Cinque Terre: Hiking From Manarola To Vernazza

Our second full day in the Cinque Terre was earmarked for hiking. Our group was split on the routes. Because Julie and Alec were leaving for Rome the next day, they planned to hike from Monterosso back to Manarola. I had zero interest in a hike that long, so Steve and I opted for a hike to the town just to the north, Corniglia. The Blue Path, which requires a Cinque Terre hiking pass, is the easiest route to Corniglia. It’s a 1.5 mile hike with 428 feet of elevation gain. Sadly, that route has been closed for years due to a landslide. The alternate route to Corniglia takes you up the hill rather than around it, sending you through the town of Volastra, before descending into Corniglia. It’s classified as difficult because it’s twice as long and there is 1338 feet of elevation gain. Steve and I figured we were up to the challenge, being used to the rarefied air of Colorado and all. Our legs might fail us before our lungs.

To avoid the heat of the day, we began before nine without any espresso on board. We decided that espresso in Corniglia would be the reward for our efforts. The hike begins relatively flat. Then you reach the steps. These are the steps. Well, this is a small section of them anyway. They are not level. They are not all large. Good hiking shoes are a must. We wore new trail runners with plenty of grip. Still, I was fairly certain my legs would be sore the next day.

The first part of this hike gets you up and above Manarola. As we climbed, I stopped to look behind us and capture a few photos. (Can’t reiterate enough that photo breaks are the key to resting while not appearing you needed a rest). The lower section of Manarola closest to the sea disappeared from view early on. I was able to pick out our rental and its balcony from this viewpoint.

Our rental in the upper part of Manarola

We reached a flat spot with the view I had been waiting to see, up the coast to Corniglia and beyond. Alas, we were not finished gaining elevation. Volastra was still uphill and out of view, so we kept on trucking.

At last we reached Volastra and glimpsed Nostra Signora della Salute (Our Lady of Health) church, which dates back to at least 1240 AD. Volastra is very small, two main streets, so you aren’t in it long before you are back on the path, which opens up and allows you to spy Corniglia as she looms larger.

From this point, the trail skirted the sides of the terraced hills, weaving its way between vineyards growing the grapes of the Cinque Terre’s famed wine, Sciacchetrá (sha-keh-TRA). A sign found among the vines beckoned: “The vines of the Sciacchetrá find you on the road to celebrations. Here the grapes are born for a wine for special occasions. Come and try it.” Sciacchetrá is a sweet, dessert wine, often enjoyed with biscotti that you dunk in the wine. It’s tasty and became my go-to dessert. Think of it as Italy’s cookies and milk, but drunk. Parts of the trail beyond Volastra found us walking near the edge of cliffs above the sea. The railings made it feel slightly less precarious, but only slightly. We kept our eye out for the marker, two stripes (white over red), that let us know we were still on the right path.

We began our descent towards Corniglia, becoming more and more driven by our desire for our morning coffee. The trail took us through a small, forested area with lush vegetation before Corniglia grew increasingly larger in our field of view. We’d made it!

Corniglia, the smallest of the Cinque Terre towns with approximately 150 residents, was beginning to see an influx of travelers who had arrived by train. We wove our way through them and found a small cafe serving avocado toasts and espresso. We took a few minutes to enjoy our caffeine, Steve with his cappuccino and me with my doppio espresso, before beginning our exploration of life in a small town. We traversed the quaint, narrow passageways and found it to be not so different from life at home. Traffic. Laundry. And the ubiquitous bubble tea establishment.

We had planned only to hike to Corniglia but, when we checked our messages, we learned the rest of the gang were nearly finished with their hike to Vernazza. So, we thought, “What the hell? Why not hike there? It’s all downhill from here.” We pointed ourselves toward the trailhead to Vernazza we had seen on our way in.

The hike to Vernazza was along the Blue Path, so we got to show our hiking pass to the guard before we headed out. We felt very official. This hike was was 2.1 miles and rated moderate. Aside from the rising temperatures as we pushed towards noon, the hike was indeed easier and we had picked the right direction from which to start. Because it was later in the day, there were many more people on this hike than on our previous one. Still, the views were good, and I was excited to step foot in our last of the five towns.

We reached the heights of the town after descending what felt like hundreds of stairs. On our way to meet everyone, we passed a quaint restaurant with a patio overlooking the town and made a mental note of it. We found our people hanging out near the beach, where my sister, Julie, had made good on her promise to get into the sea. I wanted to wander around a bit and shop, but Vernazza was packed. It was, by far, the most crowded town we visited. We wandered down to the sea to get a photo of the town and then tried in vain to find a restaurant with an available table close to the water, but no luck. By this time, we were all famished from hiking, so we set off back up the hill to find the place Steve and I had passed on our way down. It was one of the happiest random choices we made on the trip. When we arrived, they had only recently opened for lunch, so we had our pick of seats. We chose bar top seating facing the sea and ordered Aperol Spritzes. While we were enjoying our well-deserved beverages, it began sprinkling. Fearing another deluge like the previous day, we asked if we could move further in, under the patio structure, to avoid having Julie get soaked again. That also turned out to be a good choice as the rain began to fall steadily as soon as we began ordering our meals. We’d taken the last tables under the shelter, so today it was someone else’s turn to get wet. Steve ordered the white lasagna and I ordered trofie al pesto, a local specialty I formed a deep and lasting relationship with. The plan had been to share the food between the two of us, but we each loved our own dishes so much we refused to share, although we did agree to one bite each.

Stuffed with pasta, the others decided they didn’t need to do any additional hiking that day and en masse we opted for the short train ride back to Manarola. We bought some additional groceries from the local store and trudged our way back uphill to our apartment where we planned to prepare dinner later and enjoy another sunset from the patio.

After dinner, Mother Nature gifted us a gorgeous sunset before we tucked ourselves into bed. We were exhausted. Just before I put my Apple watch in its charging space for the night, curiosity got the best of me and I checked my exercise stats for the day. No wonder Steve and I were wiped out. I hoped my legs would be up to hiking up and over the hill between Manarola and Riomaggiore in the morning.

