People who really know me - heck, people who even sort of know me - are generally aware that there are a few things about the outdoors that I tend to dislike. Among them, in no particular order, and off the top of my head, are: sunshine, grass, trees, sand, dirt, bugs, heat, humidity, rain and wind. Thus, I was far from overjoyed when I recently received an invitation from a friend to help her and a few others celebrate her birthday at a local beach. After shuddering for a minute or so, I realized that this might be somewhat tolerable. The designated day was a Sunday, the day I see private clients, and the beach in question was a two-hour drive from my house. So I said I'd go, after explaining my schedule, figuring I'd show up mid-day, be there about an hour, then have to leave. Truly, it does not pay to try to please others. My friend then, to accommodate my schedule, decided we would all arrive much earlier so that I'd have sufficient time to enjoy the beach. She obviously does not know me. But I could hardly respond to this change - made to accommodate me - by announcing that I couldn't possibly subject myself to Machiavellian torture before noon!
The friend with whom I agreed to carpool e-mailed to ask if I could bring a beach umbrella. He obviously does not know me, either. But sans beach umbrella, my bottles of sunblock and I headed out before 8:00 a.m. on this excursion. We arrived at the beach about 10:00 and discovered a few things.
First, my friend had been mistaken about the identity of the beach she wanted and this was not the beach she had thought it was. (I wonder if beaches get that a lot. I thought you were some beach I know.) Second, where the beach she wanted was less than a half-mile from the parking lot, this beach was an almost two mile hike away. Third, everyone had packed as though we were evacuating there and might have to stay for months. So we all loaded ourselves up like pack-rats and headed out. This group included a woman who was wearing a knee brace; she'd recently had surgery. Maybe it's just me, but I was leery of a woman who was still using handicapped parking managing a two-mile hike over rocky inclines and tree roots.
I wasn't the only one who viewed this as folly; several people suggested we just climb back in our cars and head to the original beach which was apparently only a few miles away. My friend felt that that would be too confusing for the few people who were arriving later. (I thought we solved this with cell phones.) I suggested that we simply take advantage of the lovely, shaded picnic tables right in front of us. My friend announced that no, we'd planned on going to the beach, not a park. And - she said - it would all be worth it when we saw the beach.
You may be wondering how she knew this when she'd not been to this beach.
I consider myself a New Yorker. I used to walk three miles to work each morning. I felt that only tourists ever used any type of transportation to go less than a mile. But that was on relatively flat concrete surfaces and I rarely had more than a small backpack with me. We were on difficult terrain, loaded down with coolers of food and drinks, chairs, blankets - even a tent! Once I've agreed to do a thing, however, I do it, and before anytime I was in the lead. At one point, I realized I was far ahead of the others and then I panicked. You read about women who are with a group of friends, get separated from them and are never seen again. I wouldn't have worried if this were in the middle of the city, but this was out in the middle of nature. I saw Into the Woods. I know that "horrible things happen in the woods", so I spent almost as much time pausing and waiting for people to catch up to me as I did actually walking.
And we kept walking. And walking. Eventually, I became convinced that there was no beach. This trail was some endless loop and our skeletons would later be found by other poor fools who had set out for a beach day. I was so convinced that when one of our crowd announced that she could "smell water", I was sure it was an olfactory mirage. When I first caught a glimpse of water through the trees, I was sure that delirium had set in.
It hadn't, but hilarity soon did. We had arrived at the beach. The one where this would all prove to have been worth it. There were three picnic tables, a small patch of sand leading to the water and many, many noisy children frolicking about. (The only things I dislike more than the great outdoors are children.) I took one look at this and burst into laughter. The holy-shit-you-have-GOT-to-be-kdding-me kind, not the this-is-really-funny kind.
I wouldn't have laughed like that in front of my friend as I wouldn't have wanted to hurt her feelings, but that wasn't a concern. Most of the group was so far behind that they wouldn't arrive for another hour. (Which means we didn't see them at the beach - we met them on the trail going back.) The rest of the group had given up less than half-way along and headed back. (We passed them while going back, too. Turns out recent knee surgery is a good reason to sit at nearby picnic tables - near the handicapped parking.)
