Travel – Hindsight

Belly Laughs & Brassieres

October 2, 2023April 16, 2026 Susan Greco

They say less is more. That feeling of shedding things which no longer work for you, are broken, or are duplicates. These items are dead weight and likely never did spark joy, and they certainly don’t now. Pluck them from their spot on a table and magically the air flows freer. And your mind follows suit.

Just how many tchotchkes must a person amass in a lifetime? Is it to fill a blank tabletop, like a voice fills a silence, or maybe certain objects tug at one’s heartstrings scoring an invitation to live their lives out in our homes? Or could it be there’s a sale and getting a deal clouds our decision making?

This issue with stuff is not mine alone. It’s all of ours, and the people we share spaces with bring their baggage to the table, some acquiring more bags when already there are plenty, and some rarely pronouncing a bag primed for dismissal when it’s clearly time. Once added to the fold, these belongings sit, occasionally getting dusted and moved around, but mostly, they block the flow and if large enough, the view too.

One bizarre knickknack appeared months ago in my friend Connie’s beach condo which she and her husband co-own with another person. It’s one of dozens of things that have ended up in the place over the years, a growing collection of stuff the other owner can’t resist, many such items in disrepair and no longer useable. There are even notes he’s posted instructing that all condiments (outdated or not) stay put, despite them cluttering refrigerator shelves and leaving a shabby impression for incoming renters.

It’s become clear to Connie that the revolving door letting things in must be malfunctioning because once inside, the way out is blocked. It’s one thing to hang on to the occasional appliance that no longer works, tucking it away in a cabinet in hopes someone will get around to fixing it. It’s another to stow four of them–blenders in this case–each with various essential parts missing, and none adding up to a whole, especially when a perfectly fine blender sits on the bar in plain view ready for use. It begs the question, why haven’t these items yet been escorted into recycling heaven? To their credit, the orphaned blender components are at least hidden behind a lower cabinet door, but that was not the case for one such gaudy item the other owner, on a visit down, left front and center on a living room table.

Not typically a complainer, Connie, however, several times pointed out this silver sparkly mass to us as if to make sure we realized its addition to the décor wasn’t her doing, but also to communicate her disdain for its existence, which she found brutally detracting from her sacred happy place–and perhaps her guests’ too. Having too much stuff can even be dangerous as Connie found out. She nearly cut herself because a broken glass platter had been shoved between two pillows on the top shelf in the Owner’s closet and she’d placed her hand directly on the cut piece when she went to pull it out.

We all see things differently, but the litmus test seems to be if you move or remove an item and it is never again noticed or needed, as has been the case for several things that found their way into the condo before and have fallen apart and been removed since, perhaps it belongs with someone else, somewhere else, including the trash, particularly if it sparks not joy but despair. That at least was our thinking.

On further inspection it became clear that this object, whose bizarre form took inspiration from sea coral and organ pipes and appeared liberally cloaked in Reynold’s Wrap, was mass produced, and by all accounts, just plain ugly. It didn’t require an intervention to convince Connie it needed to go, but since she didn’t bring it into the space, it technically wasn’t hers—same for the broken blenders and strange and useless knickknacks—so there was naturally a hesitancy to act. Although we were merely guests, after a few trips to this pretty beachfront condo we’d become equally invested in protecting the calm this place brought. After enough banter about the thing over the course of several days and in the spirit of friends helping friends lighten their load, the four of us developed a plan.

We couldn’t just trash it although it would certainly be a convenient route to take, but that would be wasteful as well as deliberately inconsiderate. Instead, regifting it was its way out and ours too. But who or where would be the deserving recipient? Adjacent to the condo is the Flora-Bama, a mainstay of the area which opened in 1964, and describes itself as a down-home waterfront bar/grill which offers oysters, pub grub & live music every day. So close is the Flora-Bama to the state line that you can step four inches out of its west door in Florida and find yourself in Alabama. It has a gritty vibe, welcoming bikers and beach babes alike, and offers that certain je ne sais quoi unique to dark Floridian watering holes.

Celebrated musicians have played there including Kenny Chesney as well as the late Jimmy Buffet, who once dropped by to sit in with the house band and tore up the place with his music, triggering a noticeable growth in the lounge’s hanging underwear. Also famous are the Flora-Bama’s Bushwackers, a frozen alcoholic drink made with Kahlua, rum, creme de cacao, and cream of coconut, which was first invented in 1975 in St. Thomas, USVI, but has since become popular in Florida.

On our visits down to Connie’s, we’ve always enjoying taking in the Flora-Bama, either walking to it from the beach for a Bushwacker, or for a $5 cover charge experiencing an evening there of live music and people watching, and of course another Bushwacker made extra special with a light rum floater on top. It was a no brainer that this item belonged there, but how would we do it? They card you at the door, rifle through your bags for rifles and other such crazy things some folks consider toting and thankfully and thoughtfully they screen your entry. But would the silvery blob make it through Flora-Bama security? Could it be that we were meeting a friend for her birthday and bringing this along as her gift? A little tissue paper and a gift bag and voila, the gift and celebration were born!