Side note: The next day my brother-in-law sent me this photo of me hiking up toward Volastra the day before. I think it gives a good perspective as to our uphill stair climb.

Posted on 22/06/2023 by Me

Cinque Terre: Ferry Ride To Monterosse Al Mare

On our first morning in Manarola, Steve and I left the apartment early. It’s well documented that early morning exploration is one of our favorite things to do in Italy. Before 9 a.m., towns and cities are still quiet. It’s a perfect opportunity to get to know the area, as well as take photos not filled with hordes of travelers. Plus, the early bird gets the espresso. That morning, the sky was clear, the photo ops plentiful, and the espresso perfetto.

As a group, we had decided the previous night that we would spend our first full day in the Cinque Terre getting an overview of the towns so we could decide which hikes we wanted to do the next two days. We planned to take the quick, two-minute train ride to Riomaggiore, explore for a short bit, and then take the ferry from there to Monterosso al Mare, thereby seeing all the towns from the sea. So, after some espresso and pastries from a local shop, we headed out.

It was around 11 when we arrived at Riomaggiore. The first thing I noticed is that the main street in town was not nearly as steep as the one in Manarola. It was dotted with shops and restaurants. We had been told by friends we had to try the fried anchovies in the Cinque Terre so, feeling a bit peckish, we got some and a couple lemon granitas to share. The anchovies came wrapped in paper, heads missing but tails in place. I am not the biggest fan of fish, but I gave it a go and ate three. While they were not my favorite food of the trip, I could understand the appeal. We spent about an hour exploring the town before buying our ferry tickets and heading to the dock.

My sister’s boyfriend, Alec, unbeknownst to most of us, had set a goal for himself on the trip. As it was his first time in Europe, he decided he would have some wine on every train. That also applied to boats we found out, when at the dock he pulled a bottle of wine from his bag. Once we boarded the ferry and were on our way to the port at Manarola, Alec opened the bottle and we shared it. We had no cups, so we were swigging straight from the bottle. We got some sideways glances, but it made the journeys more interesting. I decided Alec is welcome to vacation with us anytime. The ferry trip from Riomaggiore to Monterosso al Mare takes about 45 minutes, stopping at Manarola and then Vernazza along the way. Corniglia is perched high on a cliff, so the ferry does not stop there. It’s honestly amazing how close to one another and yet how isolated they are, at least in terms of space between them. The trains and ferries make travel between them simple now, but the view from the sea made me think about how much harder it would have been to have to hike to exchange goods or see family in the other towns.

The first thing you notice when you reach Monterosso by sea is that it is the flattest of the five Cinque Terre towns. We disembarked and headed toward the bustling shops and restaurants waiting for us just beyond the beach chairs, umbrellas, and swimsuit-clad vacationers. We walked through shops and narrow alleyways trying to figure out where we wanted to eat. As we were waiting for a table space for the six of us to be cleared, it began to rain. As we were being seated, the sky let loose a deluge and people started ducking into any doorway or open shop they could find. We were happy to have seats under a couple awnings right along the wall of the restaurant. Others scrambled while we perused the menu. We ordered drinks. The rain continued. We ordered lunch. The rain continued. Lunch arrived, and still the rain did not relent. We were all staying fairly dry except for my sister, Julie, who unfortunately ended up just beneath an overlap in the awnings where rain eventually began to overwhelm the canvas and seep through in an annoying trickle onto the table near her. The food was delicious. I had some large, house-made gnocchi covered in local pesto, and my husband and I shared a Caprese salad with fresh mozzarella. The rain finally did abate right around time for dessert. All in all, it could have been a much wetter experience for us in Monterosso. We were grateful to have escaped mostly unscathed.

After lunch, the sky was blue again and the bustling crowds had dispersed with the rain. We wandered the two parts of town, which are connected by a tunnel that allows both pedestrians and the occasional vehicle. We spent a fair amount of time strolling through the old section of town with its cramped alleyways and side streets. My sister and I stopped to buy some linen clothing for ourselves and souvenirs for others before we walked en masse through the tunnel to emerge at an even larger swim beach along a flat coastline with the pristine water of the Ligurian Sea. We talked about returning later to rent some chairs and have a swim before we departed the Cinque Terre.

We took the train back to Manarola and cleaned up. The guys discovered they had all packed essentially the same shoes for dining out. We were starving again for our dinner at Da Aristide. One thing you can’t do enough of in Italy is eat. The entire country is a giant buffet. The most difficult part of any meal is simply choosing what to eat and then trying to save room for the tiramisu you know you are going to have because you can’t not have it. You’re in friggin’ Italy, for Christ’s sake. Mangia!

Fortunately, after dinner we had our steep, uphill walk to the apartment to help us work off some food before bed. The night was cool, clear, and lovely. I had to stop a few times to take photos.

(Insider travel tip: a photo op is the best excuse to stop and rest without letting anyone else know you are stopping to catch your breath. You’re welcome.)

Posted on 21/06/2023 by Me

Cinque Terre: Our Stay In Manarola

As if our once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Monaco Grand Prix had not been enough of a proper birthday celebration, we’d decided to follow it up by heading to the Cinque Terre. My sisters didn’t have a preference for which town we stayed in. After a lot of research on my end, I decided to go with Manarola as it was consistently listed as one of the most picturesque. I felt pretty comfortable about my choice after having eliminated the other four for various reasons: Corniglia (too small and not on the water), Monterosso al Mare and Riomaggiore (too big), and Vernazza (too packed with visitors). I absolutely made the correct choice. Manarola is big enough to have some wonderful restaurants and cute shops, but small enough to be peaceful at night. The size of our group necessitated reserving a large lodging. I chose one with a sizable terrazza with picture-perfect views down into town and on to the sea. At least that is what the Airbnb photos led me to believe.

