@ Home in the World

Zoom, Zoom!

It was race weekend in Louden last weekend. Yep, NASCAR came to New Hampshire. So we packed up the car and headed up North to

Oh, HELL NO!

Though the Pumpkin would be perfectly content to watch cars go around in a circle for hours and hours, the rest of us really don't get it.

We did go to New Hampshire, but this was more our speed.

Those little things in the background? Those are go karts. They are little motorized cars not much bigger than a wheelbarrow, and not quite as high off the ground. This was the highlight of the boys' trip to see their grandparents this weekend. We drove for 45 minutes to get there, paid $5 each for two 15 minute trips around a roughly 8-shaped track. Then we left.

Really, that was it. It wasn't part of a park where there were other things to do. Their whole business was this track, maybe two dozen go karts, and some vending machines. It was amazing to me that they made money off of that, but perhaps they do. They may also have owned the building next door. Decidely NOT family oriented.

New Hampshire is littered with Tattoo shops, especially near the border with Massachusetts. Tattooing was illegal in Massachusetts until a few years ago.

Pumpkin told me I wasn't a very good driver in the go karts, and he was right. These things were way too low to the ground for my tastes and I couldn't hug the curves, couldn't even stay in my lane in the turns, they way I expected. I kept feeling like the kart was going to tip even though it was wide and low to the ground. Piper and Tigger wound up lapping us before the end of our session.

As much as I love the look of those Smart cars that have finally made their way to the US, I'm really a big car girl. I don't like being that low to the ground. I told Piper that driving those go karts was like being back in the Tercel he drove when we first met. Was that mean? I hated that car.

From the race track, we moved on to this cute little place.

 

Mmmm. Waffles and ice cream! Actually, all we had was the "make your own" sundaes. Waffles were a separate thing. But a Belgian waffle with warm apple slices on top - my favorite thing in the world! We'll have to go back for those.

The go karts weren't the only encounter we had with strange transportation. On the way home, we encountered this contraption. Can you see it up there?

 

At first we thought it was just parasailing, but it really looked like it was self-propelled.  It also sported a blinking light - to warn the passing airplanes, perhaps?

Of course we got into the raceway traffic on our way home, but even that had a side benefit. Just as all the spectators were leaving Louden, so were the race cars themselves. We must have passed a dozen of those race teams on the highway. We didn't see the cars because they were riding in their own souped up trailer transport - like Lightning McQueen rides inside of Mac. The trailers themselves were enough to keep Pumpkin interested for miles.

Piper speculated that Pumpkin might want to work on those kinds of cars when he grows up. To which I responded  - "if by working on you mean designing, well then I'm all for it."

The Way Life Should Be

Maine has magical properties.

Or at least so I've believed that since I was a teenager.

I first went there on a family vacation when I was 14. Of course, my mother's idea of a vacation involved lots of antiquing, which was not really a vacation for us kids.

But one evening we got to go out to dinner and walk around the streets of Ogunquit afterward. I marvelled at the open businesses and the streets crowded with strolling couples and families well past the dinner hour. The warm light of the shop windows and the happy sounds of relaxed people making their way around town filled me with such delight that I decided to live in a place like that when I grew up.

And so I do. But it's not in Maine.

When I was 20, I returned. This time I was in Booth Bay Harbor with a boyfriend and another couple. Sitting in a restaurant, looking out at the passers-by, I recall feeling like an adult for the first time because I was there without family and without obligations to other adults.

A couple of years later, I persuaded a friend of mine to take a day trip up to Maine with me because I was having a hard time in life an just needed to get out for a while. The headache and sinus troubles that had plagued me on the ride up were gone after about 20 minutes of walking around in the cleaner air of Maine.

After I was married, I was going through a particularly hard time careerwise. I had left a very good job and taken a risk that didn't pan out. I was distraught and not sure where to go next. Piper and I went up to Rangeley Lake for nearly a week, did not much of anything at all. It was heavenly, and I returned with a new commitment to the job I had. That lasted me about a year.

Of all the places we've been, that trip stands out as the most peaceful, the most soul-renewing.

So I was interested to see what returning there with children might be like. We were invited to share cabin with another family we know well and spend a lot of time with. They also have two boys and they have gone through a lot of similar challenges as we have with ours.

Still, I was a little nervous about sharing space, especially when I have one child who shows little consideration for, or even understanding of, the personal space of others.

