IHOP

Twice now, over the course of this particularly lovely summer, I've managed to get up to New Hampshire and visit a friend who runs a YMCA family camp on an island in the middle of Lake Winnipesaukee.  Most of you are well aware of my obsession with summer camp and these visits have helped to soothe that ever-present, unrelenting urge I feel each year, the one that hits like clock-work annually, right around the third week of June, the one that has every fiber of my body itching to get back to camp, to spend the summer working as a counselor or a program director or a village chief (aah, camp terminology!) or anything else that falls under the umbrella of camp life - and is a world removed from my normal 9 to 5 computer-facing gig.  Of course, I have yet to figure out a way to take a summer off, work back at camp and then be allowed to return to my job as a working young professional.  Mark my words though, you'll know the minute I do.  And in the meantime, I'll continue to stalk any of my friends who maintain camp connections.   

One of the many things I love about summer camps are the number of international's you meet working there.  I've got friends around the globe thanks to summers spent together, and I've always affectionately called this group the International House of Pancakes.  I used to look forward to our summers working together when we could spend hours visiting together talking travel, and hearing about their impressions of the United States.  One of my Australian friends, who I worked with years ago, told me that before coming to the US he thought all Americans would act like guests on Jerry Springer.  Another Australian told me he thought it was funny that Americans always say "there you go."  During his first few weeks on the job, he was constantly wondering, "Where?  Where am I going?"

Last weekend, while up at the camp, I was talking to a woman from England and I was reminded again of the international community that resides at camps across the country.  This friend might know more about the US than I do myself, and is only eight states away from hitting her goal of seeing all 50.  She rattled off all of the ones she'd visited, saying a state only gets crossed off the list if she's spent at least 24 hours there.  Which, in turn, got me wondering about where I stood with my own personal goal of seeing all 50 states, as I certainly haven't been very good about keeping track.  My goal doesn't feel nearly as pressing as my new found British friend's did...because the states, well, they're just, here.  (The irony, right?  I miss London terribly and would fly back in a heartbeat.  She can just hop the train and be there in an hour from her hometown...but doesn't go nearly as often as you might expect.)

Motivated by this whole discussion, I printed out a list of the 50 states to record my own tally.  I've got 21 left to cross of the list:

Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Hawaii, Idaho, Iowa, Kentucky, Michigan, Minnesota, Montana, Nebraska, New Mexico, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

Clearly the North West side of this country needs some of my attention.  And let's not forget about all of those other foreign countries that continue to creep on to my every growing travel list.

Good thing I'm making friends around the globe - for that means couches to crash on in all lands. 
         

Dog Days

My notes from August, in brief:

I've been trying to breath it all in, soak the most out of every minute, and drink it all up - the sunshine, the water, the sounds, the friends, the art, the weather, the air, the heat of the day, the cool of the night, the noise of the locusts and the crickets, the bounty of fruits and vegetables, the late-night ball games, the flip-flops tossed on without a second thought, the feeling of sand in your toes and the sun on your shoulders...
 
My God, there is no better season.

Oh, summer.  Slow down, slow down, slow down.
 

 

 

The Boss

When I find myself feeling homesick for my South Jersey roots, I turn to Bruce Springsteen. For I have learned, in my 15 years of dealing with the sort of homesickness that only comes when you think of your hometown that he is my fastest fix.  And if I can't get home for a visit, Springsteen usually calms my longings for home at least a little bit, acting as a temporary band-aid until I can make the trek down to the Mid-Atlantic for a visit, or the worst of it passes and I'm back to focusing on the life I have here and now in New England.

Earlier this spring, when I saw Springsteen was playing two shows at Fenway Park, I immediately hopped online to snag a couple of tickets.  Springsteen!  Fenway!  August!  What could be better?  Thrilled with the prospect, I navigated my way through all of the flaming hoops that is Ticketmaster, right up until I saw the purchase price.  $125.  For each ticket.  And those were the cheap seats.

Man, do I love me some Bruce Springsteen, but I just couldn't justify it.  Particularly as August seemed light-years away and my credit card bill...only weeks away.  So I closed my eyes, muttered under my breath, and closed the ticket screen.  Still, as the event grew closer, I found myself thinking about his upcoming shows more and more.  I've seen Springsteen before, but come on.  It's. The. Boss.  In the past week or so I've been presented with about four different options to purchase tickets from friends, and still, every single time I've had to take a pass either because I've had some sort of conflict with the day the ticket was available or just couldn't quite justify the still very costly price tag, especially after a slew of recent expenses I've had come my way.  (Dear Sugar Daddy. If you're looking for a good time to make your entrance into my life...)

I have no doubt I made the wise, responsible, financial decision in letting these tickets go, but I can't lie and tell you I wasn't a tad disappointed as I made my way home tonight after work, knowing he'd be taking the stage in a few hours and I wouldn't be a face in the crowd.  But then, around 9pm, as I was sitting at my desk writing in my little apartment, I heard The Boss's voice coming in through my open windows. 

Maybe it's just the way the wind is blowing tonight, or maybe the stars felt like aligning in my favor, but I can hear Springsteen as I sit here typing, clear and loud enough to know he just finished "Glory Days" to a raucous, cheering audience.  I can see the lights of Fenway from my bedroom window, I can feel the cool night air wafting in through my windows.  It's sort of like I'm there.  And maybe, just maybe, it's a nice way to remind myself that even if I don't live in my hometown anymore, it's never very far away after all.  

Signs.

On Sunday I filled up my car with gas.  The total came to $28.75. 

I drove directly from the Hess station to my nearby grocery store.  The total?  $28.75.

Last night on the T, coming home from work, I sat in a corner seat on the train, my nose buried in John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath.  At one point I glanced up, merely to take note of which T stop we were currently at.  Directly in front of me stood a man reading John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent.  I studied him and the book for a moment, marveling a bit over the odds that would place the two of us together on this specific train during rush hour, both of us reading classics written by a long deceased author. 

