Author: Bethany

26Aug

Exclusive Access

Car Lingus – Part 2 (Part 1 here)

My husband’s boss works consistent 90-hour weeks and sees vacation as a time to cram in even more hours. He will fly to the United States for a meeting and then fly back in a single day, and if he’s running late to a social event, he just might rent a helicopter. He also likes to pull over rude motorists using his fake police light. The man’s interpretation of rational is on a different planet than ours… but even he thought we were crazy for attempting a drive to Ireland and back with two small children and a trunkful of camping gear in tow.

(He wasn’t even factoring in the rain that awaited in every single country, every single DAY of our trip.)

How to cook dinner in the rain

I’ll admit it was disconcerting that a man who drinks fourteen espressos a day thought our vacation plan was madness, but many of our best family memories are a result of our spontaneous (and possibly deranged) travels. Day 13 of this trip was no exception.

We had a tentative outline of a plan for the day:
1)      Take ferry from Dublin
2)      See sun for the first time in a week
3)      Revel, tan toes on dashboard, etc.
4)      All fall asleep except Dan, who would
5)      Drive us to Cardiff, at which point, we would
6)      Try to find obscure campsite we looked up online
7)      Eat, sleep, continue homeward

We made it to point 3 ½ before the Welsh landscape outside the car started punching our eyes out with its otherworldly beauty. It was like Tolkein’s imagination come to life or God’s favorite mystery novel, or maybe the moon. We passed short stone walls holding up craggy green mountains dotted with sheep and shale alike. We glimpsed rock formations plunging into rivers and secret clefts lined with dusky purple heather… and then we spotted the waterfalls. Did we really have any choice but to pull over, wake the girls up, and go mountain climbing? (No.)

Snowdonia Collage

Natalie may be young, but I hope that afternoon will sparkle as much in her memory when she’s 86 as it does now. It didn’t matter that we were wearing completely the wrong shoes or that the wind whipped our thin jackets into batter; we were having an adventure together in some of the most enchanting landscapes on earth. We were mountain goats. We were cavemen. We were Sacagawea, Yeats, and Aragorn all at once. Dan picked bouquets of heather for us, then went off to scale a cliff while the girls and I sang “Old MacDonald Had a Waterfall” into the blustery sky until we were dizzy. It was perfect.

Natalie watching the waterfall

In keeping with the impulsive theme, we blew off our original plan and followed a campground sign near the adorable town of Betws-y-Coed. Can I give a shout-out to spontaneity right now? Because that is how we ended up pitching our tent in the sloping green of a Welsh sheep farm with Snowdon Mountain sneaking peeks at us through the clouds. It was far beyond what I had imagined when I added camping in a national park to Ye Olde Life List, far more breathtaking, epic. I’m starting to think of spontaneity as a members-only club that has exclusive access to all the magic in life. (You may not think sheep are anything magical, but don’t tell that to your toddler.)

Watching the sheep 2

The next day, after breaking camp in the sunshine and driving off in a thunderstorm, we made our way to a place with a different kind of enchantment, one whispering of human effort and mystery. Stonehenge was smaller than I expected at first… but it grew in my mind as we followed the giant ring in the earth, learning about its mythology. My spine has a special thrill reserved for secrets of the universe—impossible ancient architecture, symphony notes in space, the concept of eternity—and this cluster of tall blue stones reverberated with the magic of un-knowing.

Stonehenge 7

We wandered into the surrounding countryside, having conversations with mistrustful cows and swinging on barrow gates. Time evaporated there under the rolling English skies; we could easily have drifted through the wild grass until we turned into barrow wights. Of course, then we would have missed our train across the Channel, an unspeakable horror to the tune of €120. We turned toward home, making the 1500 kilometer drive without incident and then holding a joyful (if not exactly conscious) reunion with our pillowtop mattress. However, I think a part of me stayed behind to haunt the island—clambering up Welsh outcroppings, holding trysts in Celtic forests, and tip-toeing around the mysteries of my British ancestors.

Jolly barrow wights 2

I guess this simply means I’ll have to go back again. Preferably soon.

24Aug

By the Spoonful

Car Lingus – Part 1

It caught me by surprise every day of our crazy vacation. Slipping up behind me like boys in college used to do, covering my eyes and whispering, “Guess who?”, the realization that we’re seeing the world startled me into an aching kind of gladness. It’s the same ache that grips my chest at concerts and symphonies, while reading a perfect novel, during twilight Mass at the Notre Dame—when a trickle of fulfillment finds its way into my deep, deep need for beauty.

