Benched in Anna Maria

Across the street from my sister-in-law’s home in Anna Maria Island, Florida, there sits a wooden bench under a palm tree – a school bus stop.  Reaching beyond the bench is a white sand trail lined with tropical greenery that leads to a wide beach and the glittering blue-green sea.  I carry that bench with me (figuratively) every time we leave Anna Maria.  It symbolizes a simpler, quieter life that I sometimes yearn for when things get too hectic, too irritating, too hard living in Chicago.

It’s a small (not-so-funny-to-my-husband) joke in our family that every time we travel somewhere I imagine us living there.  This is odd because I love our life in Chicago, most days.  I think it speaks to the wanderlust in my heart that is always thinking, “Why not?”  

I am always incredulous when I inevitably ask of my family during any given vacation – sometimes just as we drive through some sleepy little town, “What would it be like to live here?” and they answer, “Oh, I don’t think it would be right for us.   It’s too quiet.  It’s too remote.  It’s away from our friends.  It’s away from our school.”  Or my favorite, “We’d be bored.” They always have some reason why this town, this city, this country is not the right place and only Chicago will do.  I then gaze out at the snow-capped mountains or the rolling vineyards or the tree-lined boulevards or – most recently – the wooden bench under the palm tree, and realize that my yearning to try these new places is not shared with anyone in my immediate family.

I don’t know why this is.  I traveled a lot before I got married.  I took seriously the sage advice of older friends to “sow your wild oats” and, fortunately, a lot of my travel was associated with my work and allowed me to visit such far-flung places as Australia, South America, Africa, and many jaunts to Europe.  I would frequently tack on extra time before or after these trips so that I could wander around – always alone and always on foot – to generally soak in the locales, all the while wondering, “What would it be like to live here?”

In Anna Maria, the pace is slow.  People ride their bikes a lot.  There is no Starbucks.  No fast food chains.  No taxis.  No movie theatres.  No malls.  There is one elementary school, one high school, and one grocery store.  It’s Quiet.

There are also manatees living in the canals and dolphins frolicking just off-shore.  There are wide, nearly-empty, white sandy beaches.  From May to October, there are turtle egg nests dotting the shoreline and all of the establishments located on or near the beaches (restaurants, homes, etc) turn off their lights after dusk lest the baby turtles, upon hatching, accidentally mistake our man-made, electric lights as the moonlit sea.  It’s hard to believe my family wouldn’t be happy living here, no matter what they say.  I envision my husband home for dinner every night, more relaxed in this new environment, with more time to “smell the roses” in the most literal way.   I envision our children becoming avid sea kayakers, marine biologists, enviromentalists.  I imagine them sitting on the wooden bench under the palm tree, waiting for the bus to take them to school, the ocean breeze fluttering their hair.

My husband rolls his eyes at these reveries and tells me I’m a dreamer, unrealistic, crazy.  He is, no doubt, correct.  I’m on vacation, after all, and not actually living in these idyllic places.  And yet, why not?  People move every day.  People work and go to school and live their lives in a multitude of unlikely places.  Pick up and move.  Pick up and move.  We do it all the time, albeit, in Chicago proper.  Until I convince the rest of my family otherwise, the bench comes with me. 

Leaving on a jet plane

I sent my 11-year old off to California today.  By herself.  On a plane.  For a 4-hour flight.  As Lola and I stood at the top of the gangway watching her march down to board the jet -- backpack and violin slung over her back -- we smiled when we saw that each of us had tears in our eyes.  My little girl...her big sister....off on an adventure, as usual, but without us -- her comrades in life so far.

Till today.

Back in Time at the Sheffield Garden Walk

It was the Sheffield Garden Walk this weekend.  The kids put out their lemonade stand, cranked up the tunes and did their best to steal customers from the 5 other stands on our block.  While Clifton may not have stately trees arching over it like most of the other streets in this area, we do have the best gardens -- primarily because of the big (by city standards) front yards and the lack of shade (there are good things about not having a lot of trees).  Watching the swarms of people strolling our normally serene streets and snapping photographs of the gardens and houses reminded me how fortunate we are to live in this old neighborhood.

