@ Home in the World

Not Quite April in Paris*

At the age of thirty-seven she realized she'd never ride
through Parisin a sports car with the warm wind in her hair…

In my early 30s, I heard The Ballad of Lucy Jordan on the radio. It is a song about realizing that your life is a lot less than you expected. I had never heard it before and I haven’t heard it since, but I scribbled those two lines on a sticky note and buried them in a pocket of my planner.

At the time I was working for a foreign language publisher. My colleagues were smart, creative people, but were forever beginning their sentences with “When I lived in Paris," “When I was studying in Barcelona..." “On my trip to Portugal..." I had studied French a total of ten years from Kindergarten through college, but never had the opportunity to do the semester abroad like so many of my colleagues. My sense of accomplishment has always been tied up in the places I’ve been and by carrying those lyrics with me, I was saying “Please don’t let that be me.”

In truth, I was making progress in my career, I learned much from the publishing job; traveled to different states, met authors and teachers from many cultures, sampled different ethnic cuisine and a lot of fine wine, found focus. I started work on a Masters degree. My husband and I bought a house, traveled to Alaska and Hawaii, and began the debate over children and adoption.

Some years later, while planning our first adoption trip to Russia,the travel agent, who had worked with adopting families before, suggested an itinerary that involved a twenty-three hour layover in Paris. “I’ll find a nice little hotel, you can have dinner in Paris. A lot of couples do it. It is like a mini-vacation before the baby comes home.”

After the harrowing experience that was our first trip to Russia, I was thankful for this small retreat in a city I had read and learned about all my life. As the taxi zipped us from the airport to the heart of Paris, the stress left my shoulders, my smile returned.

Our hotel was blocks from the Louvre. We had dinner at a small sidewalk café, then walked for hours in the neighborhood, getting a glimpse of La Tour Eiffel from a distance, getting a little lost, getting acquainted with Paris. Then once again we crossed the courtyard of the Louvre, and returned to our hotel, exhausted but unable to sleep.

After breakfast we began with a stroll in the Tuileries. It was late March, not quite April in Paris, but warm with the trees sprouting tiny leaves. A student approached us, looking for the Metro. “Je suis Americaine,” I started to apologize, momentarily flattered to be mistaken for a French woman. But then I spotted a Metro station out of the corner of my eye and was able to help him after all.

We dashed from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc de Triomphe, walked along the Seine and got as close to Notre Dame as time allowed. We didn’t actually go into anything, with only hours between breakfast and our departure, it was literally a whirlwind tour.

But however brief, the time spent in Paris was an extraordinary gift. A world I had known only through books or a movie screen came to life before my eyes. It was truly magical. Getting there once somehow meant that I could always come back.

My husband said he had rarely seen me happier. I was thirty-six.

 

*Originally published at TopBlogMag, now Blog Nosh Magazine

My Fridays fall apart

It’s 10:30 at night and I just sent the project I promised to finish today off to the stakeholders. I had planned on finishing way earlier than this, but as so often happens, my Friday fell apart.

 

I spent part of the morning preparing for a telephone call that never happened. The guy I’m dealing with is out in California and has a crazy-busy job, so I was sort of expecting him to cancel, but not to just forget.

 

When it came time to pick up the kids at school, I was nowhere near as far along as I had expected. It is not impossible to get work done after they come home from school, but it is not easy.

 

I bumped into a friend’s kids while at the school to pick up my own. The buses had left so I offered them a ride home knowing that their mom wasn’t home yet. One of the boys got his mom on the phone and that became a discussion of whether we could all meet and go out for pizza. Since I hadn’t had lunch, pizza sounded good to me, but I also knew I had this project waiting for me at home.

 

The boys decided that they wanted to stay and play on the playground rather than have pizza so, grateful that it was finally warm enough to hang out on the playground, that’s what we did. The older boys took Tigger into the woods with a bunch of other kids and discovered a “snapping turtle pond.” I think they were just kidding about the snapping turtle, but somehow Tigger managed to get wet up to his knees and tear a hole in the leg of his good pants.

 

Meanwhile Pumpkin found friends to play with. It never ceases to amaze me how he attracts other children.