A sunrise getaway

This was a trip for slurping beauty by the spoonful from the moment we drove off into the sunrise three weekends ago. That first day brought us through the Dolomites (“Elephant hills!” exclaimed Natalie in a fit of Hemingway) to the Austrian Alps—a fairytale panorama of glittering green mountainsides frosted in clouds. “The hilllllllllls are aliiiiiiiiiive!” I didn’t sing, though the untamed nun in me was quite tempted. Even more enchanting than the mountains were the cozy valley villages with their honey-and-cream houses, traditional red steeples, and flowers—flowers bursting from every window box, flowers spilling out of every garden gate, flowers brightening the woodwork on every balcony, flowers bringing extravagant glory to every street corner. Not even the downpour that evening could dilute the splashes of color.

Prettiest firehouse ever

I would have been content spending the rest of our vacation (and/or lives) eating Edelweiss cheese in a Hansel and Gretel cottage, but thankfully my husband convinced me to get back in the car. Our second day brought us through Pennsylvania fields a very familiar-looking stretch of Germany to the old world sophistication of Munich. Dear friends (hi, Heike!) walked us through downtown where beautiful buildings towered overhead and at least three H&Ms were always in sight. We had the distinction of being refused service at the Hofbräuhaus by a grumpy waitress in a dirndl, but Munich redeemed itself by offering river surfers, stark naked frisbee players (octogenarians all, unfortunately for our eyes), and pretzels and pints at a welcoming beer garden to end the day. Honestly, the city’s natural beauty paled in comparison to the loveliness of spending a day with people we adore… but that’s how it should be, isn’t it?

New Town Hall 2

Our next destination was Folkestone, England, which we reached after driving through the farmlands of no less than five different countries in one day. (I like to think this makes us half superhuman, or quarter at the very least). The long, oh so very long trip in the car was worth every minute when we pulled into our campsite and looked out at this:

The famous white cliffs

With the sunset rolling in across the Channel, Dover’s famous white cliffs gleamed like wild candles. We forgot about supper and walked along the shore, our hair waltzing with the wind, and befriended snails in every tide pool. On the four-year-old’s imperative, we pretended there were pirates in the water—an imagining colored in the next day by finding out there had been pirates only a week before. From then on, it was pirates as we browsed the shopping district and pirates as we explored a leery-eyed graveyard, and two very small pirates nearly burst with “Aarrrr”s when we found a sunken ship playground near the beach. Mutinous Mommy even found treasure by accidentally discovering Charles Dickens’ house during an uncharted ramble.

Natalie and Daddy forging their way through solid rock

The next leg of our journey took us on a ferry cutting through the wide swath of deep blue water between Great Britain and Ireland. My first impression of the Emerald Isle was traffic, ack!, followed by brr, followed by brrrrrrrrrrr, followed by why didn’t we pack the winter coats?, followed by thank God our tent is so small that we HAVE to share body heat all night long. Sophie woke up in a pool of rainwater one morning, I routinely lost feeling in several extremities (including my head), and we may have resorted to ramen noodles for supper… but the silhouette of cloud banks over impossibly green grass was a beauty worth shivering for. (Plus, there was Smithwick’s on tap.)

Irish hills beyond the Shannon

On Day 13, we finally boarded the return ferry to start our long trip back home, little knowing that the most soul-thrilling beauty was still ahead…

(On to Part 2…)

16Aug

Hurling Semifinal LIVE!

As we ate our dinner in a huddle next to our ferociously windy Dublin campsite last night, a neighbor came over to talk to us.

“So you’re going to Limerick tomorrow, are you?” he asked. “Just make sure you arrive early enough to watch the hurling match.”

“Ah yes,” we said. “Thanks for reminding us,” we said. “Just one little thing, though… What is hurling?”

“Why, it’s the island’s favorite sport!” he answered. “You’ll be wanting to see it, though beware of taking the little ones outside if Limerick loses.”

We took his advice to heart, watching the televised match from the safety of our hotel room this afternoon. And just because you’ve always wanted to know about the ancient Gaelic sport of hurling (as seen by an athletically-challenged American who hadn’t even heard the word 24 hours ago), I’ve taken the liberty of narrating the match for you. Grab a room temperature Guinness, and we’ll begin.

