get in the door. What we weren’t prepared for was being told that no more names were being taken for dinner that night.
“You mean…I can’t eat here? At all?” I gasped.
“No. Not tonight.” The host replied.
“Brett!” I screamed. “Hold that cab!”
“Huh?” He asked, standing in the spot left by the cab exactly half a second before.
Explatives flew as I explained out current state. It was 10 pm, we were stuck on a secluded street in a nowheresville section of Barcelona, and we would not be eating Gwenyth Paltrow’s favorite tapas! We were f*&%ed.
Just like that Scoop woman, I now understood.
I was on the verge of tears. Brett approached the host and spoke quietly with him.
He returned a moment later and took my arm. “This way,” he said, leading me away from the famed restaurant.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, not too kindly.
“Well, I asked the guy who is not taking names where he would eat right now, and he told me about a place he likes. Two blocks up, make a right.”
“You mean…we’re going to…live among the Romans!?” I laughed, the tension created by the scene outside Inopia leaving my body.
“Looks that way,” Brett smiled back.
And so, we found our way to La Clara, a lovely little spot for tapas. We sat at the bar, ordered the ubiquitous tortilla, some cheeses, and yes, the patatas bravas, and had a nice, relaxing meal together, doing as the Spanish do.
A few nights later, we dined with the afore-mentioned friend Debbie at Michelin-star rated Cinc Sentits, and relayed our story about the failed attempt at Inopia.
“La Clara?” She responded. “That’s supposed to be great. They were reviewed quite favorably in The New York Times, in the same article as Inopia.”
Please insert your eye roll here.
Funny that a comment indented to make me feel better should actually have the opposite effect.
Were Brett and I ever truly able to live among the Romans in Spain?
Tune in to my next article and find out.
By the third morning of what we viewed as our friends’ complete lack of get-up-and-go-ness, Brett and I started to get anxious. We sipped our cappuccinos and examined our watches from the courtyard below their room. Time was a-wasting, and there were ruins to see! According to Frommer’s, there were at least 17 churches to visit, several important, historical walking tours to amble, and a whole lot of pasta to consume. There was no time to vacation on this vacation…didn’t they understand that?
“Holy Ceasar, get the heck out of bed!” We would groan under our breaths. And then we would scribble a note for them and slink off to do our own touring.
On day four, we made a group decision to rally en masse, and we headed toward the Vatican. The pope was addressing the public; we could watch him glide by in his Popemobile and bless us in several languages. It didn’t seem to matter that we were Jewish in the face of so much Catholicism. When in Rome, Brett and I decided, best to just go with it and meet the Pope. After all, the guidebook recommended it highly, rating the activity with a full star!
As the group of us stood in St Peter’s Square that morning, Lisa and Jon made a decision. They were blowing off the Papal address. Nor were not going to see the Sistine Chapel with us afterwards.
“But…what are you going to do, then?” We asked, guidebooks in hand, mouths agape.
“Live among the Romans, I guess,” they shrugged. And then they disappeared behind some columns, Michelangelo-less.
Lisa and Jon returned to our villa that evening with stories of cafes and bicycle rides, markets and more markets. I had images of them cruising down stone alleyways, honking the horns on their bikes a la Life is Beautiful, or splashing each other with water from the Trevi Fountain in Dolce Vita-filled bliss.
Then they cooked a glorious dinner with fresh, local ingredients. Several bottles of Chianti were consumed.
There was something to this notion of living among the Romans, Brett and I later determined, though we were still not ready to give up our Frommer’s. But the catchphrase and its meaning took hold in us over the years. Indeed, whenever we found ourselves enmeshed in a culture and its ways, we would recall it, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. Visiting cheesy waterparks on the Jersey Shore? Brett and I call that “living among the Romans.” Eating clam cakes and “milk chowdah” in Narragansett, Rhode Island? Doing what the natives do; simply living among the Romans.
Which brings me to Barcelona.
Brett and I had the great fortune of visiting this lovely city a few weeks ago, in celebration of both my upcoming 40th birthday and the completion of my doctorate. We went in full-on Julie and Brett style, with guidebooks in hand, articles cut from recent magazines (with sections underlined and highlighted), and inside info from Gwenyth Paltrow’s website, Goop. We had a Master Plan, a day-by-day itinerary.
We gorged ourselves on Gaudi, poured over Picasso, and marveled over Miro. We followed every guidebook suggestion about where to eat, and were “rewarded” for this by being seated next to Americans and British at every meal. Everyone around us was reading off of an English menu and ordering the same three items.
It was a little bit depressing, truth be told. I mean, I had come to Spain to, you know, see the sights. But hadn’t I also come to see Spanish people…doing their Spanish people stuff? What was that, exactly? The guidebooks just didn’t say.
One event on our list of “musts” was to dine at a tapas bar called Inopia. On her website, Gwenyth writes that she would “fly al the way to Barcelona just to eat” here. That endorsement would have been enough, but Inopia also comes with major kudos from Frommer’s, from my friend Debbie, and also from a recent magazine article. So, getting into the spirit of Barcelona, we headed out for a late dinner, arriving at 10 pm.
Just before the taxi pulled up to the restaurant, I noticed a woman desperately trying to flag down our cab. Her arms were waving madly and she was jumping up and down in her platform sandals, three companions by her side. At that moment, I had this weird vision. For one, I knew that she was an American tourist, like me. I just sensed it in my bones, in that “I see dead people” kind of way. Also, I knew that she was in this section of town just to dine at Inopia, probably hearing about it as I had from several sources. Plus, I imagined that she had bought those white skinny jeans she was now hoping up and down in at Scoop in New York City, in anticipation of this upcoming trip to Barcelona. And that, further, she had totally planned the night’s ensemble imagining herself eating the world’s best patatas bravas while showing off her trendy look.