You must be wondering if there was anything positive about this day. There was. I had only thirty minutes at this point before I had to head back. Before I got to do the walk all over again.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Paradise Found
Where?!? That's the response I got whenever I mentioned where I was heading on my next vacation. Apparently Ljubljana isn't yet the first place Americans think of when they contemplate a European vacation. No one seems to know where it - or even the country that houses it - Slovenia - is. No one can spell it, much less remember it, and pronouncing it twists tongues. So people just shook their heads at me (odd, how often I get that reaction, no matter the topic).
Was I right? Was I right to choose a location that most Americans have never heard of? Was I right to announce to my three traveling companions that they were about to spend their hard-earned money to follow me to a city about which they knew nothing? (Yes, they could have refused, but the way this every-other-year trip works is that I choose the location, do all the planning, and they come along, so it's not like the destination is up for discussion. They're free to make their owns plans, but then they would actually have to "plan" ... and ... they trust me.) Do they still trust me?
Let's just say that after this trip, if I told them we were headed to Outer Siberia next trip, they'd agree. Was I right? Was I right!
The first thing we noticed after disembarking the plane, bleary-eyed and exhausted though we might have been, was a drop-dead gorgeous man holding up a sign with my name on it. No, he wasn't my fairy prince, come to swoop me away to a life of luxury - he was the guy who was to take us from the airport to the hotel - but this just had to be a good sign, right?
The hotel was lovely and the entire staff was helpful, friendly, and eager to please. My sister and I shared a lower-level room with a balcony; the balcony attached to our friends' upper-level room opened to an amazing view. The perfect place to regroup each evening over a glass of wine, which, of course, we did.
We threw down our bags, set out to see a bit of the city, and immediately fell in love. Charming streets, musicians everywhere, playing instruments we'd never imagined, stunning architecture. It's easily walk-able, and even I, Ms.-Beyond-Directionally-Challenged, found it relatively easy to navigate. Everywhere we went, we found new, beautiful surprises. The triple bridges are in the middle of the city and each of them is distinctive and interesting in its own way. My favorite was the Dragon Bridge - who wouldn't love a Bridge filled with Dragon sculptures?
We ate extremely well and the wine .... The Slovenians make excellent wine which one can buy for a few dollars a glass at any of the numerous outdoor cafes overlooking the water. It turns out the hotel staff is indicative of the city at large - friendly and thoughtful. And that man at the airport? He's not alone, either. Slovenian men are beautiful! It got to the point where we almost became blase about them. Ruth would sigh, "This one isn't quite as gorgeous as the one five minutes ago." And her eyes would widen as another man came into view.
Slovenian history is as fascinating as the Slovenians themselves. They are fiercely independent, athletic and outdoorsy, yet their national hero is a poet. Yes, the statue in the middle of the city is of a poet and there is another statue, this one carved into the wall of a building directly across from his statue, of the woman he unrequitedly loved. The romantic in me melted.
So what did we say when we returned and people queried "where?!?" when told of our trip? Did we tell them that it is idyllic, a tiny land of mountains and oceans, of excellent wine and food, exquisite and considerate people? Am I crazy?? Nope. We told them it was boring, expensive, unfriendly and ugly. After all, I now plan to live there someday and I don't want it overrun with tourists!
Was I right? Was I right to choose a location that most Americans have never heard of? Was I right to announce to my three traveling companions that they were about to spend their hard-earned money to follow me to a city about which they knew nothing? (Yes, they could have refused, but the way this every-other-year trip works is that I choose the location, do all the planning, and they come along, so it's not like the destination is up for discussion. They're free to make their owns plans, but then they would actually have to "plan" ... and ... they trust me.) Do they still trust me?
Let's just say that after this trip, if I told them we were headed to Outer Siberia next trip, they'd agree. Was I right? Was I right!
The first thing we noticed after disembarking the plane, bleary-eyed and exhausted though we might have been, was a drop-dead gorgeous man holding up a sign with my name on it. No, he wasn't my fairy prince, come to swoop me away to a life of luxury - he was the guy who was to take us from the airport to the hotel - but this just had to be a good sign, right?