***

3:29p – A girl leads the crowd in a patriotic song, while the crowd cheers and beats wooden drums. The camera keeps filming close-ups of the players’ backsides in their very short shorts.

3:30p – Exactly half an hour late, the game begins. The sport looks like something that Happy Gilmore would have invented, had he been comfortable in very short shorts—a cross between baseball, field hockey, and fight club. Players in green (Limerick) are whacking with hurleys (bats) at the sliotar (ball)… but mostly whacking the players in blue (Tipperary) who are trying to kick, throw, catch, and possibly bite the ball.

3:33p – My attempts to understand the announcer are 94% useless, even though I’m fairly sure we speak the same language.

3:35p – Natalie about the Limerick player in control of the ball: “I think he is trying to not win.” Lo and behold, she is right, as Tipperary scores.

3:38p – Someone has scored something by hitting the ball somewhere, and it counts as points rather than as a goal, and are you confused yet?

3:39p – Natalie is also having trouble understanding the announcer: “Does the TV have the hiccups?”

3:40p – Limerick just scored a point (remember, different from a goal) by passing the ball through the posts above the goal. Or possibly by whacking the other players across the seat of their very short shorts enough times.

3:44p – Several of the players seem to have the ball confused with other players’ heads.

3:45p – Tipperary scores its second goal! Limerick’s keeper (goalie) looks mildly displeased.

3:47p – Tipperary scores its third goal! The blue part of the crowd surges in cheers, and I realize one can clearly spot the players’ underwear in slow-motion.

3:50p – Two opposing players attempt to decapitate the other, which I suspect is against the rules. (Natalie to the TV: “You are not obeying, actually.”)

3:53p – A player shoves the referee, “letting his feelings be known” as the announcer genially remarks. The referee, however, is not so open-minded and issues the first yellow card of the game.

3:55p – Another Limerick player lets his feelings be known, and the referee in turn lets his feelings be known in the form of a second yellow card. There are many, many feelings bashing around the stadium now.

4:00p – Tipperary now has 3 goals and 8 points as opposed to Limerick’s 0 goals and 3 points, a solid and confusing lead that makes me wish I had paid more attention to Quidditch rules.

4:01p – The contrast between Irish and Italian athletes becomes clear. When an Italian player falls during a soccer match, he writhes and rolls on the ground for no less than two minutes or until the referee notices his plight. When an Irish player falls during hurling, he leaps up before the opposing team can finish trampling him, brandishes his hurley, and joins the fray until the referee calls half-time and his broken bones can be properly inspected.

4:08p – During half-time, a panel of sports commenters discusses how Limerick has an excellent chance to win the match if it only goes back in time and does less terribly during the first half. Way to strategize, guys.

4:23p – The match is back and resembling a frat house initiation ritual more every minute.

4:25p – A Tipperary player’s leg was beat out from under him, but twenty seconds with the doctor and a sip of water (or was it beer?) seem to have fixed it. Remind me never to pick a fight with an Irishman.

4:27p – Before a player bats the ball onto the field, he must plant his feet and swish his very short shorts side to side several times. I fail to see how this helps, but it certainly is amusing.

4:31p – One player has just had his hand mistaken for the ball, but it’s unlikely to happen again as his hand is now the color of a ripe pomegranate. It must hurt horrifically, as the player is actually grimacing.

4:34p – The referee is consulting on a decision with the umpires, who are wearing lab coats for no apparent reason. They rule in favor of Limerick, who promptly scores its first goal of the game. “The fans now have a new lease on life!” cheers the announcer.

4:37p – We finally find out that a goal is worth 3 points—a fact that would be good to point out to the Limerick players who have gone wide 15 successive times now.

4:41p – Three Tipperary players in a row lift up their legs in exactly the right way to let the ball through, and Limerick scores again. Something tells me that the announcer is a Limerick fan; perhaps the new octave his voice just reached?

4:44p – After respectfully giving Limerick a few minutes to celebrate, Tipperary nonchalantly scores its fourth goal.

4:47p – And then its fifth.

4:48p – Observation: Very short shorts appear greatly shorter when their wearers are lunging.

4:49p – Observation: Very short shorts appear very greatly shorter when their wearers are lying on the ground doing hamstring stretches. (Dan, who had mentioned buying a uniform as a souvenir: “Maybe I won’t get the shorts.” Me: “Thank you.”)

