Tag: family travel

In Which I Embarrass Myself in French, and we begin our plan to eat all the carbohydrates in Paris

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19 years ago, I travelled solo to Europe in the summer before starting medical school. One of my favorite memories from that trip was having a picnic lunch on the Champs des Mars park in front of the Eiffel tower with a gathered  crew of like wanderers from the youth hostel. The girl has also had a lifelong (9 WHOLE YEARS) wish to visit Paris and see the Eiffel tower. Thus, I decided to end our year with a week in Paris. But then it turned out we could spend a few days in Reykjavik on layover on our way home, so that changed a bit. But that’s a story for another blog post. 

We flew in relatively early, landing in Paris before noon. The first thing we saw was sunshine, glorious glorious sunshine, and coming from Ireland we nearly lay down on the airport sidewalk to soak it up, but thought it might be frowned upon. We hopped into a taxi to get to our flat, and I began speaking French with our driver. This proved only moderately successful.  I took French from 7th grade through some relatively advanced college courses, at one point was conversationally fluent. I remember my French professor, a thin sprightly woman named Sophie who had dark-rooted blond hair that frizzed past her shoulders in messy waves, who always wore all black clothes with a black leather jacket and smoked a cigarette outside before class. She was really far too cool for San Diego, land of cargo shorts and flip flops. She always yelled at me for my terrible grasp of the negative construction.  When I tried phrases in my mind before arriving here, Spanish words would worm their way in so that I was speaking some bizarre form of a mutated Romance language patois. Our Algerian taxi driver, however, was a patient listener and helped me to figure out some of the words, and having been here now for a few days it’s coming back to me. I’m sure I sound like a three year old, and at one point told the hostess at a restaurant that “she need to go sit outside” instead of asking if we could sit outside, garnering a furrowed brow and slightly offended look. I corrected myself, she broke into a smile and waved us to a table.

The view from our 4th floor flat, across the street from St. Denys

We’ve a little flat in the Marais, clean and modern in what’s clearly an old building. The Marais is one of the oldest districts in Paris and the one least touched by modernization. Whereas much of Paris is characterized by large grand boulevards and Haussmanian architecture, the Marais retains its near-Medeival heritage. Many houses are fronted by large double wood doors that open into a courtyard, created for horse and carriage to pass through and then have room to turn around. “Le Marais” literally means “the swamp,” and was a waterlogged area for vegetable gardens until drained for French nobility to build grand mansions. After the Revolution in 1789, the nobility declined as did the area, becoming a more working class neighborhood. It then became an important Jewish & immigrant neighborhood, before turning into a gay friendly neighborhood, before being completely gentrified by what our taxi driver referred to disparagingly as “bobos” and what we would call yuppies, if we even use that word anymore.  For visitors like ourselves, however, this means a delightful place with small narrow streets filled with boutiques, bars, restaurants and museums. 
 

Crossing the bridge to Ile de la Cite, the breeze flapping up Stitch’s ears

After dropping off our bags, we went on a mission to find crepes. This proved surprisingly more difficult than we’d anticipated, and we didn’t find a restaurant until we’d wandered onto Île de la Cité, and were grandly rewarded for our efforts. We continued to Notre-Dame, and walked in to look at the cathedral, built and remodeled over the years. I particularly like the gargoyles myself, edging the stone as protective spirits. In that they shuttle rain away from the structure, in a way, they are literal protectors as well.

 

In front of the famous cathedral, the breeze has died down making Stitch once again lop eared

Ironwork detailing on the doors

Our Catholic schoolgirl lights a candle for St. Therese

We continued on to the very tip of Île de St Louis, to see the love locks left by romantic hopefuls on the fences surrounding. You engrave your name, close the lock on the fence, then throw the key into the Seine. The more famous bridge with love locks is the Pont des Artes, where they’re cut down as they damage the structure. Honestly, I get the idea behind it, it’s sweet. But it seems to me a modern and damaging form of graffiti that will eventually destroy the beauty and the structure itself, is this the legacy you wish to leave? Not to think of the keys rusting at the bottom of the Seine, which I can’t imagine are good for the environment or the fishes. Akin to carving initials into a tree stump, what is it about young love that requires some form of violence to prove it’s legitimacy? Call me a curmudgeon if you will.

 

Across the bridge to Shakespeare and Company, an English Language bookstore on the Left Bank. Opened by an expat American, Sylvia Beach, its other branch in Paris had been a literary hangout for Hemingway, Joyce and other authors of their ilk. That branch is closed, but the one across from Notre Dame remains. No pictures are allowed inside, sadly, but to wander among the tall narrow winding pathways filled with gorgeous books is an experience. Upstairs is a quiet reading area that echoes the reading library at the former space, complete with nooks and slumbering cats, where you’re welcome to sit and relax.

The only picture we got outside the shop, taken the next day. The girl kept trying to photobomb and I got so annoyed that I just walked away instead of waiting to get a picture without the random tourist in the background.

Here, of course, is where we were when a terrorist decided to attack a police officer with a hammer just across the street at Notre Dame. Eric writes about this eloquently in his post here.  I was at the front register when I heard two loud sounds from outside. Couldn’t possibly be gunshots, I disbelievingly thought to myself, but I’d turn out to be wrong.  I had been waiting for an employee to bring me a copy of “American Gods,” so we were still in the store instead of walking past Notre Dame right when it was happening. (She showed up with the book, but it was a heavy hardcover and I felt too guilty to get it, knowing that we’re carrying everything with us. Now of course, it feels like a talisman protecting me, as had we not been waiting for it we likely would have been walking across the plaza at the time. I went back a day later to buy the book, and alas, it was sold out.  I bought a copy of “Anansi Boys” instead, I hope it serves the same protective influence.) The store employees closed the doors and told us to all stay inside. The kids were nervous and scared, but sat in a corner reading books calmly.  After sheltering in the store for a while in limbo, I asked someone scrolling on their phone what was happening and learned that it was one person with a hammer who’d been shot. Feeling safe to do so, we left through the side entrance and took a long route home, staying well clear of the Notre Dame area. Later on, we talked it over with the kids, and over the next few days answered more questions from them as well, hoping to help them process what had happened. 

 

Eric and I dropped the kids at home and went to find bread, cheese, vegetables and wine for supper.Given how expensive Paris can be for food, our goal was to eat in as much as possible.  As always in a new neighborhood, it took a little longer but home we came and after a deliciously fresh sandwich, to bed, content at our first good day in Paris, terror attack and all.

 
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Given that it’s bright here until well near 10 pm, we slept in in the morning before heading out for a leisurely walk through the Marais, stopping by the remnants of the old city wall and various other architecturally interesting buildings, ending at the St.Paul Metro, where we hopped on board to get a bit outside the city and meet Bruce for a bike ride along the Marne. 

Remnants of the medieval wall, now surrounded by cellphone checking teens. Bookends of new and old in Paris


Bruce is an American who’s lived in Paris for many years and runs bike tours in Paris and also in the countryside. If you are planning a trip to Paris, I highly recommend his tours to get out of the city – email him at French Mystique Tours. We did a three hour bike trip along the Marne, and it was lovely. As we wheeled past the geometrical French cottage houses, the boy burst into song, “Little town, it’s a quiet village, every day, like the one before…” 

Cycling in France is a bizarre experience, in that cars respect bikes on the road. Vehicles on the right have right of way, which is respected by car and bike alike. If we were going slowly on a narrow one way road, cars slowly trailed us until they could go past, with not a one getting too close or trying to squeeze around. Used to being nearly run over by Irish drivers, we were hesitant at first around the cars until we realized they really weren’t going to hurt us. 

 At one point, the girl’s front tire slipped on a curb and the bicycle tumbled sideways, throwing her off of it onto her palms. Without tears or wailing, she picked herself up slowly and rolled up her pants leg to see how badly her knee was skinned. We waited back, asking if she was okay. “I think so,” she replied. “My thumb hurts.” In all honesty, I was worried she could have broken her wrist, as she landed on outstretched arms. A quick finger and wrist exam, though, didn’t reveal anything other than some bruising, so off we went again. That girl, she is tough.

