Fur babies, Kitten, Lost pet, pets, Travel

Eat, Play, Love

Recently I’ve been walking with a friend on the Atlanta Beltline where there are loads of people out with their dogs. With no dog of my own going on nearly a year, I’m on a “soft” hunt, stopping walkers with cute large dogs that smile at me to learn where they got theirs.  One such golden retriever encounter sent me to a website where I saw similar smiling pups and cats, too, and I soon landed on an image I couldn’t unsee. 

I’ve already got Bo, an oversized big-hearted orange tabby who recently lost his buddy Louie, also a ginger, but who now seems bored living with just us humans. Adding insult to injury, the vet suggested he slim down and switch to wet food, so his days sans kibble have grown noticeably duller.

If you cast your line out, that cork is eventually going to bob, and while I do like fishing, be careful what you fish for. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the kitten became an obsession, and of course I emailed Jessica, owner of the kitten’s mama who, as it turns out, lives on a farm several states away in Pennsylvania. Obviously, that wasn’t going to work, but from our exchange I’d learned that the kitten is super sweet, great with people and dogs, and in a week will be weaned and ready to go. Despite the highly impractical deterrent, my husband agreed this was one cute cat. Fast forward a few days and several thousand SkyMiles later and we found ourselves on a plane to Baltimore.

ATL => BWI

My suitcase held a collapsed cat carrier, a dish tub litter box, small bag of litter (which security flagged) and other assorted kitten things–toys, towels, food and water bowls–and in my carry on some reading, a toothbrush and change of clothes.  With so much already invested, in flight my brain kicked into worry mode: With Samantha sleeping outside, what if coyotes get to her before I can? Or as many new adoptive parents fear and experience, what if this family changes their mind? 

Typical Annapolis street

Putting worries aside, we landed and made our way to our Nissan Rogue. The way back held luggage, the middle seat, which I draped with a shower curtain, was dedicated kitten land, and the humans called front. We made our way to Annapolis, Md., every bit as beautiful as I’d heard, and walked around past old houses and the waterfront, which felt equal parts Virginia and New England, all of it quaint, historic and oozing charm.

Faidley’s, Lexington Market

Next stop was Baltimore and lunch at Lexington Market, home of Faidley’s famous crab cakes and every type of seafood imaginable. The baseball-sized crab cake we each ordered was delicious, not too eggy and with barely any filler, and we stood at one of the small round tables to eat, airport style. 

After lunch we headed to Millersville, Pa., passing rich farmland with stripes of green, brown, and gold rolling hills and into Lancaster (pronounced “LANG-ki-ster”), the oldest inland town in the U.S. We stayed at an inexpensive Airbnb in Bird-In-Hand, Pa., and our room was in one of several non-descript buildings behind a pretty Victorian house. Simple enough, it had a double bed, a Bible on the nightstand, two bars of soap the size of foil wrapped pats of butter, and zero Wi-Fi. Driving in we noticed an Amish-owned market selling pies, but arrived too late to sample any. We did see several Amish families traveling via iconic horse and buggy, tops up and wipers going in the mist, and with surprising bright red blinking turn signals illuminating the rainy road. 

Former train depot now Lititz Welcome Center

Dinner was in an adjacent town, Lititz, and we struggled pronouncing it: Le Tits? Luteetz? Leatitz?  I asked a woman on the street who could only offer that she knew it had “tit” in its name, but shrugged her shoulders saying what did she know, she was from Jersey. (It’s LIT-itz by the way.) Lititz was a cute town that reminded us of Decatur, Ga., where the parking meters stop running at 6pm and there are blinking crosswalk lights so cars stop and let you cross. The 18th- and 19th-century houses and shops are well-kept, the restaurant menus fresh and modern, and there are even local wines from Pennsylvania vineyards, so dinner was surprisingly good.

Vines overhead enclosing brunch patio

We got up early and checked out, which meant putting our room key in a bowl on a desk in the main house’s living room, where it seems no one ever goes. A few steps to the car and it was on to Lancaster for breakfast. Google gave On Orange 4.7 stars, so we put our name on the list and waited on Orange Street for a patio table. Swedish oat pancakes, peasant omelets, and attentive, amicable staff made it a memorable spot. Afterwards we saw the Soldiers and Sailors monument in Penn Square and peered inside Central Market, the oldest (1730) continuously running public farmers’ market in the country, but unfortunately, it’s closed Sundays.

Next, we headed to Jessica’s in Shippensburg, Pa., over an hour’s drive, but passing more picturesque farmland. We drove down a long driveway to the back of the house where we saw little faces inside peering out at us. Jessica and her daughter came outside, the daughter holding the tiny kitten they had named Samantha. Mom and daughter both wore long dresses, and on her head, Jessica wore a sheer white net stiff cap which appeared to be in the Amish Mennonite tradition. I read that “The Beachy Amish and Amish Mennonites are the car-driving, outreach focused cousin of the more broadly known horse-and-buggy Amish” (www.beachyam.org), and I thought I’d spotted a Honda Odyssey in their driveway. Her menagerie of cats and dogs greeted us too and Jessica, a mother of five, reminded me of my friend Martee with her similarly pretty face, relaxed countenance, and warm heart she wore outside her body.

