Two days until Mother’s Day. The days leading up to the second Sunday in May have left with me with different feels over the years. As a child, for Mother’s Day we’d do a school art project to give to her and then participate in a family activity together after church, like a trip to a zoo. Once I was out of the house, Mother’s Day became a day I had to make sure not to forget. I’d buy a card and a small gift and make sure I was available for whatever my mother wanted to do that day. This was compulsory. When I had my own children, Mother’s Day became something different again. My husband would try to find some way for us to celebrate with our young sons as a family, but we were already previously committed to doing something with my mother too. As I was the only daughter with children, my sisters could always be free for my mom and I knew there would be consequences for me in my relationship with my mother if i couldn’t make myself available. I was low-key angry about Mother’s Day back then. I wondered when Mother’s Day would honestly get to be about me and my sons. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself and say, “It’s my turn to be feted.” So, I learned that the best way to get my day was to be out of town or otherwise engaged on Mother’s Day. I would escape. Then family drama changed things yet again, and I came to dread Mother’s Day. I mean, how do you celebrate the varied emotions that come with having children and being so grateful for the family you created and yet knowing that your relationship with your own mother is non-existent? Now my sons are in college and not around on Mother’s Day. I’m finding Mother’s Day feels different again. I guess Mother’s Day and I have never been in sync.
I will avoid social media this weekend. While I don’t begrudge anyone their happiness or their positive brunch experiences with their loving mother, I don’t really need to witness it as a reminder of a relationship I never honestly had. I also don’t need to be reminded that my sons can’t be here. I miss them every single day and I don’t need a Hallmark holiday to point out to me how much I love them or how their births changed me forever. I live that every single day.
I’m writing this not as some sad-sack whine fest, but as a note to all those who have healthy, loving, close relationships with their mothers. Mother’s Day is a mixed bag for many people. Some have lost their mother and will spend Sunday mourning her. Some women wanted to become mothers more than anything in the world but were unable. Some mothers are experiencing the day alone because their children have died. Some are mothers of children who live with adoptive families. Some have mothers who have forgotten them because of dementia. Some have mothers who are ill and will be spending their last Mother’s Day with their mom. Some have difficult relationships with their offspring and will spend the day living in that pain. Some women had abortions for heartbreaking reasons and will be reminded again what might have been. And some, like me, are sandwiched between two experiences and aren’t able to find mental peace on this holiday.
Mother’s Day is not all flowers, heartfelt cards, and Sunday brunches or family picnics. Mother’s Day is as complicated as motherhood. So while many are genuinely excited about this Sunday, others of us cannot wait for Monday.
I am a bartender’s granddaughter. My maternal grandparents, now deceased, owned and operated a tavern called the Hop Inn in Buffalo, New York. When my grandfather died in 1990, the establishment closed and the Hop Inn ceased to exist outside the memories of those who had once stepped inside. I don’t often think about these beer-scented roots of mine, but when I do it is with the utmost fondness. It wasn’t much, but it was magic for me back when I hadn’t a clue that having a baby (or 7 year old) in a bar might be frowned upon.
My grandparents, Henry and Charlotte Rzeszutek, operated the Hop Inn for forty years. The tavern sat on an unassuming corner at the intersection of Koons and Empire, a mile east of Buffalo’s Broadway Market, in a then predominantly Polish neighborhood. The tavern was fully wood-paneled and had a long bar with deep red, vinyl-covered, spinning barstools that my sisters and I would twirl on with glee. Beyond the main tavern room was another larger room that contained a coin-operated pool table and additional seating that was never filled and beyond that room was a narrow commercial kitchen that also was rarely used but still smelled of french-fry grease. Behind the bar where my grandparents worked there was a large white refrigerator, myriad bottles of whiskey and other spirits, an ancient cash register, several beer taps, and an assortment of snacks. There were a half-dozen tables in the main bar area as well, and my grandparents kept us amused wiping tables, emptying ashtrays, and washing the barware while soap operas or the evening news played on the high-mounted television in the corner. We were well rewarded for our service with bottles of orange and cherry soda, which we would combine in highball glasses to create orange-cherry sludges, bags of Troyer Farms puffcorn, and red pistachios that would leave our fingers dyed for days. The tavern’s regulars, treated us like queens of the castle while we played at working. When the familiar sound of the ice-cream truck began to grow louder as it cruised down the street from Broadway, they would hand my sisters and I a couple dollars so we could buy swirl cones. As an adult, I suppose I might have judged these men for frequenting a bar in the middle of an ordinary Wednesday and perhaps I might have questioned their relative level of sobriety, but as a 7 year old I saw them only as kind, thirsty men who found us beguiling.