 

Returning to the town of St. Maur des Fosses, we walked back into the quiet center for a drink and a waffle at an outdoor cafe before returning to Paris, our cozy little flat, and a well deserved night of sleep. 

Attacking waffles with a Viking manliness, and YES to rose in French summer


-S

In which I share some thoughts on leaving Ireland, and the children assure me they’re not sociopaths

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It’s nine o clock on a Monday night, our last in Ireland. Even though we’ve got a few stops before getting back to Denver, this day feels like the end of the year we had planned. Ireland is giving us a proper Irish goodbye, with gray rainy weather and low cloudy skies. You’d think that packing up a life of six months with all of its attendant detritus would be overwhelming, but not really. Over the last few weeks, we’ve packed 4 duffle bags, one large, one medium, and one small, and one extra small rather like the bears of fairy tale, or perhaps like luggage matroyshka dolls, and have sent them across the ocean with those who have come to visit. What was left was clothing, some shoes, a few souvenirs, and lots of mugs, which we couldn’t really send home early as we needed them for our daily morning tea. At this point, we’ve managed to pack everything we are taking with us into our original travel backpacks, plus one additional small backpack for each of us and one extra medium sized duffle bag. 
Today was spent packing for a few hours, after which our friend Alena came by to cart away things which were staying behind, including those which she had kindly lent to us, like her bicycle and a corkscrew. We also packed grocery bags full with food that wouldn’t get eaten, though as for that we did pretty well and didn’t have mass quantities of food to give away. After she left, there wasn’t much to do until the last load of laundry finished drying so we piled into our rental car and Eric and the kids went swimming while I went to a coffeeshop to finish up the last blog post. Pizza for lunch, then a matinee showing of “Wonder Woman” (mostly liked, can’t say I loved) and then back home.
The kids took off on their bike (singular, yes, as the boy rides the bike and the girl rides standing on pegs that stick out from the back wheels) over to their friend V’s house a few blocks away, their last hour of being able to take off and simply yell “we’re going out!” that they’ll have for a while. They said goodbye and then left the bike there for V before walking over to their friend S’s house, who ended up trotting home with them. They all played a card game called Exploding Kittens, but not before first creating a Minecraft world in which one could actually make a kitten explode so that when a poor feline was decimated in the card game, they could recreate this in the pixellated world. I expressed my concerns about animal cruelty and it’s future bearing on sociopathy, however they seemed unfazed, and reassured me that no actual kittens were being harmed.  

I have trouble characterizing my feelings today, as it comes at the end of what feels like a fairly epic journey. Wistful, perhaps, comes closest, but not quite. I relate it to the feeling of having completed some big event in your life, and once it’s over, feeling a sort of empty space inside where you previously held the emotion you used in planning the event and then experiencing it. Even though I know the adventure isn’t entirely over, for in less than two months we’ll be moving to New Zealand, it’ll be different in that instead of bouncing around from place to place in a peripatetic existence, we’ll be more rooted in one place and well, I’ll be back at work. Something about the thought of that fills me with profound sadness. There are those who never like to really go anywhere, to remain settled and find comfort in that. I’ve always been the opposite, mostly happy when I’m moving hither and to.

In two months I’ll be back in a hospital seeing patients again. I wish I could say that I really, really missed working, that a year away has made me realize how aimless my life is without my vocation, and that I’m itching to get back to use my skills again. I would, however, be lying. I’ve quite enjoyed being away from the high-stress world of medicine and the headaches of hospital administration. This isn’t to say that I think I’ll be unhappy once working again, but just to say that life without it hasn’t been the doldrum plodding I’d feared.

Mostly I think I’m feeling the inexorable passing of time, in that I cannot believe all that has passed since we left home. Looking back, there are perhaps a few things I’d do differently, but sitting here it’s hard to say exactly what those would be. Friends, it’s been a full year, and I hope I can say the same after the next. 
-s

In which I describe the Weeping Hour, and we nearly ride away on the Kelpies

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Side note on travel & dinner:

There is a time of day I’ve started to call “The weeping hour.” This is the time directly before any meal, when the boy is at his nadir of exhaustion and apex of emotion, and will begin to sob uncontrollably over some slight offense. Once, it was because I started to play a game of “we went to the zoo and saw…” and then each subsequent person adds on an animal. He simply couldn’t tolerate even an imaginary trip to the zoo, which he sees to be gulags full of creatures who live in desperation at their captive state. No amount of pointing out that we were not, in fact, going to a zoo and instead simply waiting for dinner would mollify him, and we had to change the game to “On our travels around the world, we saw…” and continue with the animals. After food has been processed by his digestive system and the subsequent glucose molecules have transported across the blood-brain barrier into his cerebral cortex, good humor is restored and he can usually laugh at his prior foolishness, though he maintains his views on real zoos.

As a last quick trip before leaving Ireland permanently, we hopped over to Edinburgh for four days in which we had no visitors. Friends, I wasn’t expecting much from Scotland. How different can it be than Ireland? I surmised. Greenery, gaelic, and gloomy weather I expected, and was entirely surprised by how much I loved it.

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A  view of Edinburgh castle from across the park

After learning that the tours we would have wanted to take were booked, we decided to rent a car instead. Saving some money by renting a midsize manual car, we showed up to find that we had a free “upgrade” to a large passenger van! Still manual, but now that I’ve had plenty of driving experience in Ireland I was comfortable with it. I wish I could say that the garbage cans put out for collection in the narrow-streeted villages were as comfortable with my side view mirror, but I digress.
Our first evening we wandered around the city, stopping by the Elephant Cafe where JK Rowling first wrote “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone,” which is, well, a cafe. We walked on. Behind it, however, is Greyfriars Kirk with a picturesque cemetary and where Rowling was inspired for some of the character names in her novel. There’s also a tribute to Bobby, a loyal dog who came to the cemetery every day to sit on his master’s grave for 12 years, eventually becoming something of a mascot and garnering a burial spot of his own, though alas, as the cemetery is consecrated ground he could not be buried alongside his master. Short shrift for the dog, eh?

Scrymgeour! Alas, too little too late my dear Minister.
“A nice place to rest, but perhaps not just yet” said the girl.

The next day was a driving one, and off we went to see the Falkirk Kelpies, a massive outdoor art sculpture. I’d seen photos before, as you will below, but nothing really prepared me for how enormous they are. The Kelpies are mythical beasts, who lure people to ride them due to their beauty, and once they’re astride, dive into the water to drown them. The sculpture rises out of the horizon, far overhead, and is a dramatic example of when large scale public art really words. We were entranced by the statues and nearly hopped on ourselves. One of the horses is getting a little work done, and we chatted with the workers who told us that this was the first day since 2013 that they had needed any maintenance. They reached over onto the scaffolding and handed the kids a set of nuts and bolts from the original statue, to wide eyed thanks.

 

 

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The Kelpies rising up over the horizon

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More importantly, the Kelpies sit on a large complex of parkland and as we had driven in, the kids had espied a playground off to the left. Back we went to check out the structures. A super high slide, speedy merry go round, spider web structure kept us all in play mode for a good half hour. The kids say it’s one of their top five world playgrounds, among the ones at Sydney Harbor, Timisoara’s Parcul Copilor, New Zealand’s Raglan Beach, and London’s Hyde Park. That is some high praise from these two.

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Even Eric took a turn on the slide!

Onto to Stirling castle after this, a Renaissance castle about an hour away. While the initial castle was built during Norman times (12th c.), due to various occupants and occupations had been torn down and rebuilt such that the current structures date from the 16th century onwards. The king responsible for most of the changes was highly influenced by Renaissance ideals, and the palace is filled with and surrounded by artworks carved from wood and stone. A large restorative effort has gone into the castle to regain its former splendor, down to a ten years long project in which seven large scale tapestries depicting the hunt of the unicorn were woven by master weavers, using the ancient techniques. The original tapestries currently hang at the Cloisters in NYC, and to see them brought back to full life was stunning. There was also a restored painted ceiling of carved wooden figures, repainted as they would have been during the time of the kings. I loved seeing the restoration, to get an idea of how the castle would have actually looked, not just in the semi-ruined state you usually see.