Kitten backseat snuggling with stuffed cat

There was no catfishing going on here, and the kitten looked just like her photo. Haphazard patches of orange, black, and white fur wrapped her tiny body accented with a miniature pink nose and pads. We attempted to let Samantha’s cat mama have a final moment with her baby, but instead she walked away tired in the way mothers sometimes do. Samantha slept most of the 9-10-hour drive next to a stuffed cat I got her, which had a battery beating heart inside. Her wake time was typical cat–nibbling on kibble, playing, and even breaking in her first litter box, which “gift” we promptly disposed of. Riding along the highway at night with the inside car light on and me twisting around to observe and applaud our barely 1lb creature’s first litter box elimination, we screamed new kitten parents, but in that moment, I was a proud mama.

The Wild West

To better acclimate Samantha to life at home with Bo, I’ve been watching videos from Jackson Galaxy, an internet cat behaviorist my son’s girlfriend told me about (www.jacksongalaxy.com). His “Eat, Play, Love” approach to successful feline introductions recommends that both cats stay busy and entertained, eat well and get plenty of love and attention. The introductions need to be strategic and slow so each cat associates positive feelings around the other, which Jackson marks as one giant step toward successful catification. By letting them eat together with a door initially between them and then a screen, they’ll realize that spending time near the other brings good things, like tasty meals. Orange tabbies are usually males and calicos usually females, so at least Bo and Samantha have that in common. When the walls eventually come down, to avoid a standoff you should give each a fun focus, distract the kitten with toys and the adult cat with a special treat. Soon there will be a face-to-face, but for now, these cats will snack and stare, a screen between them.  

My sister has remarked, “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” and in many ways neither can I. The house is cluttered and under renovation and things aren’t settled, yet the nagging feeling my current cat is bored out of his mind is disconcerting. What if I occupied a home as the only human surrounded by cats and besides, losing two pets in nine months has left a gaping hole and the house, achingly quiet. 

I weighed 1.24 lbs. at the doctor today!

Only a few days in, I alternate being ready for this sweetheart to grow out of her infant kitten stage and just snuggle with Bo already, to her sidling up beside me and rubbing her sweet face against my leg, and me melting there on the spot. These early new pet days don’t feel the same as when the kids lived at home since their excitement camouflaged the extra work. Instead, it feels a little what dating after a divorce or death might feel like–a little premature, contrived, and unusual to be hanging out with a stranger–but Samantha’s friendly nature and face, which I can hardly take in for all its striking beauty, has won me over and soon will Bo as well. 

Did I need to travel all this way to find a kitten? Absolutely not. Did I need to hurry and barely three weeks after losing Louie go and add another pet to this house? Again, no. None of this involved logic, just extra love that needed somewhere to go. Welcome to our house, Samantha. 

Anxiety, Skiing, Travel

Adventures in Skiing

Along the road to Beaver Creek, CO

Do something every day that scares you. We’ve all heard that phrase, but who the hell came up with that advice? I am here to attest it yields mixed results. We are in Colorado where we began skiing a few days ago. The boots fit even nicer here than the ones I wore in North Carolina recently at a much smaller place where I went for a skiing test run. There I stuck to the singular baby slope and graduated to skiing two runs down a green. Here, the hotel will hold on to your skis and boots, which makes life far easier. No lugging snowy equipment to your car where freezing wet boots await you the next day. 

Ready for the slopes

It all started off pleasant enough, the four of us making our way to the lift. Lifts and I historically haven’t worked well together the five or so times I’ve skied in my life, and despite my family’s assurances and advice–“lean to the edge of the bench and just stand up, let the seat nudge you off and just slowly ski away from the lift, watch that you don’t let the next lift hit you in the head, you won’t fall”–I fell off the lift in a weird way, way over to the right, a spectacle, really. The toxic cocktail of performance anxiety, coupled with extreme fear can only yield the type of result we got, me, plopped down in the snow before us. 

I made my way down this green slope well enough, forming the slowing pizza shape with my skis and turning this way and that, my glutes, still sleeping, waking with a startle. Next, I took on a second lift, this time with a stranger. Poor thing had to listen to my lift fall story, but she assured me I won’t fall this time. We exited the lift, her sweetly bracing me, and I emerged standing! No sooner did I begin to ski to the left to go down this other green than a man called out to let me know my glove had fallen off the lift below. Making my way down, I soon realized this green slope was far steeper than the previous and any others I’ve ever attempted. My boys and husband were just ahead and said they’d help me down and also would find my glove. Super sweet of them, but for me, the steepness of the slope rendered this impossible. I urged them to just go on and ski on their own, convinced any lessons they had to offer wouldn’t take, and why not release them instead into this sparkling new ski day in lieu of the stress fest that was unfolding? They insisted over and over, but so did I, and they ended up skiing on down. Well aware of my skiing challenges, I initially wasn’t going to go on this trip, but I suppose fear of missing out on this time with my family changed my mind. I didn’t want to slow the group down, though, and also didn’t want to get talked into super scary stuff I wasn’t ready for.

So it was me and the crazy hill, and the only thing I could do that made any sense at all was remove my skis, cradle them under my arm and hoof it down that hill. Mind you, this is Colorado, and these runs are not short, but my legs are long and strong and so we, my legs and me, began walking it. On seeing a lady walking her run, kind skiers stopped and asked me if I was okay and if they could carry my skis down to the Ritz. The Ritz? Evidently this luxury chain was at the base of this run. Along with this daunting task, I didn’t want to relinquish my skis, only to struggle locating them later, and so I continued. Other skiers came by with similar concerns, some having passed me once and now on their second run. I found a few plateaus where I attempted to put on my skis and ski a little so as to shorten this never-ending hike. Remembering the advice of my son, “Make sure the levers in back of the skis are in the up position when you put your boot in,” (advice he would later recant as amiss), I kept trying to get my skis on, but they wouldn’t cooperate–no clicking, no nothing, even after I thoroughly whacked all the snow off my boots with my poles. I continued the sojourn with skis tucked under my left arm, and made my way down to find a hefty timber lodge, branded as a Ritz-Carlton.