The hotel was lovely and the entire staff was helpful, friendly, and eager to please. My sister and I shared a lower-level room with a balcony; the balcony attached to our friends' upper-level room opened to an amazing view. The perfect place to regroup each evening over a glass of wine, which, of course, we did.
We threw down our bags, set out to see a bit of the city, and immediately fell in love. Charming streets, musicians everywhere, playing instruments we'd never imagined, stunning architecture. It's easily walk-able, and even I, Ms.-Beyond-Directionally-Challenged, found it relatively easy to navigate. Everywhere we went, we found new, beautiful surprises. The triple bridges are in the middle of the city and each of them is distinctive and interesting in its own way. My favorite was the Dragon Bridge - who wouldn't love a Bridge filled with Dragon sculptures?
We ate extremely well and the wine .... The Slovenians make excellent wine which one can buy for a few dollars a glass at any of the numerous outdoor cafes overlooking the water. It turns out the hotel staff is indicative of the city at large - friendly and thoughtful. And that man at the airport? He's not alone, either. Slovenian men are beautiful! It got to the point where we almost became blase about them. Ruth would sigh, "This one isn't quite as gorgeous as the one five minutes ago." And her eyes would widen as another man came into view.
Slovenian history is as fascinating as the Slovenians themselves. They are fiercely independent, athletic and outdoorsy, yet their national hero is a poet. Yes, the statue in the middle of the city is of a poet and there is another statue, this one carved into the wall of a building directly across from his statue, of the woman he unrequitedly loved. The romantic in me melted.
So what did we say when we returned and people queried "where?!?" when told of our trip? Did we tell them that it is idyllic, a tiny land of mountains and oceans, of excellent wine and food, exquisite and considerate people? Am I crazy?? Nope. We told them it was boring, expensive, unfriendly and ugly. After all, I now plan to live there someday and I don't want it overrun with tourists!
What Women Really Want
The other night I was talking to a friend who has been, mostly happily, married for a couple of decades now. Still, even the best spouses can be irritating and she told me that (at least in the moment) she doesn't really want to be married with all the attendant drama, she just wants someone to fuck. I thought about it a second, agreed, and added, "And someone to carry heavy objects now and then."
Is that really what I want? It has struck me lately that I am quite tired of being single. But, like my friend, I recoil at the thought of relationship drama. I loathe dating, which seems to be something of a prerequisite to finding a husband. I'm not terribly fond of all that goes into building a life together, either - the negotiating and compromising around issues, the bringing in family and friends for whom time must be made - all the details that have to be worked out to create some sort of harmony. Yet, daily, I think of how tired I am of being single.
Then it hit me. It's not really a husband I want; it is servants!! What exhausts me is having to do everything myself. If there is grocery shopping to be done, dry cleaning to be taken in, shoes to be repaired, meals to be cooked, house repairs to be made, packages to be mailed, laundry to be washed, mending to be handled, bills to be paid, weeding to be done, the only person to do it is moi. What I want is someone to share the numerous burdens of daily life. We used to call these people "wives", at least in the middle classes, but since bringing in income became de rigour across gender lines, there is no one assigned this role in most households. However, where there are two functioning adults in a household, at least this monotony can be shared.
For the two years before my sister was born, I took being an only child quite seriously and never quite learned to embrace the concept of sharing, but now - I want to share! I want to share every single detail of managing a life.
Certainly, having a house full of servants would eliminate the need for a significant other, at least the practical need, but not only can I not begin to afford servants, I can't even afford a house that would accommodate them if I had them. Which takes me right back to the idea that a spouse could come in handy.
I know; I know. I'm quite the romantic, aren't I? But be fair - I'm to TIRED to be romantic! Who can think about things like candlelit dinners and weeekend getaways when one is thinking about unloading the dishwasher in order to clear off the countertops, worrying whether one has any clean underwear, and trying to figure out how to replace the gutter pipe without falling off the porch roof?! It's not that I choose to think of the opposite sex as just useful. I'd far rather think about passionate kissing and late-night cuddling, but who has the energy?
Of course, if I did have someone with whom to share the daily burdens - the boring chores, the occasional stresses - maybe I'd be less tired and able to get back to having romantic thoughts and feelings. I wonder....