A lady in waiting in the Queen’s chamber
Seated at the high table to await his guests
A view of the long hall. Tapestries were often draped along the hall to provide insulation
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The carven ceiling, here you can see Caesar in the center,and other Roman gods around.

At lunch yesterday we’d stopped off at a little bar/restaurant called the Mockinbird, and it was here we returned for quiz night this evening, run by a convivial host named Anna, who is a fellow American. We all had a blast and WON, if you can believe it, getting pounds 30 knocked off our bill!

Northern passage Scottish Diaspora
America/Scotland, they left out the smallpox.
Scottish Indian Diaspora embroidery
Scotland/Indian Diaspora complete with lassi and whiskey

Friday was our Edinburgh day, and we started off by a visit to the National Museum. This place is incredible. The building architecture itself is spacious and full of light, and the museum is arranged in four parts from east to west and then vertically so that if you were interested in, say, Scottish history, you’d start at the ground floor of the East hall and then go upwards to stay within a topic. Alternatively, you could wander across a floor and get a cross section of Science, Paleontology, Fashion/Design, and History. Filled with interactive exhibits, you could easily spend a few days here and not run out of things to see.  We also popped into the St. Giles, where there was a display of a Scottish diaspora embroidery project, some of them pictured above, though my favorite has to be the one from India showing a lassi on the left, whiskey on the right. On the plaza outside was a motley crew of characters, including a blue-mohawked woman spinning yarn, “singing” Scottish ballads loudly. For a fee, you could take a picture of her, however I chose to abstain.

The great hall
Dolly the cloned sheep! Yes, the ACTUAL Dolly!
Harder than it looks, spining on a hamster wheel

Our last full day in Scotland we headed to Doune Castle, a true Medieval castle just an hour out of town. While not on the radar as one of the most important castles in Scotland, it had a high importance to us as the filming site of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” We spent the time wandering about and chatting about the average wingspeed of unladen European swallows, as they kept flitting about overhead and into the castle through the open windows. Both children farted in my general direction quite often as well. The audio tour walks you through the scenes where it was filmed, and adds in its own bits of humor. Oh, I suppose it also talks about the history of the castle and how it was used in Medevial times, but pish tosh.  (For Outlander fans, it’s also Castle Leoch so you may recognize it from that, the gift shop certainly does.)

Giggling at how the audiotour replays the scene where Sir Lancelot slaughters the wedding guests in the courtyard
“Go away before I have to taunt you again!”

 

The great hall, here you see the brazier in the center for the fire, and the wooden balcony for the musical entertainment
Sitting on a medeival toilet, where a hole just opened through the floor to the ground below. ew.

After a delicious lunch at the Buttercup cafe in Doune, we headed over to Loch Lomond. While Loch Ness is the famous highland lake, we didn’t want to spend five hours in the car to get there and back, and instead headed west to the far more accessible Loch. At the first stop in the excellent visitor center, the Ranger gave us tips on hikes and we set out. First a short hike around the visitor center, where a soft path leads through a forest and to a waterfall. The path is surrounded by bluebells in high flower, the trees coated in fuzzy moss, and with the constant chirping of songbirds around us, it felt as if we had passed through the veil and into fairieland. At a wildlife hide we sat and watched red squirrels feed and scamper head first down trees, crossbeaks and great tits vie for birdseed at the feeders.

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Public art along the path, eerie to see the reflections in the woods

 

Westward to Loch Lomond, we headed off for a hike up a nearby hill for panoramic views of the lake and the islands. It is possible that on the way up this hill, there was a slight tiff in the family due to fatigue, interrupting words and a bit of the weeping hour setting upon us, but by the way down all was well. This is where I should start to sing the “You take the high road and I’ll take the low road” song, or Loch Lomond as it’s properly known. Apparently, the high road is meant to represent death, as the rebels heads would be displayed along pikes on the high road, and hence why the singer will never meet his true love again “On the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.” What else do you need but pictures here?

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-s

In which we have a few visitors from across the pond

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The Era of the Visitors descended upon us. Because Irish weather can be utterly miserable before May, and because most of our friends are tethered to the school calendar in some way, everyone who wants to visit us is doing it now.
This is fantastic, though when we spend time with people on sunny days here I feel as if it’s a little unfair, as if they aren’t really understanding the doldrums of gloom that the weather can bring.
The first of the crew was Eric’s parents. The kids were so excited to see their grandparents!

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The first few days we took Cheryl and Dave into the city, where they saw the Book of Kells and then we went to visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which I hadn’t been in before. A Protestant Cathedral, it houses an altar, seats, a museum exhibition of the history of the cathedral, and a gift shop all within the main space. The overall effect is one of an overstuffed attic.
I was most impressed with the detailed needlepoint cushions that hang on the back of every chair, hand embroidered by people from all over the country.

Tile work in the cathedral
Each chair with a hand embroidered pad!

We took a side trip to Cork, the second largest Irish town, and other than a stop at a pub that was putting on a traditional Cinco de Mayo burlesque show, we didn’t spend much time there. We drove down to Kinsale, which is really very pretty. A hike along the coast, a stop for lunch and then to the Charles Fort, a preserved stellate fort from the 1700s, and still used as an army garrison until 1922. Legend has it of a groom who, on his wedding day, was shot by his new father-in-law due to a bit of confused identities. The bride flung herself over the ramparts and is said to haunt the grounds still.

Tile map of the fort
Hiking about the grounds

 

Cheryl and Dave went further west and north the next day, while we returned to Maynooth. Our friend Wren popped over from Chicago the next day, and as she is a huge Harry Potter fan as well, the kids very sweetly spent time preparing her room, complete with a breakfast menu titled “Espresso Patronum,” and hid a speaker in her closet to play the theme music as she entered. Wren and I and Eric wandered about Dublin while the kids were in school (yes, they’re still in school despite evidence to the contrary), and over the course of a few days going into Temple Bar, Christchurch, and Trinity University among others.

Having a coffee in Temple Bar
Tilework at Christchurch cathedral

 

 
The weekend was for a quick getaway to Galway, but not before we welcomed our friends Tim and Amy to Dublin! They arrived exhausted as expected off the plane, but gamely met up with all of us for lunch and a pre-train beverage.

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First pint of Irish Guinness is always an occasion to be documented

Galway is a cute little town on the western coast of Ireland, known for the university, traditional music, and apparently quite a party town and home to many stag and hen parties (bachelor and bachelorette for those of ye from the states). The central part of Galway is little more than three or four cobblestoned streets, lined with shops, pubs and restaurants, and seems to be lively at any time of the day.

The famed Spanish Arch
My kind of signpost

We happened upon a delicious tiny pie shop straight out of a movie set for a fantasy film, where perhaps cloaked characters might stop in for an ale and a meat pie before heading off on their journey. In the afternoon we made our way to a microbrewery in Salt Hill, and then to a Gaelic Football match. I personally find the most entertaining part of these matches to be how the audience screams at the players, the coach screams at the players, and the players scream at each other, all laden with expletives and a lot of passion.

Pie shop where we get our victuals before starting our search for the Ring
mmmm

 

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Back in Maynooth the next day, Tim and Amy joined us again and we had two rousing evenings of Dungeons and Dragons hosted by the boy, where much merriment was had though perhaps little progress in an actual game. A walk around the Maynooth campus and a stop in at the Russell Library, the old library housing the ancient manuscripts of the University. Tim took his time reading mathematics texts. I’m always enthralled by these old books, that each piece of them from the papers to the inks and quills and of course to the writing itself all had to be created by hand. The immense effort it took to produce one book rendered them precious objects, so different from the mass production of paper and words today, or even “ink” on a screen where words are cheap.