Fellas outside the Ritz keepin’ it classy

Everyone was outside in groups cocktail-ing and beer-ing themselves silly. I found a water cooler and paper cups, and filled up a time or two. I assumed my family’s trails, wherever they had taken them on blue or black slopes, would feed into this one and spit them out at the base where I now was. With all that walking, I worked up a sweat, and with temps dropping, I went inside to sit by the fire. I wasn’t of course going to get the $30 chicken Caesar salad or the $20 Prosecco everyone seemed to be ordering without hesitation. I was content to just be inside by a fire, and thankful the server didn’t nudge me to order something. After another 45 minutes or so and with night about to fall, I asked about the shuttle or gondola back to the hotel.

As it turns out, you must ski down to the gondola, surely this was a joke, and the last one was leaving at 5pm, so I needed to get a move on. The guy giving me those directions assured me it was only a “catwalk,” which in ski speak, I think means a meandering, mostly flat trail. In disbelief and feeling deflated, having sworn off skiing for today, this longest of days, I soldiered on toward the trail. A gentleman was heading there, too, and assured me he would help, and so we began. It was lovely and somewhat flat and meandering, just as I’d hoped, and my skis magically popped on and I glided along, thrilled that around each bend I was that much closer to home. The man I was following was a fast skier and I hustled to catch up, flying around a hairpin turn until there before me it appeared, a huge slope down, the man halfway down it waving at me. I approached as far as I could and then came to a halt.

“I can’t do this,” I yelled. Echoing my family from hours earlier, he retorted, “You can!”  After a few more “No, I can’ts” and his same response, he offered to reach for me and take my hand. We both fell and then my skis wouldn’t go on. He began yelling at this point, both of us needing to make the last gondola stop of the day, “Get up,” and try as I might, I just couldn’t, skis crisscrossed underneath me. I urged him to please just ski on and I would be fine, and after much back and forth, he disappeared down the quiet hill leaving me the only person in this stunningly silent winter wonderland.

Once again, I found my poles and removed my skis, clutching them under my left arm and continued down the hill. I found a few plateaus ripe for putting on skis and trying again, but the damn boots wouldn’t click into the skis (that earlier piece of upside-down advice I unfortunately didn’t think to challenge), and so I walked. The very occasional person glided past me, a few of them asking the kind, yet predictable question, “Are you alright? Can I take your skis?” to which I always replied, “No, thanks, I’m good.” More walking and then my phone, now with 5% charge, began pinging, and it was my family texting me. Where are you? Want us to come get you? I wasn’t sure exactly where I was, but I knew it wasn’t much farther until I was at the base by the gondola stop. I noticed a road ahead on my left and a small stone structure, the size of a gate house. Using his Find my Friends app, my son soon located me, and shortly after, Joe called with the instruction, “Stay put, we’re coming to you.” I walked to the road, and within ten minutes, the trusty rented Ford Expedition pulled up. I placed my barely used spoiled, chauffeured skis in back and I climbed in front, the family all there and comfy heat blasting out the vents. 

Suffice it to say, the next day my ribs hurt. A lot. All that ski carrying on the left side had made turning over in bed, coughing, walking, pretty much anything I did, hurt. I took this as a sign to take the day off, and sent my family off into their day of invigorating blue and black runs. Besides, I’d learned our cat back home had escaped, and so I operated cat central from my hotel room, contacting neighbors and family for help. Eventually, I took a gondola to the village where the next day I would resume my skiing, this time at a beginner slope named Buckaroo Bowl, basically, KinderCare goes skiing. I assumed I’d get the typical experience I’d done before, short straight slope down, up with a magic carpet and repeat, however, this run looked different, curiously intriguing even, and tomorrow I’d experience it. For today, I wandered around the village dotted with shops and restaurants and with a lovely skating rink in the center, still on call and worried about the cat. When I least expected it, the text came. My brother-in-law managed to catch him and he was now safe inside. Big e x h a l e.

Who doesn’t love a hot cookie?

As the day was winding down, I made my way down several escalators toward the hotel shuttle stop, and in front of me saw a chef carrying an enormous tray of cookies, surely heading to some catered event. Instead he stopped, and a swarm of people rushed up to him, and he began handing out cookies. I stepped in line and got mine, an enormous, still warm chocolate chip cookie which took many many bites to consume. The cat was back and now this. Heaven. 

Sweet husky in the snow

Day three came, technically day two on the slopes for me, and with slightly healed ribs and sore calves, I climbed into the shuttle toward the slopes. The gondola took me up and I made my way down, sideling up to groups taking lessons and mothers offering little ones advice, absorbing it all, “Push your foot right, left, and turn, turn.” This run was delightful, offering something for everyone, bonafide doable inclines, winding paths and gorgeous scenery. Sweet little animal figurines dotted the path, and around a bend I saw a husky silhouette, which I pretended was my dog Lucie guiding my way, and I whispered, “Hello, sweet girl,” each time I rounded the bend. 