Connie joked with the security man at the door, who looked through her purse and peered into the bag, that she hoped the gift didn’t look like a brain. “Indeed it does,” he remarked with a smirk, but nonetheless with our wrists now stamped we were ushered in, the giftbag too. The place is dark inside with different levels of bars and stages and has the whimsy and noise of Atlanta’s now closed Masquerade, but offers its own unique clientele and folksy Floridian grit.

We found a corner table in a small bar where a trio sang country folk covers. Our server immediately noticed the gift bag, its bulbous silveriness peering through the tissue, which we would later unveil at our pretend gifting celebration. Unwrapped, it gleamed in this dark bar and when the server returned, it was clear an explanation was in order. “It’s her birthday!” we chimed in, pointing not to a single woman, but wildly unpracticed, pointing to each other and, laughing hysterically, clearly unable to correctly identify the birthday girl. The four of us smiled like a Cheshire cat, each with a mouse tail dangling from its mouth.

Not sure if she coveted it for her own coffee table or else couldn’t believe someone’s extraordinarily awful taste, but she fixated on it each time with a frightened uneasiness as if it might move, as she looped back periodically to check on us. We felt an unspoken lightness come over us with this silvery creation now out of the condo, out of the bag, and out into the night to acclimate to its new environs. In the distance, bras hung from rafters and coat hooks or from any old place you could get a bra to hang, and on each were messages written in Sharpie ink. It’s unclear exactly how or when this tradition started, but the sheer volume of bras was impressive. These foundations aren’t just bar art, and I’ve since read that “bra slinging” fundraiser events at the Flora-Bama have raised money for groups supporting breast cancer research and other causes. Curious, I wanted in.

It had been several months that I’d been on a hunt for a comfortable strapless bra that would fit and appear effortless, a tall order, like the bra itself, which I still hadn’t filled. The one I wore this evening, the only one I owned, was over a decade old, and I didn’t much like it. To its credit it was a likable neutral nude color, and it usually didn’t show, even under my barest halter tops. However, its underwire cut into my ribs every damn time leaving my skin with grooved indentions, and the padded cups were ill fitting and gapped and formed indentions in their center.

Like all alcohol, the Bushwackers were a diuretic, so I made my way past the bar and the band to the ladies’ room. Inside the stall I pulled off the whalebone undergarment and placed it rolled up inside the pocket of my dress. Returning toward our table and passing the bar, I asked to borrow a Sharpie, but they suggested I could purchase one in their gift store downstairs. With the cover charge and two Bushwackers I’d already invested, I had little interest in purchasing a pen. Besides, I had a ballpoint in my purse and a bra in my pocket, so I was all set for this little craft project.

As if huddled for a yearbook signing, we girls took turns with the bra, passing it and the pen around, covering our work from each other and our server as we scribbled silliness across the cups and strap. Elsie got first dibs and assigned the cups an asymmetry, scrawling “B” on one and “C” on the other. I gave the garment a succinct biting parting shot with “Fuck” on one cup, “U” on the center strip, and “Cancer” on the other cup, and softened the harshness with an “xoxo Susan” before passing it to the next girl who thoughtfully scrawled her own message. When we were satisfied with our work, I modeled our creation, and a clicking of IPhones captured the moment before we fastened it around the sculpture—a perfect fit!

Once we’d settled our bill and were walking toward the door, our server stopped me and motioned to our table. “You left your sculpture,” she noted, to which I remarked, “It’s okay. I’m good.” There was nothing left to say, and I walked off risking the urge to turn around and take in her expression. I hope on my next trip down I will find this strapless wonder proudly hanging among the others, and I hope the sculpture sparks joy for whomever decides to adopt it, the Flora-Bama or otherwise.

I know I feel lighter, and I imagine Connie does too. And for you ladies listening, I want you to feel lighter too not only this month, October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness month, but each month going forward. So take off your bras and check your breasts because cancer lurks in one out of seven of us, whether you live in Flora, Bama, or anywhere else. If you can feel it, you can find it, and that means you can fight it. Knowledge is power. Take yours. Love you.

Inspiration, Travel

Unexpected Reflection

August 27, 2023April 18, 2026 Susan Greco

On Friday I was on a plane heading home and deciding how to fill the time when I noticed a Brittany Spaniel service dog, Bella, in the row ahead of me. Her owner told me they were returning home to Atlanta after months of being away, and it was clear Bella was a seasoned traveller. As we all got settled in, I decided to watch The Whale, which I found in the critically acclaimed films category Delta offers. The main character, Charlie, gives up on himself and ends up obese and alone, and the film is shot entirely from his apartment with a handful of characters coming and going. The movie has received its share of criticism—narrowly depicting the grossness of obesity, unlikable characters, and so on—but I find this single room filmmaking interesting much like I found My Dinner with Andre. The two movies couldn’t be more different, but this cinematic style works when you’ve got a smart script and exceptional performers in the room.