My grandparents lived and raised two daughters in a small apartment above the tavern. During the day, they took turns working the bar. My grandmother opened it at 10 a.m. and my grandfather closed it at 2 a.m. They were always together and yet not. Their flat consisted of a small, eat-in kitchen, two minuscule bedrooms, one bathroom, and a living area with a sofa and my grandfather’s coveted recliner where he would sit and do word search puzzles. Their laundry was done in an attic accessed via the bathroom. The attic smelled of laundry soap, clothes drying on lines, and old wooden beams. It was laden with all manner of past family treasures waiting to be discovered. My mother and her sister shared a bedroom barely big enough for the full size bed they slept in. Their room was off the living area and was made private only via a flimsy, accordian-style vinyl curtain that closed with the distinct click of magnets. Although there was a side entrance to their upstairs apartment, there was also a “secret” entrance, which my grandparents used. This was the most enchanted thing of all. In the room with the pool table, there was one wall that hid the same stairwell you could reach from the outside entrance. To gain access, you pushed hard on one side of an unmarked wall panel. It would swing in to reveal the metal-edged stairs leading up and the door leading out to the side yard. When the door swung shut again, you would be concealed from the outside world and heading into my grandparent’s secret lair. Tell me what child would not be bewitched by that spy-novel-level sorcery.
Henry and Charlotte pre Me
Although the Hop Inn was torn down decades ago and now only a grassy plot of land remains where it once stood, I am grateful for my time spent there when visiting with my parents or spending an overnight with my sisters in the tiny room where my mother used to sleep. My grandparents worked hard and weren’t wealthy but, oh, how they spoiled us in any and every way they could. If orange chocolate and Slim Jims were currency, I’d have quite the investment portfolio now. I may not have gone away to summer camps or family cabins or taken any holiday trips to Disney or the ocean, but most of my happiest early memories originated among the lingering cigarette smoke and spinning barstools at the Hop Inn, where I was both an indispensable, part-time, pretend employee and an adorable and cherished granddaughter.
**As an aside, perhaps it isn’t surprising my favorite television show of all time was Cheers.
Woody: “How would a beer feel, Mr. Peterson?” Norm: “Pretty nervous if I was in the room.”
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.
Riomaggiore street sceneFried anchoviesRiomaggiore port
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.
Alec and his stashJulie takes her turnSisters at sea
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.
Arriving in Monterosso
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.)
In mid-January, I seized upon an opportunity to plan a quick spring break trip to Spain with my son. With two months to prepare, I cashed in my United reward miles and booked hotels, train trips, and tours. Then I began the arduous task of determining how to fit 9-days worth of clothing into a backpack, and I learned packing for a trip is the quickest way to figure out you hate all your clothes. Still, I made it work. The bag was not light and I am not the fittest, but I was going to Spain and I could suffer for 9 days. As it turns out, I didn’t suffer much.
Granada
Our first stop was Granada, a city of about 115k people in the Andalucía region of Spain, where Joe planned to spend as much time as possible with his girlfriend who is studying there this semester. I planned to take some tours and relax. The one thing Joe and I had scheduled to do together in Granada was tour the Alhambra, the most visited site in Spain and a masterpiece of Muslim art in Europe. This is where things went awry on our very first day. Not a good sign. I had a tour booked for us, but when we got to the meeting place there were so many other groups of tourists we could not find our specific group. There were no signs to aid us in our search, so Joe wandered from group to group asking if we belonged there. But the guides kept pointing us in different directions toward other groups. In the end, by the time the tours had begun, no one had claimed us. That was strike one. Undeterred, I went to the ticket window figuring at least we could do our own viewing, and I purchased two tickets. Sadly, they were not the right tickets, as tickets to the palaces we most wanted to see were sold out. I didn’t catch that with my measly Spanish. That was strike two. Joe was devastated. He tried not to be too upset and to play positive because he knew how miserable I felt for twice messing up the the ONE thing he wanted to do. Still, he was visibly disappointed, and I was disconsolate for failing my son. We did the sightseeing we could at the Generalife (the gardens and vacation home for the inhabitants of the palace) and the Alcazaba (the fortress that is the symbol of the Alhambra complex) and went our separate ways for the evening.