When disembarking the gondola, I decided to put my skis on while standing on the rubber perforated mat, versus doing it in the snow. This way, you don’t have to whack your boots over and over with your poles to get the snow off, and the boots more easily snap into the skis. Heading down the slopes, I discovered the key to success was turning often and not letting the skis face straight down, lest the fear creep back in. The fear was still there, but my turning overcame it, and I gave myself advice as I moved. Push right, push left, turn your toes, pizza brakes, bending my knees, now effortlessly gliding around groups and singles. I did this over and over again and on into day four (my ski day three), and on this day, when the snow began falling, oversized flakes rained down all around me as if I were in the center of a magical snow globe. 

The quiet grace of McCoy Park

Yesterday was the last ski day, and in lieu of taking a shuttle to Vail, we decided to stay put and ski Beaver Creek again. We booted up, and with skis in hand, took the gondola to an area where we took the first of three lifts, which would carry us high up to McCoy Park, a vast isolated and nearly empty of skiers 250-acre ski park, which opened just this year. It was on this first of three lifts where I put into practice the best advice I learned yesterday from an employee here. If you’re one of those who struggles departing ski lifts, as you approach the lift operator at the end of the line, you can wave your hand up and down, palms facing down, indicating a “go slower” movement, much like you get from a lady at her mailbox if you’re driving too fast through her neighborhood, and the lift will slow down to a near stop as you exit. Similar to the satisfaction of pumping your arms up and down so a trucker will see you and honk his horn, this is remarkably empowering and reassuring for us green skiers. 

The boys were faster than Joe and me, and they skied on ahead taking the forest route, cutting through the trees with sharp turns before heading to another slope. Sticking to his promise to hang with me all day today, Joe slowly skied ahead, turning back every now and then to check my progress. The snow continued to fall, and instead of pelting us in the face as it did on the lift, it fell quietly over the thick blanket spread out everywhere. Cutting through this thick snow was like water skiing when you’re cutting through the wake of an inboard motor, and my skies effortlessly plowed the thick fresh powder. The sky was white, the ground was white, and my jacket was white, and without sun and shadows to reveal contour, everything looked rather flat. It was blind trust, the blind following Joe, who did his best to carve out the least steep route.

There was one short crazy steep area, and out of habit, I took my skis off and walked it until I found a landing to regroup and get my skis on. We made it through this run and went for a second, this time taking a different route past stunning snowy trees lined up majestically in this white winter scene. We took the green trails down to Beaver Creek Lodge via the Primrose and Intertwine trails, and I won’t lie, there was another short walking in ski boots stretch for me, my stubbornness holding tight against Joe’s assurances it wasn’t too bad. I know myself, but I also trust him. Still, on the edge of a steep precipice, my brain seeing it as the grinch’s sleigh about to tip over that edge, with the option of walking it vs facing a frightening fall, I’m choosing option #1. We pressed on until the end, signage pointing to the easiest way down, which turned out to be a steep and narrow and icy curvy mess, one we had to walk a short distance. Others behind us also were stunned to find this “easy way down” nearly impossible, and yelled behind them for others to go a different way. Nice to know it wasn’t just me.

We made it down and back to the village where I suggested we treat ourselves to a beer. Inside the Chop House, we scored a window seat, and instead of a draft, opted for bloody Mary’s, tall ones with a spear of those crunchy yummy garnishes you get–dill gherkin sized pickle, pepperoncini, and an olive–and a sprightly tall stalk of celery to stir the whole thing. Joe opted for the candied jalapeno bacon as an additional garnish in his. A lady next to me, also with a bloody Mary, was enjoying a huge bouquet of fries, which I couldn’t stop staring at. Five minutes until the kitchen would be closing, and I caved and ordered some. The seven dollar price tag proved worth it, and soon a basket arrived containing two enormous metal cones each with a splay of french fries, and two metal ramekins of chilled ketchup. As we settled into the hot fries and the cool drink, we both agreed we were done skiing, and we’d hang here leisurely, and take the shuttle back. A vehicle with wheels as the way home versus skiing it. Yippee! 

Can’t say this ski thing has actually taken and it now consistently feels more like pleasure than a somewhat nerve-racking task, but I had some fun with my family, am intact and am still learning. It IS beautiful scenery, and despite my not graduating to blue slopes or even a slew of green ones, I AM making strides. Baby steps folks (literally if you find you can’t handle deep inclines, or your skis won’t go on). 

My buddy, Javi

Our room is cozy and all you need, a bed and a sofa bed for the four of us, a microwave and refrigerator, too. The shower is hot and strong and there is self-serve good coffee downstairs each morning. The lobby is full of twinkly trees, a few two-sided roaring gas fireplaces, and a view of snow-capped Colorado Rocky Mountains in the distance. Dogs are welcome here and roam the hotel, and I find I am petting each one. The guys are having a blast and every day becoming better skiers, and making new memories together.

As for me, I’m fairly certain I will get more gutsy if I get another chance at this nonsense, but for today, I’m proud of my accomplishments. This trip reminded me how I’m risk averse, but that this precious body of mine is strong and capable, and for that I’m grateful. If I can get my mind to trust that people–in this case, my family–have lessons to offer and there’s a good chance I will be safe, I can tackle future outings like a snow plow, pushing aside fear to the edges to explore what can be a wondrous path ahead. 

Food, hope, Travel

It’s fall, y’all.