There were stories within this story, and I was taken aback by its triggering effect, and after the credits scrolled off the screen, I was left choked up and teary. What was it? Isolation, loneliness, being different, tasting love and then losing it, the memories that haunt us from sweeter times, or estrangement and painful family relationships? It then dawned on me that seeing Charlie’s struggle to breathe and with tubes in his nose flooded me back to my mother’s battle with emphysema. At the end, she was on oxygen 24/7, and I still wince seeing photos from those days with her breathing paraphernalia so in focus. Most days she sat on her couch at an angle with her elbows resting on her knees to take in what precious little air she could. Her medication left her a swollen blown-up version of herself, and her long, beautiful legs developed permanent elbow-sized divots above each knee. I always thought things would get better despite her deteriorating health unfolding before me.

It was in December a month before she died that I took her to the Fox Theater to see the Nutcracker. Her breathing was now regularly labored, but I thought a little Christmas cheer might bounce her out of this slump, or at least table it for a few hours. She looked festive when I picked her up and we made our way south down Peachtree Street. As I pushed her wheelchair down the theater’s incline, groups of people making their way to their own seats parted ways, opening our path. Here, my mom appeared less like my mom and more like some hunched over woman on oxygen I’d begun wheeling into the theater. She graciously smiled away this worst kind of attention, occasionally interjecting that she can walk but this is more convenient, which wasn’t a lie.

It seemed as if the incline’s momentum grew exponentially, and my slight frame strained to grip the resolute runaway wheelchair. I never wanted her to see me struggle on her account, so I locked eyes with an usher who kindly stepped in to get us to our spot and the chair into park. I was enormously proud of our efforts to even be here and for our festive girls’ night out, but my mother’s self-consciousness was real. Perhaps sitting higher up in the aisle separate from those in the rows below, each unaware of their glorious bottomless breath, she thought about earlier times here with her husband on her arm at Christmastime. Here now did not align with where she imagined she’d ever be, yet for me she’d always be the creative, spirited woman who squeezed the most out of each day, all the while talking up a storm but with breath to spare.

The Nutcracker performance was predictably good, but I was distracted, forcing a smile when she’d look my way, and focusing on the logistics we faced leaving the theater. I noticed there were side exits, and after the show we negotiated our way outside where an attendant stayed with her while I got the car. Among other things, her illness brought incontinence, and these hours with no bathroom break left the car seat underneath her damp. I doubt she even knew, and I didn’t dare mention it, and honestly, to hell with the seats in this convertible I bought with my inheritance from my father’s passing. In a matter of weeks she would become the second parent I’d lose in a span of two years when I was all of 31.

The film’s central character confined to his home with his best years behind him, brought memories of my mom’s last years living in her apartment. Her decorating flair accompanied her everywhere she went, in health and in sickness, and though the apartment complex seemed a bit dowdy to me, she made her space warm and elegant like she did all her homes. It was the right price and in the perfect location, but there was one detail she decided to overlook. The lease stipulated no pets, yet her gorgeous orange tabby, Izzy (short for Isadore), was coming with. Full stop. The work around proved more work keeping Izzy away from the windows and sequestering him when management occasionally knocked, and in time, Izzy grew bored and craved an outside view. And so my mom began to give him one. Eventually either it was a resident who snitched or an apartment staffer who discovered him, but in any event, Izzy had to go. Amid her declining health, witnessing my mother’s lonely longing for Izzy and defeated tears brought me to my knees.

At the end of our lives what is it we most want? Is it to know we were loved, made a difference, felt supported by our body which remained strong, or is it possibly simpler? Maybe it’s nothing more than to have a creature to love and live with and hold close. The Whale dove into deep waters of sadness and longing and life’s meaning and cravings, but it also hovered near sunnier themes of strength, connection, and triumph.

I had simply wanted to while away a few hours and get lost in a movie, but I got much more. With perfect timing and a nose for just what I needed, Bella came by twice for kisses. And then we touched down.

Travel

Roots & Vines

July 4, 2023April 18, 2026 Susan Greco

I was in it for the little visits in the front room, rocking in the chairs on the porch, swirling my spoon in a bowl of local clam chowder and noticing how fresh clams aren’t uniformly shaped like the canned ones I use. Each turn of the spoon churned up bits of skin pulled away from potato—or is that a clam or bit of bacon?— all of it luscious, velvety goodness.