I lost it as soon as I got to the rental flat and cried for a while. Then I did what I always do. I got determined to find a way to make it happen. Searching online for at least an hour, I discovered there were zero tickets available for the Nasrid palaces for the next few days, either from the site itself or as part of any regular tour with any tour company I could find. Then, finally, some light crept in. Around 9 pm, I discovered there might be a possible opportunity via a private tour. It was not inexpensive, and after my two previous ticket foibles I had already exhausted too much money in this quest. But it made zero sense to have traveled all the way to Spain not to see the one site Joe, a religion and middle east studies major, most wanted to see. So, I booked it.
Turns out it was the best money I have spent in a long time. Our tour guide, Isa, was a delight. She’s an architect who literally grew up at the Alhambra because her mother, also an architect, had worked on restoring the site when Isa was a young girl. We couldn’t have lucked into a better situation. While we toured, Isa told us the history of the location, pointed out small details she knew about that others might not, and spoke Spanish with Joe’s girlfriend who wanted the practice. We spent three hours touring with Isa, talking with her about the site and about Granada, and we learned so much more than we ever would have learned in a 25-person tour. But my biggest takeaway from the series of events in those 24 hours is that sometimes when the lights fade on your vision in one way, they illuminate elsewhere and lead you to much better opportunities you might never have encountered otherwise. And yes, the third time’s a charm.
The Nasrid Palaces, built between 1238 and 1492, are awe inspiring. Although my photos miss much of what you see in person, let me use them demonstrate the beauty of the architecture and design.
First room we enteredSecond room…zoom in on the wallsOriginal tileworkThat ceiling is carved woodThe water reflects a palace façadeStunning patterned wallLion fountain, recently restoredThe last bit of original stained glass in the palaces
Most of the color on the walls has faded with time, but if you look carefully you can see remnants of what once was there. Can you imagine how beautiful the interiors here were seven hundred years ago? You were meant to feel small here, humbled by the wealth and power of the Nasrid dynasty. I wish I could have spent days wandering and taking it all in but, alas, all good tours must come to an end. And so we said goodbye to Isa, and I went back to the flat feeling so much better than I had the night before.
Once solo, I toured the Granada Cathedral. I love visiting cathedrals. Some are so ornate and overwhelming they border on gaudy, but the Granada Cathedral is gorgeous. The first part of the church, built by Queen Isabella after the Reconquista in 1492, was completed in Gothic style and is now the Royal Chapel. This is where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel are interred. We viewed their simple caskets on display underneath the chapel floor. The cathedral was built later in Spanish Renaissance style. If you want to feel small and insignificant, step inside a building meant to portray the greatness of God.
Renaissance cathedralGothic Royal ChapelThose pillars, thoughOne altarThe detailThe gothic Royal Chapel entrance
I also toured the Albaicín and Sacromonte areas of the city. These sections are located across the Darro River on the hillside opposite of the Alhambra. The Albaicín settlement is where the original palace workers lived back in the day after they were forced into conversion by Ferdinand and Isabella. In the Sacromonte neighborhood, Roma people (called gypsies) settled into cave houses built into the hills. You could spend days wandering the narrow, often car free, streets here. Joe and I visited the courtyard of the St. Nicolas church, located on a hill directly opposite the Alhambra, multiple times at differing hours of the day to take photos. One morning, Joe pulled out a flag he had brought from home, the Andalucían one his brother bought for him in Granada four years ago, and asked to be photographed with it. He usually only buys flags from places he has been, and prior to our trip he said he felt like a fraud for having this flag. At last, he could legitimately claim ownership for it.