 

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Our last set of visitors before we leave this little country were our dear friends Rudy and Liza and their boys. We’ve all known each other for almost 8 years now, ever since our kids became friends at preschool and it turned out we lived up the street from one another, but what really seals the deal is Rudy’s ability to take anything innocuous and make it seem vulgar. Here in Ireland, this talent blossomed as he found himself free to create limericks, an art form that lends itself to crassness. As this is a family blog, I will not detail these limericks further, but buy me a pint at home and perhaps I’ll share. We also got to spend a night with David Hicks, who was in Ireland for a writer’s retreat and found the time to come out to Maynooth to see us for an evening after a long day of travel from the West of Ireland and before heading back to the states the next day.
Our two families went to Glendalough for a few days, a lake nestled in between two mountains and home to an ancient monastic site complete with a well preserved round tower.

 

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While they arrived on a sunny day, these were the visitors who finally got a glimpse of the Irish gloom. Readers, they could only tolerate it for 2 days before complaining of the desperation one feels being deprived of the sun. We fortified ourselves with pints of Guinness and a peat fire, spending the evenings catching up at the Air BnB. I got to spend so much time with Liza, and as it always is with the good friends in life, we fell into step with each other with little pause.
Side note : this Air BnB is apparently rented out as a yoga retreat, complete with a studio and outdoor meditation hut. It also had a copy of something called “The Transformation Game,” which you play to change your life. With instructions such as “pick three angel cards while you hold your spirit intention in your heart” and “if you have not been born naturally after your third die roll, you will have a spiritual caesarian and may enter your life loops at the top space,” this game was not for sarcastic heathens such as ourselves who left our healing crystals at home and instead mercilessly mocked it.

We’re off in a few days, our time spent saying our goodbyes and figuring out exactly how much we can pack into our bags. Most of our visiting friends have also been turned into luggage mules for us, hauling back duffle bags of various sizes with clothes, yarn, books and snow globes, leaving us with a much simpler job of getting our belongings out of the country.
More importantly, I’m just overwhelmed with the love that people have to come out and visit us when we’re abroad. It’s such an incredible feeling to know that there are people who care for you enough that they will board a plane and cross an ocean to spend time together, and I feel grateful to have all of them in my life.

-s

In which we visit Diagon Alley

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Our main interest in going to London was, quite honestly, to visit the Harry Potter Studio Tour outside the city. I wish I could tell you that it was for a higher cultural purpose than that, that we were going to see the great historical sites, Westminster Abbey, the Tower, the Palace, the stolen treasures of colonized cultures. But I’d be lying.
London was also fun because of all the people we met up with while we were there, some old friend who we hadn’t seen in years, and some relatively new ones we’d only spent a little time with.

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Overlooking Big Ben and the Thames

Our first full day in London, Eric went to find his pool and the kids and strolled through London before our tour in the evening. We were staying just next to the London Eye, and while this was a handy location, the constant crush of tourists was claustrophobia inducing. Squeezing our way over the Westminster Bridge, we strolled through St. George’s park, sidling up to tour guides to “accidentally overhear” their patter about the variety of ducks and coots in the lake, until we reached our first destination : the playground. While the kids were playing among wooden spiders and rope bridges, I suddenly heard a loud commotion in the street – tubas and other brass instruments, and wide swaths of tourists with phones moving along from spot to spot along the street like a bee swarm finding a new nest. A parade? I supposed, and gave it no more mind. As it turns out, this was the changing of the guards. I had never understood the appeal of this, as I thought it was literally two guards swapping places, like late night security detail at a bank, and didn’t realize there was all this ceremony about it. We still skipped it in favor of the playground, but I guess I get why it’s interesting. Maybe.

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The purported inspiration for Diagon Alley, which, much like the oldest pub in Dublin may be one of many

A quick stop at a small street that is said to be the inspiration for Diagon Alley, but here I must question the advertisement, as there are several streets in Edinburgh that claim the same, and given that that is where Rowling wrote the first novel, it seems far more likely. A visit to King’s Cross, of course, where we waited in line for the official picture going through the wall. While we waited, a chirpy employee asked “Who would like to answer some trivia questions?” The kids began to bounce up and down, waving their arms in the air in a close approximation of Hermione and handily answered all questions, winning some free Hogwarts Express tickets for their efforts.

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A small confession here, I suppose. I don’t actually like any of the Harry Potter movies. I find them rather dull in general, with the storylines plodding along in slavish need to mirror the books line by line, particularly the earlier ones. Good books don’t always make good movies without good screenwriting, but this was hampered (in my opinion) by a strong fan base who insisted on seeing page by page renderings of the text. That said, a visit to the studio tour is, as Ron would say, brilliant. Even if you’re not a fan of these movies, chances are you’re a fan of SOME movies and the site is a dedicated tour in learning about movie making in general.

The Great Hall
Gryffindor Common Room
Potions!

I learned, for example, about how most of the actors wore wigs and even facial hairpieces throughout filming to maintain consistency. Since the scenes aren’t filmed in order, it would have been too jarring if the hair looked different from scene to scene. The level of detail given to background objects – the green tiles in the ministry of magic are cardboard, hand painted with a seven step process to look like gleaming ceramic. How many ideas were worked on for months and then discarded because they didn’t work, such as using actors on stilts for the werewolves.And then some, like the inferi, which were worked on for years for less than seven minutes of screen time.

Who’s the giant now?
In reality, this is maybe 10 feet long
Real mechanical working snakes

My favorites were the physical set pieces that were created for illusion. Hallways that seemed to stretch on for miles but in reality are less than ten feet in length. The famous bridge is only a short stretch for filming, then was digitally extended for the film. Half the time you see Hagrid on screen, it’s not even a human face, but a highly detailed animatronic mask worn by a very tall actor. My other favorites were the physical set pieces WITHOUT illusion – many of the mechanical workings of the film actually worked as such – the snake door, Gringotts vaults, the rising staircase to Dumbledore’s office. Some of the reviews say that for little kids, seeing these things takes away from the magic of the film, but for us it enhanced it, to see how these objects were brought to life and the care with which it was done.

The REAL Diagon Alley
having a chat on the Hogwarts bridge

Our following day, we went to the Tate modern partly to go but mostly to meet up with an old friend, Elaine. Elaine was a British exchange student who lived with me and others my sophomore year, and we travelled for a bit afterwards to the East Coast and Chicago. A favorite anecdote is when we visited my uncle in Chicago, and Elaine asked for a glass of water without ice. My uncle seemed overly surprised by this and went to fetch it, while Elaine and I looked at each other with puzzled glances. Was water such an unusual request? She accepted the glass and began to sip at it, then leaned over to me and whispered, “I think…your uncle just gave me a glass of vodka,” which indeed he had, misunderstanding her accent. Elaine, of course, did the proper thing and drank the glass handily without complaint.

Then…
…and now.

My children, of course, chose this exact hour to engage in a prolonged bickering session, belying all the lovely ways I try to depict them in this blog. Despite that, it was fantastic to see her again & reconnect.

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At the globe, the view from the £5 plebian seats

A stop at the Globe theater to see Romeo and Juliet, which was surprising to say the least. I’d expected traditional Elizabethan staging at the Globe, and instead was shown a rock/hiphop version of the play, complete with an emo Romeo, female Mercutio, Indian priest, and more surprisingly, an execution of the parents by gunpoint at the end. “Did that happen in the play?” Asked the girl.
I enjoyed the production and found it entertaining, with the exception of the decision to release crinkly shiny plastic streamers into the audience, which my kids and others found irresistible to pick up and crunch. “Stop it!” I found myself hissing repeatedly, and silently cursed whoever made this foolhardy decision. My purist son and husband however, were dismayed at the alternative staging and would have preferred more heaving bodices I suppose. Fun fact, the priest was chanting in Marathi so I could understand what he was saying for filler in his scenes, which was just “we are going, we are going.”