We arrived late afternoon after a day spent on trains, which hugged the Mediterranean Riviera coastline offering either jaw-dropping views or no views at all (tunnels). The towns of the Cinque Terre are car-free, leaving only charming pedestrian streets to wander. They can more easily be accessed via regular ferry service and frequent trains. We landed on the platform in Manarola with nothing but mentally saved Google images creating expectations.

We followed the crowd of travelers from the full train down stairs and then up stairs on the other side of the platform. From there, it was a long tunnel walk to the vantage point on the other side where we were able at last to view Manarola. Much like my experience with Positano, it was love at first sight. The town is set in a narrow valley between two terraced hills and ascends precipitously from the sea, providing dining, shopping, lodging, and grocery options along the way. Part of the town exists to the left when you exit the pedestrian tunnel, closer to the sea, but the majority of the town rises beyond the tunnel on your right.

We met the rental staff for our lodging and began the climb with him to our temporary residence. If you want a view, you have to go high, right? To be honest, I knew the town would be uphill, but I really did underestimate exactly what that meant. To reach our rental, we climbed up the steep, well-paved street from the tunnel, which then rounded a sharp bend and continued up to the town church. Beyond the church, the road ended in a fork, one branch leading to the area where cars were parked behind a gate at the top of the town and the other branch heading up a stairway, wide at the bottom and narrow as you entered the pedestrian street. I never counted the number of steps, but I am certain it was at least 30. It was an insult-to-injury kind of situation.

We had been able to roll and pull our bags for the first part of the uphill journey, but the real muscle work hit when we had to slog 35-45 pound bags up those stairs. You may wonder if we wished we had packed smaller bags, and the answer is of course. Sadly, the trip we had arranged, a combination of F1 race, fancy dinners, and hiking in the Cinque Terre required bigger bags. I mean, you can’t exactly hike the Cinque Terre in a dress and heels, but you wouldn’t want to eat at a Michelin restaurant in Nice in shorts and hiking shoes. Still, we were grateful we were only going to have to traverse the stairs two times with bags during our visit and hoped the daily climbs to the apartment would become easier as the days rolled by.

Our guide led us to our door and showed us how to work the lock and handle. Doors in Europe don’t uniformly unlock and open the way ours do here in the US. With one door in Spain, we had to spin the key three times in the lock to get it to open. Here we had to turn the key and then put the handle in either a 45 degree angle up or a 45 degree angle down depending on if we were locking or unlocking the door. We were worn out from our Grand Prix weekend and our day of travel, so we nodded and said we understood it all and he left. We went in and checked out our digs. There were three bedrooms and three couples, so to keep it fair we drew numbers for the opportunity to choose from the rooms. From there, it was straight onto the terrazza we had fallen in love with through the rental listing. Would it prove as scenic as it had on the Internet? Definitely. I patted myself on the back for my find.

When we had settled into our new environs, we descended into town to get the lay of the land and to find a grocery store from which to purchase food and wine suitable for dinner on a warm, early summer day with a view. We happened upon a gelateria, of course, and some of us (the men) decided to have a pre-dinner snack. You can’t really blame them.

When in Italy, you gelato. Gelato consumption is compulsory before you are allowed to leave Italy. They have sensors at the airport that separate those who have eaten it from those who have not. Those who have skipped out are required to ingest some from an airport vendor before boarding their international flight. This is how they ensure you will return to Italy.

Next up was a stop near the harbor to take in the town from below. It was every bit as picturesque as I had been led to believe. A first Cinque Terre selfie was a must before heading back uphill to the store to choose ingredients for charcuterie and salad, you know, dining-on-the-patio food. I love shopping for groceries in Europe, be it at large open-air markets or small corner stores. Their choices are almost always more fresh and their packaged foods are prepared with better ingredients. So with fresh tomatoes, local cheese, basil, olives, crostini, pesto, salami, prosciutto, mortadella, a few bottles of red wine, and some limoncino in hand, we went home to enjoy the pleasant evening on the terrazza and wait for the sun to set on our introductory day in the Cinque Terre. Oh…and to drink too much and play Never Have I Ever and learn more about each other.

Posted on 13/06/2023 by Me 2

Mode Push: The 2023 Monaco Grand Prix

We got into F1 racing the way the most Americans have and in the most American way possible. We watched the Netflix series, F1: Drive to Survive. We began watching in January of 2022. I became way more entrenched in the sport than I ever imagined. I chose a favorite team. It’s Scuderia Ferrari. (I am a fan of the Buffalo Bills, so I am accustomed to cheering for an underdog.) I zeroed in on a couple favorite drivers, Charles LeClerc and Carlos Sainz. I didn’t choose them because they were the current leaders. I chose them because they seemed like good, solid guys, not unlike Josh Allen and Jim Kelly. We got an F1 TV membership and began watching the races on race day. I have followed along with live updates of qualifying sessions and have watched races on my phone when I wasn’t near a television. I have woken up multiple times at 5 a.m. to watch a race happening across the globe in real time. I may have issues. There is so much more I have yet to learn about the sport, but I’m hooked.

Years ago, my youngest sister told us for her 50th she wanted to experience the Monaco Grand Prix, and it was her wish we would join her in this adventure. We started researching and saving. Last fall, I got online an snatched up grandstand seats for us. Then I secured lodging in Nice because, well, we aren’t A-list celebrities with A-list bank accounts who can stay in Monaco. I bought some Ferrari merch. We were really going to do this. On May 25th, two days before my 55th birthday, we landed in France, F1 tickets in hand.

It’s not easy to encapsulate what happens in Monaco on Grand Prix weekend. The city state of Monaco, encompassing an area of land roughly 60% the size of New York’s Central Park, swells from 37k residents to roughly 200k people. DJs pump club tunes through speakers. It’s not a place for agoraphobics or claustrophobics. Myriad fans in all their team paraphernalia follow signs through winding, fenced passageway and, in some cases, over recently constructed bridges over the race track, to reach the grandstands. Each grandstand offers a unique vantage point of the race. Ear plugs are a wise choice. I got the chills the first time I heard the cars in the midst of their first practice. I could not believe I was actually there. None of us could. The race is iconic. The location is beautiful. The yachts are plentiful. The mix of languages being spoken is mind boggling. The excitement is palpable everywhere you walk.