Narrow pedestrian streetMuslim-influence doorwaySmall shopping streetOne of the few selfies we tookEarly spring in GranadaJoe with his flag and the AlhambraSt. Nicolas ChurchLoved the stonework everywhereView towards the Muslim world from the Catholic one
Segways lined up for our group
I like to try new things. On this trip, I determined that would be taking a Segway for a spin. There was a tour of the Albaicín and Sacromonte offered via Segway. Joe did not want to participate, so I went with seven people I just met at the tour office. Operating a Segway is fairly straight forward with some practice. I had about 1 minute to practice before we took off. I didn’t feel fully confident, but everyone else in the tour had already ridden one and I was holding up the group.
Acting confident
As I previously mentioned several times, this area of Granada is hilly. Some of these hills are rather steep. With my uninformed mind, I imagined this would make the Segway an ideal mode to get around. At least I would not struggle. That was a miscalculation for a first-time rider. When I booked the trip, I didn’t understand just how narrow, windy, and treacherous these hills were in places. At our first steep incline, the tour leader dismounted and said he personally would coach each one of us up and over the first curve in the hill. Yikes. I could go into gory details about how the rest of this tour went for me but, suffice it to say, the next time I book Segway tour, I will make sure it is in a flat area so I don’t endanger anyone else. I enjoyed the experience, but I’m not so sure the tour leaders and the woman from England who fell off her ride when she ran into cautious me on my slow-going machine felt the same about their trip .
Of the places we toured on our brief sojourn in Spain, Granada was at the top of our list. It’s small, easily walkable, and beautiful with its position at the foot of the Sierra Nevadas. I will definitely return. Next time, I will bring my husband. And I will know the correct way to visit the Alhambra so we only have to pay for our visit one time.
The Sierra NevadasThe Albaicín (left) from the AlcazabaAwesome view down into townWalkway next to the cathedralThe reasons I went to SpainPalm treesThe Albaicín from across the DarroWhat I mean when I say the area is hilly
I fell off the blog wagon this summer, partially due to life (son’s graduation, travel, house maintenance, family priorities) and partially due to feeling too emotionally scattered to write. I never run out of opinions to share, but I do run out of energy to deal with the jumble of unrelated thoughts in my head. Overwhelm. That is what does me in. To write, you need mental space and time with your thoughts. And because it was such an emotional summer for me as I careened towards the empty nest my husband and I now inhabit, I checked out. Focusing too long on the grief in my heart was not where I wanted to be, nor where I felt I should be as my youngest embarked on his exciting new adventure. I kept telling myself I would break down and navigate the tangled web emotions I was cycling through in background mode in due time. I suspect that time is coming soon.
What happens when you have too much time and a label maker
In the meantime, though, I have been celebrating the good. Our sons are moved in at school, settled into their study routines, and making the most of their college experiences. Thing Two’s transition has been seamless. I don’t think he missed one orientation workshop or opportunity to make new friends. Thing One has been reunited with his college sweetheart, and all is well in his world too. A thousand miles away, we are finding empty nest life kind of refreshing, honestly. Sure. It’s quiet at home, except for the barking of our sporty dogs, but we’re finding ways to distract ourselves. We’ve begun the digging out from underneath the clutter that accumulates when you spend 21 years putting your nuclear family ahead of everything else. We’ve also been meeting up with friends for long-overdue dinners and trying new things, like pickleball. We have relished peaceful nights picking shows we want to watch and enjoying them with a glass of wine and a couple chocolate truffles. So, all things considered, we’re settling into this new phase of life, to quote Larry David, pretty, pretty, pretty good.
With all the newly regained downtime, though, I’ve been doing some reflecting. Our satisfaction with our journey in this life comes down this: we make choices, and our ability to negotiate our expectations about those choices versus the reality those choices bring determines our general level of satisfaction. We chose to have children. The expectation was , if all went well, they would eventually move on to create their own lives, make their own choices, and navigate their own expectations. That has come to fruition, and we are grateful for it. In the aftermath of their departure for their own adventures, Steve and I have new choices to make. What do we want our lives to look like now? What will we choose to prioritize going forward? Yes. There is some grief in giving your children to the world, but there is joy there too. The most important thing I can do is recognize my choice in this moment. I can choose to feel superfluous now that I’ve retired from 21 years as a full-time parent or I can choose to find my next adventure. I can wallow in the vastness an empty and clean house or I can find something new to occupy the space left in the boys’ absence.
To that end, may I introduce Puppy-To-Be-Named-Later, scheduled for a late October arrival.