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With Betty and Jon, overlooking the millenium bridge

After this we met up with friends we made in Portugal, Betty and John, both involved in recruiting students for study abroad in London, and just very, very cool people overall. We started chatting in a microbrewery in Lisbon, and so they found a tasty one to visit in London. Unfortunately, no children were allowed inside. I have to say, this is a pet peeve of mine in the UK & Ireland in general – Kids aren’t welcome in pubs really at all. Some family friendly ones will serve dinner and you can bring kids, but then you’re relegated to a small sad cordoned off area at the back. I completely understand having a time after which no kids are allowed, say 9 or 10 pm, but for the travelling family who would like to try a microbrew it can be rather difficult for places that don’t allow children at all, and such a change from everywhere else where we generally felt welcomed as a family. We found one around the corner that let us in, and next door was a tea shop.

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recording the day, or more likely a new d&d campaign

Upon hearing of the kids’ love for tea, Betty popped out and returned with some bags for them to take home, which was so sweet. While we sat and chatted, the boy sipped on his tea and worked with his new quill pen, as 11 year olds do. We ended up later at a delicious ceviche place in Soho and then a stroll through Chinatown, the night filled with discussion of travel and politics.

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On our last day in London, we were again besieged with requests for a playground, and made our way to Hyde Park as it’s noted to be a good one. The reviews tell you to get there early else you may have to queue. (Yes, queue) A large space filled with structures and hideaways based on Peter Pan, the children scampered about happily until it was time to head out for lunch.

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Here we met up with Nick, who we’d met about two years earlier at my house. He’d come to my music birthday party at my house as a guest of of other friends. He borrowed a saxophone and picked up a pair of drumsticks, and then stayed on even as the friends he’d come in with had to leave to get home to their kids. After all the other guests had left, Nick, Eric, Sapana (who’d flew in) and I were sitting on our back porch in the warm June night air. Nick was busy gobbling down brownies in rapid succession, when Sapana furrowed her brow, turned to him, and said, “Now, wait, WHO are you exactly?” in that way of hers where she will just bluntly blurt out a question. [Side note: one of my favorite of these is from one of the first times she’d met Eric, when she looked at him intently and queried, “Eric, will you ever go bald?” To which he took the question seriously and replied “No, Sapana, I will never go bald.” And thus far he’s kept up with his promise.] Nick proceeded to tell us about himself, his time in the foreign service spent in Iraq, a return to London and changing careers to psychology and providing group support for PTSD survivors, and turned out to just be a very interesting person overall.

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The last meetup of the trip was getting together with Ellen, who is the daughter of one of Eric’s best friends John. Eric knew Ellen as an infant, so seeing her as a grown woman with her boyfriend Jon was emotional. Catching up on lives and talking about plans at an Indian tapas restaurant, which I must say is a wonderful concept that should be replicated everywhere. Basically, you get small plates of various dishes to taste and share and get fresh poli (roti, like a tortilla) to eat it all up with as you wish. Amazing. They had a blood orange lassi that kicks a mango lassi butt anyday.

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-s

In which I feel a bit homesick, and later am told that we’re a pagan family

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A few weeks ago I took a short trip back to America, to visit my sister and my brand new nephew!

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Look at this adorable family!

I thought he was pretty cute. Here he is in some of the handknits I’ve made for him, and there will be more.

Being with a newborn again makes me reflect on parenting in general, especially as my children start to begin the process of pulling away even more. Your baby is wholly dependent on you for care and often for food, and you are quite literally their whole world. You’re physically in contact with your baby for most of your waking hours, and often much of your sleeping hours as well.

 

Over the years that changes, to where the kids separate more, to feeding and toileting themselves, dressing themselves, and to now where there are large swaths of time where I have absolutely no clue exactly where they are or what they’re doing. At night, we still have snuggle time where I crawl into bed with the kids and we chat for a bit before I kiss them goodnight and they go to sleep. I sense, however, my time doing this is coming to a close especially for my older one. At some point it’ll feel weird and I don’t picture myself getting into my 16 year old’s bed to snuggle anymore, just maybe a kiss on the forehead if that. It’s bittersweet, to be sure, in that I’m happy for this independence and I certainly wouldn’t want it differently, but the difference is stark and made me nostalgic for those heady early days, where despite the sleep deprivation and difficulties, you had a tiny little being that only wanted to cuddle in your arms all day long.

 

Being back in the States was fantastic. It can get wearisome to always feel like a stranger, so to be in New York where I just understand how things WORK was such a relief. I was also lucky enough to have friends  who could travel to see me and got to spend time with them, and marvel on what good friends I have. This was soul-reviving, to be with people who I could just relax with instead of having to feel like I was “on,” and I’ll admit that I was feeling quite homesick after the journey.

 

Back in Ireland, I returned to spring break and a trip out west. First stop was to get the rental car from the airport. Eric had made the reservations and so went to pick up the car, but when he arrived, it turned out that his US Driver’s license had expired! Of all the details to overlook. So out I went to fetch the car, and did all the driving along the way. We did upgrade to an automatic transmission, which I was glad of after I nearly got into an accident on the way home in one of the roundabouts. Tricky things, those are.

 

As I sat down to write this blog post out, I looked through the pictures I took of the trip. For once, there just weren’t all that many. I wish I could tell you that this was due to some nobler purpose of being so involved in the moment that I couldn’t pull out my camera, but I feel the truth is simpler – I was feeling a bit travel weary on this trip. It’s a complicated moment in our time away, where I’m simultaneously itching to move again, bored with being in one place, and yet tired of feeling like we’re on a trip. That’s not to say that we didn’t enjoy this leg to see more of Ireland, but we couldn’t help but feel that we would have enjoyed it more from a warm beach, with an umbrella-garnished cocktail in one hand.

 

We started in Dingle, a peninsula on the southwest coast. We checked in to our hotel and started chatting with the proprietor about living in Maynooth and the kids being in Catholic schools, given that it was Easter weekend. She asked, “If you don’t mind, what religion do ye follow?” I didn’t mind at all, shrugged my shoulders and replied, “We’re really not religious, don’t follow anything in particular.” At which point the girl piped up and said loudly, “We’re Pagan!” as the boy nodded vigorously beside her. The hotel owner looked simultaneously shocked and entertained, I tried to correct the kids but they kept insisting that they were indeed pagan as they believed in the Norse gods, and Greek gods, and Hindu gods, and what have you. I suppose this summer we’ll be dancing around the Beltane fires at this rate.

A stop on the Slea Head drive around the coast

A favorite stop was the Dingle Brewery where we had a glass of Crean lager and chatted with Paudie, whom the girl informed “had a name that sounds like ‘bathroom’ in America.” Awesome. She’s making friends all over this island. Tom Crean is a local hero in Kerry, and rightfully a proper badass.  Known as a famous Arctic explorer, he took three separate trips to the South Pole in the early 1900s, was turned around each time, dealt with frostbite, starvation, team members dying, and at one point walked solo across the ice for 35 miles to save a colleague. After the last trip he returned to Kerry, settled down to raise three children and opened a pub. I’m happy to report that the lager brewed in his name is quite delicious, made from spring water near the brewery itself. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a glass of fresher tasting beer, and it made me appreciate lagers again after years of being an almost exclusive IPA drinker.

Enjoying a pint in a recreation of the arctic sailing vessels

Next was a drive northward to Westport, where we stopped in at the stunning Cliffs of Moher along the way. Also known as the Cliffs of Insanity from the Princess Bride, or the Horcrux cave site from Harry Potter, a sheer 600 foot drop from the edge to the ocean is carved out of rock. A signboard tells you of the types of birds that nest on the cliffs, and upon seeing this I yelped “PUFFINS!” so loudly that Eric jumped. Like daughter like mother, I suppose. Thankfully, we were well inland when this happened, else he might have had a long journey down. I was so excited to possibly see a puffin (puffins!) but alas, they had gone sea fishing in the afternoon and I was disappointed. You know you’re not in America when there’s nothing to block you from a cliff edge other than a few signs that warn “danger” in a half-hearted way.