What concerned me was the apparent distress accompanying this woman’s whole look. Hadn’t she just eaten a great meal? Why was she so hell-bent on getting into my cab? But there wasn’t time to answer these questions. She and her friends faded into the darkness as our cab sped past them and stopped on the next block.
I shrugged off my disquieting vision and hopped out in front of Inopia, where couples stood waiting. While Brett paid the taxi driver, I approached a man taking names and asked how long the wait would be. We were prepared to wait in line for perhaps an hour just to get in the door. What we weren’t prepared for was being told that no more names were being taken for dinner that night.
“You mean…I can’t eat here? At all?” I gasped.
“No. Not tonight.” The host replied.
“Brett!” I screamed. “Hold that cab!”
“Huh?” He asked, standing in the spot left by the cab exactly half a second before.
Explatives flew as I explained out current state. It was 10 pm, we were stuck on a secluded street in a nowheresville section of Barcelona, and we would not be eating Gwenyth Paltrow’s favorite tapas! We were f*&%ed.
Just like that Scoop woman, I now understood.
I was on the verge of tears. Brett approached the host and spoke quietly with him.
He returned a moment later and took my arm. “This way,” he said, leading me away from the famed restaurant.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, not too kindly.
“Well, I asked the guy who is not taking names where he would eat right now, and he told me about a place he likes. Two blocks up, make a right.”
“You mean…we’re going to…live among the Romans!?” I laughed, the tension created by the scene outside Inopia leaving my body.
“Looks that way,” Brett smiled back.
And so, we found our way to La Clara, a lovely little spot for tapas. We sat at the bar, ordered the ubiquitous tortilla, some cheeses, and yes, the patatas bravas, and had a nice, relaxing meal together, doing as the Spanish do.
A few nights later, we dined with the afore-mentioned friend Debbie at Michelin-star rated Cinc Sentits, and relayed our story about the failed attempt at Inopia.
“La Clara?” She responded. “That’s supposed to be great. They were reviewed quite favorably in The New York Times, in the same article as Inopia.”
Please insert your eye roll here.
Funny that a comment indented to make me feel better should actually have the opposite effect.
Were Brett and I ever truly able to live among the Romans in Spain?
Tune in to my next article and find out.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Life Cycle
I am not much of an athlete. I’ve thought long and hard about why this is, and I’ve narrowed it down to two factors. For one, I lack depth perception. And, for two, I’m a little bit lazy when it comes to physical activity.
As you know, it takes all types of people to make the world spin. There are people who can run around on a field, kick balls or throw passes, and then score goals. Then there are those who can cheer for these people from the safety of a warm bench on the sidelines, sipping hot apple cider under a plaid blanket and looking cute. There are those who can maneuver not only their bodies, but a lacrosse stick as well -- simultaneously! -- and those who can write about them for the local newspaper.
Some people get a healthy glow about them during exercise, while others turn an unnatural shade of purple.
Some can work on a dissertation for ten years, and others can ride a bike.
Guess which one is me.
The first (and only) time that my husband, Brett, took me bicycle riding was on Nantucket. I assured him that I sucked at riding, but he would not be swayed.
Our relationship was relatively new. Dear Brett still believed that anything with me was possible, if only he loved me enough.
“Brett, I suck at this.” I said for the umpteenth time, securing my helmet and walking the rental bike down a dirt path near our cottage.
“It just takes confidence, and practice. You’ll see how easy it is. Your only problem is that you’ve never biked with me before. I’ll be encouraging and supportive.”
“Can’t you be encouraging and supportive about my desire to read four books while sitting under an umbrella on Cisco? In return, I’ll be super encouraging and let you go on a solitary bike ride to Madaket if you want. Heck, go all the way to ‘Sconset! Just let me be.”
He shook his head no. “Three miles. Straight, flat road. From here to Bartlett Farm and back. Easy as pie.”
“Pie! Can we stop and eat pie at Bartlett Farm before heading back?”
“Sure.”
“Mixed berry?”
“Whatever you want.”
I took a moment to deliberate. I was the verge of tasting those freshly picked purple berries as they oozed out from under a crumbly crust. I was also, possibly, on the verge of actually breaking a sweat.
This was a tough call. But there was to be pie. “Okay, I’m in.” I smiled.
We hit the road. This isn’t so bad after all, I thought, biking in front of Brett so that he could keep an eye on me. We had gone about a half a mile and I was starting to like it. A car passed by. Then another. Then several more.
“Stop!” Brett called. There was panic in his tone. “Julie! Stop right now!”
It took me a moment to remember how to brake. I stepped off the bike and turned around. “What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Me!?” Brett guffawed. “Me!?”
“What? Me? I was just biking.”
“You swerve into traffic every time a car passes by! It’s like you’re drawn to the cars, by some sick magnetic pull.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I shrugged. “It’s from my lack of depth perception. You see, I can’t really tell where the road is, where the car is, and where I am.” I used sophisticated hand gestures to illustrate my point.
“But, you’re going to get hit by a car!”
“No kidding! I told you I couldn’t ride a bike.” I put my hands on my hips, striking the classic “I-told-you-so” stance.
“I thought you meant that you couldn’t handle the riding part of riding a bike. Not the oncoming traffic part.”
“Nope. I can ride a bike perfectly well, if only I could do so in a bubble. Like on a bike that never moves.”
“A bike to nowhere.” Brett added.
“Exactly!” I agreed. “A bike to nowhere would be perfect for me.”
And that’s how I fell in love with spinning.