Is that really what I want? It has struck me lately that I am quite tired of being single. But, like my friend, I recoil at the thought of relationship drama. I loathe dating, which seems to be something of a prerequisite to finding a husband. I'm not terribly fond of all that goes into building a life together, either - the negotiating and compromising around issues, the bringing in family and friends for whom time must be made - all the details that have to be worked out to create some sort of harmony. Yet, daily, I think of how tired I am of being single.
Then it hit me. It's not really a husband I want; it is servants!! What exhausts me is having to do everything myself. If there is grocery shopping to be done, dry cleaning to be taken in, shoes to be repaired, meals to be cooked, house repairs to be made, packages to be mailed, laundry to be washed, mending to be handled, bills to be paid, weeding to be done, the only person to do it is moi. What I want is someone to share the numerous burdens of daily life. We used to call these people "wives", at least in the middle classes, but since bringing in income became de rigour across gender lines, there is no one assigned this role in most households. However, where there are two functioning adults in a household, at least this monotony can be shared.
For the two years before my sister was born, I took being an only child quite seriously and never quite learned to embrace the concept of sharing, but now - I want to share! I want to share every single detail of managing a life.
Certainly, having a house full of servants would eliminate the need for a significant other, at least the practical need, but not only can I not begin to afford servants, I can't even afford a house that would accommodate them if I had them. Which takes me right back to the idea that a spouse could come in handy.
I know; I know. I'm quite the romantic, aren't I? But be fair - I'm to TIRED to be romantic! Who can think about things like candlelit dinners and weeekend getaways when one is thinking about unloading the dishwasher in order to clear off the countertops, worrying whether one has any clean underwear, and trying to figure out how to replace the gutter pipe without falling off the porch roof?! It's not that I choose to think of the opposite sex as just useful. I'd far rather think about passionate kissing and late-night cuddling, but who has the energy?
Of course, if I did have someone with whom to share the daily burdens - the boring chores, the occasional stresses - maybe I'd be less tired and able to get back to having romantic thoughts and feelings. I wonder....
Friday, January 17, 2014
Vous Recherchez un Francois
Several years ago, I read that France was listed #1 in terms of quality-of-life for countries. My understanding is that this number one spot varies from year to year, but it seems that, overall, France does pretty well. So I decided I want to move to France.
Great plan, right? I mean, who wouldn't want to live in the country that boasts the highest standard of living anywhere? Plus, I've done my own research. I watched Sicko and learned that the health care is of high quality and is also universal. (Since I have these recurring fears of winding up homeless and unemployed and living under a bridge, knowing that I could be treated for my seasonal allergies and all the various injuries I would expect to occur when you combine a klutz and under-the-bridge living, is reassuring.) I also questioned my friends, Jon and Ginger, who lived in Paris for several years. Yes, the 35-hour work wee is strictly enforced. Yes, they have lots and lots of leave and everyone is expected to and does - use it. Yes, people do spend the odd afternoon sipping excellent, inexpensive burgundy at a sidewalk cafe. Get me a plane ticket!!
Alas, France, just like America, and probably everywhere else humans actually choose to inhabit, isn't out looking for new residents. Those pesky immigration laws! So, what to do?
Obviously, one has to get a job to get a work visa and since my remedial (alright - pathetic) French will probably make this difficult, I'd better look for other options. Maybe someone would adopt me? I'm sure Jon and Ginger would have done so if I could have given them enormous sums of money but a) I don't have enormous sums of money, and b) they're now back in the States, living in New Jersey. Some help they are! What else? What other options??
Why of course! I need to marry a Frenchman! Clearly, this is the best strategy. After all, I'm single, so this should be easy, right?
As I've not actively looked to marry before I'm not sure how one goes about this. Yes, I watched Sex and the City so I'm aware that finding and marrying "the one" can be difficult and time-consuming, but I'm not looking for a soul-mate, just someone with French citizenship.
I polled my friends. There were suggestions that I go to French films, French restaurants and any events at the French Embassy to which I can be admitted. I've done enough of the first two to be pretty sure they don't work. (Also, this has caused me to wonder, why don't French women get fat.) As for events at the French Embassy, this sounds like a pretty good plan. If nothing else works, I might come back to this.