 

While watching Pumpkin on the playground, I texted a question to another friend of mine. I expected a one-word answer in return, but instead I got a phone call. He was driving, he said, going away for the weekend, and couldn’t text back.

 

Going away for the weekend.

 

When we first moved up here from Newton, I was doing a drive commute instead of taking the train. Every Friday I would see a sign for 95N NH, MAINE and every Friday I would contemplate following that sign and not coming back. Maine in those days was my idea of heaven. The air was cleaner, the stress non-existent. Of course I never went.

 

Now I work at home on Fridays and while it is great that I am no longer part of the throngs of people on the road who are going away for the weekend, thus jamming the drive home commute even worse than usual, I am often frustrated that there is no clear line between when my work stops and the weekend begins. The kids were playing on the playground, my friend was going away, and I still had work to do.

 

Piper made dinner tonight. I came downstairs long enough to take a few bites, forego the beer we usually share on Friday nights and get back to work.

 

I finished at 10:30 at night.

 

My weekend has just begun.

Beware the Silver Foxes

 

Before we had kids and were therefore locked into the academic year schedule, our preferred time of year to take a vacation was late September. With most of the summer tourists returned to work and school, we didn’t face huge crowds that you often deal with at tourist destinations, but we found we were often the youngest people around by as much as 40 years.

 

For the most part, this wasn’t a problem. We weren’t huge socializers and were never really looking to meet people on vacation. Those times we did wind up speaking to others, we were certainly happy to listen to stories of those with a bit more life experience than we had.

 

On our summertime trip to Alaska, we noticed that there were two distinct groups on the Alaska Railroad - the elders, who were part of a tour and were travelling to meet a cruise ship, and the serious backcountry hikers, closer to our age and equipped with packs and sleeping bags, off to brave the bears at Denali. We didn’t exactly fit into either of those groups. We were staying in a cabin at our destination, and though we would be hiking, there would be no overnights in the woods, at least not on purpose.

 

At one point during our stay we encountered an older couple we decided we wanted to be when we grew up. They rose early in the morning and took in a full day’s hike with the proper equipment and supplies.  Their fitness and activity was impressive. We would be like that in 30 years we told ourselves. Pretty funny considering we weren’t much like that even back then.

 

When we were first married, and had little money to travel, I used to worry that the tour groups would be the only way I would get to see most of the rest of the world; elderly, cranky and not terribly mobile, shuffling around in a housedress and clutching my nitroglycerin pills. Never mind that we usually were travelling when I would say things like this.

 

See, in large groups, these elders could be overwhelming, and rude. After several encounters I named them the Silver Foxes after the bus tours. Never get between a Silver Fox and a souvenir T-shirt sale, trust me. You may get an elbow to the ribs.

 

Although not all of these people looked like they walked out a Far Side cartoon, their behavior might lead you to believe that they had.

 

Ugly American behavior is certainly not restricted to age, but my first notice of it ever, was a couple at a neighboring table in Canada where an older man with a distinct twang was complaining that his green salad was “too green.” He was, it turns out, expecting the wedge of iceberg lettuce, drowned in Thousand Island dressing and accompanied by a few slices of cucumber and some orange-looking cherry tomatoes.

 

Another time we found ourselves near some elders who took turns complaining about how awful their grandchildren were. That was a most depressing conversation, and we didn’t even have kids at the time.

 

Too many of my bad encounters involved bathrooms. There was that time on the ferry to Nova Scotia that I was waiting for an empty stall when maybe two dozen elderly women tried to cram themselves into the space where I was waiting. It was chaos, there was nowhere for all these women to stand let alone try to form an orderly line. Finally, a taller, Bea Arthur- type woman took charge. “Okay,” she said, looking directly at me, “everyone with a bladder problem goes to the head of the line.”  I left.

 

Later on the trip back, I was actually in the stall when there came a knock on the door. “Just a minute,” I called. Whoever was on the other side responded by pulling on the door to see if it would open. “Just a minute,” I called again. Another tug on the door. “There’s someone in here” I yelled. Another yank, and the door burst open, the force of the invader enough to loosen the latch.