My husband and I attended two practices and qualification to prepare ourselves for race day.

Video from Free Practice 2 on May 26th (Grandstand L)

Between the driver’s parade and the race, Steve and I decided the Monaco Grand Prix experience would not be complete without some libations. We noticed you could purchase an entire bottle of champagne. Done, thank you very much. With paper cups and straws in hand, we texted our group our shaded location and told them to hurry. We started pouring and when everyone had a cup we tried to made a toast to commemorate our day. A woman who was standing nearby offered to take our group photo. Okay. That happens all the time, right? Well, this particular woman wasn’t just a kind onlooker. She was a gem, the kind of person my sisters and I would love to be friends with in real life back home, bold, hysterical, and smart as a whip. We stood conversing with her for a while after she took the photo, learning she was at the race with her daughter and husband. She’s from Virginia. We gabbed and giggled with her like we were long-lost friends. We gave her a cup and asked her name. She told us we would never forget it. She was right. Blythe was fabulous. Before she went back to her husband and daughter, I asked if she’d be willing to be in a photo with us. Of course she would. Sometimes I really do love Americans. We promised we would toast to her for the remainder of our trip and we did. Each night we raised our glasses and toasted Blythe, the kind stranger who became an instant friend.

As for the race itself, F1 fans will tell you Monaco is not the most exciting race on the calendar. It is a narrow road circuit and passing is risky in the few places where it is possible. Two-time World Champion and current 2023 championship leader, Max Verstappen, started on pole position and with the fastest car on the grid was basically assured a victory. I watched Carlos and Charles, hoping one of them would make it onto the podium at the end of the race. A little more than halfway through the race, Max was well ahead of his closest competition. We’re talking like 17 seconds ahead. Max would whiz by and what felt like an eternity would pass until the next driver appeared. Max was stomping the competition like they were buildings in Tokyo and he was was Godzilla. We began to pray for rain to make things more interesting. About ten laps later, the sky opened up. Boy-Scout-level-prepared, I had ponchos for all six of us. We donned them, sat in the stands while the rain fell steadily, and watched driver’s slip around the Tabac Corner. Despite a few incidents among other drivers, Max won again to the delight of many fans in the crowd.

When the race was over and the cars were taking their final lap, the yachts in the harbor began sounding their horns. It was something else. While the race had not gone the way I hoped, the experience of the Monaco Grand Prix was everything I’d hoped for.

Celebration at the end of the race

It’s never lost on me how fortunate I am to have “once-in-a-lifetime” experiences filling my memories. Swimming through the Green Grotto at Capri, hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, being close enough to an elephant in Tanzania to see her eyelashes, watching a blue-footed booby interact with my sons in the Galapagos Islands, witnessing a sunrise on Haleakala. The older I get, the more I am able to be present in these experiences and the more I understand how precious they are. I see so many people today in amazing locations and at impressive events, not noticing and experiencing, but preening and posing for photos they will share to prove they were there. I saw tons of them in Monaco, with an entourage filming an experience they were not really having, only documenting. We’ve become so obsessed with creating FOMO with our myriad selfies and our constant filming and posting that we don’t often recognize we may be the ones missing out.

Posted on 09/06/2023 by Me

Side Roads

A couple months ago, I started posting to my Instagram story every day. My Gen Z sons told me years ago that “posting to Insta more than once a day makes you look desperate.” I assume they meant for attention, and I get that. Later, they told me about comedian Bo Burnham’s stand up, and I discovered White Woman’s Instagram and I felt a little seen. I even wrote a blog post about it. Since then, I’ve been careful about how often and what I post, lest I seem like more of a cliché of an upper middle class white woman. I mean, I drive a Tesla, have an espresso machine I use daily, and have posted photos of a charcuterie board and a Nicoise salad. What can I say? I am a white woman with an Instagram account.

As a way to still engage on Instagram without posting photos of latte art and golden retrievers wearing flower crowns, I started posting memes to my story every day. I’ve been doing this for a couple months now. I’ve been collecting memes on my iPhone for years. Some are funny. Some are inspiring. Some are political. Some are observations about our culture. Many are laced with swear words. They all reflect me in some way, either because I agree with what is said, I reflect what is said, I have said what is said, or I just have that twisted of a sense of humor. This was today’s post:

I’ve had a couple friends today tell me that they don’t necessarily agree with this sentiment. If you take it literally, I suppose this could be not a great statement. I mean, if you’re being mugged, perhaps you are in the wrong place and there is no right way to look at it. But I didn’t take it down that road. I get something different from this saying.

Too often in life we wind up in a situation not of our choosing. Something we worked for or wanted is no longer available. When we’re in that place, it’s easy to be negative about it, to feel sorry for ourselves. We might become angry and frustrated. We might give up. These are all choices. We could just as easily decide, “Well, this is something. Wonder where this will take me?” And then be patient with life and see what new things arise from the ashes of what we feel we’ve lost. Or we could say to ourselves, “Nope. This is unacceptable.” Then we can work to transition ourselves back onto, or at least closer to, the path we wanted to take.

I’ve been guilty many times of giving into the negativity. I’ve blamed others for my situation. I’ve blamed myself, telling myself I was not worthy of what I missed out on. This is ridiculous. All I needed at the time was a change in attitude. Looking back, there were many times when I did not get what I wanted or thought I wanted. In all of those instances, as I reflect back, I can see now the beauty in being denied what I was so eager to have. A lot of the things I missed out on led me to a situation more appropriate for me in some way, more in line with who I am and not who I thought I wanted to be. My life story is a tale of many disappointments I am grateful for. I just didn’t look for and couldn’t see the beauty of the plot twists at the time.