Fall assembled outside our hotel

Sometimes you have to leave to come back home. We had a little weekend getaway, something new. That you must fly six states away to enjoy daily walks, yummy dinners, and family time together is nuts, but turns out I needed it and I’ll take it. The cats notice the suitcases when they come out and each time deliver a fuck you side eye as they collapse on the floor watching the inevitable unfold. I turn on the radio to NPR so if nothing else, they’ll have good radio to listen to. Often as our vacations wind down, I’m tempted–and have actually done this before–to call the house and reassure the cats through the answering machine’s speaker, “We’re coming home soon! Hang on!”

Dahlias in the northeast think it’s still summer

I’m not so good at letting go and delegating, and it’s hard to leave these nests we’ve loved on for so many years. As it turns out, our new pet sitter has it together and even checked in with a newsy and thankfully uneventful update while we were away. Peace of mind goes a long way. The tenants at our other house are happy to water the newly seeded lawn for a few days. With the recent collapsed sewer line replacement there, things are now smooth and humming along, and they now get to use both toilets as often as they’d like. (It really is the small things.) At our own house, the tarps over the new spaces are neither secure nor numerous enough, and a heavy rain brings little trickles inside. Seems there are fair skies ahead, but until the contractor returns, we’ve got pots and towels and the hum of dehumidifiers in place to absorb it all. 

Just before leaving, there’s always that final rushed sweep of the house, giving surfaces a quick once over, cleaning out the fridge, even watering the ferns again–the same ones you lovingly tended all summer, but days earlier callously left for dead, justifying Kimberly Queens don’t do winter inside. The anticipation often is even better than the trip. Like a new year rolling in, for me it’s always a reset. Instead of habitually pulling leggings or jeans off the chair to slide on for a new day, travelling with a single suitcase, you arrive with actual outfits to wear and a few unpredictable consecutive days to unfold as you wish.

Taking off with Evan by my side

On the plane there’s still that slight apprehension at takeoff and landing, so you text family that you love them because should, heaven forbid, flight #DL0431 not reach its destination, you’ve at least said your peace.  And, of course, for take-off and landing, you grab the hand of family next to you. I’m thankful they are willing to humor me in this superstitious ritual. 

After settling in with a beverage, you invariably make your way to the toilette. That cortisol-spiking jolt you get in those few seconds after flushing is the stuff heart attacks are made of. You must wait a bit and then it comes on quick and loud, surprising you each time. The lavatory has a gentler song, and the door lock performs as you’d expect, that reliable solid securing sound as you slide the lever, but, oh, that toilet!

A little magic out our hotel window

This last trip, along with the usual negotiations about how we will fill our time, where we will eat and whether a taxi or Uber or walking is most cost and time effective, brought some simple unexpected high notes. Seeing your older son in his own apartment nesting with his girlfriend in a space they found and made into a home sure makes a mom proud. Full of bright light, modern mostly found furniture, and an older sweet rescued cat, it’s happy here, and with a deli, laundry and the subway a block away and a straight shot to school, it’s perfect. Plus there’s a hatch in the hall outside his door and a twinkling rooftop to enjoy. Having your younger son visit too and stay there gives your boys that unscripted time together we’re all short on. Using hotel points, Joe managed to score free nights at three different hotels for this three-night stay, so we moved around a bit this trip, but got the variety of experiences in both Brooklyn and Manhattan. 

New York requires proof of vaccination and an ID if you want to eat at a restaurant here.  As far as I’m concerned that’s the way it should be–no drama, no whine, no politics. Just smart, fueled by the science, and might I add, effective. No soup for you if you leave that vaccine card back at the hotel, so bring it because the soup and everything else is consistently good. The Thai restaurant on our last night was fantastic and as I often do, I documented the entrees and their eaters in this video, below. 

Biking in Brooklyn

We rode Citi Bikes this trip, the regular vs pedal-assist kind, which are more plentiful and less expensive, and the four of us meandered around Brooklyn following Benjamin, who toured us around his old and new neighborhoods. There are numerous bike lanes and despite the many cars, scooters and people, I felt safer riding here than I do in Atlanta because motorists and pedestrians expect to see you and make room. The boys eventually rode back to the apartment, and Joe and I to our Brooklyn hotel to check out before heading to our Manhattan hotel.

The yellow basket

On the way there, whizzing past a park on the right, I noticed a basket vendor set up on the sidewalk. A gorgeous yellow basket caught my eye and I couldn’t stop looking at it, still cycling and now craning my neck to study it. We turned around and I went and bought the thing for a price the seller reduced, and after he bagged it, I flung it over my handlebar for the bike ride home. It’s here now home with me, and I love its story and the happenstance of finding it. It has notes of yellow, my favorite color, and against the blue wall in my bedroom, it feels like a happy summer day. 

Sure was fun while it lasted!

The season is changing and so is my hair. For six months, I’ve had the hair I’ve always dreamed of. You can feel it in the shower, that thick plumped up cuticle, that cocky energized hair follicle oozing oomph in spades. The only downside is it takes forever to dry, yet when it does there are loose ringlets forming exactly where you want them (in the very places chemo left bald). You can go to bed with it wet and wake up with natural tousled tresses requiring zero brushing, and if you bother to pull out a hair dryer, there are countless more versions of goodness you can create. 

That gorgeous soufflé that’s been rising on my head for months, however, is now falling. Not sure who opened the oven door, but suddenly gravity has pulled that light spirited dollop of a do down. There are plenty of strands still but seems we’re back to my former head of hair, to the scalp and ears peep show behind the whisper soft strands hanging close to my head. I’m told those chemo curls eventually go away, and by my December haircut or the one after that, they will be nearly gone. 