I envisioned cool mornings at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee on and banter about how we slept, plans for the day, or nothing at all, which was everything. I had hoped to get a lobster roll, the warm kind on a crispy buttered bun, full of meat drizzled with butter. The days didn’t disappoint.

I didn’t expect someone would bring a frisbee and there would be the ideal side yard for tossing it. Or how much I’d delight in my son’s familiar energy—which always reminds me of my own—and repeated invitations to throw it, and how wonderful it would feel to toss a frisbee together in a quaint little side yard of a weathered shingle cottage in a coastal Massachusetts town.

I didn’t expect the layers this big life brings to peel away so quickly and usher in a simplicity I’ve been craving, one I think I must have given up on, or relegated as being from a time long ago. It’s not the lobster roll that I will most remember and crave again, but the little moments that added up. I allowed myself to wander more and move in the direction of things I enjoy. I was back to being that little girl who loves walking ahead in an airport to the luggage conveyor belt to see if she can be the first to spot everyone’s bags.

The one who would have the chance to follow a sign for fresh eggs, walking on foot one afternoon and meeting the egg purveyor himself, who presented a dozen eggs collected that morning, plus a tour of his backyard, refurbished coop, outdoor shower, and deck. People take pride in their homes. As well they should. That person who is filled up by farm stands, as if seeing them for the first time, bursting with gorgeous vegetables neatly stacked, homemade pies, breads, and flowers scattered around. But wait, do those heirloom tomatoes have a grown in Canada sticker on them? No matter, their beauty travels and looks and tastes divine here, and besides, I’m all in.

Getting away demands that the noise of the city and the rooms in your house and in your head, the ones that yank your attention this way and that, take a break and make space for whatever pops up or nothing at all. This place and its cool temps were ripe for coffee in a warm robe and fuzzy socks. Always pack your robe.

I didn’t expect the intermittent toothache I brought with me some 918 miles as the crow flies to ramp up and bring a suffering so intense that my memories of natural childbirth would seem like the cake walk it most assuredly wasn’t. Warm coffee and chowder consistently set the tooth off, awakening it from the many-Advil-a-day slumber I’d worked so hard to achieve. I was left instinctively cupping my right cheek, as if turning my palm into some form of dental brassiere would cradle the pulsing tooth and lessen the pain. It did zero. Weeks earlier, I’d seen both an endodontist and ENT, and neither could definitively diagnose me with a sinus or tooth problem, but the ENT at least sent me off with an Augmentin script in case of infection.

On the plane, the tooth reared its ugly head, leaving me in a puddle of tears, a real spectacle. There is no crying in airplanes, but the pain had nowhere to go except out my eyes, and so I let it. A flight attendant and woman in the row in front of me offered mothering eyes which said, oh how I wish I could help you, you poor dear, but they had to ride it out just like I did. I didn’t want them to also carry this slice of hell and assured them the Advil should kick in soon.

The front door of the weathered shingle cottage opened into the living room, and a screened door brought in early June breezes and sounds of people walking by and cars passing. The adjacent sitting room had a small TV mounted up high in the corner (fortunately perched bottom of mind as we have visiting to do, not shows to watch) and a space heater we could wheel between these rooms. The yard was simple—a few chairs and a table, fire pit, outdoor shower, and picnic table. The bird bath was popular and we were delighted it had occurred to someone to fill it. If this long joyful bath time was any indication, Martha’s Vineyard birds might be better bathers.

A few blocks from our cottage was The Crossroads Gallery. Owned by Michael Blanchard, former CEO-turned addict-turned photographer-and writer, the gallery displays Blanchard’s stunning photos he’s taken around Martha’s Vineyard and sells copies of the two books he’s written. We were greeted by resident labradoodle Brodie and soon after, around the corner appeared Michael. The space was welcoming and warm like Michael’s smile. With his dog Brodie and cat Rocket Man, Michael now calls the Vineyard home, but life hasn’t always been this storybook existence. Michael’s past struggles with addiction took a toll on his work, family, and livelihood, and he doesn’t mind talking about it. We talked about how life brings many of us challenges that change us but connect us with one another too. Talking with Michael was like chatting with a good friend, and he exuded a comfortable familiarity free of judgement or fear. I talked of my own health challenges and another person mentioned a difficult time they’d also experienced. Also, we loved his photos and bought three.

His book, Through A Sober Lens, artfully captures scenes and insights from his experiences, and three quotes in particular spoke to me:

“A shared human experience may be the only point.”

(Amen and what I am increasingly finding feeds me the most.)

On speaking of his addiction, “The only way to stop is to starve it.”

(Think of all the ills we feed knowingly or not, and how putting the brakes on their fuel is how we not only survive but thrive.)

“Above all else, don’t die with your music still in you.”

(Please, no! This may be the greatest injustice any of us could face.)