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The next day the girl woke with a fever. Because I’m a medical parent, and I have little sympathy unless you have an obviously broken bone or an active hemorrhage, we popped a few ibuprofen into her, proceeded to rent bikes and took off on the Great Western Greenway. This is a 27 mile long trail from Westport to Achill island, with exit points along the way. We decided to go for the 19 mile section and take a shuttle back. It’s almost all entirely car-free, which is a rarity for cycling here and was utterly gorgeous. The mountain Croagh Patrick is in the distance, and all about you are peaceful rolling hills and grazing sheep, goats, and some curious cows. Around mile 15 of 19, the trail became almost entirely uphill, and the girl may have wept a bit at this point. We may have said things like “Come on, we just have to keep pedaling!” and she may have wailed back “Fine! Fine! Just leave me behind!! You don’t even care about me, DO YOU?!?!”  After about a mile of this, however, the trail again turned downhill, she hopped on and returned to her usual sanguine self.  I swear, I don’t know many adults who would have been able to do what she did, she is so, so tough.

 

Our last stop was to Donegal on the Northwest coast. Along the way, we stopped in at the Country Life Museum. I’ll be honest, I was expecting a dark room with a butter churn and walls covered in text, as I’ve seen in some other museums. This is however an incredible place. Displays about Irish rural life from prefamine to the 1960s bring to life what was clearly a very difficult existence. I felt like I was walking in a real life “These are the people in your neighborhood” song from Sesame Street.

Listening to school lessons, trying his hand at the butter churn (yes,there was one after all), and hand woven straw baskets


 We tried to hike up Slieve League the next day, but were stymied by fog. Another high cliff like those of Moher, there’s supposedly a gorgeous view up there but it was not to be for us. I looked for signs of puffins as well, and again they were not to be.

 
The Donegal Yarns workshop was a delight. Rooms filled with beautiful yarns and handwoven and handknitted scarves, sweaters and hats. Fun fact: most wool in Irish products does not come from sheep living here, and is imported from England, New Zealand and Australia. One Irish season is enough to turn the softest sheep’s wool into Brillo pads, and as such the wool is exported for upholstery. Most of the adorable lambs you see tottering about on the side of the road are fated to end up on your dinner plate in the next few weeks.

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Upstairs is the weaving room, where fabrics are created as they always were, on long hand looms with foot pedals, by one person at a time.  Behind that is the spinning room, where the dyed fleece comes in and is mixed into skeins for the weaving, and then the sewing room where the fabrics are made into their final product.
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Here he is in action, the rhythmic click clack of the loom with each shuttle pass taps out a cadence for him to follow. Unfortunately, the sound didn’t record so you’ll have to use your imagination.

On the way back home we visited the Corlea Trackway Museum, where an ancient 2000 year old wooden bog trackway has been preserved. No one knows what this road was for – there are many such roads along the spongy bogs, which were heavily trafficked as ways to cross over without sinking into the sludge, but this one remains pristine. It was a long road, and took months and many people to construct, and as such is a mystery as to why, after all that work, it remains unused.

 

We’re back in Maynooth now, and glad to be here. We pulled up in the rental car, I dropped Eric and the kids off to go and return it, and when I got back the kids were nowhere to be seen, having run off to join their friends somewhere in the green of the estate. I think I’ll have a glass of the Crean’s lager we brought back with us.

 

 

In which we spend some time in the North and walk in the footsteps of giants

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Last Friday we, along with a bunch of Eric’s college students, boarded a bus to Belfast. Crossing the border into Northern Ireland, which is part of the United Kingdom and not politically part of Ireland, is somewhat underwhelming and mostly notable for the road signs changing into miles instead of kilometers. We made a few stops to check out sights along the way.

First stop was the Dark Hedges. Beech trees twist and arc overhead to create two colonnades along a small patch of road, an arboreal tunnel to welcome you to the Stuart estate. Charles Stuart first planted the trees in the 18th century for this reason, simply to impress visitors to his manse. It’s better known now as the escape route Arya Stark takes from King’s Landing on Game of Thrones. When backlit, the trees form an ethereal walkway, and I half expected to see fairies meandering past. 


Next stop was Carrick a Rede rope bridge. A tiny island sits just off the coast of mainland Ireland at the edge of a bay. Shoals of salmon used to swim by, and a small rope bridge allowed fishermen access the island so they could set their nets. Nowadays, salmon populations have plummeted and the bridge is no longer used for fishing, but solely for tourism. Walking across what is now a relatively stable wood slat bridge with secure ropes and netting on either side of you is harrowing enough, especially if you look down to see the surf crashing on the rocks. I can only imagine the fortitude of fisherman of yore, who used to scramble across a swaying bridge which had only one rope handrail, the other side a steep drop to the ocean, guiderope held in one hand and the other clutching their nets and lines. Many tourists have made it across but have found themselves unable to stomach the return journey, needing rescue by dinghy. 

True bravery on display

The little dock to the right is where they would save those who couldn’t cross twice, though it seems even more harrowing to me.


The last tourist stop was the Giant’s Causeway. The tour bus spit us out at the top of a cliff overlooking the beach. We walked a paved pathway that curved downwards, and saw … more cliffs and craggy beach. Pretty, sure, but hardly unique. What was the big deal?

The faces of the unimpressed


Walking further down, though, we soon saw the landscape change into well demarcated hexagonal columns that rose into hills as they came inland and then seemed to disappear into the surf. The kids took off to scamper among the formations, while I cautiously stepped around them because those things were slippery. Now, I could tell you that the geological origin is from ancient volcanic activity that breathed out the basalt columns, but where’s the fun in that? 

Irish legend tells a much different story. Fionn McCumaill (p. Finn McCool) is a mythic giant of the North Coast. Scotland is just across the water here, and the Scottish giant Benandonner threatened to attack Ireland. Fionn swore to protect his land, and threw chunks of the coast into the water to create a road, or causeway, to Scotland where he intended to fight Benandonner and save Ireland. On his way over though, he caught a glimpse of Benandonner, realized he is truly massive and Fionn hightailed it back to his house in Ireland. Benandonner meanwhie is still up for the challenge and followed Fionn back along the new road and headed to his house, asking to see him for the fight. Fionn’s wife, Oonagh, has realized what’s about to happen and cleverly dressed up Fionn as a baby. She greeted Benandonner at the door, and told him Fionn is currently out but would you mind holding his beautiful baby. Benandonner took one look at the “baby,” and thought in fright of how large the father must be to sire a baby of this size, and fled back to Scotland. As he ran back, he destroyed much of the causeway so that Fionn couldn’t chase him home. 

Look between the layers to see coins people have stuck in, left to decay in the saltwater air and melt into the stones themselves.


-s

In which we move to the burbs…of Dublin

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Lisbon reminded me of San Francisco, with its steep hills and angle bottom houses hugging each other in a line, the foggy mornings and misty bay. The Golden Gate bridge replica, built by the same architects to cross the bay, adds to the similarities. My favorite Lisbon detail was the tilework seen covering many of the building walls throughout the city. 

9 of my favorite tile patterns seen throughout the city

Tiles on the building, patterns in the cobblestones. Lisbon is a delight of visual decoration


Now, a true tourist trip to Lisbon should include a visit to the areas of Belen and Sintra, home to beautiful architecture, Unesco world heritage monasteries and a top class modern art gallery. But we were all travel weary, tired of sightseeing, and just didn’t have any motivation to hoof it out to the suburbs. So after the first day which Eric describes, we just wandered around the city for the rest of our time there.
There’s this cool food hall in Libson that has apparently been purchased by Time Out Magazine, where they have many different delicious food stalls surrounding a central dining area, brightly lit and with a large glass skylight overhead. I had pictured a nice walk down there, showing it to the family where we would ooh and ahh over the options, then sit down for a fun meal. What happened instead is that Eric does this thing where he chooses or forgets to eat a meal. This results in hungry Eric. Hungry Eric is a grumpy, snappy Eric who then makes poor food choices. We ended up eating pad thai, which wasn’t bad actually, but I was too annoyed to enjoy it properly. Sigh. 