I’m still working to cultivate a patient approach to life, one that allows me the time and space to be curious rather than judgmental. I’m not sure I will ever be thrilled when the record starts skipping and I have to pick up the needle and move it to the next groove, but if you’d asked me at 24 if at 54 I would have the life I have now, I can tell you I couldn’t have imagined it. Like Maya Angelou, though, I “wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.” It may have taken me a little longer to gain consciousness from the stupor of my past than I would have liked, but I am here now. Who knows if I would have made it to this place without all the side roads I had to travel to arrive here?

Posted on 03/05/2023 by Me 3

Not Too Big or Too Small Or Too Hard Or Too Soft: A Tale Of Accepting I’m Just Right

“Only a few find the way, some don’t recognize it when they do — some…don’t ever want to.” ~Cheshire Cat

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll’s famous novel, reminds me of my experience in life. No. I’ve never met a grinning Cheshire Cat, although I would like to. I do, however, know how it feels to be disoriented, awkward, and entirely uncomfortable in my skin like Alice was. It’s how I’ve lived most of my life. Alice, as you may recall, drank some potion and shrunk her way into Wonderland and then ate some cake and grew so big she didn’t fit there anymore. In my case, someone I cared about would criticize my physical appearance, personal tastes or beliefs, or general demeanor, and I drank it in and got small. I began tiptoeing through my life, lest I be stepped on by larger creatures who appeared to have their lives together. What if I said or did something that proved how intolerable and unlovable I was? Other times, someone would acknowledge the good in me and I would greedily ingest it. Feeling bigger than usual, I would dare to be my true self with others, only to leave the interaction feeling I had occupied too much space. What if I’d bored them by talking too much while saying nothing interesting? Defeated, I would shrink again, caught in the same relentless pattern. One step forward, two steps back, slogging my way through my life, feeling forever out of place like Alice.

Somewhere deep inside, though, I knew the premise that I was the only scratch-and-dent model around was ridiculous. Maybe others were just better at displaying themselves in a way that minimized their flaws? Maybe they’d already worked on their parts so they were left with just a few scratches? I wanted to believe I was and I am fine as is. No adjustments necessary. Sure. Some people might wish I would speak out and stand up for myself more or just stop whining about feeling invisible. Other people might wish I would sit down and shut up so someone else could get a word in. But none of that was ever a me problem. Other’s opinions of me are none of my business, and shrinking myself to avoid judgment is not what I am here to do. I’m here to live my life and to be true to myself, no matter how many dings I’ve got. To achieve this, I going to have to leave my Alice analogy and walk myself into a different story, one I haven’t even considered occupying before.

After all, I’ve been Alice. I ate the cake and drank the potion. I became bigger and smaller to fit other’s narratives. What if, instead of being Alice, I take a shot at being Goldilocks? I can decide what to eat and in what type of chair to eat it. Maybe I will conclude I like my porridge cold because it’s basically overnight oats? Being Goldilocks and boldly choosing what I want in my life might move me quite a few steps toward Zero Fucks Given Road. It’s exhausting not being authentic, though, and I am tired of making slow progress toward self-acceptance. It’s time to practice wild and radical self-love. I can’t be Alice or Goldilocks. I can only be me. Yes. I am talkative. I can be defensive. I overthink everything. (Ask me how many times I pack and unpack and repack a suitcase before a trip only to end up with more than I need but nothing I want.) But, I am also curious, adventurous, determined, clever, and a little feisty, in the fun way. It’s what I am, the good and the bad, different and yet the same as every other human on the planet. So I will stop spending time with those who treat me as a tedious chore to be endured or a spouting fire hydrant to be capped. I will quit editing myself to fit into other people’s narratives. If I’m not Alice and I’m not Goldilocks, it’s about time I become my own protagonist.

“Damn. Somebody ate my porridge all up.” ~Baby Bear (probably)

Posted on 26/04/2023 by Me 3

The Game Changer

Photo by <a href="http://Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/ko/@rihok?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Riho Kroll</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/game?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">UnsplashRiho Kroll on Unsplash

Last Tuesday, I wrote about a shopping trip with my sister that brought up some big feelings for me. The trip highlighted the ways in which opportunities that are mundane for many are triggering and difficult for me. (I had to have two vodka shots before going to try Thai food for the first time.) Almost nine years ago, I had an eye-opening fight with my mother. It wasn’t a fight I initiated or that I saw coming, but it changed my life by creating an opening through which I could see that what I believed had existed had not. Since then, I’ve been in and out of therapy, working to heal and begin again without the baggage.

I’ve acknowledged and grieved the loss of the reality in which I had lived for 46 years. I’ve scrutinized what that time in the dark meant my life had actually been. I spent years laboring earnestly, like an archaeologist with dental tools and brushes, to unearth the way events of my past had created who I was now and shaped the life I had created for myself as an adult. I wasn’t guarded, cynical, and defensive solely because I was born that way or because it was what had been modeled for me as a child. It was also attributable to decisions I made as an adult because of the messages I ingested through my youth. That was a heartbreaking revelation. I spent years learning to forgive myself for not having figured this out sooner and, instead, flying blindly through life until midway through my 40s. That was precious time lost. But I survived it all and am feeling much healthier and happier. I’m not disappointed in or angry about my past because it made me resilient and capable. I am not only to see but also appreciate the me that I am.

After Monday’s EMDR session in therapy, I awoke on Tuesday feeling lighter. EMDR psychotherapy can radically alter a person’s perception of their memories, and the messages they carry as a result of those memories, in just a few hours. By Wednesday, Monday’s work had been processed enough that I felt different in my body. I felt taller and more willing to take up space in the world. I felt less willing to settle for the crumbs I used to think were all I deserved. Every day since then I have continued to practice living in that place. I’ve noticed that comments from others that might have sent me into an overthinking tailspin and elicited an immediate, defensive overreaction have shifted to more innocuous thoughts like, “Well, that’s one way to think about it.” I believe I am not responsible for anyone else’s thoughts and feelings. I don’t have to bend myself into a pretzel attempting to fix things that make others uncomfortable, nor do I have to make myself smaller so they can feel better. Although I’ve known that on an intellectual level for a while, I hadn’t been able to actualize it. More incredibly, my thoughts about myself have shifted. I’m not seeing myself as broken or in need of fixing. I recognize the parts of me that maybe aren’t my favorites, but I also see the ways I am actually pretty awesome. I’m learning not to take everything so seriously and to know the people who love me wish me no harm, and the people who are unkind or unengaged don’t matter.