Over the course of our five days, we saw sailboats and ferries, rabbits and wild turkeys, and of course, plenty of The Black Dog swag. The cliffs and beaches and lighthouses and window boxes and pickets and farms were bursting with charm, and my ailing tooth danced in and out of pain through all of it. I never knew what it would bring—sometimes the heartbeat and heavy pulsing ache, and other times it was as if someone with a serrated knife had made little slits all around the tooth’s gumline and squirted lemon juice (or was that battery acid?) in the cuts. At times, both things happened at once, and then my hand rose to cup my cheek and I went radio silent. My silence a rarity, it became clear when I was mid-flareup, so people knew to just leave me alone.

A few more bowls of chowder later and I was back on a Delta flight. “Ladies and gentleman we’ll be saying goodbye to you at echo 31. E as in echo.” Nothing to watch on TV, but I’d brought books, two I’d been trying to finish for months. It was dark in the cabin, so I lifted my window shade to find an explosion of color stretched out before me on the horizon. It was a show I’d nearly missed, like one of those beach sunrises you give up on and walk away from, but when you turn around to look just in case, you are stunned in the best of ways. So much is not reliable, but nature? She just goes right on doing her thing.

Maybe I should have brought home some big takeaways, but instead I’ve got little ones:

Find some stillness. Listen for the quiet. Go to more farmstands and eat a huge salad every day. Take lots of pictures and buy some photos from a small gallery owner if you can. Keep calling your doctor if they don’t call you back, and if your tooth feels as I’ve described, schedule yourself some relief. The root canal happened the day after I got back, and the pain is now gone.

One last takeaway: if you find yourself at dinner overlooking the water, look up because something spectacular might be sailing by. Happy 4^th !

appetite, Food, Taste the Season, Travel

On Holiday

August 4, 2022April 18, 2026 Susan Greco

I plunge into deep observation mode when I find myself visiting a different culture and country, noticing it all–how people move, what they wear, eat, buy, and say (though often the language is lost on me but for little bits I know). You can learn a lot through body language, intonations and hand gestures. The magic is watching them savor foods, friends and the festivities wrapped up in the two. I sometimes feel as if I’ve walked onto a movie set or in on a game of jump rope, the outside observer waiting her turn to join in. Drinking the coffee in cafes, nibbling on a sliced baguette and watching a city strut by reminds me how much I want to extract that strain of community and mindfulness, practice it over and over and then take it home with me to live. I want the rich dreams too that I’ve had on this vacation, thick with activity and layers and real as can be, but which fade the second I wake.

Often when you vacation, there are the obvious things you don’t want to miss–historic sites, parks, beaches, museums, etc.–but sometimes what you most vividly remember are the small things that gave you a flavorful sliver of a place. These are some of those bits from recent travels to the Netherlands, Belgium, the UK, and France. Adventures are best when you share them, so thanks for coming along.

Halfway to the Atlanta airport our Lyft driver proudly brought up his no vaccine and no Covid status, crediting his good fortune to Jujutsu and eating right for his blood type, and it was in that moment, preserving my own no Covid status, that I slid my mask back on.

Come to think of it, I’ll have a Heineken.

AMSTERDAM: Our Amsterdam hotel had a big breakfast buffet including “cloudy apple” juice, the opaque kind with murky apple goodness settling on the bottom. The Anne Frank house tickets were sold out, but there were cafes at which to enjoy a Heineken. When the smiling server asked if we were American, I sarcastically remarked, “Please don’t hold it against us,” adding that we didn’t vote for the last guy, and he laughed. I can feel myself trying a little too hard to not land myself in the ugly American category, those travelers who get annoyed when there are no English menus and other conveniences that they believe they deserve. I further joked, “Please don’t spit in my beer,” and he said he would, his friendly smirk telling me otherwise. You could sense a slight upper hand and pity in his How’s it working out for you all? I’m sorry for you sentiment in the air especially given all the mess the US is juggling these days. Or maybe it was my imagination.

Not even a block from our hotel entrance was a small Red Light district with a succession of a half dozen or so windows of caged women on display in compromising positions and sexy underwear. Like a tantalizing Macy’s storefront with lots to consider, but here it’s simply sex they’re selling. I almost wished I could pay one of them for her time and in lieu of sex I’d rescue her with a “Let’s get you dressed and out of here” take charge encouragement, go for a coffee and have a not red, but green lightbulb drop revealing an easier path toward making a living. “On the practical side, prostitution in the Netherlands has been legalized since 2000. Also, prostitution is considered as a regular job. Sex workers have the same rights, protections and obligations as any worker in the Netherlands. Since 2011, they even pay taxes on their earnings.” See full article here: https://dutchreview.com/featured/prostitution-in-the-netherlands-what-is-really-happening-here/

GHENT: We arrived early evening at our modern hotel in the middle of old Ghent. As it turned out, our stay coincided with The Ghent Festivities, an enormous festival (https://visit.gent.be/en/calendar/ghent-festivities) attracting two million visitors to the city. From our hotel restaurant window table perch we caught a glimpse of the gigantic and growing party outside, surely a Covid super spreader event, but great music and revenue for a city elated and proud to welcome after the two-year break Covid brought. We meandered outside after dinner on the edges and soaked in great music and the happy vibe.