While I sat there staring at his book, my mind began to wander.  I was thinking about the title of Steinbeck's last novel, the one that comes from a line by Shakespeare.  And then I started to think about how it just wouldn't work quite as well if he'd written "The Summer of our Discontent" instead.  Something about it didn't have quite the same ring as what Ol' Shakespeare chose.

As is my usual habit in the mornings while getting ready for work, I had NPR on in my bedroom today.  I stood in front of the mirror, putting in my earrings, sort of only half-listening, until I heard Renee Montagne announce: "It's been a Summer of Discontent in Japan..." 

I believe the universe is trying to tell me something.  I'm just not sure what quite yet.

July Reads

I've always likened July to the Saturday of the weekend.  If you dwell in the land of Monday through Friday working stiffs, Saturday is the greatest, because if nothing else you know you always have Sunday and another day of freedom, immediately behind it.  After all, no one ever talks about the "Saturday night blues," right?  So if July:Saturday, that obviously means August:Sunday.  (Guess how well I did on that comprehension section of the SATs back in the day.)  While I never really like seeing July come to a close, I do take comfort in knowing we have all of August stretching out ahead of us - which means plenty more dog days of summer ahead.

Speaking of the dog days, this summer has been utterly lovely and wonderful thus far.  It certainly hasn't been slow but so far it's feeling good and long and crammed with all sorts of weekends away and outdoor activities and sunny days and the sorts of things that I have come to love about this season in the first place.  Even my reading has followed suit, though I haven't been able to devote nearly enough time to the never-ending pile of books that are calling my name.   I only made it through one book this month, and I'm about half-way though the classic The Grapes of Wrath...but more on that one come August. 

A Visit from the Good Squad - Jennifer Egan

 

I'd had this book on my radar for awhile now, particularly after it won The Pulitzer, but I was hesitant to read it.  I'd picked up another book by Egan years prior that I hated - so much so that not only did I not finish it, I distinctly remember uncharacteristically hurling it across the room at one point, such was my disgust.  Still, when it became our book club pick, I decided I'd give it a go; motivated somewhat by the fact that I'd given up entirely on our last book club read.  I was warned by a few friends that I'd probably dislike the book, that it was odd and jumpy and just too far out there for a lot of people.  I went in expecting the worst...and ended up being pleasantly surprised.

For starters, much of the book takes place in San Francisco or New York City, and centers around the live music scene.  All things Kelli loves?  Check.  True, Egan does jump around quite a bit, but I happen to like books that leave little clues about their connecting thread.  I enjoy the sort of intense reading that forces you to pay attention to how characters are connected, so long as the author does it well.  Egan is smart about her choices, her characters, and her story line.  There's even an entire chapter that is set up like a PowerPoint presentation - which I feared would fall flat, but ended up being one of the most interesting chapters in the book.  

A Visit from the Good Squad is one of those books I find myself thinking about now that I've finished it, not so much for the plot line itself, but for each of the characters Egan created - all so well developed, crafted, and so uniquely "real."  It certainly is not a book for everyone, but I for one am glad I read it - if for no other reason than the fact that I've learned not all of Egan's book cause me to lob them across a tiny apartment living room.  

Phew.  Thank goodness for that.

  

Home.

The very first summer that I worked as a counselor at my deeply beloved YMCA camp in NJ, the then CEO gave a welcome speech to the entire staff during our staff training week.  Situated on nearly 800 gorgeous undeveloped acres in the Pine Barrens, this camp is magical, mysterious, and a place truly unlike any other.  Gary, the CEO, was talking to us all about the power of camp and he said something I’ve never forgotten.  When you turn off of Stokes Road, he explained, and round the first bend on our dirt road that takes you back to camp, something magical happens.  The rest of the world just falls away.

Lately though, I’ve been thinking that when I go home, the rest of the world falls away even before I turn on to that old camp road.  Instead, I think it happens the minute I finally exit off of the turnpike - all the way down to exit #7 - and merge my way onto a little two lane highway, Route 206.  This road is my straight shot to farmland, to pine trees, to so many other roads I know and love like the back of my hand.  It is the country road that takes me home. 

As a kid and horse back rider, I was actively involved in 4-H growing up.  Once a year, the county would sponsor Farm Fair, a week we looked forward to like no other.  We brought our horses for a 5 day stay in make shift stalls, riding and exhibiting them for all who came.  It was always hot, exhausting, and probably a little bit insane, but remains one of my favorite childhood memories, no question.

This year, for the first time in probably 12 years, I made it back.

 

 

Farm Fair is as country fair as it can possibly come.  From pig races to quilting and canning blue ribbon awards to skillet tosses and genuine tractor pulls, this fair leaves no farming 'event' ignored.  I cannot tell you how much it meant to me to wander the fair grounds with my Dad; to laugh, to reminiscence, to soak up every bit of this farmland culture I know and cherish.  I doubt it will come as a shock if I tell you that over the course of the day I found myself near joyful tears on multiple occasions.     

 

When I first moved to the city for college, I remember meeting some boy at a party.  When he asked where I was from, he replied completely straight-faced: "But you don't act like you're from New Jersey.  It seems more like you're from Vermont or something."  

Thus began my mission and crusade, working to educate people that there is more to New Jersey than The Sopranos or the Snooki land of The Jersey Shore. 

Although, the older I get, the less I correct people when they state their (often clearly misguided) opinions on New Jersey.  Let them think it's some place they'd never want to be.  It'll leave more room for all the rest of us.

 

There is a sound unlike any other when you live in the Pine Barrens, a sound I don't even think I actually noticed until I moved away so many years ago.  It’s like an indescribable whisper, a quiet secret that drifts ever so gently among the pines.  Whenever I get home these days I try my very best to listen as long and as hard as I can, for it's a sound I've never heard anywhere else, one I don't think you could duplicate if you tried.  It is a sound that soothes and calms my soul, one I carry with me in my heart, when I'm away from these woods I have come to love and appreciate more than I ever imagined I would .

 

You would know it if you heard it.  You would come to love it. 

Communicating on the Commute.