4:51p – Limerick fans are trailing out of the stadium like a line of green-clad Charlie Browns. “Disappointment and heartbreak,” summarizes the announcer with a little crack in his Irish brogue.

4:54p – Tipperary scores for the sixth time, and one Limerick player lies down on the ground to mourn. “This is becoming embarrassing for Limerick,” says the announcer. “Maybe we should avoid going out tonight,” say I.

4:56p – The game is starting to get violent. I mean, more violent. The hurlers are hurling for all they’re worth, and the result could potentially fill a hospital ward.

4:59p – Ten seconds before the end of overtime, a Limerick player falls down and puts on a rather Italian performance. He is given control of the ball, but time runs out and his writhing was for naught. Note to player: That only works when you have an Italianref.

5:00p – The game is over. Tipperary has soundly whooped Limerick with a score of 6-19 to 2-07. The players have turned back into the neighbors and friends that they are and have taken off their jerseys to exchange; the amount of skin on the field is half a shade away from blinding, and this more than any other part of the match makes me happy.

And that, folks, is what hurling’s all about. Well, that and very short shorts.

6Aug

Irish Eyes Smiling

The sun has returned à la Richard the Lionheart to chase October back from whence it came, and I’ve reclaimed my summery state of mind. Despite hosting the energizer bunny of all chest colds (six weeks and counting!) and dealing with a mutinous lower back, I’m greatly happy’ed by the following:

Icy pink watermelonade
Supper every night on the balcony
Ben Folds’ live albums
Those first priceless conversations with a newly-talking Sophie
Sleeping with the windows open
Shel Silverstein poems
Snapshots from a summer of weddings
The Italian term for a bachelor[ette] party: “Farewell to celibacy”
Impromptu dinner guests
Orange curtains
Watching Natalie build fantastical Lego worlds
“Better Off Ted”
Magic sponges on a super-sale
Things in their places
Strawberry-banana smoothie bars, which Natalie has dubbed “The best popsicles EVER!”
City lights
Blue Like Jazz re-read for the umpteenth time
Minty nighttime breezes

Early Saturday morning, we leave on what may be our most ambitious traveling adventure to date: a two-week road trip to and from Ireland, camping in assorted European countries along the way.  Dan has dubbed the trip “Car Lingus,” which makes me giggle every time I start to stress over the details. Internet access is a sketchy maybe for the trip, but I’ll be back once I can. Until then, I hope to be sipping Guinness and soaking up good luck in a land where people believe “a face without freckles is like a sky without stars.” (Glory be, says my nose.) Take of August for me; I’ll be seeing you soon.

4Aug

Navel Date in 2025

August decided to play a practical joke yesterday and turn into October, and our modesty-optional summer wardrobe gave way to long sleeves and socks. Socks, people. I gave into the iron-hued weather and blew off chores to read The Kite Runner, which left me feeling more Octoberish than ever. Even today, motivation only glimmers from behind clouds in fickle bursts. Oh sun, wherefore art thou?

Since I laid off the poison pills in April, I’ve slowly felt more and more normal, and I’m just now normal enough to realize I don’t know what constitutes normal anymore. (Please tell me you get what I’m talking about.) I read through old journals and shake my head at the stranger on each page. Nope, don’t recognize that one either. Was she really me? Am I really me?

Burrowing somewhere in my stomach is the awful suspicion that I like the eighteen-year-old me better. She was often confused and always dramatic, but she had energy and passion and a crazy, glowing sense of life purpose. I feel like I’ve acquired a bitter aftertaste as the years have mellowed my personality; my vim and vigor are sprouting mold. Is there any chance I’ve retained some of my positive characteristics through the constant upheaval of college, married life, and babies (not to mention seven moves in the last six years)?