This sweet couple in back smiled throughout the meal

When in Belgium, you ought to have yourself a waffle. I tried at our breakfast buffet, but they went too fast, but a chocolate croissant, oversized Bing cherries and coffee hit the spot. (I did later in Bruges get myself a waffle and it tasted similar to a cake ice cream cone, far less sweet and rich than the States’ version, but good with just a light dusting of powdered sugar). I noticed two elderly couples at their sunny window table–regulars I sensed from their familiar banter with the maître d’–who were thoroughly enjoying themselves, their joyful laughter on display and champagne bubbles rising up in their flutes gave this morning’s breakfast a special celebratory feel.

Checking out, we used our expiring drink vouchers for a post brunch champagne and beer over which the bartender, all of 18, told us about his family and education. In Belgian schools you choose a route of study around age 12 and that choice affects the classes you’ll take through high school. Good for churning out career ideas, but this structure sure boxes you in should you later want to move in another direction. As with several other European countries, healthcare and education are covered in your taxes, so it’s wonderful that everyone gets the same chances.

BRUGES: Our hotel in elegant Bruges was on a lively canal with popular tour boats loading up outside. Checking in on a Sunday meant few open restaurants for dinner, but our hotel found us one. The occasional horse drawn carriage clopped past our outside table where we feasted on beautiful homemade foods that a friendly husband/wife team churned out. Simple, attractive decor inside included sweet photos of their children on the wall. As with Ghent, Bruges is a stunning medieval city by night and charmer by day.

I would have gladly settled for a so so dinner so long as I could sit and listen to the sound of horses clopping by.

Presenting pea risotto and roast chicken

CAMBRIDGE: Arriving late to this bustling college town, we found downtown dinner places full so walked back to our hotel for dinner. A generous portion of pea risotto with roast chicken I ordered arrived piping hot and was divine, and the staff were attentive and friendly, almost uncomfortably so. Our waitress thanked us profusely as she went about tending to our every need, setting out additional forks and knives each time we used one. It was to such an extreme, I actually wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d knelt into a curtsy before us. All this fuss made me want to hop up and help clear the table as I’m unaccustomed to and uncomfortable with this level of royal treatment. I began thanking her as well, grouping plates for clearing which began to make her uncomfortable–surely not my intent. It turned into one big thank you fest, the politeness easing up by dessert when she became relaxed enough to realize it was okay for her to chat with us. She told us she was from Latvia but wasn’t sure if we’d heard of it and was delighted to learn Joe’s mother is also Latvian, a reminder of this small world we all share and how connected we actually are. A little walking around the next day around an enormous campus field with a Ferris wheel and we were on the road again.

STRATFORD: Stratford-Upon-Avon as it’s called here or Stratford-On-Avon as it’s referred to in the US is a lovely small village on the banks of the river Avon. Swans flutter by and theatrical playhouses dot the town, and you can almost imagine Shakespeare walking these very streets so many years ago (he was born here and died in 1616 at just 52). Surely with paper and pen in hand, he sat on these very riverbanks watching swans and churning out sonnets. We walked past his old schoolhouse and childhood home, which you could tour, but with less than 12 hours here, our stay was of the check in to hotel, wander around, find dinner and press on the next day variety.

Sorry to disappoint, but rumor has it that this magical place churned out only ho hum cafeteria fare

OXFORD: Oxford is another bustling college town which was bigger and busier than Cambridge and where we came to see our studying abroad son, Evan. Oxford and Cambridge are the Yale and Harvard of the UK, or is that the Harvard and Yale? I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to explain these rivalries, because I feel certain none of these places would have admitted me. Evan toured us around his dorm and academic building and dining hall, which appeared straight out of a Harry Potter novel. In fact, I’ve read the inspiration for Hogwarts’s dining hall came from nearby Oxford’s Christ Church College Great Hall.

Leaving hotels, we tend to empty our room of the soaps, coffees, creamers and biscuits, but unlike the Grinch we do stop ourselves short of the lightbulbs. In our defense, they all get used along the way and back home, the soaps find their way into shelters. For some reason on this last day, I took some extra Walker’s cookies (you know, the shortbread folks?) from the unattended housekeeping cart in the hall.

Driving past cows and farmland, with windows rolled down and music turned up is highly underrated.