This little guy
Life is full of decisions. There will be plenty of time to imagine my next career move later. For now, though, I will fill our empty nest with puppy breath, tiny barks, and dog hair and I will occupy myself with frequent walks, potty training, and breaking up raucous scuffles. It might just end up feeling like the old days, when our sons were young and needed me, all over again.
For our first, and admittedly only, full day in Rome, I booked us a couple tours so we wouldn’t miss must-see attractions. We all wanted to see the Colosseum and the boys were adamant about going to the Vatican. After grabbing to-go doppio espresso shots and a couple cornetti from a store helmed by the friendliest shop manager ever, we walked towards our tour meeting place near the Roman Forum.
Again, I have to admit that I remember next to nothing from my time studying ancient Rome in college. In my defense, when I studied ancient Rome, it was through the Classics department where I spent my time reading Livy and Virgil in Latin. I wasn’t mapping the Forum Romanum. So I was happy to have an actual Roman tour guide lead us through the ruins, some of which date back to 42 BC. The Forum was a gathering place. It began as a marketplace and over time morphed into much more, serving as central location for public elections, speeches, trials, and religious ceremonies, as well as business dealings. The Forum, the heart and soul of early Rome, expanded in size over time to nearly 5 acres. Walking among the ruins was awe-inspiring. Seeing the Arch of Titus, the inspiration for the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, was pretty cool too. The the view from Palatine Hill was worth the trek up there in the 90+ degree heat.
I think the least notable part of the Forum tour was the Temple of Divus Julius, the final resting place of Julius Caesar. I mean, I don’t know what I expected after 2,000 years, but the dull mound doesn’t exactly rival the Pyramids of Giza. I guess, in the end, it really doesn’t matter how important you are because you will end up a pile of ash just like everyone and everything else. And how many people of Julius Caesar’s importance or notoriety have there been among the multitudes of people since the dawn of upright humanity? Not many. Even the most notable of us today will be forgotten soon enough. It’s a good reminder not to take life too seriously.
After the Forum, we walked to the Colosseum to see what that was all about. Our Italian tour guide was brilliant. She was extremely knowledgable. I was happy that Luke spoke up and answered questions she asked. When she told him he should read SPQR by Mary Beard and he told her he already had, she was visibly impressed. At any rate, stepping foot inside the Colosseum was an experience. You can’t imagine the size and scope of it until you are there. It’s massive. There were elevators underneath the floor, operated by slaves, of course. Pretty cool way to make a wild animal appear on the Colosseum floor back in the day, I bet. The engineering was crazy. The tour guide debunked some of the myths about the gladiators, mainly that they weren’t exactly hardbodied like Russell Crowe in his Oscar-winning film and that many of the gladiator battles were more WWE than battle to the death. It was all about spectacle, and who the hell could tell what was really happening on the floor of the Colosseum from the nose bleed seats without binoculars anyway? The Colosseum was for entertainment and while some of that entertainment meant loss of human and animal life, not every event in the Colosseum was bloodsport.
When our tour of the Colosseum ended, we were starving. We’d not eaten since breakfast, and it was 1:45. We had to be at the next tour location for the Vatican by 2:30. So we high-tailed it to the Metro station, figured that out in a jiffy thanks for our time riding the Tube in London and the Metro in Paris, and made it to the meeting point by 2:15 with enough time to grab some Cokes and a couple bags of chips to hold us over.
Our tour guide for the Vatican may have been the most enthusiastic guide we had in our 11 days of travel. He was what Americans would term a stereotypical Italian, the type from the movies. Animated and over-the-top, full of gestures, and passionate about every last thing. I swear he knew every single item in the expansive Vatican museums, and he would talk ad nauseam about every item we passed by that grabbed his interest. So thorough he was, in fact, that we were all exhausted before we’d even reached the Sistine Chapel. Luke actually nodded off while we listened to him explain the ceiling of the chapel before entering. There are no photos from the Sistine Chapel because none are allowed. I will say that I was deeply moved by the artwork in that room. I will never forget my time there.
If I’m being candid, overall, I was a little bit disgusted by the Vatican museums. The artwork stored there is impressive, but it bothers me that a religious group holds that wealth and keeps it rather than using it to help the poor. I can’t help but think Jesus would agree with me. Just saying. Still, when the tour was over, we bypassed the museum gift shops (figuring they didn’t really need our money) and walked to St. Peter’s Square because it seemed like something that had to be done.