The morning commute is a sacred time.  If you take the T, the Subway, BART, MARTA, commuter rails, and all the rest of it long enough, you begin to understand a certain unspoken code of silence that generally falls between the hours of 7-9:30AM.

For me, it's valuable reading time as those twenty minutes on the T en route to the office can at times be the only chance I get to dig into my book the entire day.  For others, it's the chance for a cat nap, a crossword puzzle, a zoned out moment listening to whatever their favorite song is that week.  Of course, there are always a handful of people that don't follow this unspoken, ahem, "guideline" of quiet time.  You can always spot the tourists right off the bat.  They get on in a group, standing -always standing, never seated - anxiously clutching the railing so as not to fall over.  They'll talk loudly about the site they're headed to, their hotel, or debate which stop to get off at.  Of course, I can't be too hard of them.  They're excited to be visiting my city, they are spending money that boosts the local economy, I've been a tourist in cities many times myself.  Plus, they don't know any better.

Once in awhile you get the drunk guy who stands in the corner of the train (or worse, sits, which ultimately takes up three seats instead of just the one because no one in their right mind is going to sit next to the crazy man) yelling or mumbling to himself and anyone else who will listen.  One of the worst offenders is the your music is way too loud, seriously ALL of us can hear it through your headphones rider.  This commuter usually starts singing along at some point too; proving once again the notion that sometimes your shampoo bottles are the truly the only things that should hear you sing.  Still, for the most part the morning train ride is a quiet, peaceful one and makes for a nice way to ease into the work day.

This morning, as I sat with my purse in my lap and my newest read in my hands, a woman about ten years older than me sat down beside me.  I'd watched her board the train, suitcase and purse in one hand, cane in the other.  She looked like she might be battling the early stages of MS for her gate was a little halted, her coordination slightly off.  Still she sat down with a smile, apologizing to me when she bumped my shoulder with her bag.  After a few minutes she leaned toward me.  "Are you reading that book for a class?" she asked politely.

"You know, I'm not.  I've just never read it, have been meaning to for years, and figured now was as good a time as any."

She smiled.  "I've never read it either," she told me.  "I'm still rather amazed I got through school without ever having it assigned."

I laughed and agreed with her, and we talked for the next ten minutes or so about other classic American works of literature, the film version of Grapes of Wrath starring Henry Fonda, and the little bit each of us knew about The Great American Dust Bowl.  As the train slowed near her stop, she rose, making her way gingerly toward the exit.  "You've inspired me," she said.  "Maybe I'll go home and read that book myself."

I smiled.  "You should!  It'll be like we're having a long distance book club...and then rent the movie when you finish."

She laughed.  "I think I will. And I'll think of you while I'm reading it."  With a wave and a final goodbye, she walked off the train.  A moment later the T doors closed and I was whisked away to the next stop.

Odds are I will never see that woman again.  I have no idea what her story is, where she lives, what she does.  But I know that our brief conversation this morning was the highlight of my day.  It made me smile, lifted my spirits.  I will think of her as I continue the book, will remember her when I sit down to watch the DVD of Henry Fonda's performance.  For strangers, we'll forever be connected by Steinbeck's work, by a novel that has stood the test of time.

Talking to this woman today reminded me once again that the world works in mysterious, connecting sort of ways at times; that you can meet the nicest people just by saying hello.  In fact, it made me think of one of my favorite quotes, from Augusten Borroughs: 
“I used to feel so alone in the city. All those gazillions of people and then me, on the outside. Because how do you meet a new person? I was very stunned by this for many years. And then I realized, you just say, "Hi." They may ignore you. Or you may marry them. And that possibility is worth that one word.”        

(And I guarantee none of this would have happened had I been holding a Kindle.)

The Fireworks are Hailin' over Little Eden Tonight

When I first saw that the 4th of July fell on a Wednesday this year, I was disappointed. A Wednesday?  Smack in the middle of the week?  How, exactly, was that going to work?  How would I make the most of my favorite holiday of the year when it was sandwiched in between two work days?

In the end though, I must say I rather enjoyed how the week played out, for the whole week had a holiday feel to it.  A holiday that we can normally only stretch through a long weekend - if we're lucky - felt like it went on for a good ten days instead.  The city cleared out the weekend prior, and those of us that were still left among the pavement and sidewalks and tall buildings adopted a bit of a vacation air despite ourselves.  Monday and Tuesday proved quiet in the office, allowing me to knock out a few long ignored projects without the constant interruption of phone calls and emails.

On Tuesday night, I hopped a flight down to Hot-'lanta (and I call Atlanta that without an ounce of irony, for it was hot) to visit my Momma.  I took Thursday and Friday off of work, which gave me the luxury of extra days, something I don't get enough of when I visit my family, ever, it seems.  

Mom and I picnicked, "fireworked", grilled, hung by the pool, hit the local farmer's market, and did a bit of antiquing over the course of the five days.  We also ate.  Ate well. 

Because when your Southern Mom asks you what you'd like for dinner,  you might mention a craving for fried catfish.  And when she agrees to make that fried catfish for you, hush puppies, sweet tea, and all?  Well, you clean your plate, of course.  Particularly when you know you only get on a meal like this once a year or so, and you're lucky if it's that often.

And if there's another night where you feast on fried chicken and yet another where you chow down on BBQ ribs, well, all the better.

That's what holidays are all about, right?  The food?  This one just happens to lend an extra added bonus of summer sun and firework explosions in the sky.

I love the 4th of July for many, many reasons, but as Mom and I camped out on our blanket last Wednesday night, waiting for the fireworks to start, I watched a little girl, about 8 or 9 years old, dance around the lawn, a silver sparkler in her hand. Her long brown hair trailed behind her as she laughed and waved her glowing sparkler in the darkening sky.  She was giddy with delight, her face was flushed from the heat and a day in the sun.  She was wearing red, white, and blue.  It was classic, iconic.  Watching her reminded me for yet another year what a marvelous thing we celebrate every July.  And how so very lucky and grateful I am to be a part of it.