With our England travels wrapping up, France was up next, and we drove toward Kent, UK moving through the backed-up queue for the Eurotunnel. Ever reminded from pavement signs on the road before us to keep apart the length of two chevrons, we began to notice evil looking thick red lined roads on our iPhone maps route ahead, which felt like one of those miserable contractions you see coming, but don’t yet feel. (I speak from experience having naturally birthed an 8 lb. 12 oz-er.) In England, and definitely France too, people don’t let you in in traffic, but when you open up space for them to cut in, they seem super grateful and pleasantly surprised.

Stoplights in England are interesting, too. You can be waiting at a red light (stop) and instead of the nothing before the light suddenly turns green (go) and you’re free to go, you may get a red and amber light (prepare to pull away) or flashing amber (give way to pedestrians; go if it’s safe to do so). It’s sort of a courteous, “Here’s a little preview of what’s to come, you’re out of the red do-nothing zone and your light is about to turn green. We just thought you’d want to know.”

The most gorgeous of days… spent in the car?

The extraordinary traffic pile up and 9+ hour wait in the car to inch along the less than two miles to the Eurotunnel was quite a thing to behold and be in. We’d prepaid these Eurotunnel tickets and now caught up in the line, it wasn’t an option for us to simply turn around and hope the ferry fifteen miles away in Dover could accommodate us. And so we sat in the standstill, unable to properly enjoy the spectacularly gorgeous day and scenery outside. Rumor was the cause was Brexit or workers on strike, but the net effect was a traffic pileup of a magnitude we’d never seen, and one that was all over the news in the UK. As our dwindling luck would have it, we’d skipped breakfast knowing we’d grab something later, but there was never a “later,” except those cookies from the housekeeping cart. Several hours in, I had to pee so badly so I found some trees to duck under and go behind. A lady was walking her dog by these same trees and I hoped she’d sense my urgency and get her dog to take his/her crap by the side of the road instead giving me a little privacy. Surely the dog wasn’t self-conscious like me? However, I waited it out for my turn. Out of the woods now, I jogged to catch up to our car which had advanced ahead by ten or so cars.

Hours later, having consumed more water (thank god we brought along three enormous full water bottles) but without the benefit of trees to go behind, we had to get creative. Weren’t those nail clippers we brought in our luggage in the trunk? These clippers would begin the tear into the plastic water bottle I needed to carve out a W/C. I ripped the rest by hand, freeing the torn top from the base.

Nearing the end of the 4:30pm-2am nuisance

It’s not so easy, this dropping your self-consciousness and jeans in the backseat while people, bored from hours of sitting in their cars, walk by yours with dogs and strollers, as headlights and streetlamps illuminate the 8-lane queue we find ourselves in as midnight approaches. Somehow, I perfectly aligned with the jaggedy edged bottle opening and got my relief, then dressed and walked across four lanes, cradling the sawed-off bottle in my sweater, before emptying its contents onto the grass. The day improved considerably after this and also since Joe soon after successfully got a bag of chips and a Twix to release from a nearby vending machine, salty sticky empty calories we inhaled in seconds.

Speaking of calories, the colonel seems to pop up everywhere in Europe, particularly where we were in the Netherlands, Belgium and the UK. I read Dutchies, as they are called, in particular enjoy their fried food and it seems, their KFC. In Paris, it was an especially sad sight to pass a homeless man and his dog with a large chicken-less KFC bucket at their feet accepting coins.

PARIS: The couple of Old Navy and H&M fast fashions I bought for the trip rolled up small and served me reasonably well in this, the city of the well-dressed. On Parisian women, fluttery tops skimmed wide leg trousers worn over Chuck Taylors or generic white tennis shoes, and expensive short-strapped leather handbags completed their look. Slim brown flat strappy sandals were everywhere and worn with pencil skirts and mid drift tops in this, the land of the tiny waist. I never once saw any of these women eating a pastry. Older women well into their 80s also looked sharp, with their tanned bony knees on display below the hem of their mini-skirts and modern stylish frames on their faces. Surprisingly, cigarettes in Paris are still all the rage especially between young women’s pale pinkish nude polished fingers. French men glide along, tieless, in form fitting suits and leather dress shoes with slim toe boxes. Ten euros cash will get you a cute blouse on the streets in Paris, but it won’t get you that blouse if you want to pay with a card or try it on– you’ve got to spend fifteen for that.

Our Paris hotel’s lit makeup mirror extended off the wall, the rectangular illuminated magnifier it seems I’ve been waiting for. This common hotel convenience I took particular notice of as if seeing one for the first time. For years I’ve stretched my torso over a sink at home and occasionaly at hotels too to apply unsharpened eye liner in poor light, but for a few mornings in Paris I invested the ten minutes with newfound precision. Enlisting the usual players in my makeup bag, I took great care to paint the canvas, with nothing but time to get it right. There’s always the someday idea that when everything is done, every dust bunny swept up, clapboard painted, and any and all decluttering complete that once and for all, I will enjoy some of these conveniences. What am I waiting for?