Spinning – riding a stationary bike to nowhere – is my sport. It requires hardly any hand-eye coordination, occurs in a climate-controlled environment, and is accompanied by loud pop music. Most importantly, there is very little chance of ever getting hit by a car while spinning. Need I say more?
My only problem is that I often walk away from a spin class feeling a little disappointed by some aspect of it. The music was annoying, or the teacher wasn’t that great, or the guy next to me smelled bad. Not long ago, I encountered a trifecta, with the convergence of 80’s heavy metal, an obnoxious teacher singing along to the heavy metal, and the slowest, sweatiest, smelliest person in the continental US just to my right. I endured it for 45 minutes, but I never went back.
Alternatively, sometimes spin class is just plain boring.
Enter Soul Cycle, the newly-opened spinning studio above the newish CVS, located at the corner of Popham and Depot roads. Soul Cycle has been popular in NYC for years now, which means that, as a complete suburbanite, I’m only learning about it now. The studio has been opened for about a month here and it already has devoted, obsessed followers. You know the type: people who sign up online for their favorite bike and/or instructor days in advance. Slightly intimidating, well-attired individuals clad head to toe in Lululemon spandex. People who are already really, really fit.
If there is one thing I will never be, it is obsessed with exercise. But I will say that I am really digging this workout. It’s crazy and intense and anything but boring. Plus, some of the instructors are a little bit insane. And I mean that in a totally good way! Great spin teachers need to be endorphin junkies in order to set the tone and pace for the rest of us. They need to dance around a bit, play interesting music, and show some personality. Soul cycle instructors inspire and motivate me, even as I sit on the bike and wonder if my legs will ever move as fast as theirs. (The answer to that is no.)
By the end of the 45 minutes, the room is so steamy, it appears to be raining inside. Indeed, some individuals are so sweaty, they look like they have been rained on. (Pretty image, isn’t it? The ambient candles around the room have kept the space looking and smelling relatively fresh, though.)
On my way out of the studio, I wipe some condensation from the fogged mirrors lining one wall and examine my appearance. My skin is bright purple, as expected, but I don’t care. I’m smiling, and exhausted.
After 39 years, I’ve found my so-called sport. It may not be social, like tennis. But it’s an exercise I love and it’s something I can honestly say I don’t suck at.
So, the next time you take your real bicycle out on the Bronx River Parkway, give a little wave in my direction. I’m up there, in the spin studio, happily pedaling as fast as I can to nowhere.
As you know, it takes all types of people to make the world spin. There are people who can run around on a field, kick balls or throw passes, and then score goals. Then there are those who can cheer for these people from the safety of a warm bench on the sidelines, sipping hot apple cider under a plaid blanket and looking cute. There are those who can maneuver not only their bodies, but a lacrosse stick as well -- simultaneously! -- and those who can write about them for the local newspaper.
Some people get a healthy glow about them during exercise, while others turn an unnatural shade of purple.
Some can work on a dissertation for ten years, and others can ride a bike.
Guess which one is me.
The first (and only) time that my husband, Brett, took me bicycle riding was on Nantucket. I assured him that I sucked at riding, but he would not be swayed.
Our relationship was relatively new. Dear Brett still believed that anything with me was possible, if only he loved me enough.
“Brett, I suck at this.” I said for the umpteenth time, securing my helmet and walking the rental bike down a dirt path near our cottage.
“It just takes confidence, and practice. You’ll see how easy it is. Your only problem is that you’ve never biked with me before. I’ll be encouraging and supportive.”
“Can’t you be encouraging and supportive about my desire to read four books while sitting under an umbrella on Cisco? In return, I’ll be super encouraging and let you go on a solitary bike ride to Madaket if you want. Heck, go all the way to ‘Sconset! Just let me be.”
He shook his head no. “Three miles. Straight, flat road. From here to Bartlett Farm and back. Easy as pie.”
“Pie! Can we stop and eat pie at Bartlett Farm before heading back?”
“Sure.”
“Mixed berry?”
“Whatever you want.”
I took a moment to deliberate. I was the verge of tasting those freshly picked purple berries as they oozed out from under a crumbly crust. I was also, possibly, on the verge of actually breaking a sweat.
This was a tough call. But there was to be pie. “Okay, I’m in.” I smiled.
We hit the road. This isn’t so bad after all, I thought, biking in front of Brett so that he could keep an eye on me. We had gone about a half a mile and I was starting to like it. A car passed by. Then another. Then several more.
“Stop!” Brett called. There was panic in his tone. “Julie! Stop right now!”
It took me a moment to remember how to brake. I stepped off the bike and turned around. “What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Me!?” Brett guffawed. “Me!?”
“What? Me? I was just biking.”
“You swerve into traffic every time a car passes by! It’s like you’re drawn to the cars, by some sick magnetic pull.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I shrugged. “It’s from my lack of depth perception. You see, I can’t really tell where the road is, where the car is, and where I am.” I used sophisticated hand gestures to illustrate my point.
“But, you’re going to get hit by a car!”
“No kidding! I told you I couldn’t ride a bike.” I put my hands on my hips, striking the classic “I-told-you-so” stance.
“I thought you meant that you couldn’t handle the riding part of riding a bike. Not the oncoming traffic part.”
“Nope. I can ride a bike perfectly well, if only I could do so in a bubble. Like on a bike that never moves.”
“A bike to nowhere.” Brett added.
“Exactly!” I agreed. “A bike to nowhere would be perfect for me.”
And that’s how I fell in love with spinning.
Spinning – riding a stationary bike to nowhere – is my sport. It requires hardly any hand-eye coordination, occurs in a climate-controlled environment, and is accompanied by loud pop music. Most importantly, there is very little chance of ever getting hit by a car while spinning. Need I say more?