But I was pleasantly surprised by how well it turned out. It was still as beautiful and as quiet as ever, the cabin was just the right compromise between rustic and well-appointed, and our host kept all four boys busy until they crashed after dinner.

Our cabins looked like this but with a porch instead of a balcony.

The boys spent a lot of time on the neighbor's boat. Tigger got to drive.

Pumpkin was focused on jumping off. I didn't actually mean to cut off his head in the photo, but because I did, I can use the picture on the blog.

There was a lot of tubing and a lot of swimming. You've heard of swimming with the dolphins. This was swimming with the ducks. They came very close.

On the other hand, we didn't see any loons this time. Though we did hear them at night.

The town was lovely, and very small. The bookstore had a regionally appropriate punny name.

A lot of the merchandise sold throughout town featured bad moose puns.

Does anyone know why these hot dogs are bright red?

I don't think the photo does justice to how red the casings are. If there were such a color as neon red, These hot dog would be it.

We went hunting for moose (without guns), but we didn't see any. Saw a fabulous sky instead.

Isn't this incredibly peaceful?

So much so that Piper actually tossed out the idea of getting a second place up there someday. I've been saying things like that almost everywhere we go, but mostly we joke about it. This is the first time he's brought it up so I know he's serious.

A vacation home in Maine? Now that's the way life should be.

There's no place like...

It's unusually quiet this morning as I am up before the kids, which rarely happens. I'm making my tea when the silence is broken by a motor scooter zipping by on the road at a high rate of speed (for a scooter).

Instantly, I'm transported to Rome where scooters and motorcycles dominated the tiny streets. The sound of the engines reverberating off the tightly clustered buildings let you know that this was a city where people were going places and doing things at all hours.

It's hard to believe that our trip was so long ago. I want so much to really be there or perhaps to keep the illusion going.

Perhaps I should get out the espresso.

I want so much to really be there.

Vacation all I ever wanted...

We are on vacation in Rangeley, Maine for a few days. We went almost 10 years ago and of all the places we've been, it remains among our favorite spots.

Of course, it will be a bit different this time with kids, not to mention a whole other family we are staying with.

When you have kids, relaxing is all relative.

Do I need a road trip? Oh, yes!

I don't post much in response to contests, but this one caught my attention, and at the last minute, too.

Blogher is running a contest for tickets to Blogher and I'd like to go to Chicago as much as I'd like to go somewhere, nearly anywhere I haven't been yet. Plus, as I get more serious about my writing, I'd certainly love to go to Blogher to meet other writers whose work I have read.

The contest asks for us to choose among three FORD vehicles that we'd like to take on a road trip this summer; the Fusion Hybrid, the Ford Flex, or the Escape Hybrid.

After looking at all the specs, I'd have to choose the Ford Flex, because as much as I'd love to be driving a hybrid these days, a vacation with my family requires a bit more space. Typically we use a third row seat to split the boys up when we are on long trips. It keeps the peace. We also have a dog who is so much a part of the family that we take him on vacation unless we are flying.

I once drove a Ford Explorer. It lasted for 10 years, and I loved it. It did not have much in the way of gadgets, nor does the car I currently drive, so when I looked at the list of available technology on the Flex, I was impressed.  I particularly like the idea of a built-in refrigeration compartment, that would save us the room a cooler would take up.

So, send me to Blogher, I'm sure there's plenty for my husband and kids to do in Chicago, and we need an excuse for a road trip!

27 million

I'm using that number as a title because I just can't fathom it.  27 million people, Soviet military and civilians, died in WWII.

Boston.com just released a collection of photos from this year's Victory Day (May 9) celebrations commemorating the end of WWII in Moscow and other places in the former Soviet Union.

I happened to be in Moscow at the time of the preparations for the 60th Anniversary of the end of WWII (2005) and got to see some of the parades and ceremonies (we left a few days before the actual Victory Day), and rehearsals. I have some pictures from the trip but nothing like those in the collection linked above which are just stunning.

Russia and WWII are two topics I have studied quite a bit and so watching the ceremonies was a bit like stepping back in time. It was really strange to hear military exercises associated with the era that were not in German.

As we make preparations for our own Memorial Day commemorations, let's try to remember that it's not just Americans who serve and die in wars, or fight for something they believe in, or defend their own sovereignty. War is sometimes necessary, but it should always be a last resort.

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

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!”

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.

Gosh, I feel like it's been more than that...

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States I've visited. Technically, I've in in a few more that that, but those were strictly drive-bys.