 

“Hey!” I yelled, grabbing for my pants.

 

“Well,” the old woman said crossly, “you left the door unlocked!”

I ache. And yet, it’s good.

After wearing slogs on my feet for an entire winter, I wore real shoes and a skirt to work today. Slogs are my word for those half sneaker-half clog things made by Merrill and others that are like slippers you can wear in the snow. I can’t wear jeans to work, but I can wear those things. Not the most business-like attire, but comfortable.

 

By the end of the day, when it was time to walk back to my car, my pinky toes hurt so much I very nearly took my real shoes off and walked the 9 blocks to the parking lot in my stocking feet. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 

And yet, proper shoes are a sign that the weather is improving. Spring is coming.

 

The real reason I ache has more to do with the entire day spent outside yesterday doing yard work.

 

It was close to 60 degrees out there. There’s a crocus blooming in my yard (yes, only one for now), I can see the leaves of the tulips and daffodils rising slowly out of the ground.

 

After weeks of whining to anyone who would listen about my desperate need for a change of pace, I finally got one.

 

And it was very good.

The Amazing Omar

So now that I've shared with you the glamour that was my publishing career. I thought I would take a stab at one that stories I've wanted to tell for a long time that is more odd than glamorous.

One of the many cities that I travelled to for work in those years was Philadelphia. I had never been there before and I haven't been there since, though I've meant to go back. I liked it. People sort of shudder when I say that, and of course I know that Philly has its problems, but it's old and historic and quite beautiful in places.

Our conference party was held in one of those historic museum/homes that doubles as a function space to supplement revenue. The party was one of those with servers in mock tuxes carrying trays among the mingling guests. I'm terrible at this sort of social gathering, can't really make small talk with people I don't know well, and I'm sure I spent most of the gathering looking busy.

But with the company, there was always an after party, a meal at a restaurant where I could be one of the group, and could sit and listen to the stories of the old days.

This time the stories of the old days started before we ever got to the restaurant. In fact, they led us to the restaurant. "Remember that time when we had no money and we went to that seedy Middle Eastern place..." turned into "Let's go back."  

An hour or so later I found myself entering a dark, cavernous, room  - more club than restaurant, really -  with a few executive-level co-workers, a few middle managers, three of our top authors, a few sales reps, and one guy who was interviewing for a rep job in Texas. The food? Well, the food was kabobs and rice. I think that was pretty much all that was on the menu, but I could be mistaken. There was beer. It was brought to the table in the cardboard six-pack carrier. The kabobs were dry, which was a shame because I actually like lamb. The skewers, with their curved and hammered handles were the most interesting part.

There were a bunch of guys playing bongo-like drums on a tiny platform stage. It was pleasant, if strange, until the entertainment was announced. Belly dancing. With Fatima.

Okay, she was attractive, somewhat exotic with her flowing costume and her cymbals. But of course, belly dancing really doesn't do much for the men in this country. People looked at her, applauded politely, and went on with their meals and conversations. She did her thing, coaxed a few men out on to the floor with her (including our young interviewee), and walked away with a few paltry tips.

A few minutes passed and the drumming became more intense. Apparently Fatima was only the opening act. The real headliner was still to come. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for The Amazing Omar!

Clad in brown pantaloons and a vest, Omar strode to the center of the floor with bare feet. Metal disks like coins sewn up and down the seams of his clothes jingled as he walked, and became part of the music as he danced. There was an intensity and an urgency to the rhythm that grew as the dance progressed. Balancing a sword on his head and twirled with grace and precision, he conveyed, not so much sexuality, as power and mastery: mastery of his art, mastery of the room, mastery of the women, many of whom were now on their feet and waving money. The temperature in the room rose ten degrees.

I remained in my seat with my jaw dropped, stealing glances at my coworkers, the VPs, and the authors. They had let loose, let go. A director balanced a kabob skewer on her head and moved out on the dance floor, intoxicated by both drink and dance. These dignified people, many in higher positions than I, were completely undone by The Amazing Omar.