My only problem is that I often walk away from a spin class feeling a little disappointed by some aspect of it. The music was annoying, or the teacher wasn’t that great, or the guy next to me smelled bad. Not long ago, I encountered a trifecta, with the convergence of 80’s heavy metal, an obnoxious teacher singing along to the heavy metal, and the slowest, sweatiest, smelliest person in the continental US just to my right. I endured it for 45 minutes, but I never went back.
Alternatively, sometimes spin class is just plain boring.
Enter Soul Cycle, the newly-opened spinning studio above the newish CVS, located at the corner of Popham and Depot roads. Soul Cycle has been popular in NYC for years now, which means that, as a complete suburbanite, I’m only learning about it now. The studio has been opened for about a month here and it already has devoted, obsessed followers. You know the type: people who sign up online for their favorite bike and/or instructor days in advance. Slightly intimidating, well-attired individuals clad head to toe in Lululemon spandex. People who are already really, really fit.
If there is one thing I will never be, it is obsessed with exercise. But I will say that I am really digging this workout. It’s crazy and intense and anything but boring. Plus, some of the instructors are a little bit insane. And I mean that in a totally good way! Great spin teachers need to be endorphin junkies in order to set the tone and pace for the rest of us. They need to dance around a bit, play interesting music, and show some personality. Soul cycle instructors inspire and motivate me, even as I sit on the bike and wonder if my legs will ever move as fast as theirs. (The answer to that is no.)
By the end of the 45 minutes, the room is so steamy, it appears to be raining inside. Indeed, some individuals are so sweaty, they look like they have been rained on. (Pretty image, isn’t it? The ambient candles around the room have kept the space looking and smelling relatively fresh, though.)
On my way out of the studio, I wipe some condensation from the fogged mirrors lining one wall and examine my appearance. My skin is bright purple, as expected, but I don’t care. I’m smiling, and exhausted.
After 39 years, I’ve found my so-called sport. It may not be social, like tennis. But it’s an exercise I love and it’s something I can honestly say I don’t suck at.
So, the next time you take your real bicycle out on the Bronx River Parkway, give a little wave in my direction. I’m up there, in the spin studio, happily pedaling as fast as I can to nowhere.
Friday, September 11, 2009
School Daze
Imagine, if you will, a suburban household at 8:15 a.m. Let’s just pretend that the house exists on a quiet, shady street, in the middle of bucolic bliss. Like perhaps in a village 30 minutes north of New York City.
Oh, what the heck, let’s just call it Scarsdale.
So it is 8:15 in the morning in Scarsdale, and it’s September. And in this particular place at this particular time, the household goes into momentary panic mode. For argument’s sake, let’s just pretend that there is a mom and three elementary-aged kids inside this abode. Now, I’m just guessing here, and remember that this is pretend, so I can make up all kinds of crazy stuff if I want to, but I think the mom is shouting at two, if not all three, of her children, at this very moment.
“Molly, put on your shoes!”
“David, where is your homework? Did you do it last night? Did you put it in your homework folder?”
“Remember the permission slip!”
“Don’t forget that you are going home with Tyler after school!”
“Please eat your lunch today – I packed your favorite!”
“Brush your hair!”
“Brush your teeth!”
“Pee!”
“The bus is coming!”
“The bus is here!”
“YOU MISSED THE BUS!!!”
It is now 8:16 am. The children pile into the minivan with an over-the-top, harried mom, who is on the verge of cursing under her breath in all manner of colorful language. She cannot believe that the children need to be driven to school again when she pays taxes for the convenience (and green-ness) that is known as the yellow school bus.
If all that carbon monoxide is green, that is.
Is this your morning?
Welcome back-to-school, everyone! Happy September to you all. Hope you had a nice, relaxing vacation down the shore or up the coast or right here in the middle.
My summer was lovely, thanks for asking.
Yes, I missed you too.
For those of you who know me, you know that I always – and I mean like 30 plus years of always – go to Nantucket for my summer vacation. Not this year. This year, my children and Brett and I tried something different, something novel, something completely in-law-less.
First, we went to the Jersey Shore. Way down. Exit 13 off the Garden State Parkway, where no Scarsdalian has gone before.
Down there, people come from Philly, and random parts of Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of, and even Delaware. I didn’t see anyone I knew. For seven relaxing, sun-filled days, I didn’t see any Bodyfit or Circle of Friends stickers on any cars, or any New York license plates whatsoever.
“What’s that accent I keep hearing everywhere?” I asked Brett one afternoon in Cape May, as we strolled the quaint Victorian streets with our kids. “Is it…southern?”
“Yeah. We’re in the beginning of the south, you know.” Brett teased.
“New Jersey was a part of the Confederacy?” I paused, trying to think back to 11th grade. “Really?”
So close to home, and yet a world away from all the New Yorkers in Massachusetts.
On the Jersey Shore, we played a lot of mini-golf. We ate something called “water ice” which is basically Italian Ice, only somehow better. Creamier. Like sorbet. (Brett thinks they removed the national label for political correctness. I’m like, “is the term ‘Italian Ice’ derogatory? Since when?” We debated this for quite some time. When on a family vacation, you can do this sort of thing since no one has to leave to catch a train to the city or a bus to school.) On the Jersey Shore, we walked the boardwalks and spent six hours straight in inner tubes at a water park and then rode on huge Ferris wheels perched next to the Atlantic. We bought hermit crabs painted as Sponge Bob and kept them as pets in fancy cages bought at the five and dime in town. We jumped off a private dock into the bay located right in our own backyard. And we all had a blast.
But wait: there’s more. Then we spent a week in the Hamptons, reconnecting with our peeps. Get-togethers with different friends from Scarsdale moved seamlessly from lazy afternoons on the beach to tranquil evenings all together, with wine in hand. Every day was more restful and beautiful than the next.