June Reads

Well. The month of June kind of, how do I put this delicately?, kicked my little reading arse.  In fact, I only managed to read one book the entire month!  I suppose these are the sorts of things that happen when you a) have just come back from vacation and are playing life catch-up, b) are out of town several weekends in a row and c) doing fun summery things like soaking up the sunshine and planting vegetables and flowers on your little apartment porch and, maybe...just maybe d) get stuck with a dud of a book the first half of the month and devote too much of your time to a book you are not enjoying.

Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese:

Before I write anything about this book, I'll go ahead and say this.  I know, okay?  I know.  People l-o-v-e this book.  I've read countless reviews that sing its high praises, I've heard several friends, whose book taste I am usually very much aligned with, swoon over the story.  I have long held the title of being one of the few people who did not fall madly in love with Jeffrey Eugenide's Middlesex and now it appears I will add Cutting for Stone to that pile as well.  Except I at least managed to finish Middlesex.

I tried with Verghese's book, really I did.  But after 160+ pages of forcing myself to sit down and try - yet again - to get into the plot or care about the characters, I gave up. For me, Cutting for Stone was the equivalent of that guy who keeps asking you out...and you say yes, because in your head things really *should* be working out, but then you stare across from him over the dinner table and think "You know?  No."  


A Gate at the Stairs - Lorrie Moore:

I'd been wanting to read Lorrie Moore's book for a few years now, so when I found a hardcover copy in my hometown's used bookstore for $4, I snatched it up.  This book had its work cut out for itself from the get-go, meaning that I was desperate for some book that pulled me back from the edge post-Cutting for Stone attempt, practically begging my bookshelves to transport me back to the land where I looked forward to picking up my book du jour, rather than dreading it.  A Gate at the Stairs was strong out of the gates; I enjoyed the first half-immensely.  I easily identified with the protagonist, a young girl in college, experiencing -  things as simple and as trivial as Chinese food - for the first time, in your first year away from home.  Moore captured that voice, that energy, that sense of wonder so well, that I have to admit the second half of the novel left me disappointed.  Certain characters and story lines never felt fully fleshed out, and I was left wondering about a few plot line "doors" Moore opened but never bothered to fully explore.  All in all, I'm not disappointed I read it, I just wish certain pieces and characters had not felt so rushed and jumbled together toward the end.  As is my habit, I do often write down sections of stories, books that I enjoy or that hold some sort of meaning.  This bit resonated with me and is a good example of that young college girl's voice I thought Moore captured so well.

"I tried not to think about my life.  I did not have any good solid plans for it long-term - no bad plans either, no plans at all - and the lostness of that, compared with the clear ambitions of my friends (marriage, children, law school) sometimes shamed me. Other times in my mind I defended such a condition as morally and intellectually superior - my life was open and ready and free - but that did not make it any less lonely." 

Where We're Coming From

We'd slept in Meghan's living room.  For reasons I can't quite recall we'd picked that tiny front room in her parent's house, an old rambling sort of house, just off Main Street, rather than opting for the den in the back of the house where we'd have more room to spread out, or even camping out upstairs in the bedroom Meghan shared with her sister.  We'd fallen asleep as high school girls usually do at sleepovers; mid-sentence, mid-conversation, mid-gossip.  I can't remember our exact set-up, but I'm sure we were sprawled across various couches, sleeping bags, and pillows tossed about.

I woke before the other girls, the distant thunder and steady downpour of a summer storm rousing me from sleep.  It was early, not even 7 yet.  The windows were cracked open slightly, the house was still and quiet.  As I laid there, on Meghan's parents couch, with some of the closest friends I'd ever had in my seventeen years asleep beside me, I looked out to the street, in our quiet little hometown, watching the rain fall.  I remember, as clear as if it was yesterday, thinking to myself how precious, how fleeting this moment was that I was getting, what a brief gift I'd been given by waking before the rest of the house.  These are my friends, I thought to myself.  This is our home.  For I knew, even then, that a chapter was coming to a close.  Things would never, could never, be the same once we all headed our separate ways for college that fall.  A page was turning, the next chapter not yet written.

******

June 13th marked fifteen years since the night of my high school graduation.  Don't ask me how I remember this date, these are just the sort of things I know.  This year, on June 13th, the little boy I baby-sat during that long, lovely summer before college, graduated from my -from our - high school as well. Oh, the passage of time.  It never ceases to shock, amaze, and mystify me.

******

Of course, time did march on for my friends and I that summer of 1997, just as I knew it would.  By early September the four of us were packed and off to our various colleges, spread all the way up the East Coast, from Virginia to Massachusetts.  And, just as I'd suspected, things never were exactly the same again.  There were new boys to have crushes on, new teachers to complain about, new classes that were causing us stress.  There were new stories to share when we'd gather together over our breaks, as our worlds had expanded, moving beyond the sheltered cement walls of our shared high school experience. 

Once out of college, it took the four of us a few years to develop a groove.  At first we gathered in fits and starts.  We might catch one another at random - meeting at the one bar in our hometown over a long weekend or running into one another at the mall a few towns over from ours around Christmas time.  Our lives continued to expand, our schedules never fell utterly in sync.  I cannot say I didn't have a part in this, for in my early twenties I wanted only to see the world, to keep moving, keep changing, without stopping.  There was a lull in our meet-ups, a pause in the late night gossip, giggles, and chats of years past.

But then the circle came 'round again, a circles are wont to do.  We started with a weekend when both Moira and I lived in New York City.  Alicia came up from DC, Meghan, up from New Jersey.  We assembled at a bar in mid-town one Friday night, catching up over a local micro-brew of two.  From there, we took the subway back to my apartment, where we poured wine and ate unhealthy snacks.  We caught up, we shared stories, we gossiped, we wonder aloud about whatever happened to ____.  We dug out an old yearbook.  Before long we had pulled on our pj's, piled our hair in ponytails, and started a dance party among our blow-up mattresses, pillows, and suitcases, laughing until our sides hurt.  And suddenly, we remembered.  The four of us were really good at this friend thing. 