I’ve worked long and hard to get here. And while I’m not finished doing the work, I am pausing today to take a victory lap for this phase of my journey. Halle-frickin-lujah!

I know this post is totally random, but this is where I am today and it felt important to mark the occasion. Ten years later, this blog is still for me what it has always been, an online journal, a place to store my experiences and memories and enshrine my struggles and growth. So that is what I came here to do today. I also want to thank my readers for traveling some rough seas with me, and for tossing me an orange, float ring and hauling me back into the boat when I’ve fallen out. Your patience and kind words have been a lifeline on more occasions than you might believe, and I am grateful for you.

Here’s to love and light going forward, with only the occasional storm to weather.

Posted on 17/04/2023 by Me 6

Ronda, Zahara, and Setenil In A Day

If my son’s number one thing to see in Spain was the Alhambra in Granada, mine was the bridge in Ronda and the white towns of Andalucía. I knew our best opportunity to get there would be from our stay in Seville, so I did some research. The more I read, the more I became overwhelmed with the logistics of it. We could get to Ronda and a couple white towns on a group tour, but we would miss the town we most wanted to see. We could rent a car, but I realized that would be zero fun for the driver, aka me, and we would miss the cultural aspect provided by having a local show us around. So, I splurged and booked a guide/driver for a private tour.

A good tour guide can make all the difference between a positive, enriching experience and a miserable one. We lucked out. Enrique picked us up on time at 9:30, took the locations we wanted to see into account, and planned the day for us. It turned out that he and I had many things in common, and the conversation between the three of us was continual and easy. During our time in the car together, driving to the first town, then to Ronda, then to the second town, and then back to Seville, we discussed professions, politics, religion, climate change, travel, and more. I was so glad I spent the extra money to hire a private guide. One of the most important aspects of travel is the opportunity to learn about life in this different place from someone who lives it. Enrique got us to everything we wanted to see, avoided the traffic that would have ruined a day in a rental car or large bus on a busy tourist Saturday, taught us many things about his life in Spain, and made us interlopers feel welcome. Priceless.

While we had picked two things we wanted to see, we let the expert choose the last destination for us. He chose Zahara de la Sierra, a picture-perfect white town in the hills. In my research, I had seen photos of this town, and it did not disappoint. Perched on a hill with the remains of a fortress above it and a reservoir below it, Zahara is somehow quaint yet impressive. The fortress atop the hill was built in the 13th century by the Moors who held that territory at that time. We discussed hiking up and around it the fort, but decided we wanted to spend more time in our other destinations, so we simply walked the small town, taking photos, and enjoying the beautiful day.

Our next stop was Ronda, which Enrique told us would be busy. He was not wrong. This town (technically a city of 34k people) has surged in popularity since photos of its 18th century bridge, which spans a deep gorge separating the old town from the new town, became widely circulated on the Internet. I often see the bridge pop up in the rotating photos on my Echo Show. There are actually three bridges that span the El Tajo gorge and connect the two sections of the clifftop town. We walked to and over each of the bridges in turn, taking in the scenery before heading into the town. The famous Puente Nuevo (New Bridge) is the most impressive.

Labeled the Most Romantic Town in Spain, there are cute shops, pedestrian streets, and plenty of restaurants. I can’t attest to how romantic is it, but it is definitely popular and busy. Perhaps the most famous attraction in the town, aside from the bridge, is the bullring. Built between 1779-1785, it is the only bullring in Spain constructed entirely of stone (rather than stone and brick) and it offers covered seating. Enrique told us that bullfighting in Spain is highly controversial. Some consider it cruel and would like it discontinued, while others contend that it is part of Spain’s unique cultural heritage and should be continued as a tradition. I understand the arguments on both sides and, because I am not Spanish, I will refrain from offering my opinion in that debate. I will, however, be interested to see what happens with it.

It was lunchtime, so Enrique guided us to a local restaurant that offered many traditional dishes. Joe had a beer and we shared several tapas, the mushroom croquetas being our favorite. Joe and I also tried the fried anchovies stuffed with ham and piquillo peppers. I wasn’t sure what to expect and I generally only like anchovies in small amounts, but these were pretty interesting.

Afterward, we traveled to the spot where the most iconic photos of the Puente Nuevo are taken so we could add ourselves to the long list of people who have been there. We took the requisite selfies because you gotta. It felt incredible to be standing there finally, years after I discovered its existence and decided I had to see it in person. We didn’t linger long because we were excited to get to our next destination and optimize our time there, but now when that famous bridge pops up on my Echo Show I think, Hey…I’ve been there!

Our final destination was Setenil de las Bodegas. Joe’s girlfriend had sent him photos after she visited there earlier this year and he immediately sent them to me, asking if there was any way we could get there. After seeing the photos, I knew I had to make it happen.

Setenil consists of buildings and cave homes built under and among rocks in a narrow, protected river gorge. The hilltop fortress above the town was built by the Moors. During the Reconquista, the Christians came to take the fortress, which proved to be more difficult than they expected. Due to the settlement’s hidden placement under rocks beneath it, the Moors were able to surprise their attackers from different angles and directions as they approached the fortress. The story goes that the Christians battled for fifteen days to take the town, trying seven times and failing before finally figuring out how they were being defeated and eventually triumphing. The name of the town is believed to be derived from the Latin “Septem Nihil,” which refers to the seven lost battles, “seven times no.” If you find yourself in Andalucía, do not miss this town. It’s something else.