I suppose this could simply be disorientation after so many months of mind-fog. Maybe I’m still too bewildered by the clearing view to recognize me for myself, to notice the residual beauty. After all, my husband claims to still like me, and I don’t think he’s entirely delusional. On the other hand, I know I’ve lost a lot of touch with the better aspects of life. Maybe this is a call to attention, a prescription from the lazy psychologist in my brain to do some navel-gazing, stat.

~~~

Heavens to Brawny, Sophie just decorated the walls of our newly-painted entryway with a bright green marker. It seems the navel gazing will have to wait for another day, one in which my toddler can be trusted to coexist peacefully with our house. Perhaps by 2025?

28Jul

Fishbowl Invitation

These summer days have been custom-fitted with a fisheye lens. We unpack, we clean, we eat salad, we sleep in puddles of melted motivation. Our priorities have adjusted to the demands of changing homes, not to mention the brick-baking heat and the reality of two girls at home, and the hours arch and flex strangely. My writing time keeps slipping outside the bubble where it waits, nose to glass, to be invited back in.

I see it, of course. Each day shifts through a hundred nuances I wish I could bottle and share or weave into a Ray Bradbury book. I’d love to invite each of you up to our balcony at dusk, when the fading sunlight plays alchemist on the city. We’d pick mint for our mojitos and debate in whispers over the exact color shimmering off the buildings below. Orange? Pink? Mother-of-Pearl? Enchantment?

I’d have a printout of my thoughts from the day ready if conversation began to lag. You could read how absurdly long it took to get myself and the girls ready for a morning walk to the park and how, by the middle of our steep climb back, I would cheerfully have exchanged my children for a day at the spa. Before you had too much time to judge, you would read on to where Natalie hung socks on the laundry line with me while we sang “Old MacDonald” (and Sophie occasionally interrupted her own “E-I-E-I-O” to point at the sun and shriek “THE MOON?”) and how love for these two girls of mine pulsed against the confines of my sanity. You would read how NieNie’s latest entry pulled my heart into pieces and how a line from Elliot Smith brought back the thrill of diving into the blogging world seven (seven!) years ago.

You would get a little dizzy from the way my mind flits from friend to friend, the way I still miss my best friend at age six, the hopes I hold for current acquaintances. You would reach the paragraph with all the secrets, at which point I would decide it’s time for a chocolate-whiskey-and-beer cupcake and four consecutive rounds of Balderdash. Secrets are secrets, after all. But this is my wish-upon-a-star in writing—to put myself in words and invite you to share.

So in lieu of an Italian balcony blogfest*, here’s a question for you: What would you like to read more about? Any pressing inquiries you’d like to see addressed? A topic that’s been on your mind lately? Something you’d like to know about me? Glassy-eyed summer days or not, this blog is ready for some friendly conversation. (Cocktails optional but recommended.)

~~~

*As lovely as the idea is, teensy matters like distance, time, and money make it unlikely. Annoying matters, those. However, if you’re ever coming through central Italy, do let me know, and we’ll try to make some magic happen.

19Jul

Era

A few days ago, had you been paying careful attention, you may have heard the universe take a deep breath and gently release an era to extinction. The following puff of breeze was the door to our shoebox apartment closing, and the electric crackle in the air was the current of joy waiting just inside our new fairy tale house. We are surrounded by boxes and have bruises in strange places, but are hopelessly happy to be here. (Pictures will be coming once we shed the cardboard décor.)

And it’s my birthday. I couldn’t ask for more in this abundant world of ours than waking up (gloriously late) this morning to birdsong and sunlight pooling on my bed, to PDA from my husband and sticky-sweet kisses from my girls, and to home. A trip downtown for outdoor jazz and Venetian ice cream didn’t hurt though. I’ve also loved looking through my birthday list from last year, seeing how very many things are checked off (all except 3 ½, if you want to get technical) and how much delight they added to the last twelve months. It seems a birthday tradition has begun.

Birthday gelato

Wishing on each unborn day of next year to:

~ Get lost in a field of sunflowers

~ Host a fabulous dinner party

~ Make millefoglie from scratch

~ Go to a concert with my husband

~ Put our new guest room to use

~ Try a new food

~ Respond to every e-mail in my backlogged inbox

~ Find an agent already

~ Visit another country for the first time

~ Organize a night out with girlfriends

~ Find the perfect pair of jeans

~ Surprise someone with kindness

~ Read a dozen good books

~ Grow some kind of fruit on our balcony

~ Re-learn obscure Italian verb tenses… and try not to forget them again

~ Work out regularly

~ Create a unique dessert

~ Eliminate holiday stress in favor of holiday cheer

~ Find my daily groove

~ Write something from true heart-compulsion

~ Restore a lost relationship

~ Read through a chapter book with Natalie

~ Find my soul mate in stationary and write newsy letters on it

[And the carry-overs from last year:]

~ Learn one beautiful piano piece well enough to play by memory

~ Start college funds for the girls

~ Submit at least ten short items for publication

~ Finish my book

Here’s to a new house, a new year, and new era. Cheers!

© Copyright 2019, all rights reserved.
Site powered by Training Lot.