We rambled our way up to the Duque Brewery, where Eric only consented to go inside if we called it “Du-kay,” not wanting to even hint at the evil University that shall not be named. Delicious beer and we made some delightful friends from Britain who were in Lisbon for New Year’s and I hope that we manage to meet up with them again too!


We’ve settled in Maynooth, Ireland now, about 40 minutes outside of Dublin. I feel like we left these dense urban landscapes and woke up in small town Oregon. The house is a roomy three bedroom duplex, and it feels like we can stretch out again, unpack and set up a house for living, not just staying.  It’s taken some doing to get the house put together, with a lot of time spent running errands and getting things like linens, dishes, and food. We couldn’t have done it without the help from the people at Maynooth University. 
You can tell a lot about what a country prioritizes by its grocery store, and Ireland is no different. I realized that I hate the first time I go into a new grocery store in any country. It’s disorienting to say the least, since nothing is in a familiar place. The kids were along for the first visit, and add to the mental chaos as every five minutes they chirp about something that’s caught their fancy (look! Harry Potter yogurt!), but has nothing to do with the red bell peppers I’m actually hunting for. 
Here’s the flour. Divided into cream flour, plain flour and strong flour. Strong flour? I think it means it’s got a higher gluten content but I’m not sure. I didn’t think I could handle it so I opted for the more compliant cream flour instead.


Wall of baked beans, revolting. Sorry to the Brits and Irish, it’s an acquired taste. Also “salad cream,” not sure what that is either. It’s NOT mayonnaise, since that’s on a different shelf. A wall of custard and a TON of prepackaged jello.  I couldn’t find any ricotta cheese, but if you want cheddar in all Irish varities, you’re covered. 


And of course, and ENTIRE freezer bin aisle is dedicated to potatoes of all types. 


So far our welcome has been warm and people are really friendly and helpful. I keep wanting them to talk as much as possible just so I can hear the Irish accent. They also really say things here like “You’re grand” for “that’s fine, don’t worry!” And my favorite “I’m only delighted” pronounced “I’m onie deloyted” and it is just so cute. I know, I know, I shouldn’t make broad sweeping generalizations and I know Ireland must have it’s share of rude and mean people too, but I haven’t met any yet. 
The kids have started school too, separate schools for boys and girls. They are so happy to be back in school again, and having homeschooled very lackadaisically for the last five months, I have confirmed that you have to be either slightly insane or a very different person from me to want to do that full time, so I’m only delighted too. (See how Irish I’m becoming??) They’re learning a bit of Irish in school, and come home with their newest words. The girl loves not having any boys at school, as she now doesn’t have to spend recess coming up with attack strategies to ward off the packs of chasers as she did at home.  The boy, however, misses the balancing energy of having girls in the school, and finds the place a bit rowdy. He’s learned that he is terrible at Gaelic football and also terrible at soccer, at least how it’s played here, where the ball is largely kept up in the air by skillful feet and hardly gets a chance to roll on the ground. I’m sure he’ll slowly amass a cadre of nerds and reestablish his D&D sessions here. The girl is also making friends in her class. I do have to say that I think she is in a class too low for her. The age cutoffs are done differently here, and the work she’s doing seems to be far too easy for her. The class above is full though, so we’ll just have to supplement on our own. 
I can’t believe how quickly it feels like the last five and a half months have passed, and that we’re at the midpoint of our year away. We’re all of us happy for the time we’ve had, and also to slow down for a while and catch our breath again too, with the new experience of small town suburban living, which will be its own adventure as well. 

-s

In which we learn that the Spanish Inquisition was entirely expected

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Madrid wasn’t necessarily part of the initial travel plan at all, but the tickets from Barcelona to Seville the day we wanted to go were sold out, so we figured we’d spend a couple nights in Madrid instead.

Spain’s largest city, Madrid struck me as akin to Manhattan. We stayed in Lavapies, an immigrant and artist neighborhood on the South side of town, which felt like what Brooklyn probably was when it was still Brooklyn. The one time we ventured into center city we were immediately in huge crowds of tourists and I felt like I was in the hell known as Times Square. We shuffled along as quickly as we could and got out of there. I hadn’t planned on it being so unbelievably crowded, but Christmas/New Year’s time is holiday in Spain too, so I wasn’t just fighting foreign tourists but Spanish ones as well.

Eric’s post on our first day in Madrid is excellent and full of details and pictures. We were initially going to leave for Sevilla in the morning, but changed our train ticket so we’d have time to visit the Reina Sofia museum to see Picasso’s Guernica, permanently housed there. Unlike EVERY OTHER MUSEUM in the world, the Reina Sofia (contemporary art) is closed on Tuesday, not Monday, so we were disappointed when we tried to go there the previous day.

Most contemporary art museums in Europe that we’ve been to focus on the movements surrounding the World War, the Cold war, and dictatorship whether of the fascist or socialist flavor. Spain was not directly involved in either World War so this is not part of the history nor the art. They were embroiled in their own vicious civil war from 1936-1939 and that is reflected in the art of the time. A coup by the rightist military (Republicans), led by Francisco Franco, against the ruling left leaders (Nationalists) arose. The military right was supported by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, and many civilians were killed in the fighting. Artists and intellectuals fled during the fighting and after the Franco regime won and took power, setting up Spain for a military dictatorship that wasn’t to end until Franco’s death in 1975.

Picasso, in exile in France, followed the fighting in his home country. He learned of the bombing of the northern village of Guernica and was commissioned by the Nationalist government to create a piece of art in response. Covering an entire wall, the painting travelled around the world for its early life to highlight the atrocities of the civil war and fundraise for the losing cause. No pictures of the artwork are allowed, so here’s one from the web. The pain of the people and animals in the painting is evident, and it is considered to be the most important anti-war artwork of the 20th century.
Fun fact: A tapestry replica hangs in the UN, and was in the room where Colin Powell made televised addresses in support of the Iraq war. The Bush government had the tapestry covered during this time, thinking it was unseemly to call for war in front of the Guernica.

We made it into Sevilla in the early afternoon, hopped a bus to our Air BnB and settled in. This time, the neighborhood is Triana. Older, largely residential and working class, but with plenty of bars and restaurants as well.

In the morning, I chirped “Does anyone want to go on a walking tour?” The kids groaned, Eric said he really needed to go for a run instead. I didn’t feel like sitting around the house so thought I’d just go by myself. This turned out to be an excellent idea.

I wish I’d gone on the free walking tours in other cities – they’re great ways to get the lay of the land and some ideas about where you might want to spend more time. They cost nothing to show up, though you are expected to tip your tour guide between 5-10 Euros at the end, and they’re still worth it. Daniel, an energetic guy with the Pancho tours company, walked us around his city and pointed out the sights along with stories.

Seville is interesting from an architectural standpoint as it was one of the later cities to be “reconquered” by the Spaniards from the Moors, the Moroccan invaders. The Muslims occupied most of the Iberian peninsula by the 8th century, and it was years of a slow recovery of homeland lasting until the 15th century, ending with Granada in the south. In most cities, all existing Muslim buildings were destroyed and replaced with Christian/Western style buildings instead. In Seville, where there were large populations of Muslims as well as Jews, the buildings weren’t demolished but instead reformatted to include both elements. The large cathedral is an example of this – it was built on the site of the previous mosque, and the towers that surround it bear clear Moorish influence. The remains of Christopher Columbus rest in the cathedral. One interesting theory is that Columbus was actually a secret Jew, and the date he left for the Indies was also the date of the beginning of the Spanish Inquisition (very much expected) where all Jewish people were either forced to convert or be executed. Fun fact: the inside of the tower has ramps, not stairs, so that during Moorish times, the Imam could ride a donkey up to the top to save his voice for the calls to prayer!