Then it was off to get dinner at another recommended place. We were told Hostaria Romana was a place locals frequent because it’s known for its Italian comfort food. Fried rice balls stuffed with meat, tomato sauce, and cheese, were offered up as complimentary starters. The bread just kept arriving. We had the freshest melon with the leanest prosciutto we’ve ever had. Then we devoured our pasta (even I ate pasta because the flour in Europe is vastly different and doesn’t make me ill) and shared the best tiramisu we have ever eaten. Dining al fresco in Rome. Is there anything better? Judging by our faces in these photos, I think not.
We waddled back to our rooms without using Google Maps because we were becoming that familiar with the area around the Arpinelli Relais. Although we were excited to be starting our cruise to Greece the next day, we were already missing Rome. When you book a trip to Rome, you may think you are going there to visit, but what you’re actually doing is inviting it to live rent free in your heart forever. It just happens. É la vita.
Travel plans for next year’s trip to Monaco for the Grand Prix race are gaining steam. I’m actually starting to get excited about the race itself. My sister’s boyfriend recommended we watch Drive to Survive, and now I’m beginning to understand the appeal of the sport. I’ve also been researching accommodations and activities in Nice, France, and well, Nice looks nice. I think I can get behind spending some days in the south of France on the Mediterranean, sitting on a beach sipping wine. My sisters and I were discussing what to do after the race weekend ends, and the idea of taking a train to Italy came up. Why not hop from the French Riviera to the Italian Riviera? We could go from La Belle Vie to La Bella Vita in 5 hours. Makes perfect sense to me. Travel to the Cinque Terre has been on my list for quite a while.
I think one of the most amazing things about travel is how it opens you up to ways of being and living that are unfamiliar and fresh. It awakens your senses and your mind. Even when I can’t be traveling, learning about new places, even places I thought I had zero interest in, makes me feel positive about this life. It’s the antidote to the misery of my time-tested cynicism. It’s one of my top five raison d’être.
Chilling at Macnu PicchuHanging with some sea lions in the Galapagos IslandsLoving on my son in HawaiiLiving my best life with my family on a fjord in Norway. Meeting some swimming pigs in the BahamasSpinning In DeutschlandTaking a zebra selfieReveling in Paris
I have been a ridiculous level of lucky in my life to have had many opportunities to get out of the US and out of the US mindset. Every place I’ve been is now a small part of me, a small piece of colored glass in the mosaic of who I am. If the time comes when travel becomes impossible to undertake, I will simply slither through the jungle of my mental travelogue and return to the places that made me who I am.
After years of streaming concerts, it seems bands are ready to trek back out again for shows. Some musicians returned to the scene last year, but this year it seems there is an explosion of bands hitting the road after too long of a hiatus from their livelihoods. This is fantastic news for me. I’ve already got six shows on my calendar for 2022 and I expect that number to increase as I see what else is coming down the pike. I am looking forward to making up for the year and a half I lost to Covid-19.
This morning, out of sheer curiosity, I did my best sleuthing to determine how many bands I’ve seen over the years. I started seeing concerts in 1983. My first show was The Police when I was 15 years old. I’ve conjectured since then how many concerts I’ve been to, but it’s all been speculation. I stopped saving tickets stubs decades ago, so the list I was working on this morning was recreated out of the few stubs I kept, my Facebook and Instagram feeds, my Apple calendar, and my iTunes account. I’m sure I missed some, but this is what I came up with:
These aren’t all separate shows, as some of the bands were co-headliners or opening acts for other artists and some bands were seen at festivals. The numbers in parentheses denote the number of times I’ve seen that band live. It’s a little embarrassing, for example, how many times I’ve seen Sting in concert. I can say for sure, however, that he was the headliner at all those shows so that helps me better estimate how many actual concerts I have attended. I made a guess once that it was around 100 shows. Looking at my list and digging through my memory, I think it’s safe to say I’ve actually seen closer to 120 shows, and it may be more since I just realized I’ve actually seen U2 three times. I shudder to think how much money I’ve spent on these shows, especially when you consider ticket prices with fees these days, but in most cases I wouldn’t take my money back for the experience. There have only been a handful of shows for which I would like a refund of time and money.