What to make of it all? When I found myself fresh off of chemo and radiation and with a bald head in places (which surprised me how cold that would feel in winter), I think the Universe decided to give me a little boost with thicker hair. The same thing happened after birthing babies, when lost in the haze of fatigue, a colicky baby and breast pumping, there was that gift of cleavage, a “Here’s the cup size you thought you’d always be, happy dressing with your new look” little bonus. When you’ve had enough time with this new do and physique and gotten caught up on your sleep and distanced yourself from treatment, the Universe reminds you, “I’m gonna take it back now because you don’t need it anymore. Someone else could use this little perk.” I chalk it up to it is to better to have had curls and cleavage and lost them than to have never had them at all. Besides, in the midst of so much change, returning to who you were physically is surprisingly reassuring. 

Show me a better lunch.
Waiting on a show, and the show is the street below

We made the most of our last day away walking miles around Chelsea and up on the Highline, followed by lunch at Chelsea Market. It was in the 50s and windy on our long walk and we earned that lunch, one of those decadent meals you shouldn’t splurge on, but you do, because why not? The Lobster Place Fish Market had it all and we had the lobster roll, a folded crispy buttery bun chock full of lobster meat tossed in a light lemony mayo, clam chowder and lobster bisque, and Zapp’s chips. I swallowed mine down with a glass of champagne. A delicious finish to this little getaway as we headed toward home. 

View below from the High Line. Hopeful.

Birthdays, Family, Food, hope, Sunshine, Travel, Uncategorized

Up With The Sun

Never once have I regretted waking up early to see the sun rise. It’s your own private preview to the day before the world begins to stir, your chance to discover what awe, sparkle, brightness and hope look like. Sometimes there’s a dramatic sky previewing the show, other times, a cloud cover has settled in so thick you’re certain you won’t see anything. Once, years ago, I walked away from waiting on a sunrise to begin, assuming I’d either woken up too late and missed the show, or there was no show at all, since the clouds wouldn’t let the sun out, only to turn around to find a giant orange ball had risen, tiptoeing in just when I’d stopped watching. Today’s clouds parted and presented us with a shimmering gold nugget, actively stretching and spreading its molten wonder. Everyone quietly found their seats – some on yoga mats in the sand, others climbing on overturned chaises, some standing still, reverent and expectant – each of us humbled and respectful, talking in hushed tones. 

The hot glittery gold began to spread out and thin yellow rays extended across the sky, reaching out to each of us there looking up. It’s real, these golden tentacles which stretch from the center. They’re like the sunshines I used to draw as a little girl, when I’d carefully select colors from my Crayola box: orange, yellow-orange, orange-yellow, goldenrod, yellow, lemon yellow and gold, and if you were lucky enough to be coloring in 1972 as I was, you had access to the new fluorescent Crayola collection debuting that year, adding chartreuse and ultra yellow along with other colors to the mix. Those rays aren’t just in a child’s imagination, they are real – real enough for an iPhone to capture and so much more engaging in person than in any stock photos or inspirational motifs. They’re as real as those smoke curls I used to draw which spiraled out of the chimney of my house.

As the performance heightened, seagulls circled, perfectly picturesque and swooping into every frame. The sun broke out of its gold shell and rose up quickly, spreading a bright yellow haze all around. The crowd then shifted and scattered, and we moved on into the day, filled up from the performance, and my sister and I agreeing it was well worth setting the alarm. The show would resume tomorrow, but by then, we’d be back home in different cities, returning to the less interesting routines we’d left.

Afterward we went for coffee at a large Starbucks nearby. From our table outside, we watched lots of people – singles, couples, joggers and partners with their dogs – and talked for hours, a pair of sisters full on conversation, caffeine and celebration from this rare birthday getaway. This week she turned sixty, my warm, beautiful slender, forever-young sister, and me, just two years behind. For four days, we walked, sunned, swam and shelled. Lizards darted across our paths, a pair of parakeets flew overhead, pigeons cooed nesting on the hotel’s roof, and a bright green iguana even appeared, jumping in our pool for a quick swim across.


The four of us – my sister, her daughter, my husband and I – got along well, and it was easy making plans from our rooms directly across the hall from one other. Nearly identical, one room felt like a girls’ dorm with The Food Network on TV running in the background, bikinis hanging out to dry and no shortage of chatter. The other doubled as a couple’s room and workplace, since Joe needed to dedicate time each day connecting with his office. The rental car stayed parked throughout our stay and we instead explored the area on foot – past successions of royal palms in street medians, pastel Art Deco buildings, stark Miami-hot streets, Cuban sandwich shops and stylish cafes with lush outdoor seating. 

We discovered a quieter beach away from the center of things and sprung for chaises with umbrellas, a first for each of us. Accustomed to hauling beach umbrellas from home, we’d typically find ourselves frustrated from their tilting or pulling up out of the sand and blowing down the beach, leaving us little choice but to bake in the sun or else call it a day. Esteban’s, our beach chair place, set us up, their drill boring a perfect narrow hole in the sand for our umbrella, creating an afternoon full of marvelous choices – sun or shade, surf or beach, walking the beach or lounging on cushioned chaises. I even fell asleep for a short while, infant-style arms overhead. Delicious. 