And then September 7th arrived and my summer came to a screeching halt.
Registration for fall classes nearly sent me over the edge. Is Andrew elite enough for junior elite tennis? Will Zoe get off the waitlist for preschool gymnastics, and will her name be selected by lottery for the coveted Wednesday Coach Terrific class? Will my doctoral committee member who is on sabbatical in Sweden (or Denmark? Maybe Norway? Definitely not New Jersey) ever get back to me about revisions to chapter five of my dissertation?
Coming home after summer vacation is like being in a car commercial: I go from zero to sixty in under five seconds.
To manage the stress of September, I tried to plan ahead. Really I did. This year, I went to Staples for school supplies over Fourth of July weekend in order to beat the back-to-school crowds. Only they hadn’t gotten their back-to-school shipment in yet. “Come back in, like, August?” The girl behind the counter said. “You know, when everyone is like shopping for back-to-school stuff?”
“But, you see,” I wanted to tell the clueless sales girl, “that’s exactly when I go on vay-cay-shun!”
Some people handle back-to-school planning differently. To stay ahead of the crowd and get a leg up on the latest fall trends, my friend Sloane did some clothes shopping for herself on one of the muggiest days of the summer. “I bought leather leggings,” she confided as we watched our kids splash in the town pool a few weeks ago.
“In August.” I countered.
“Yeah. It was like 94 degrees out.”
“You so needed those.”
“I did. And the cute booties that go with them. Now I’m all set for fall.”
Sloane is going to be styling’ in her black leather leggings with coordinating booties and I still cannot locate 5 inch Fiskars scissors to satisfy the particular demands of a second grade school supply list.
But the worst is behind me now. The kids are successfully off to school -- with or without scissors -- and the after-school activities have been lined up for the most part, with coordinating carpools in the works.
And now that it’s underway, I remember how much I love September. New books, new clothes, a hint of chill in the air. The promise of something; a fresh start. A few hyper moments each morning are worth it. Because once the kids are out of the house and off to school, I can breathe in that clear fall scent in relative peace, and look forward to the season ahead.
Whatever it may bring.
With or without leather leggings of my own.
Oh, what the heck, let’s just call it Scarsdale.
So it is 8:15 in the morning in Scarsdale, and it’s September. And in this particular place at this particular time, the household goes into momentary panic mode. For argument’s sake, let’s just pretend that there is a mom and three elementary-aged kids inside this abode. Now, I’m just guessing here, and remember that this is pretend, so I can make up all kinds of crazy stuff if I want to, but I think the mom is shouting at two, if not all three, of her children, at this very moment.
“Molly, put on your shoes!”
“David, where is your homework? Did you do it last night? Did you put it in your homework folder?”
“Remember the permission slip!”
“Don’t forget that you are going home with Tyler after school!”
“Please eat your lunch today – I packed your favorite!”
“Brush your hair!”
“Brush your teeth!”
“Pee!”
“The bus is coming!”
“The bus is here!”
“YOU MISSED THE BUS!!!”
It is now 8:16 am. The children pile into the minivan with an over-the-top, harried mom, who is on the verge of cursing under her breath in all manner of colorful language. She cannot believe that the children need to be driven to school again when she pays taxes for the convenience (and green-ness) that is known as the yellow school bus.
If all that carbon monoxide is green, that is.
Is this your morning?
Welcome back-to-school, everyone! Happy September to you all. Hope you had a nice, relaxing vacation down the shore or up the coast or right here in the middle.
My summer was lovely, thanks for asking.
Yes, I missed you too.
For those of you who know me, you know that I always – and I mean like 30 plus years of always – go to Nantucket for my summer vacation. Not this year. This year, my children and Brett and I tried something different, something novel, something completely in-law-less.
First, we went to the Jersey Shore. Way down. Exit 13 off the Garden State Parkway, where no Scarsdalian has gone before.
Down there, people come from Philly, and random parts of Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of, and even Delaware. I didn’t see anyone I knew. For seven relaxing, sun-filled days, I didn’t see any Bodyfit or Circle of Friends stickers on any cars, or any New York license plates whatsoever.
“What’s that accent I keep hearing everywhere?” I asked Brett one afternoon in Cape May, as we strolled the quaint Victorian streets with our kids. “Is it…southern?”
“Yeah. We’re in the beginning of the south, you know.” Brett teased.
“New Jersey was a part of the Confederacy?” I paused, trying to think back to 11th grade. “Really?”
So close to home, and yet a world away from all the New Yorkers in Massachusetts.
On the Jersey Shore, we played a lot of mini-golf. We ate something called “water ice” which is basically Italian Ice, only somehow better. Creamier. Like sorbet. (Brett thinks they removed the national label for political correctness. I’m like, “is the term ‘Italian Ice’ derogatory? Since when?” We debated this for quite some time. When on a family vacation, you can do this sort of thing since no one has to leave to catch a train to the city or a bus to school.) On the Jersey Shore, we walked the boardwalks and spent six hours straight in inner tubes at a water park and then rode on huge Ferris wheels perched next to the Atlantic. We bought hermit crabs painted as Sponge Bob and kept them as pets in fancy cages bought at the five and dime in town. We jumped off a private dock into the bay located right in our own backyard. And we all had a blast.
But wait: there’s more. Then we spent a week in the Hamptons, reconnecting with our peeps. Get-togethers with different friends from Scarsdale moved seamlessly from lazy afternoons on the beach to tranquil evenings all together, with wine in hand. Every day was more restful and beautiful than the next.
And then September 7th arrived and my summer came to a screeching halt.