Enrique led us up back roads and seemingly endless stairways to a lookout point from which we could see the fortress, now surrounded by olive trees. It was easy to see how if you approached from one direction you would have no idea what lurked beneath. Joe and I snapped endless photos and, as we walked, I could not stop muttering to no one in particular random phrases like, “Wow. This is crazy. What? Whoa.” We stopped at a small coffee/dessert shop located in a cave under a large section of rock for an afternoon espresso and torrejas (kind of like a Spanish French toast). Our torrejas came served in a white chocolate sauce. Are you kidding me? It was an apt end to our time precious time in Setenil, sitting at a cafe table outdoors, rock overhead, watching people walk by and cars (yes, cars) pass. When we were preparing to head back to Seville, Joe and I snapped a selfie. Joe did what he often does, posing for the photo with a random expression. I adore viewing my photos at the end of a travel day and finding at least one where Joe’s expression makes me laugh. Love that kid.

We arrived back in Seville around 7:30, ten hours after we had begun our journey. We heartily thanked Enrique for the memorable day and headed off to dinner, tired but not yet ready to throw in the towel. We had a couple last things we wanted to do in Seville, so after dinner we walked 20 minutes to find this structure.

Officially named the Metropol Parasol, it is known more casually as Las Setas (the mushrooms). It is one of the largest wooden structures in the world and at night multicolor lights undulate through the grids. It’s such a juxtaposition to the buildings surrounding it, yet somehow it seems to fit in just fine. I’m glad we went to see it lit up at night. I now wish we had gone up to take in the night view from the top (we didn’t realize you could do that), but at least now I have another reason to return.

Exhausted, we walked back to the hotel and collapsed. Fitbit recorded 23,516 steps and 86 floors for me that day. I would do it again tomorrow.

Posted on 12/04/202312/04/2023 by Me 2

Making Some Returns

“Everything is made up. It’s all just whatever, and we’re allowed to make up new better stuff. You can be whoever you want to be and you can change your mind every single day. There’s no rules against it. Don’t forget your brain doesn’t even have arms so stop letting it push you into stuff or hold you back.” ~Anna Przy

Last weekend I went shopping with my sister. I loathe shopping in person because it involves dealing with too many people, but I asked her to go to the mall with me so she could select her birthday present.

Maybe if I close my eyes I will wake up back home?

After browsing in Athleta for her gift, we moved next door to Nordstrom to look. I also needed some clothing for an upcoming trip. Shopping is a challenge for me because, being a rule follower, I am well aware there are established fashion guidelines for people of a certain age and, being raised a people pleaser, I must uphold them. And yet it’s impossible for me to follow all the rules. Where do I find flattering, age-appropriate clothing? I need something not too short, too matronly, too pricey, too tight, too baggy, too sparkly, too young, or too revealing, that will also disguise my belly and still make me appear svelte when I inadvertently ingest something my body chooses to reject, rendering me as plump as blueberry Violet Beauregard. I have no Oompa Loompas to fix that.

Knowing that I am an abysmal shopper who avoids malls, browses catalogs, then guesses at sizing and purchases only off the internet so I can avoid asking for help, I told Kathy I needed a personal shopper. She said she could be that for me and set about finding items she thought might be fun and cute.

We brought everything into a huge dressing room, and she served as wardrobe assistant, shuffling clothes from hangers, handing them to me, and then assessing them for their relative cuteness. I tried on a couple things that were not quite right. Then I tried on a loose-fitting white dress I would never have picked for myself because I imagined I would get lost in it. We took photos of the outfits, and Kathy insisted I try to look like I was having fun and owning it. She had also selected one complete renegade I would have strolled right past as quickly as possible, a Barbie-pink, mini-skirt short, off-the-shoulder romper. My parameter-violation meter exploded. Still, I was honor bound to try on whatever she picked out. I put it on, looked in the mirror, and cringed. She thought it was adorable. Unconvinced, I sought backup opinions, but those reviewers came back positive as well.

Choosing not to listen to all my inner critics, I purchased the pink romper, solely because I’m working toward being okay with being seen. Scientists on the Space Station could see me in that romper. Still, the tags have not been removed. The receipt is in a safe place, in case I chicken out.

The socks really add something special and the face says it all

Yesterday, I told my therapist about my shopping experience. We started discussing when I came to understand I was only acceptable under specific conditions. Truth is I don’t remember a time when I didn’t live under the weight of other’s expectations of me. There has been a narrow limit of what is appropriate for me to do and be and say versus a broad spectrum of what is perfectly acceptable for other people. We spent most of the session deconstructing this mindset.

In the end, I understood I didn’t ask for the baggage I’ve carried all these years, nor did I choose it. It was handed to me when I was too young to understand what I was picking up. I carried it around out of habit and grew to believe it was mine. It was not. But I didn’t know how to set it down without becoming unacceptable and unlovable. I do now. I visualized dropping those bags right where I was standing and telling the universe I’m finished carrying other people’s shit. I’m not a dung beetle. I then imagined picking up a new bag, an empty one with plenty of room for what I want to carry. I can put anything in it I want. Anything that makes sense to me and feels authentic. Anything that brings me joy. Anything that will become part of the individual I want to foster, accept, and love. And if someone attempts to empty their bag by tossing some of their items into mine, I will recognize it and remove them. The space in that bag is mine alone, and I have a choices, not rules or parameters assigned by anyone else. So I’ll be returning the expectations, negative opinions, judgments, and stress I didn’t request and don’t need. You can keep your junk, thank you very much.

Now I need to find cute shoes to wear with that romper when we are in Europe. I wonder if my sister wants to go back to Nordstrom this weekend for Round Two?

Posted on 11/04/2023 by Me 3

A Day In Seville

The next stop on our whirlwind Spain trip was Seville. We had limited time there, so I had it planned with little room for error. We hopped on a 6:30 a.m. train from Granada and arrived around 9 a.m. After dropping our bags at our hotel, we hit the Starbucks that was on the way to our tour of the cathedral and the Alcázar.