My friend Heather and I at a very rainy Decemberists show at Red Rocks on my 47th birthday
Because concert going is one of my hobbies, I’ve turned my sons into concert goers too. Joe’s first show was Imagine Dragons at Red Rocks when he was 8. Luke’s first show (also seen when he was 8) was the Foo Fighters at Red Rocks. We love seeing concerts as a family, which has become costly for the four of us. Nonetheless, we’ll be seeing Spoon in May and The Decemberists in August together. Steve and I are flying to Pasadena for the Cruel World Festival on May 14th too so we can see 80’s bands. I will get to pretend I’m 16 again. All the bands will be showing their age and reminding us, in fact, we are not 16, but I’m looking forward to seeing Blondie, Devo, Violent Femmes, and Public Image Ltd. I also purchased tickets to see The National twice this summer and we’re going to Red Rocks to see The War on Drugs for the first time as well. Have I mentioned I’m excited to get back to shows?
I know stupid Covid isn’t done with us yet. I’m vaccinated and boosted, but I know I will be risking exposure to coronavirus by inserting myself into large crowds. I do not care. Being a music fan is as much a part of my identity as being a mom is. Some people live for sporting events, others for the theater. While I enjoy attending those things too, concerts are my happy place. I’m ready to get back at it. I’m overdue.
I’m having a sad day. I assume you know the kind of day I am referring to. It’s as if all the difficult and emotional things in my life that have been running in background mode for a while all decided to rise up and jump on me at the same time, leaving me at the bottom of a dog pile of sadness. I’m one of the most fortunate people I know, so I fight the urge to feel sorry for myself, even when there are legitimate life experiences that are troubling me. When you have everything, it feels shallow to whine about the few things that feel off in your life.
I allow myself to feel frustration, anger, shame, guilt, and a whole host of other emotions, but sadness is verboten. I think this goes back to my childhood. There are only so many times you can hear someone sing “Cry Me A River” or say “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about” before you realize sadness is something to be avoided at all times. The past couple days, though, I let the sadness smother me. I have been throwing myself a pity party, and I’ve not been enjoying it one bit.
Tonight while walking with my youngest, I was talking to him about how I am struggling. In addition to all the truly shitty things happening in the world and the country right now, I’m facing growing older, having my kids go to college and move on with their lives, recognizing that the job I’ve devoted myself to 24/7 for the past 21 years is ending, accepting that the pandemic took a toll on my friendships and hobbies, and trying to figure out what I am supposed to do with the rest of my time on earth. If I had to put a term to what I am feeling, I would say I am unmoored. Luke, being the wise person he is, told me I need to find some anchors, regular routines or habits that will give my life some stability and meaning when I feel like I am adrift. He pointed out that he has reading and school to keep him busy and give him purpose. This makes sense, and I know he’s right.
I have spent the past two years the way many people have during the pandemic: in limbo. I’d like to start back to yoga, but I suspect the minute I do some new variant will come sweeping through, close studios, and set me back again. This fear that the other shoe is constantly about to drop and mess everything up is debilitating. I need to get to a place where I can shove my melancholy and fears aside and throw myself back into life. I need to start moving forward, but it’s hard to do that when all you want to do is lie around and binge watch shows in some sort of meaningless, feeling-less stupor. I am all over the place, stuck in a cycle of feeling superfluous one minute and lying to myself and acting as if everything is fine when I know damn well it is not the next. It’s no bueno.
I need to claw my way out of this hole. I am going to start with forcing myself to exercise and hope that sets me on a better path. It’s either going to improve my mood or kill me is what I figure. At least it will be a step in a direction, which will be better than staying buried under my demons, right?
Life is hard. Anyone who tells you it isn’t is selling you something. On a more positive note, though, I guess “unmoored” is another way of saying “free to explore new shores.” So, there’s that.
Tonight calls for a haiku about our relentless (and adorable) little corgi who has been living up to his namesake today by pulling double duty in our bathrooms.
.
One corgi puppy
on an epic quest to maim
all the t.p. rolls
Damn puppers is at it again.Good thing he is cute.
I may have to pull a 2020 move and start stockpiling toilet paper because it appears we may be in for a shortage.
Live Now and Zen 