A later pic of the cathedral at night

The tour ended at the Plaza de Espana, which is just incredible. A wide open space built for the Spanish exposition of 1929 it features a large semicicular plaza with tiled murals of all the Spanish provinces bordering it. I went back later with the kids – there’s a guy who makes big bubbles on the plaza and has buckets for you to do so as well. There’s boombox playing pop hits mixed in with classical, and the sunny plaza is filled with bubbles, children laughing as they try to chase them.

Later that day, we met up with Victor, who we’d met on our rained out bike ride in Cambodia! So, so fun! Victor is originally from Seville and we had a blast together. He took us to a delicious little tapas place in Triana, then we wandered around the Santa Cruz barrio, or old town and had some orange wine, finishing up with a visit to a rooftop bar near the Cathedral where we had a pretty view with the sunset. I loved that we were able to meet up with him and hope we are able to do so again!

Our next day we booked a tour for the Alcazar, a Moorish castle until it was taken over by the Christians, again the Muslim elements were not destroyed, simply a new level was built on top. The castle is stunning inside. Large rooms and courtyards all decorated with plaster moldwork, featuring nature themed designs and patterns. Colorful tilework lines the ceilings, and the lamps are said to represent stalactites and stalagmites to further imitate nature. The Christian levels, I must say, are rather boring after this. Large tapestries that celebrate various kings and their conquests, somewhat mismatched tilework. It just isn’t as artful. The gardens and some of the interior were used in filming Dorne in  Game of Thrones.

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After lunch we walked on the main pedestrian mall and came across this bizarre street performer. What on earth was he doing? We found out a minute later when an unsuspecting woman walked by, not paying attention at all. As she passed the table, he rapped a box underneath to create a sudden noise. The woman gave a small jump and yelped in fear, looked over and then started laughing – she had been had! The rest of us burst into laughter because it was hilarious. We stood there for a good twenty minutes, watching person after person get startled. Kids and dogs were the funniest reactions to watch of course, though I noticed the performer was careful never to startle anyone with a baby or anyone too elderly! Thoughtful, no?

For New Year’s Eve, we managed to get into rather a squabble. I had really wanted to see a flamenco show and there was one right around the corner. We got there in the nick of time, only for Eric to announce that he didn’t really want to see a flamenco show, it was too expensive, and he would just go sit in the plaza instead. Now, one possible reaction to this would have been for me to say, “Sure honey, we’ll see you in an hour,” and head on in with the kids. This is not the reaction I had. Feeling quite rejected, I nearly burst into tears and said something like “Fine! Then we WON’T go!” Unable to be mollified, we spent much of the morning in a tiff as we walked back to the Plaza to Espana so Eric could see it. Along the way, we of COURSE saw sign after sign announcing “Flamenco show for New Year’s Eve!” I mean, really.
We eventually all got over it and ended up back at home for a quiet New Year’s Eve, playing a family game of Dungeons and Dragons. Eric’s role was that of a monk, and he chose to use his first turn to try and tell a story to some doltish orc like creatures, for which he was rewarded with a rap to the head and was knocked unconscious for the next fifteen minutes. After one hour of playtime, we had advanced through just one room in an underground dungeon. The idea to walk around Seville at night was floated, and then summarily rejected by all present, exhausted as we were from a day of strolling about the city, and we bid an early farewell to 2016.


-s

In which we have a Bon Nadal

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Barcelona for Christmas time, we decided, and booked six nights here to have a more relaxed time of it. The neighborhood here we decided on was Gracia, an area to the North side of Barcelona, again not in the tourist scrum, more residential but still lively. It turned out to be perfect for us, with vibrant streets and lots of families around. 

Patterned tile sidewalk on the streets of Barcelona


We went to the beach the first day, first walking down La Rambla, the wide boulevard that bisects Barcelona. Ringed with touts selling all sorts of cheap wares and filled with selfie-stick wielding tourists, we escaped as quickly as we could. Finding the ocean, we left the kids at the seaside while Eric and I walked fifty yards away to a boardwalk bar, sipping a beer while the kids became thoroughly covered in sand. Creative sand artists line the boardwalk with their creations, with boxes for offerings set out in front. On the way home, we strolled through small streets of the old city and eventually ended up back home. 


We took a walking architecture tour the following day, overall underwhelming from a tour standpoint, but still with some interesting tidbits to be gained. As Eric describes in his post, Barcelona city planning is such that the buildings are laid out on a grid and the facades are cut across corners so that the intersections form somewhat of a diamond or octagonal shape when viewed from above, opening up the city as a whole and letting more light in. In the courtyards of the city blocks are small parks – these had been filled in with warehouses, but as these fall into disuse they are dismantled and the space opened for public use. 
Antoni Gaudi was a Spanish architect who was known for his somewhat outlandish styles, but more so for how he used nature as an inspiration for his buildings. Using catenary arches to support the weight of large buildings was revolutionary, instead of relying on external supporting buttresses as had been done in the past. Here you can see the undulating forms of his buildings, in contrast to the straight lines that had been done previously. The roof of the building follows these waved lines in arcing forms. According to our guide, and somewhat unsurprisingly, Gaudi was hated by his contemporaries.

After the tour, a lunch of tapas was in order and Cerveseria Catalan did not disappoint. We decided to make a Gaudi day of it and headed to the Sagrada Familia basilica after this, Gaudi’s last civic project before getting run over by a tram at the age of 72. I didn’t really know what to expect, the outside is a bizarre mishmash of styles and scaffolding. It’s now predicted to be completed by 2026, but my guess is that people doubt it will ever be finished. 

Once you step inside, however, the effect is magnificent. An open space formed by white catenary arches is surrounded by stained glass windows of deepest rainbow colors. You feel as if you’ve wandered into a fairyland forest and the effect is mystical. The low afternoon light streamed in and threw colored reflections throughout the cathedral. Other than the natural decorations from the light, there was little else in the main room to show power and wealth, unlike the other cathedrals we’ve witnessed so far, and as a result felt truly holy. Interesting that the most religious space I feel I’ve been in is the one that reflects nature as it is, instead of the creations of Man at their most ornate. 

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The next day was Christmas Eve, and the girl was clamoring to go back to the beach, so we made that our plan. I know that it means we skipped more sightseeing in Barcelona, and the list of things we didn’t really get to see is long, but sometimes everyone has more fun if you just relax and don’t make it about having to “see” everything. Despite the water temperature being 60 degrees, the girl was undeterred and went for a swim, harkening back to her past life as a polar bear. 

The kids had found a discarded pine tree branch in a pile near the Sagrada Familia, and spent the morning making paper and string ornaments to decorate it. We played Christmas music on my phone and finally felt like we were getting into the spirit a bit more. I haven’t been homesick much on this trip, but this was a harder time. For the last eleven or twelve Christmases, my sister has flown out to Denver for the holiday. The last few years have included my sister’s husband and his sister as well, so the group has happily grown. We make pierogies together, try to go out for a trivia night, once went to a hockey game (my first!) and always go skiing on Christmas day before coming home, taking showers and opening presents in our pajamas. We listen to Christmas music and get our tree the day after Thanksgiving, put up a sparkly wreath, and decorate together. I look forward to it all year, and I know Sapana does too. This year all of us felt wistful at missing a home Christmas and our traditions that usually go with it. 

A bit late but we managed a little tree, sure. Pierogies too, then, must still be part of the menu. The ingredients weren’t particularly difficult to find, though a rolling pin wasn’t available at the apartment. I continued my series of improvisational cooking by using an unopened wine bottle and it did a serviceable job.


Santa managed to find us and brought a small bag of candies for the kids, and Eric and I found them each a present too. We went out to Park Guell for our last day of Gaudi. Initially conceived as a high-end housing development, it never took off as a residential area. The park features several Gaudi designed elements in a large hillside pavillion leading down to two houses at the base, again in his nature inspired style. Among the columns we played hide and seek, and I must say I did quite well at this. 

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A lovely walk around in the sun, then back home to eat our pierogies, open the wine bottle rolling pin, and hang out before the next day took us to Madrid.
-s