Registration for fall classes nearly sent me over the edge. Is Andrew elite enough for junior elite tennis? Will Zoe get off the waitlist for preschool gymnastics, and will her name be selected by lottery for the coveted Wednesday Coach Terrific class? Will my doctoral committee member who is on sabbatical in Sweden (or Denmark? Maybe Norway? Definitely not New Jersey) ever get back to me about revisions to chapter five of my dissertation?
Coming home after summer vacation is like being in a car commercial: I go from zero to sixty in under five seconds.
To manage the stress of September, I tried to plan ahead. Really I did. This year, I went to Staples for school supplies over Fourth of July weekend in order to beat the back-to-school crowds. Only they hadn’t gotten their back-to-school shipment in yet. “Come back in, like, August?” The girl behind the counter said. “You know, when everyone is like shopping for back-to-school stuff?”
“But, you see,” I wanted to tell the clueless sales girl, “that’s exactly when I go on vay-cay-shun!”
Some people handle back-to-school planning differently. To stay ahead of the crowd and get a leg up on the latest fall trends, my friend Sloane did some clothes shopping for herself on one of the muggiest days of the summer. “I bought leather leggings,” she confided as we watched our kids splash in the town pool a few weeks ago.
“In August.” I countered.
“Yeah. It was like 94 degrees out.”
“You so needed those.”
“I did. And the cute booties that go with them. Now I’m all set for fall.”
Sloane is going to be styling’ in her black leather leggings with coordinating booties and I still cannot locate 5 inch Fiskars scissors to satisfy the particular demands of a second grade school supply list.
But the worst is behind me now. The kids are successfully off to school -- with or without scissors -- and the after-school activities have been lined up for the most part, with coordinating carpools in the works.
And now that it’s underway, I remember how much I love September. New books, new clothes, a hint of chill in the air. The promise of something; a fresh start. A few hyper moments each morning are worth it. Because once the kids are out of the house and off to school, I can breathe in that clear fall scent in relative peace, and look forward to the season ahead.
Whatever it may bring.
With or without leather leggings of my own.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Married...with Children
News flash! According to a new, long-term US study, people who are married with children are not all that happy.
Now that’s not exactly what the study reports. “After analysis of all the data, the researchers found that 90% of the couples had less satisfaction in their marriages after their first child was born.” I’d hate to think where it went from there after the second, third, and – dare I suggest it – fourth offspring joined the family.
The study also states that “children increase stress on marriages.” Really? Huh. I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been so busy enjoying potty training, projectile vomiting, tantrums, time-outs and homework that I haven’t even seen my husband Brett in weeks. How would I know if there was stress on our marriage, when all we do is talk about the kids or email each other about bills? Pure bliss!
Obviously, those of us who are married with children didn’t need this study to shed light on the matter. But now we have scientific information! Hard, cold facts! There it is in black and white: life was more fun B.B.
Before Baby.
In B.B. 2001, Brett and I spent three magical weeks traveling through Italy. We sipped cappuccinos and watched the sun sparkle on the ocean in Capri. We toured Tuscany, going from one wine tasting to the next. We visited Rome and Florence in all their summer glory. We bought Prada and Gucci. We ate delicious pasta and saw incredible artifacts everywhere we went.
And then we took a pregnancy test. In Italy. It was a beautiful moment, a spectacular place to discover this happy news. I remember climbing the hills in Positano that day, Brett and I holding hands, carrying between us our own special little secret.
Suffice it to say, I haven’t been overseas since.
But now that my children are a little bit older, I’d like to really start traveling again. Yes, sometimes I like to travel with them, but to call that sort of trip a true “vacation” would be misleading. Traveling with your kids is like moving to a different whine-zone. We usually meltdown at 6:00 Eastern Time, but this week, we are facing bad attitudes in Central Mountain Time. Although we have room service here, which is nice!
Last year, Brett and I were both working full-time. When trying to plan for a vacation, we faced a feeling familiar to working parents: guilt. “Can we go away without the kids during their school vacation?” I whispered to Brett one night over dinner.
Sensing that his own parents may be trying to ditch him, my son Andrew’s head snapped up from his mac and cheese. His big doe-eyes searched my face and then Brett’s. “What are you guys talking about?”
“N-nothing,” I stammered. “Just on the verge of planning a great family vacation!” And so, we decided that a tropical resort with a terrific kids’ club would be the perfect compromise. Brett would get to play tennis, I’d get a massage at the spa and read six novels, and the kids would make lifelong friends while learning how to swing from a trapeze. Then we’d meet every day for lunch at the all-you-can-eat buffet. What a happy, well-adjusted family we’d be, just like those people in the TV commercials! What could be better?
The first thing we didn’t anticipate was the toddler room at the Kids’ Camp. Two-year-olds cry in the toddler room. All day. They have snack, they cry. They paint, they cry. They get taken to the beach in fun little golf carts? Cry, cry cry in harmony. It’s like a twisted game of monkey see, monkey do. One starts, and the others follow along. Zoe took one look at the group and, naturally, burst into tears. When I picked her up two hours later, she was still crying. She had gone swimming and played in the outdoor gym area, the counselor told me. But had she ever, for one minute, stopped crying, I asked? No.
Andrew’s experience was not much better. When we picked him up at the end of his first day in Kids’ Camp, he looked like a war-torn refugee. His hair was a mess, he was wearing someone else’s shorts, and his bathing suit could not be located. “What happened?” I asked.
“You left me! You said you were coming back to get me after swimming!”
“But it is after swimming!” Brett explained, motioning to the schedule.
Apparently, the schedule that Andrew’s group followed was not the one Brett and I had followed. We planned to get him at 2:00, but Andrew understood things differently. A counselor explained. “He has been waiting for you for three hours. He thought you may have forgotten him.”