So we started planning.  Now we aim for a mini-reunion every six months or so, alternating between the various cities and towns we all call home.  With busy jobs and marriages and purchasing houses and babies, our schedules get more complicated these days, our planning is often pushed further out, our agendas have now become less about what we'd like to see or do wherever we are, and more about how much time we get to be together. 

Just to be together.

******

This past weekend we met up in New York City.  Meghan is pregnant with baby boy number two and the doctors have told her to take it easy in her third trimester.  She passed on most of the weekend plans, meeting us only for brunch Saturday morning instead, driving north to Hoboken, stealing away for a few precious hours, and the four of us reunited again.  It was at this brunch, as Meghan recounted a hilarious story about her sister's recent bachelorette party, that I found myself remembering that long-ago high school sleep over and the quiet, rainy morning that followed.  And I found myself once again taking note.  I sat back in my chair, my stomach full of delicious eggs, home fries, and a Bloody Mary and I watched and listened to my friends giggle over Meg's story.

I realize that life will only get more hectic from here, I fear that our gatherings will become harder and harder to coordinate.  And yet we will still have them.  I know we will.  We must.  For I had a brief thought on Saturday - one I did my best to banish from my brain as quickly as it arrived, as it was one I did not wish to linger on.  But one day - and I hope it is a day far, far away from this one - we won't all be able to get together.  And I do not wish, I cannot imagine the day when one of our four seats is left empty, if our circle were to ever grow smaller.

These girls.  Oh, these girls who have known me since I was fourteen.  They remember who I went to the prom with, they still know who I really wanted to go to the prom with.  They were the first people to drive me around once they got their driver's license, they were some of the first people I drove around once I finally got my own license.  They are some of the few friends who knew and remember the house I grew up in, they are the people I turn to when I want to talk about my hometown, reminisce about my past, remember the girl I was some 15 years ago.  We grew up together, these girls and I.  And oh, I love them so.

Noche Suenos

It is almost midnight by the time we arrive in Granada.  We nervously navigate our way through narrow one way streets, I suck in air through my teeth each time we round a bend, silently praying, as I sit in the passenger's front seat, that we do not scrape this black BMW - our rental car for the week, the one we've dubbed El Toro - as we make our way to the nearest parking garage.  The three of us were all up very late the night before, celebrating and imbibing with a group of new found Italian friends.  And the day has gone like those days that usually follow late nights do; particularly if you find yourself in a foreign country with a travel agenda to keep. Despite the lack of sleep, we were up early, making our way out of Madrid, down to Toledo for the afternoon, and then onward for a four hour drive to Granada, where we'd planned to lay our heads for the next two nights.

Our hotel is located in a pedestrian only zone, which is charming and quaint, but it means that El Toro must be parked blocks away, and our suitcases and purses must be unloaded and carried with us - never mind that none of us know exactly where we are going.  My friends and I take an elevator up from the parking lot, quiet on the quick ride up, all of us tired, weary, and ready for bed.  When the elevator doors open up to the plaza we've parked under, I catch my breath.  It's the lighting I suppose. The ornate, wrought iron street lamps have me immediately thinking of Paris ironically enough, and the lights themselves cast the city in a wonderfully muted, peaceful, dream like glow.  I think immediately of my friend Beth, who had told me before my trip that the night she arrived in Granada years before as a student, felt like one of the most romantic nights of her life.  I am charmed. 

We are lost.  Both our hand-held paper map and my friend's phone map are telling us what we believe to be true, that we are in fact, only feet away from the hotel.  And yet, we cannot find the place.  It is pushing 12:30, the three of us are growing frustrated over the fact that we're so close and yet so far from what surely will be the most deep, wonderful night of sleep.  We are doing our best not to snap at one another, as we realize we are all frustrated by a situation completely out of our control.  We send Moira, the most fluent of the three of us, into a nearby restaurant to ask for directions.  Jess volunteers to wander down to the next block to double-check the road sign.  And just like that, I am alone in the heart of Granada, keeping watch over three suitcases and handbags.

That's when I hear it.  It is quiet at first, a sound so faint that I begin to wonder if I'm actually tired enough to be hearing things.  But then the sound grows and swells and I realize that no, I'm not hearing things at all, that there is piano music coming from around the bend. It is beautiful, one of the most wonderful sounds I've ever heard.  The music washes over me as I stand there, alone in a small plaza, waiting for my friends to return, watching the glow of those street lamps.  I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, breathing a silent prayer of gratitude.  I think about the beauty of traveling, I think about how large the world truly is, about what a small, tiny, role I have in it.  In that moment, I find these thoughts so very comforting, knowing that there are so many things greater and larger than myself.

Jess returns, confirming our address just as Moira makes her way out of the restaurant, directing us toward the next block, telling us that she hopes she understood what the waitress had explained.  We walk closer to the music, all of us quiet, listening.  As we round the 'bend, we discover that the music is accompanying a silent film that's being projected on an old stone wall.  There are people crowded together sitting on nearby church steps, all of them watching, listening.  I immediately regret the noisy wheels on our suitcases, grimacing as we roll through the block as quietly and as quickly as possible.

At long last we have located our hotel and once inside at the check-in desk, we all exchange frantic, exhausted grins of glee.  The hotel clerk directs us to our room, helping the three of us cram our luggage and ourselves into the tiny elevator.  Once we are in our room, Moira realizes she left her maps at the front desk.  I volunteer to go downstairs and get them.  She is already in her pajamas and I - I am feeling more awake than I have in months.  Too energized to sleep, too giddy to fuss with face wash and teeth brushing and all the rest of the standard bedtime routines.  I leap down the stairs to the ground floor and after talking briefly with the clerk, make my way back up to our room taking the stairs two at a time.  This is why we do it, I remind myself as I walk back to room 313, the clock pushing 1am.  This feeling, this moment, catching that mythical piano piece, that's what it's all about.  This is why I want to just keep going; to see every corner of this wild, crazy, wonderfully complex and interesting world.  I am wearing a gray cardigan with a khaki colored scarf wrapped around my neck, a fedora on my head.  I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror just before entering our room.  And I grin. 