The response most of my friends gave to the "how do you find someone to marry" question, is that they basically wait for someone to knock on their front door.
Yes, these are single friends.
No, they don't date much.
Nonetheless, this plan has a lot of appeal. First, I'm terribly lazy at heart and this wouldn't require any real activity on my part. Second, while I'm waiting for him to show up, I can be working on my French. Or sleeping. So I'll be really rested and look good when he comes along. And it's not like I'm unwilling to make any effort. Au contraire! I've told many of my friends - and even some people I don't' know - that I'm looking for a Frenchman to marry. My requirements are few. He needs a good heart, a big apartment and a desire to marry an American woman and take her to France.
Okay. I've put this plan in motion. Now I'm just going to sit here and wait for the doorbell to ring.
Great plan, right? I mean, who wouldn't want to live in the country that boasts the highest standard of living anywhere? Plus, I've done my own research. I watched Sicko and learned that the health care is of high quality and is also universal. (Since I have these recurring fears of winding up homeless and unemployed and living under a bridge, knowing that I could be treated for my seasonal allergies and all the various injuries I would expect to occur when you combine a klutz and under-the-bridge living, is reassuring.) I also questioned my friends, Jon and Ginger, who lived in Paris for several years. Yes, the 35-hour work wee is strictly enforced. Yes, they have lots and lots of leave and everyone is expected to and does - use it. Yes, people do spend the odd afternoon sipping excellent, inexpensive burgundy at a sidewalk cafe. Get me a plane ticket!!
Alas, France, just like America, and probably everywhere else humans actually choose to inhabit, isn't out looking for new residents. Those pesky immigration laws! So, what to do?
Obviously, one has to get a job to get a work visa and since my remedial (alright - pathetic) French will probably make this difficult, I'd better look for other options. Maybe someone would adopt me? I'm sure Jon and Ginger would have done so if I could have given them enormous sums of money but a) I don't have enormous sums of money, and b) they're now back in the States, living in New Jersey. Some help they are! What else? What other options??
Why of course! I need to marry a Frenchman! Clearly, this is the best strategy. After all, I'm single, so this should be easy, right?
As I've not actively looked to marry before I'm not sure how one goes about this. Yes, I watched Sex and the City so I'm aware that finding and marrying "the one" can be difficult and time-consuming, but I'm not looking for a soul-mate, just someone with French citizenship.
I polled my friends. There were suggestions that I go to French films, French restaurants and any events at the French Embassy to which I can be admitted. I've done enough of the first two to be pretty sure they don't work. (Also, this has caused me to wonder, why don't French women get fat.) As for events at the French Embassy, this sounds like a pretty good plan. If nothing else works, I might come back to this.
The response most of my friends gave to the "how do you find someone to marry" question, is that they basically wait for someone to knock on their front door.
Yes, these are single friends.
No, they don't date much.
Nonetheless, this plan has a lot of appeal. First, I'm terribly lazy at heart and this wouldn't require any real activity on my part. Second, while I'm waiting for him to show up, I can be working on my French. Or sleeping. So I'll be really rested and look good when he comes along. And it's not like I'm unwilling to make any effort. Au contraire! I've told many of my friends - and even some people I don't' know - that I'm looking for a Frenchman to marry. My requirements are few. He needs a good heart, a big apartment and a desire to marry an American woman and take her to France.
Okay. I've put this plan in motion. Now I'm just going to sit here and wait for the doorbell to ring.
Not Exactly Camille
Days spent lounging in bed, reading a bit, watching the odd movie, but mostly sleeping - ah, the life. Well, except for the mounds of snotty, soggy tissues piled in and around the trash bin, the cough suppressants, vapor rubs and the constant hacking sound that is apparently a primitive form of communication verbalized by a small alien who is now inhabiting my chest.
Yes, yes, I have no right to complain. When it comes to sickness, I have been incredibly lucky thus far. I have no illnesses which are immediately life-threatening. I have insurance and paid leave which can be used when I am sick. And I rarely get sick at all. I believe the last time I took sick leave was three bosses ago. Not bad for someone who is the antithesis of germaphobic. (Five-second rule? Please. If I didn't just see a roach running across the spot where it landed, and it's not embedded in dirt, I'll eat it.)