Although I normally eschew American food chains in other countries, one great thing about them is you usually find foods and beverages you can’t get in the US. And we did. In addition to my compulsory oat milk latte, we ordered bocadillos so we didn’t start our day hungry. Bocadillos had quickly become Joe’s favorite new thing. I mean, how do you go wrong with crusty bread, Jamón Iberico, and manchego cheese? You don’t.

We headed to the meeting spot for our tour and prayed we would find our guide among the throng of tourists. We must have looked lost because someone with a tour group list approached us and got us sorted. The Seville Cathedral (Catedral de Sevilla), a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world. Our guide said it is also the third largest cathedral in the world. I thought the Granada Cathedral was impressive, but this was something else. So large and grand, it was impossible to capture it all (or even most of it) in one photo or in one visit. To demonstrate the scale, I had Joe stand next to a pillar.

Our guide first showed us an impressively large painting called The Vision of St. Anthony, painted in 1656 by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo. In 1874, some knuckle-headed thieves cut St. Anthony out of the painting and made off with him. They then attempted to sell the canvas to an art gallery in New York. Fortunately, the owner of the gallery recognized it as the missing piece, bought it for $250, and returned it to the Spanish Consulate. If you look at the section of the painting above St. Anthony’s head you can see a line that shows where the cut was made. Funny to think St. Anthony, patron saint of missing items and lost causes, managed to get himself returned. He does good work. Another item of note in the cathedral are the remains of Christopher Columbus. Yes. THE Christopher Columbus. Or, as our guide explained, about 300 grams of him. No one is entirely certain where the rest of the remains are. But at this time, in the Seville Cathedral there are verified remains of Christopher Columbus, a man who traveled more after his death than during his life. There is also an impressive altar, Altar Mayor. The altar features wood-carved depictions of the lives of Jesus and Mary and took 80 years to complete. Hard to tell from the photograph because of the gates protecting the private chapel, but the altar is 66 feet high and 60 feet wide.

After the cathedral tour, we had the opportunity to climb the Giralda Tower. Thirty-five ramps and 16 stairs transport you the top where Seville spills out in front of you. It was definitely worth the trek up. The tower itself was initially built by the Moors as a minaret, but after the Catholics took over they added a Renaissance-style belfry to complete the tower we see today.

Next stop was the Alcázar of Seville, another UNESCO World Heritage Site and the oldest royal palace still in use in Europe. Its name means “fortification” and, indeed, you pass through a fortified stone wall to enter the courtyard where the palace sits. The Alcázar appears Moorish, however it was designed and built by Muslim workers but commissioned by a Christian king more than 100 years post Reconquista. In addition to the ornate palace, there are nearly 25,000 acres of gardens to visit. I wish I could say we had time for all that but, alas, we did not. Still, here are some photos.

Trying to fit in as much of Spanish culture and time with actual citizens as possible on this trip, I had booked a guide for a food tour and a flamenco show. Elena is a Seville native with a foodie instinct. A teacher by day, she does these tours in the evening to fund her love of travel. First, she took us to try an aperitif of Spanish vermouth, white wine fortified with spices, herbs, and botanicals and then aged in barrels. So delicious. Joe and I were surprised how much we liked it. After all, it is called vermouth.

After our aperitif, we went straight into the pork. The Spanish love pork. The black-hoofed hogs that graze on acorns in the Spanish countryside are the reason. The acorns are filled with lovely fats that make their meat like nothing else, melt in your mouth gold, similar to Italian prosciutto but with a more intense flavor. Elena made a point of telling us that these pigs are free range and live great lives, until they become dinner, of course. After eating Jamón Iberico, I began to understand how one would arrive at that justification to ease your ham-eating guilt.

So many different ways to have it prepared, using as much of the animal as possible. All of them are amazing. After our snacks, we headed to a restaurant that prepares serves up Spanish dishes with little modern touches. The food was wonderful and the prices were quite reasonable, so we returned the next night for ensaladilla de Rusa (potato salad with tuna), patatas bravas (potatoes with a red sauce the Spanish call “spicy”), and squid ink spaghetti with scalllops, prawns, and seafood. While we were eating, Elena talked to us about the history of flamenco, the costumes, and the how the performances work. Her father was a student of the different flamenco styles, and he passed his love of the art onto a younger Elena who learned to dance “for the dresses.”

After we were stuffed, we walked to the show. What made it so much more impressive than I expected is that Elena explained that the shows are not choreographed. The music, the vocals, and the dance are all improvised. Clapping by the performers creates a percussive beat. We observed each performer watching the other performers for cues and changes so they could work together to create a cohesive performance. The singers, dancers, and guitarists combine their unique styles of flamenco and somehow manage to finish the performance in sync, despite not being choreographed. At the venue we were at, the performers are changed daily. So it is likely that the five persons on stage have not all performed with each other in that exact combination before, which demonstrates just how improvisational flamenco is. Photos and videos were forbidden during the show, but they did one last short song so we could get the obligatory photo.

The show finished around 9:30 p.m. and, although we had already garnered over 20k steps, we decided to go to the Plaza de España in case we ran out of time for it the following day. Built for the Ibero-American Exposition of 1929 in Maria Luisa Park, the buildings in the plaza form a huge semi-circle and the buildings are accessed by crossing bridges over a moat. It is now is used as a government office building, but you have to see the architecture because it is iconic. We were walking around the plaza and being silly, pretending to fall into the moat and fountains, when we were spied by security personnel. Apparently, we were there past hours. In our defense, the gates were open and nothing suggested we shouldn’t be there until a guard showed up in an electric vehicle and started yelling “Cerrado” at us. Oops. So, I guess the area closes at 10 p.m.

We beat a hasty retreat and returned to explore the hotel. The hotel is music themed with rooms named after famous composers, and it has small salons where musicians can practice. We stopped in at the rooftop patio, which featured a hot tub, a small pool, and a bar. From the roof, we took a pause and our final photos of the day.

Next up, Ronda and the white towns of AndalucÍa.

Posted on 09/04/202309/04/2023 by Me

Live Now and Zen

Because even when it seems like a gag gift, the present is still a gift