Meals were consistently wonderful except for dinner the first night when we got stuck in the middle of the largest, tackiest, rudest crowd we’d ever seen, who were constantly everywhere we found ourselves, blaring music and twerking, yelling, racing in cars and weaving on bikes around us. The restaurant was expensive as expected but unremarkable, feta noticeably absent from our Greek salads, canned California olives (c’mon, no Kalamata?), and tiny minced romaine, with a tasteless dressing on the side. It was loud and rushed – a sudden downpour contributing to the mood – as we all moved inside, bringing this crazy party uncomfortably closer. As we all fought fatigue from early morning flights and the rushing around you do before a getaway, this first night gave us a distasteful preview to our stay which luckily, four days in, faded like yesterday’s news. The rest of the time was quieter and what we’d been looking for and desperately needed – our soundtrack of tides, birds and our own spontaneous laughter. 

Meals were highlights and our hotel was our favorite place for good ones; it’s so easy opting to stay in when you can dine alfresco in lush outdoor rooms surrounded by tropical vegetation and cute critters minding their own business. Our hotel’s Caesar salad was a thing to behold: Crispy butter lettuce replaced romaine and bread crumbs stood in for croutons, with tiny Parmesan curls scattered all around the top, and a smidgeon of bacon, all of it minimally bound in a refreshing dressing. Grilled shrimp tacos came with soft white corn tortillas, cotija cheese, finely shredded cabbage and jalapeño mayo, another hotel homerun.A friend recommended an authentic Cuban sandwich shop, and a couple by the pool, a place for lobster rolls, so we checked out both, which were authentically delicious. 

The birthday – and reason for the trip – was full and fun. I got up early that day and slid a card under Anne’s door with a gift inside – a happier paper surprise on your floor than the usual hotel bill signaling the end of your stay, always a downer. Instead, the party was just getting started. We gathered for brunch and I brought down her bag of gifts – little nothings but each wrapped carefully with love. We got good coffees that day in lieu of the lobby’s free stuff and once more, sat outside in the early June heat. The four of us each found our thing – cappuccino, croissant, eggs and avocado toast – and reveled in it; I love how everyone gets to share in the same fun as the birthday person. 

Another beach day, more beautiful weather, and reliable Esteban’s set us up again. Red and purple flags flew like the day before, warning us of rip tides and Japanese Man ‘o War, so we lazily floated close to shore. Five o’clock brought happy hour to our hotel lobby every afternoon, and we patiently stood in line hoping the sauvignon blanc wouldn’t run out. Little clear plastic cups were stacked next to a serving tray and the hotel front desk person turned sommelier for the pour, another plastic cup set out for tips. One day there was only chardonnay and our faces fell, but I politely convinced the pourer to check in the back for more and, spared the dreaded oakiness, the party continued. 

We frequently coffeed and happy houred on our favorite patio on the side of the hotel with its snappy striped awning rolled up for evenings, revealing lovely strings of lights woven and stretching across the canopy of vegetation overhead. Lizards darted in and out of the plants surrounding us and one of them who came around every day was missing the tip of its tail.

A bizarre looking caterpillar appeared one morning as well, slowly motoring along a table top where we sat for coffee. An animal lover and learner, Hannah kept saying it might be poisonous, and a quick Google search revealed it was indeed. We had before us the puss caterpillar, a strangely beautiful creature born saddled with a horrible name. My search produced this: their wig-like hairs are actually spines that can cause intense pain, swelling, vomiting, and fever if touched, and with this, our fascination was over. Hannah held out a wooden stirrer for it to climb onto and then moved it far away into the vegetation where it leisurely dismounted and carried on.

It was during one last swim in the pool in the hours before check-out that we each admitted that we’d miss this place. I asked Anne and Hannah if at the end of a nice vacation they make little resolutions like I do, and they admitted they do. One such resolution, especially on the heels of that morning’s sunrise, was to get up earlier and notice the day when it’s its freshest and quietest. Another was to get outside and exercise more. Both ideas we carried with us as we boarded our plane for home, and even though the new season has barely begun, I think this sunny reset is firmly planted inside each of us. 

Covid-19, Family, Travel

Go!

We got out. Out of our house, out of the city, out of the jetway and onto a plane carrying weekend suitcases and Dopp kits with regulation-sized miniature minutiae. I brought the best clothes I had. No pressure visiting your fashion forward son and his similarly styled girlfriend. Nope, none at all. 

We did get out, but not without a little drama first. Walking toward our gate at Hartsfield-Jackson International, we heard this most peculiar and disturbing automated announcement: “Beep beep beep beep beep. Attention! An emergency has been reported in the building. Please stand by until this is verified.” I asked the gate attendant if she’d ever heard such a warning and, scanning my face for a shred of insight, she shook her head no. Those of us ready to board couldn’t get off the jetway fast enough, rats fleeing this sinking ship. We’d each won a golden ticket and proudly filed out, but not before glancing at the gate attendant who looked a little jealous we got to leave, a steady rhythm of emergency alerts still sounding in her world. I never did learn what happened. Maybe it was just someone bumping an alarm that went off? Or maybe it was that escaped prisoner I read about in transit from one prison to another, or that other guy on the loose? These loose ends, however, faded aboard the plane. 

lt’s been a few years now of dodging disasters and I’m glad I am quick to move – getting in to doctors and out of airports. Double masked as usual, this time I strapped on a disposable N95 mask, a prehistoric black beak with its vertical seam jutting out from my own nose. I’ve diapered the beak with a floral Old Navy cloth mask, softening my air travel presentation. 