Found this online and find it absolutely true.

On our last full day in Paris we walked 22,000 steps (or 9.7 miles) up and down stairs, across tree lined boulevards, past cafes with people enjoying a simple cup of coffee or glass of wine at day’s end as they watched the city walk, bike and drive by. Every time I move this much, I’m impressed I’m permanently attached to legs that can get me this far and thrilled with the magic eraser effects all that movement brings, shifting my mind into neutral with little time for annoyances and disappointments, self-criticism or boredom.

That same morning, I had a croissant from a Paris boulangerie, my first on this trip. On afternoon walks I’d passed windows with cases of croissant and other glorious gluten, but by then, the bees had begun noticing them too and were hovering. I’d determined I’d hold out for a morning one, freshly made and for when I was hungry and could focus completely on it alone. This particular croissant I bought looked tasty enough and I began of course at one of the pointy twisted ends. Instead of shattered flakes releasing from layers and raining down onto the wax paper sleeve or even worse, the pavement below, with each bite, this roll held firm. It had the soft layered pillow texture of a popover, but without dark crisp edges or hollowed out insides. Bite after bite, the magnificence was simply butter soft but stable, holding its shape until the very end. Each morsel quietly melted in my mouth–rich, flavorful and lovely–and true to true Parisian croissant form, it left no butter residue on my fingers. Pausing after that last bite to process the loveliness I’d just devoured, I knew I’d never duplicate that particular moment, standing on the sidewalk, cars rushing by and me, tasting a simple croissant and changing my life with each bite.

We passed a “Periph Fluide” sign on the road to the airport as we motored along pre-sunrise at zero dark hundred. A fluid periphery (similar to the UK’s term, “Ring Road,” a city’s perimeter roadway) is a lovely thing especially when you are up at that magic sunrise hour and hoping to reach the airport in plenty of time. In France, the street signs look similar yet slightly different. For instance the speed limit sign, in lieu of being rectangular with the words “Speed Limit” floating above the numeral and both inside the sign, France’s are a red ringed circle surrounding the numeral, and there’s a second sign below it, somewhat of an afterthought, “Rappel,” French for reminder, which comes across as a gentler, “Excuse me, but we’re just suggesting this as a speed limit, a little reminder for you to consider as you move along” friendly little nudge.

In flight back to Atlanta, I was abruptly awakened by a Delta flight attendant’s announcement which began: Ladies and Gentlemen, I have bad news. The announcement it turned out was about an IT glitch, which resulted in no screens, no TV, no flight tracker, nada, and no seat adjustments either. Even though the verbiage bad news brought with it an initial jolt, I rather liked no tv, not knowing the progress, and instead experiencing other ways to fill the time and adopting the blind trust that we’re moving in the right direction. I’ll take practically any disappointment or inconvenience over a nose dive into our collective ruin, which still groggy from sleep I only assumed that “bad news “announcement would detail.

The Delta jet bathroom sign stated: “A wipe of the counter goes a long way for the next guest. Thanks for keeping the counter area clean and dry.” Of course, I had to now wipe the counter and by the looks of things when I walked in, the previous passenger had done the same. My mother had the same idea years ago during her girls’ bath time when she’d consistently provide my sister and me with little sponges and a can of Ajax to wipe away the tub ring when we were done. Brilliant! Imagine if these little signs were posted everywhere pushing us along to each and collectively clean up and be better for it. They’d go a long way.

Obviously, I don’t live in Europe nor do I have hours to while away at a cafe table, but neither do the people living there. Yet when they share a table with someone, it seems they do that and only that. Electronics don’t join them or newspapers either; it’s just the cup, the company and street for entertainment. Like us all, they have their own frustrations and bad days, but then the simple sweetness of a summer day returns.

Coming out of this trip where good quality coffee is poured into small cups with saucers to be enjoyed now versus reheated throughout the morning, I hope to rethink my oversized mug stirred with healthier “milk” slurped hastily as tv news drones in the background. Here, back home in this country even with all its many challenges, there are tables to sit at and silence to listen to.

The Delta croissant wasn’t even close to that other one, which in my mind I can still taste, so it only took one bite for me to decide to leave it on the plate. I did, however, keep the mini Bonne Maman Fraises preserves that came with it, mostly for that iconic sweet miniature red and white checked lid. Maybe it will sit on the kitchen counter for a few days and I’ll pass by it and remember, or it’ll join the other jams in the cupboard. Or maybe I’ll break its seal and spread it over some crusty bread and make myself a moment.

Sweet summer moment: darling girl in her bright red shoes running ahead of her mother, who’s carrying flowers

Fur babies, Kitten, Lost pet, pets, Travel

Eat, Play, Love

May 18, 2022April 16, 2026 Susan Greco

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.