I fear, like most things that with time, my memory of the night may fade.  But I hope that it won't.  I hope that I've tucked that moment deep enough into my heart, that I breathed in that Granada night air and listened to those magical Granada night sounds long enough to have them forever etched into my mind; that I'll carry that moment, that euphoric feeling with me for the rest of my days.  I have no photos of that night in Granada, I had no idea when we arrived and started searching for our hotel that I'd want to dig my camera out, that I'd stumble upon something I'd want to record.  But perhaps it's better that way.  For I carry that night in my heart, in my mind's eye always.  And someday, when I find myself sitting quietly, reflecting on all the places I've gone and the people I've known and the things that I've done,  I believe I will think of this moment; of one brief, enchanting moment found on the streets of Granada, one evening in May.        

Forever a Favorite

Gang!  Somehow we are two weeks into June, and tomorrow marks a month since I left for Spain.

The time, my how it flies!

I still have so much I want to share with you about the recent Iberian adventure and I've got lots of flotsam and jetsam types of thoughts floating 'round my head too, just ripe and ready for a blog post.  For now, though I just wanted to say hello.  I've been keeping busy - suddenly very busy - with all sorts of projects and things I've always been meaning to get around to and ideas and just general randomness.  Of course, I have my share of work deadlines to contend with these days too, which aren't always quite as fun...

But oh, what a glorious time of year we are in!  For there are bright, sunny, summer days to savor followed by late sunsets - ones that keep getting later by the day.  There are crisp mornings and evenings, and I'm once again - as I do every year - falling in love with the planting, the growing, the warm air, the cool nights, and this season.  This is the start of days spent lingering on porches and lawns, of windows thrown open, of impromptu barbeques with friends, of waking early for farmer's markets, of baseball games, and ponytails and painted toes and sandals and easy-breezy dresses. 

And the beauty of right now is that we are at the beginning of it all - when fresh fruit and vegetables replace the starchy comfort foods of winter, when friends meet up for an ice cream date, when you find yourself napping on a blanket spread on the lawn, a book left open on your chest; and it seems like the most perfect place on earth.  I don't know why I still find myself surprised, but I am taken aback every year how New England and Mother Nature come together to work their charms, of how glorious these end of spring, start of summer days are, and truly just how lovely and beautiful I find this season - my very favorite. 

May Reads

So let's go ahead and talk about what I read last month, since four days into June and I'm not totally in love with where my reading is headed this month.  And least not yet anyway. 

But back to May.

Bird by Bird - Anne Lamott

I finally finished Lamott's Bird by Bird - "Some Instructions on Writing and Life."  It felt like I'd been reading this book for ages - not because I didn't enjoy it (I loved it) but because I was sort of picking it up and reading a few chapters here and there in between other novels.  Having never read any of Lamott's work before this book (for shame) I wasn't quite sure what to expect.  She is the kind of writer who you immediately want to befriend, the kind of person who, when you invite them over for a glass of wine, would end up helping you finish off the bottle, giggling and marveling with you over the loveliness and absurdity of life, all in the same breath.  Her writing is funny and warm and equal parts silly and sarcastic and just plain charming all the way 'round.  She provides a lot of useful suggestions and tips on writing in this book, and I found myself underlining, starring, and making notes so often in the book that by the time I finished I think the copy might be more of my own blue pen than her printed words.  This is a book I see myself going back to several times over, almost like a reference book - if you can make a reference book that has you laughing out loud one moment, and catching your breath in awe and respect in the next.

As I said above, Lamott's work lent itself to a lot of highlighted, noted pages.  Here is one of my favorites from the book:

"...And I don't think you have that kind of time either.  I don't think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid you won't be good enough at it, and I don't think you have time to waste on someone who does not respond to you with kindness and respect.  You don't want to spend your time around people who make you hold your breath.  You can't fill up when you're holding your breath.  And writing is about filling up, filling up when you are empty, letting images and ideas and smells run down like water - just as writing is also about dealing with emptiness."  

By now we all know how much I adore Ernest Hemingway, so I'll do my best to keep my gushing to a minimum.  I grabbed The Sun Also Rises from my bedroom at my Dad's house the last time I was home in March, having an inkling even then that I might just go ahead and say yes to that trip to Spain my friends had invited me on a few weeks prior.  Funny enough, I'd actually read The Sun Also Rises years ago.  Allegedly at least.  For it was definitely my handwriting in the margins, my green and blue inked pens that did the underlining in sections I enjoyed.  It's a bit of a mystery to me as I know for a fact I didn't read it for any college classes, which means I read it on my own accord at some point...and sadly, found that I remembered almost nothing of it this time around.  It all worked out in the end of course, as I had a "new" Hemingway read tucked under my arm on my way to and from work for a few weeks and, as the majority of the novel is set around Spanish bullfights, it lent a delightful ambiance as I packed, planned, and prepared for my Iberian adventure.  A Farewell to Arms remains my Hemingway favorite, but this book does not disappoint. In fact, I can see why this book didn't have as much of an impact on me the first time I read it.  There's something that ten years of life and experience lend to this novel.  There's a reason why it was considered the voice of the lost generation - and I understand that now far better than I would have at 21 or 22.

I finished The Sun Also Rises the night before I left on vacation and, while I did bring a book along with me on the trip, only managed the time to read approximately ten pages the entire time we were away.  That's what a busy trip will do to you.  So here's to June...and the hope I find another novel  that makes me swoon sooner rather than later.

The Road Less Taken

Originally, seeing as today marks the beginning of June, I'd intended to write a post about the books I read during the month of May.  But then I got into the office and, as I sipped my coffee and ran through my usual morning scroll on Facebook, I stumbled upon the all too tragic news story of recent Yale graduate, Marina Keegan.  I have been thinking of this young woman, this girl I never knew, and most likely would have never met, all day long.  By now you have probably read her final piece that went viral after her death, The Opposite of Loneliness, which was written and distributed just last week for the special commencement edition of the Yale Newspaper. 