At which point, Andrew collapsed into a heap at my feet, dehydration and shock finally settling in. Once we roused him, he declared in no uncertain terms that he was NEVER GOING BACK THERE and furthermore that he HATED THIS STUPID ISLAND and when could we go back HOME?
Andrew still hasn’t recovered fully from that “vacation.” I suggest that, if you ever meet him, you do not utter the words “Dominican Republic” in his presence.
Ask anyone else who has taken their toddlers on an airplane or into a different time zone, and you’ll get mixed responses at best. Recent example. My friend Kate had decided, much to everyone’s surprise, to take her three children, ages 6 and under, to California by herself. Dave was recovering from surgery and couldn’t make the trip. It would be fine, Kate reasoned, once she got to Disneyland and her awaiting, helpful sister-in-law. The only hard part would be the flight.
Ah, delusional Kate. Raise your hand if you are already laughing at her. Let’s look back, shall we? Kate’s flight out there with the kids went well. But by day two, things had taken a turn for the worst. It began with downpours and frigid weather. This was followed by 4:00 am wake-ups every morning by her two-year old, whose circadian clock was all messed up from travel. Next came pneumonia that resulted in three out of the four of them needing antibiotics.
The list of disasters was biblical.
Kate came home and started taking five-minute mini-vacations alone in her car. “Is it lame to go away alone? I’d like to be all by myself for just one 24-hour stretch. Is that too much to ask?” Kate pleaded as we ate pizza with all five of our kids one night.
“Here,” I sighed. “Have some more wine.”
That’s why, these days, more often than not, my friends and I dream of real escapes. I picture myself lying on a lounge chair on powdery sand, with nothing but the turquoise sea in front of me. No “Mommy, will you help me build a sand castle?” No, “Mommy, you said you would swim with me again!” Spending time with my children is wonderful and lovely and fleeting, and I know it. Rationally, I understand how precious these years with them are, and just how fast they will go.
But sometimes mommy just needs a break!
I explained this to Brett last August, after two months of Julie-the-cruise-director, on-duty lifeguard patrol, and he agreed. Our tenth anniversary trip to a tropical destination was greenlit. I booked us at a four-star resort for the first week in December. A real vacation in 2008 A.B.
After Baby.
And then the place was hit by a hurricane.
Our money was refunded in November, but by then, Brett had lost any enthusiasm for travel. “Let’s just stay home and be miserable like everyone else,” I believe were his final words on the matter.
But anyone who knows me knows that I don’t really listen to Brett. I gave him two options: he could baby-sit the kids while I went away, or he could come with me. And so began our weekend at a posh boutique hotel in New York City.
When I tell you that the cool, roof-top lounge was closed twice when we tried to go there, and that the only reservation time we could get for the swanky bar was at 2:00 a.m. will you be the least bit surprised? No, of course not. You are a wise reader, catching the sarcastic tone of my narrative and knowing that this couldn’t possibly have turned out to be the Happily Ever After vacation that I had hoped for.
As Brett and I tried to sleep one night, there was some sort of traffic jam on the streets below. For a good hour and a half, we lay in the dark listening to honking cars mixed in with angry shouting from frustrated New Yorkers. Expletives in a myriad of languages flew up to our windows. I tried to pretend it was the sound of palm trees rustling in the balmy wind.
“Happy anniversary, honey.” Brett murmered. “I got you something very unique.”
“What’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of the ocean waves!” I shouted.
“A parade in your honor. One honking taxi for every day that we’ve been married. That’s roughly 3,650 honks.”
“That’s so sweet of you. I’ll tell all my friends about it when we return from this tropical paradise. G’night.”
“G’night.”
That night, I missed my bed. In my quiet house. With my beautiful, sleeping children in the rooms next to mine.
Vacations are great that way. As much as I love to get away, by the end of the trip, I always find that I am excited to come back home. Especially now that I have children.
Now that’s not exactly what the study reports. “After analysis of all the data, the researchers found that 90% of the couples had less satisfaction in their marriages after their first child was born.” I’d hate to think where it went from there after the second, third, and – dare I suggest it – fourth offspring joined the family.
The study also states that “children increase stress on marriages.” Really? Huh. I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been so busy enjoying potty training, projectile vomiting, tantrums, time-outs and homework that I haven’t even seen my husband Brett in weeks. How would I know if there was stress on our marriage, when all we do is talk about the kids or email each other about bills? Pure bliss!
Obviously, those of us who are married with children didn’t need this study to shed light on the matter. But now we have scientific information! Hard, cold facts! There it is in black and white: life was more fun B.B.
Before Baby.
In B.B. 2001, Brett and I spent three magical weeks traveling through Italy. We sipped cappuccinos and watched the sun sparkle on the ocean in Capri. We toured Tuscany, going from one wine tasting to the next. We visited Rome and Florence in all their summer glory. We bought Prada and Gucci. We ate delicious pasta and saw incredible artifacts everywhere we went.
And then we took a pregnancy test. In Italy. It was a beautiful moment, a spectacular place to discover this happy news. I remember climbing the hills in Positano that day, Brett and I holding hands, carrying between us our own special little secret.
Suffice it to say, I haven’t been overseas since.
But now that my children are a little bit older, I’d like to really start traveling again. Yes, sometimes I like to travel with them, but to call that sort of trip a true “vacation” would be misleading. Traveling with your kids is like moving to a different whine-zone. We usually meltdown at 6:00 Eastern Time, but this week, we are facing bad attitudes in Central Mountain Time. Although we have room service here, which is nice!
Last year, Brett and I were both working full-time. When trying to plan for a vacation, we faced a feeling familiar to working parents: guilt. “Can we go away without the kids during their school vacation?” I whispered to Brett one night over dinner.