So I've no reason to complain about coming down with classic head-crud this season. After all, I've seen co-workers and friends dropping like flies for months now, and this particular bug did have the courtesy to wait until I actually had some time to deal with it - post-holidays and all that. And as for the practical stuff, yes, I have tea and cough drops and - talk about timing - had just made a pot of garlic soup the day before I came down with this. Had to cancel very few plans and my co-workers pitched in where my clients are concerned for the one or two who needed something immediately.
I think, really, it's the indignity of it all. Mind you, I live alone, so no one else gets to witness said indignity, but just walking past a mirror and noticing my swollen eyes, lobster-red nose, and the fact that my hair has taken on a life of its own since I've not had the energy to style - or wash - it, makes me feel rather like an orphaned waif on Dicken's London streets. I envision myself sticking a grimy cup filled with stubby pencils under the noses of passers-by while I snivel my sales pitch, wiping my runny nose on my ratty bathrobe cuff every third word or so. The fact that I've completely lost my appetite and everything I eat tastes the same (gruel?) adds to the picture.
The movies have lied to us. Again! I think of Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", all curled up in bed with her own mound of tissues, red-nosed and sniffly, looking adorable and loveable and heroine-like. I think of all the Camilles, dying slowly of consumption, whose own chest-inhabiting aliens communicated in genteel, discrete coughs. And I look in the mirror and think, "This is why I live alone. So I can look hideous and sound disgusting and exhibit not one single adorable, loveable trait when my head and my lungs are battling to see which can explode first. But I do live alone.
So for all anyone knows, I've been curled up with a big mug of steaming tea, sniffling delicately into an initialed lace handkerchief, occasionally emitting a whisper of a sneeze, looking wan but perfectly coiffed and dressed in an antique silk dressing gown for the last few days. This is my story. And no one can disprove it!
Yes, yes, I have no right to complain. When it comes to sickness, I have been incredibly lucky thus far. I have no illnesses which are immediately life-threatening. I have insurance and paid leave which can be used when I am sick. And I rarely get sick at all. I believe the last time I took sick leave was three bosses ago. Not bad for someone who is the antithesis of germaphobic. (Five-second rule? Please. If I didn't just see a roach running across the spot where it landed, and it's not embedded in dirt, I'll eat it.)
So I've no reason to complain about coming down with classic head-crud this season. After all, I've seen co-workers and friends dropping like flies for months now, and this particular bug did have the courtesy to wait until I actually had some time to deal with it - post-holidays and all that. And as for the practical stuff, yes, I have tea and cough drops and - talk about timing - had just made a pot of garlic soup the day before I came down with this. Had to cancel very few plans and my co-workers pitched in where my clients are concerned for the one or two who needed something immediately.
I think, really, it's the indignity of it all. Mind you, I live alone, so no one else gets to witness said indignity, but just walking past a mirror and noticing my swollen eyes, lobster-red nose, and the fact that my hair has taken on a life of its own since I've not had the energy to style - or wash - it, makes me feel rather like an orphaned waif on Dicken's London streets. I envision myself sticking a grimy cup filled with stubby pencils under the noses of passers-by while I snivel my sales pitch, wiping my runny nose on my ratty bathrobe cuff every third word or so. The fact that I've completely lost my appetite and everything I eat tastes the same (gruel?) adds to the picture.
The movies have lied to us. Again! I think of Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", all curled up in bed with her own mound of tissues, red-nosed and sniffly, looking adorable and loveable and heroine-like. I think of all the Camilles, dying slowly of consumption, whose own chest-inhabiting aliens communicated in genteel, discrete coughs. And I look in the mirror and think, "This is why I live alone. So I can look hideous and sound disgusting and exhibit not one single adorable, loveable trait when my head and my lungs are battling to see which can explode first. But I do live alone.
So for all anyone knows, I've been curled up with a big mug of steaming tea, sniffling delicately into an initialed lace handkerchief, occasionally emitting a whisper of a sneeze, looking wan but perfectly coiffed and dressed in an antique silk dressing gown for the last few days. This is my story. And no one can disprove it!
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