Uneventful flight. The best kind. My brilliant sky miles mixologist/points purveyor husband got us free flights to JFK and hotels, translating to single night stays at two different hotels. Going to see the older son and check in. He’s a man now, but we are excited as a kid at Christmas to see him and step into his world. 

Walking the city, we found people out in droves – masked and moving getting their bodies out in the sun in the spring air and into restaurants and subways and street parks. It’s like nothing ever happened, except for the masks they now wear, and they’re enjoying amazing New York food just like before, except at tables separated with plexiglass dividers. We’re all starved for new experiences, delicious foods and movement and in this city on this day we’re lapping it up.

Waiting on Ben to arrive, we ordered drinks and calamari, and moments later, he walked up wearing the coolest pants he’d made himself – grey with black piping and a front exterior pocket within a larger pocket. The pant legs had a tapered hem and laced up the back. We ordered all kinds of deliciousness – pizza, seafood stew, spaghetti a la vongole – and caught up on his life, his sewing, job, and thoughts on school resuming in the fall – a slice of life in the city through his eyes. 

Saturday was full. Up to get going and close out our room (that freebie Joe finagled with points) and stowing our things with the concierge. Hopped a cab to Brooklyn (west Williamsburg) and got to Ben’s place, a converted warehouse – so interesting it’s got its own Wikipedia page:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McKibbin_Street_Lofts  Flooded with light and enormous, the living room held a baby grand piano a neighbor left behind, a ping pong table Ben scored at Target, plus two couches (one found) and two sewing desks, all this and still, with room to spare. There’s an open kitchen, generous bathroom and three bedrooms. Unlike his previous neighborhood, here you don’t see the skyline, nor do you pass shops and restaurants outside your door; it’s industrial with stark graffiti walled streets and the occasional overpriced and understocked bodega or café several blocks away. Here, grocery shopping happens in Manhattan – at Trader Joes or Target. It’s all a tradeoff. The endless hardwood floors and enormous windows and tall ceilings produce a refreshing volume that gives you room to think and move and breathe.

Next it was off to brunch via subway. I was wary at first – Covid concerns – but everyone was distanced, masked and quiet. Subway signs promoting mask wear went a step further with a good => better image of a masked person talking and a silent masked person, silent the better choice. Next stop, Williamsburg, a super quaint Brooklyn area dotted with shops and restaurants, where everyone wanted a part of this sunny day. Outside, three of us ordered eggs and Ben settled on chicken and waffles. Brunch brought good energy and conversation. 

The day went on and on in the best of ways. Time spent outside on the Whitney museum’s sunny patio and walking on the city streets were highlights. Staring off into the distance down at the city to terraces and rooftops, I spotted children frolicking on a rooftop playground with abandon (literally, parents nowhere in sight), a guy smoking a cigarette, pacing, Astroturf carpets sharing outside space with living plants. Walking through parks and markets and concerts and past street corner vendors, we stopped to buy mangoes and cucumbers from a woman peeling and cutting them from her rickety sidewalk table. Refreshing and perfect. It doesn’t always have to be hotdogs and bagels.

This day, Saturday, brought the best dinner, the best weather, the best moods for all of us. The best exercise too, covering ten miles on foot. After dinner we broke off from Ben and Valentina as they caught a subway home. It was then that I heard a most peculiar squeaking sound which I realized was from those illusive rats I’d never seen here but ones I’m always expecting. There were four or maybe more, two under one trash can and two under another. Scared of us, they popped in and out of holes, squealing and making quite the ruckus. They were young, so not the famed house cat-sized variety, but still, true New Yorkers. We tried to catch a cab after dinner – which was the best meal I’ve had in forever (slow cooked salmon over whipped potatoes, spring vegetables and basil vinaigrette, which I’m going to recreate) – but they were all full and their lights off, so instead we walked the 45+ minutes back to the hotel. With just a few blocks to go we saw cabs with their light on. Isn’t that always the way?

Up Sunday to a blanket of clouds but warmer temps. A cab to Brooklyn brought us back to Ben and Valentina’s – thanks to Joe who had to navigate for the older cab driver lacking both a reliable phone and solid sense of direction. There they had hot mugs of coffee ready for us, ping pong paddles set up for play, and their roommate’s precious dog rested and ready for a game of fetch. Lunch at Roberta’s, their favorite neighborhood pizzeria, wrapped up our time. We debated leftover pizza – do you prefer it hot or cold? – and they were delighted with that full meal and leftovers to come. 

Forty-eight hours of this, and I am delightfully sated, though now back home, that magical swirl has given way to regular life, but not without a little resistance on my part. I am reset and going to get out more, look around and infuse these days with sparkle. No grey day, pile of bills, uninspired meal or person can take this from you. Wherever you are, wherever you’ve been or are walking or running to, you have a well of curiosity and strength and sunny surprises inside you just waiting to be tapped. 

All this wondering when will we ever travel again, is it safe to go or should we just wait. It’s like riding a bike and reassuring to know you can still do it. This pandemic has weaved a frightening path of destruction, but it’s highlighted what matters, too. In the rush to return to normal, it’s important to decide which parts of your old normal are worth returning to. Less is more. Quality over quantity. Family matters. That’s it, folks.

Also I am relieved to find that Word does not recognize Covid during a spellcheck, a sign that surely, this nasty virus is leaving us soon and will not be joining the lexicon. 

Wishing us all happy adventures in the days ahead. xoxo