Sensing that his own parents may be trying to ditch him, my son Andrew’s head snapped up from his mac and cheese. His big doe-eyes searched my face and then Brett’s. “What are you guys talking about?”
“N-nothing,” I stammered. “Just on the verge of planning a great family vacation!” And so, we decided that a tropical resort with a terrific kids’ club would be the perfect compromise. Brett would get to play tennis, I’d get a massage at the spa and read six novels, and the kids would make lifelong friends while learning how to swing from a trapeze. Then we’d meet every day for lunch at the all-you-can-eat buffet. What a happy, well-adjusted family we’d be, just like those people in the TV commercials! What could be better?
The first thing we didn’t anticipate was the toddler room at the Kids’ Camp. Two-year-olds cry in the toddler room. All day. They have snack, they cry. They paint, they cry. They get taken to the beach in fun little golf carts? Cry, cry cry in harmony. It’s like a twisted game of monkey see, monkey do. One starts, and the others follow along. Zoe took one look at the group and, naturally, burst into tears. When I picked her up two hours later, she was still crying. She had gone swimming and played in the outdoor gym area, the counselor told me. But had she ever, for one minute, stopped crying, I asked? No.
Andrew’s experience was not much better. When we picked him up at the end of his first day in Kids’ Camp, he looked like a war-torn refugee. His hair was a mess, he was wearing someone else’s shorts, and his bathing suit could not be located. “What happened?” I asked.
“You left me! You said you were coming back to get me after swimming!”
“But it is after swimming!” Brett explained, motioning to the schedule.
Apparently, the schedule that Andrew’s group followed was not the one Brett and I had followed. We planned to get him at 2:00, but Andrew understood things differently. A counselor explained. “He has been waiting for you for three hours. He thought you may have forgotten him.”
At which point, Andrew collapsed into a heap at my feet, dehydration and shock finally settling in. Once we roused him, he declared in no uncertain terms that he was NEVER GOING BACK THERE and furthermore that he HATED THIS STUPID ISLAND and when could we go back HOME?
Andrew still hasn’t recovered fully from that “vacation.” I suggest that, if you ever meet him, you do not utter the words “Dominican Republic” in his presence.
Ask anyone else who has taken their toddlers on an airplane or into a different time zone, and you’ll get mixed responses at best. Recent example. My friend Kate had decided, much to everyone’s surprise, to take her three children, ages 6 and under, to California by herself. Dave was recovering from surgery and couldn’t make the trip. It would be fine, Kate reasoned, once she got to Disneyland and her awaiting, helpful sister-in-law. The only hard part would be the flight.
Ah, delusional Kate. Raise your hand if you are already laughing at her. Let’s look back, shall we? Kate’s flight out there with the kids went well. But by day two, things had taken a turn for the worst. It began with downpours and frigid weather. This was followed by 4:00 am wake-ups every morning by her two-year old, whose circadian clock was all messed up from travel. Next came pneumonia that resulted in three out of the four of them needing antibiotics.
The list of disasters was biblical.
Kate came home and started taking five-minute mini-vacations alone in her car. “Is it lame to go away alone? I’d like to be all by myself for just one 24-hour stretch. Is that too much to ask?” Kate pleaded as we ate pizza with all five of our kids one night.
“Here,” I sighed. “Have some more wine.”
That’s why, these days, more often than not, my friends and I dream of real escapes. I picture myself lying on a lounge chair on powdery sand, with nothing but the turquoise sea in front of me. No “Mommy, will you help me build a sand castle?” No, “Mommy, you said you would swim with me again!” Spending time with my children is wonderful and lovely and fleeting, and I know it. Rationally, I understand how precious these years with them are, and just how fast they will go.
But sometimes mommy just needs a break!
I explained this to Brett last August, after two months of Julie-the-cruise-director, on-duty lifeguard patrol, and he agreed. Our tenth anniversary trip to a tropical destination was greenlit. I booked us at a four-star resort for the first week in December. A real vacation in 2008 A.B.
After Baby.
And then the place was hit by a hurricane.
Our money was refunded in November, but by then, Brett had lost any enthusiasm for travel. “Let’s just stay home and be miserable like everyone else,” I believe were his final words on the matter.
But anyone who knows me knows that I don’t really listen to Brett. I gave him two options: he could baby-sit the kids while I went away, or he could come with me. And so began our weekend at a posh boutique hotel in New York City.
When I tell you that the cool, roof-top lounge was closed twice when we tried to go there, and that the only reservation time we could get for the swanky bar was at 2:00 a.m. will you be the least bit surprised? No, of course not. You are a wise reader, catching the sarcastic tone of my narrative and knowing that this couldn’t possibly have turned out to be the Happily Ever After vacation that I had hoped for.
As Brett and I tried to sleep one night, there was some sort of traffic jam on the streets below. For a good hour and a half, we lay in the dark listening to honking cars mixed in with angry shouting from frustrated New Yorkers. Expletives in a myriad of languages flew up to our windows. I tried to pretend it was the sound of palm trees rustling in the balmy wind.
“Happy anniversary, honey.” Brett murmered. “I got you something very unique.”
“What’s that? I can’t hear you over the sound of the ocean waves!” I shouted.
“A parade in your honor. One honking taxi for every day that we’ve been married. That’s roughly 3,650 honks.”
“That’s so sweet of you. I’ll tell all my friends about it when we return from this tropical paradise. G’night.”
“G’night.”
That night, I missed my bed. In my quiet house. With my beautiful, sleeping children in the rooms next to mine.
Vacations are great that way. As much as I love to get away, by the end of the trip, I always find that I am excited to come back home. Especially now that I have children.
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