And then suddenly it was done, over. Omar sheathed his sword and disappeared. We were left looking around, awkwardly wondering what had just happened. We gathered our things hurriedly, as if we had awoken in an unfamiliar place, and headed for the door.

As we left, I picked up the now forgotten kabob skewer and slipped it into the sleeve of my coat, intending to leave it on the director's desk back in Boston as a joke. On the flight home, I thought the better of it. Now every spring, the skewer stands in my garden, marking off planted seeds - a silent reminder of the little curves in a seemingly straightforward life.

I don’t make the rules, I just…Oh, wait.

 

Both the boys’ birthdays are in March. Since Christmas, Piper has been talking about getting them a Wii and inviting a few kids over to play in lieu of a party.

 

Individually, Tigger has been asking for a new Leapster. Between the two boys, I’ve bought four of these things and three have broken. Add to that the fact that the game level for Leapsters stops around 2^nd or 3^rd grade (Tigger is in 2^nd) and I just don’t want to spend another $50-60 on a new machine and $18-24 on new game cartridges. I’m thinking it might be time to graduate to a Nintendo DS.

 

The boys have a very old computer in their room that is not hooked up to the Internet and probably never will be, on which they play a couple of games that still work with Windows 98. On the one hand, it’s good because they play the games together, cheer each other on, laugh at the car crashes, and sometimes a good hour goes by before they remember that they hate each other. On the other, Pumpkin has gotten so obsessed with this one Volkswagon racing game that we have had to hide the mouse to stop him from playing it when he’s supposed to be cleaning his room or doing anything else besides playing with the computer. Similarly, Tigger would go all day from TV to computer and back again if we let him. And when we don’t, he goes from person to person to dog badgering and antagonizing one target after the other until someone yells at him. The boy needs a hobby.

 

Obviously, I didn’t have a computer growing up. In the late 70s, my dad bought one for his business that took up an entire room. I played with it, but it didn’t exactly have games. We had a ginormous TV in the family room, but there were rules about watching it. For a long time, long after I had outgrown Sesame Street, we were only allowed to watch PBS, yet I do remember watching the Brady Bunch, the Partridge Family, Bewitched, and somewhere around the 8^th grade, becoming obsessed with Starsky and Hutch (no clean cut Donnie and Marie for me, no!).  When my mother would leave us with the babysitter so she could go shopping, I watched Saturday cartoons all damn day, not because I liked them necessarily, but because I could.

 

Common sense, the childcare mafia media, and pediatricians all advise parents to limit TV. Even before I was a parent, I had a strong suspicion that excess TV would be linked to ADD. Now the vocabulary has been expanded and we talk about screen time. I know these things.

 

I can come downstairs between 6-7 AM any given morning* and find Tigger on the couch watching whatever loud, flashy, nonsense Nicktoons has to offer. Often I find he will have been there for an hour or more already, and not so much as let the dog out or eaten breakfast. While it is an alternative to being woken at 5 AM, it worries me, that TV is the absolute first thing he goes for, whether he’s rolling out of bed, or coming home from school. Why can’t he go read a book?

 

When I worked in the bookstore, I found myself sneering at all those moms who would ask me for books for their sons, and say, almost apologetically, “He’s really not a reader.” Now, I can sympathize. Reading, the main source of my happiness as a child, is now a daily battle I fight with both of my sons.

 

Tigger is even a good reader. His vocabulary is amazing for an almost eight-year-old. But as with just about everything I like or that is good for him – he hates it.

 

So here I am facing the prospect of bringing more “screens” into the house. Now, I realize that there are going to have to be rules around screen time, and that I’m going to have to make them.

 

On the one hand I’m leery of increasing the forbidden fruit nature of the TV in the house, but on the other, if we can determine the rules beforehand, they could be a good motivator. Wii could be only for the weekends and days off, and only if all homework and chores are done.  I’m betting that room will be cleaner a lot more often.

 

 

 

*This morning we were awakened by the sound of screaming laughter from downstairs. It was 5AM and both kids were up watching cartoons. Piper went downstairs and shooed them back to bed. Pumpkin went back to sleep until 6:30 and Tigger slept on the couch until 7:30. Now that’s more like it.