My heart breaks for Marina's family and her loved ones.  I am haunted by this senseless story of a life lost and heartbreak for a myriad of reasons, but here's the heart of what touched me the most:

For most of us, however, we’re somewhat lost in this sea of liberal arts. Not quite sure what road we’re on and whether we should have taken it. If only I had majored in biology…if only I’d gotten involved in journalism as a freshman…if only I’d thought to apply for this or for that…
What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over. Get a post-bac or try writing for the first time. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. We’re graduating college. We’re so young. We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.

I will tell you, that even at 32, it is easy to fall into the 'if only' trap.  When things aren't going the way I want them to, when I'm frustrated with work, or my writing, or I'm not seeing career or life goals I've set for myself come to fruition, I can be very quick to blame myself.  Even now, 11 years out of college, I'll catch myself wondering why I didn't write for the school paper, why I didn't push back during some of those class discussions when I disagreed with my classmates or my TA, why I didn't sign up for more events or take more chances.  Even on my recent trip to Spain, I found myself wondering aloud why I didn't take Spanish in college, why I didn't study abroad for a semester in the lovely and beautiful Seville. 

But then I have to stop and remind myself that - shockingly - we don't (I didn't) know everything at 18, 21, 27, or hell, 32.  For I am still learning, every. single. day.  And if we're lucky, if we're open, we grow, discover, change, and evolve every day that we are fortunate enough to be alive on this earth.  And our tastes, our interests, evolve with us.  So when I find myself muttering to myself about how I should have dropped that one ridiculously idiotic mythology class I took second semester of my junior year in favor of a creative writing session, or berating myself for taking a job that had nothing to do with the sorts of things I am interested in developing and pursuing career wise, or even getting on my own case about dating a boy who was no good for my heart or my soul, I have to pause and remind myself that I didn't know yet.  I just didn't know. 

And there's no fault in that. 

The true error would only be the change that didn't come after the understanding, after the realization.  The expression Carpe Diem - Seize the Day - can, at times, sound a bit cliche, a touch overused. 

And yet. 

The days, they pass so quickly.  We are lucky enough to get just so many of them.  Marina was speaking to a graduating class with her piece, a group of young adults just stepping out, fresh-faced into the world.  But I believe we would all be wise - no matter our age - to listen to her eloquent statement - We can still do anything.  We can change our minds. We can start over.  The notion that it's too late to do anything is comical. 

Carpe Diem, friends.  For until you reach your very last day, it is never - never - too late.

An Iberian Adventure

You arrive.

Deliriously jet-lagged in a foreign airport, you stumble through customs or transfer halls while it's somewhere around 3am in your mind, but 9am in reality.  You feel disoriented but exhilarated, marveling over every sign and direction written in another language, soaking up the hundreds of blended voices around you, most of which you can't understand, and begin to notice even the tiniest changes in lifestyles and ways of doing things outside of the United States - little things like the fact that connecting flights are listed by times, not alphabetically by city - and it hits you that your journey has begun.  You are on your way.  

Giddy, disoriented, and delirious, you grab a coffee and make your first notes about the trip in the little blank notebook you stuck in your carry-on for just such occasions:

"Oh!  How GRAND it is to be back on the continent after 10 - 10(!) years.  My goodness!  Oh wait.  I was here in '04.  Still.  It has been 10 years for The Netherlands.  And eight is still too long by my count.  I'm sitting in a cafe - of course it's a cafe - here in Schiphol Airport, waiting for my Madrid connection.  My brain is functioning on approximately 30 minutes of actual sleep I got on the plane, and words are not forming in my mind the way they usually do.  Aah, but the delirium is all part of the fun.  Anyway, the thing of it is, and what I sat down to write this minute, is this: my coffee was served in a real cup - a glass, in fact...for there will be no to-go option here in Europe.  Of course, there is a Starbucks next door to this cafe (of course there is) if to-go is a must-have...but sitting down to have a latte with time is just how Europe roles.  Despite my jet-lag and further delirium that is sure to set in soon, I'm already having fun.  My God, travel is brilliant.  Just brilliant.  How in the world could I have forgotten that?  I am enjoying the accents, the people watching, and playing one of my favorite games - guess the nationality of all who walk past.  I must promise myself another 8 years will not pass by without another visit back to the Continent.  And now, after this quick burst of Amsterdam (well, the airport at least) it is forward - on to Madrid!"   

Then you make that connection and you arrive at your final destination.  You're still excited of course, but after two more hours on a connecting flight, the exhaustion of being up for almost 24 hours is starting to hit you, your neurons aren't firing quite as sharply as they usually do.  You might even find yourself muttering to yourself as you deplane, drawing a blank regarding even the simplest of tasks.  Thankfully, adrenaline continues to work in your favor and you navigate through baggage claim and the cab stands with surprising ease.  You climb into a cab with plans to head to the city center and your hotel.

And boom.  Here's your first language barrier.  The cabbie speaks not a lick of English, and your Spanish doesn't go too far beyond "el gato negro."  Suddenly you  find yourself relying on a series of complicated hand gestures and nods, playing an elaborate game of charades.  Once you both agree - or come as close as you can to deciphering what each of you is saying - you are off, watching the airport disappear in the rear view mirror.

You connect with your friends at the hotel - finally - and after hugs and happy exclamations of finally being in Madrid with nothing but a glorious 11 days ahead of you, you all crash and burn.  Siesta #1.  You force yourself to get up after a two hour nap, knowing you could easily sleep all the way through until the next morning.  Still, the newly dubbed "wolf-pack trio" rises to the jet-lag challenge, puts on a fresh coat of make-up and makes their way out into the city.  May the adventures begin.

The days go fast.  Your travel days fall into familiar ebbs and flows.  There are moments of sheer wonder and amazement, just as there are moments of utter and complete exhaustion.  It's an exhilarating exhaustion though and you keep going - you always keep going.  Your eyes and ears are open,  you wander from sight to city to location,  and you soak it all in.  

 Every single precious, wonderful, lovely drop. 

Memory on Cloth

Clothes have always been important to me.  I can't claim to be a savant of fabric or design, and while I happily read several fashion magazines each month, I certainly can't afford to wear the latest in designer wear.  Vogue says Jason Wu off the runway? I say Jason Wu for Target.  In truth though, one of my favorite parts of the day is first thing in the morning, when I take stock of my mood, the weather, and the days activities and plan my outfit accordingly.  One of the nicest things one of my friends ever said to me, when I arrived at her house in a running-late flurry, feeling discombobulated and untidy, apologizing over my half planned outfit was: "In all the years I've known you, I've never seen you not look pulled together.  Ever."  It remains a highlight in my little queue of kind words shared.

I do this thing with clothes though, particularly pieces I'm especially fond of.  I tend to attach a specific memory to them.  Apparently this is not a recent development in my psyche, as my mother will tell you that I'm notorious for saying, whenever she mentions something that occurred years and years ago, "Oh, sure.  I remember that day.  I remember the outfit I was wearing, actually."  This memory association isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course.  I still look fondly at the sweater I wore through-out my backpacking days, ten years ago, and doubt I'll ever be able to get rid of the thing.  I know which dresses I wore to friend's weddings, I recall certain outfits I wore on important events in my life - big, like job interviews, and small, like meeting a new friend for dinner, hoping we become as good of friends as I imagine we could be.  Even when filling up a donation bag for Goodwill recently I had fond memories of the clothes I bid farewell to - the khaki shorts I wore while traveling in Costa Rica, the flannel shirt I'd worn up in Maine with friends, the one I'd accidentally shrunk in the wash once I returned to the city.

To me, clothes measure the passage of time in a sense, they help mark our days, our moments.  Who hasn't looked back at an old photograph and giggled over the fashions, who hasn't wondered aloud, 'what was I thinking?' when they discover a long-ago buried pants suit in the back of their closet.  The only problem I have with all of this is when a bad memory - or maybe even one that was good at the time, but somehow turned sour, is associated with clothes I still own, still want to wear.  This happened to me not too long ago actually, when I dug out a sweater I'd worn on what had been a great date...until it suddenly wasn't.  I happened to be out in California visiting my brother when I dug the sweater in question, bright blue v-neck piece, out of the bottom of my suitcase. 

"You know Steve, this is the sweater I was wearing on that first and last date I had with X."  My brother, ever loyal even when I'm probably talking about things far off his radar nodded, sympathetic.  I stood up a little taller in his apartment.  "But you know what?  I'm going to wear it tonight, our last dinner together while I'm out visiting you.  Because then this sweater is no longer the bad date sweater.  Instead, it becomes the awesome trip I had visiting my brother in Cali sweater."

And now, whenever I reach for that sweater?  That's what I think about.  My dinner on the pier with my brother, both of us eating crab legs and drinking Pacifico beer, before he drove me up to LAX to catch the red-eye flight back to Boston late that same evening.

Last weekend I spontaneously met at friend in Harvard Square on a Sunday afternoon to wander 'round May Fair.  I'd just returned home from a baby shower held earlier in the day, and in a rush to change and meet her, I grabbed a shirt I last remembered wearing on another date, one from this past fall, when I thought all of my romantically inclined stars had finally aligned.  I was caught off guard for a moment, for I had made a conscious effort to tuck away all of those recent fall memories deep in the recesses of my brain where I needn't bother with them again.  Still though, for a few quick seconds, that was what that shirt brought to mind.  Until I put it on and decided, no more of that weighted memory for this lovely plaid shirt.  Instead, it is now the shirt I wear on a sunny May day, when I'm off to meet a dear friend for ice cream...and maybe later, if we're feeling crazy, a glass of champagne.  Which is exactly what we did.   

Lista.

The countdown to my Iberian adventure is officially on.  Over the past few weeks my travel mates and I have divided and conquered a long list to "to-dos" before we arrive in Madrid.  Our biggest priority was having a room reservation for each night we are traveling; as we all agreed that two hours knocking on doors hoping there's a room to rent when we've arrived in town is no way to spend any of our time in Spain or Portugal.  On Monday morning I awoke in a panic, still unsure of where we'd lay our heads while in Lisbon.  (Lisbon, of course, being one of the cities I was responsible for planning...)  Thinking about no reservations in Portugal triggered that pre-trip wave of anxiety that has often been known to hit once you're in the throws of a count down.  You know what I'm talking about, right? That feeling that there are a million and one things that need to be taken care of before the trip, ranging from the mundane - stop the mail - to the insane -hmm...maybe now is a good time to repaint my living room?? I'm not above telling you I started the work week in a bit of a panic.

Does this happen to you?  There's a 'before' window when planning a vacation where you have so much you'd like to accomplish before you get the rare and coveted opportunity to leave your daily life behind for a bit.  Not only are there preparations on the travel end, but suddenly there are things you've been putting off for ages - that run to the Goodwill donation center or getting the oil changed in your car for example, that suddenly take on an extreme urgency.  I know myself well enough to know that personally, this all part of the equation, that this is part of the fun of getting ready for a trip, a step in the process if you will, of mentally and physically preparing for my escape.  Because once I'm on that plane?  I do not plan to think about a single to-do.  Unless of course that to-do means sampling the local sangria and visiting the closest tapas bar.  And maybe also embracing the siesta.

Even with the countdown moving ahead with lightening like speed, this trip hasn't exactly sunk into my psyche yet.  I find it's always like that when you plan to visit a place you've never been before though, because how do you even know what to imagine if you've never seen the place before, right?  That, my friends, is one of the things I love about travel.  The mystery, the curiosities, the venturing off into a place you have never before been. 

Our hotel in Lisbon is now officially booked, our rental car reserved.  The joint spreadsheet my friends and I have been sharing is up to date, our itinerary basically set.  Sigh of relief.  This means the biggest items are crossed off the must-get-done list and the fun part of the trip planning can really begin.  Which is deciding what outfits I'll be bringing, obviously.  And making sure I have room for any and all Spanish and Portuguese trinkets I plan on bringing back home with me.

Good thing I'll be making that run to Goodwill to clear out some room in my house beforehand, eh?