I was reminded of other stuff, too.  Walking down Webster and hearing the strains of Poi Dog tonight reminded me of Sheffield Garden Walks gone by.  15 years ago I would not have missed Saturday afternoon at the Sheffield Garden Walk for anything in the world.  It was one of the biggest weekends of the summer.  My favorite year was following a softball game for The Brown Dogs -- a team made up of my then-boyfriend, Dave, a bunch of his friends, their girlfriends and, of course, our chocolate lab (a.k.a., the Brown Dog).  I remember playing a game of softball at Wrightwood Park (at that time it seemed to be on the edge of the earth) then skedaddling over to McGee's -- at the heart of the Garden Walk then, and still today.  This morning when I walked the dog (not the Brown Dog, who went with Dave -- but instead with our Boston Terrier, Domino), I was surprised and nostalgic to see McGee's already in full swing at 11:00 AM.  I smiled as I noticed all conversations automatically pause momentarily as the el train screamed overhead, only to be continued seconds later as if our brains hadn't just been completely rattled senseless by the noise.

I stopped at a boutique selling half-price yoga clothes (although I hate yoga) and chatted with the young DePaul students working there who were characteristically enamored with Domino.  "Ya know, the Sheffield Garden Walk used to be on Webster, not Sheffield," I commented sagely, as if I were 850 years old.  The girls sized me up a little, nodded politely and replied, "Really?  That's funny."  Okaaaayyyy, not really anywhere for that conversation to go...

Yesterday I took the girls to the Kids' Corner where they had pony rides, a petting zoo, and a terrible singer screeching away about an octopus.  While we stood there listening and cringing I noticed with amusement a sign that read, "Help support are teachers" (hmmm...is it really the teachers who need help?)  I honestly don't recall if there was a Kids' Corner back when the Sheffield Garden Walk "was on Webster."  And I never realized that there was actually a Garden Walk until several years post-singledom when Roc and I ventured back into the neighborhood some lazy Saturday afternoon (by mistake).  Now that we live here, I take an unexplained pride in the DePaul area -- same as I did in Old Town and, apparently, same as I will in the next neighborhood (there's always one a-coming).  I am prone to that, I guess.  I relish the ideals of a community and in taking care of our streets and homes -- wherever and whatever it may be.

The reality is that the Sheffield Garden Walk, like so many of Chicago's street fairs, brings out the Americana in everyone. The kids running around with their scooters and wagons, the seniors admiring the gardens, the hipsters partying in the sun.  There really is something for all of us -- and it's the meshing of these different walks of life that makes the whole thing feel right.

It wasn't the Sheffield Garden Walk of my twenties -- I'm not gonna wake up with a headache and I don't have any exciting stories to tell (oh, I have some good ones); but it was the Garden Walk of my forties -- when my kids rode a pony and sold some lemonade.

Someday

We are settling into our summer routine now that we have been home from Colorado for a couple of weeks.  I'm not a huge fan of sending the girls off to summer camp (it's the best time of the year in Chicago; why would I want them away from us?), so although the girls sometimes get a little sick of each other (ie, I said, "Stay out of my room!"), it seems we do best when we have time to wander.  When they were little we would traverse the city visiting various playgrounds in random neighborhoods or meandering through museums for as long as we could manage.  Now that they're older our outings can be more varied....last week included a visit to our old high-rise neighborhood, Lakeshore East (near Millennium Park) with the dog; a day at the Art Institute spent sketching in the Modern Wing, swimming at the Wilmette Pool, riding roller coasters at Great America and a couple of trips over to Adams Playground to play in the splash area.  All and all, as Lola said, "A week of adventures" -- and a week to be grateful for, particularly because I'm able to work from home right now.

Days gone by...

While I'm good at appreciating all the good experiences and people and memories that we've been blessed with, I know I'm also good at worrying about the times ahead that may not be so sweet.  Spending time with my kids is what drives me relentlessly through pretty much every aspect of every day.  My goal is to spend as much time with them as possible because I know that someday I'll be sitting here at my computer wondering where the time went, as well as wondering what I'm going to talk to Roc about.  I've already figured out that I'll be 50 the year that Isabel goes to college -- probably not a good year for me (or Roc, by association).  Right now we are so, so busy in our daily lives that we often have barely a moment to catch up on each day's events, but I know that someday we'll be the old couple sitting out on the porch wondering where our kids are and why they don't visit us more often.  Cat's in the cradle...

...and today

Why is life set up that way?  Middle age is so full of responsibility and busyness that we seem to often bustle through the very best moments and then later age -- I'm not exactly sure what else to call it -- gives us more time than I imagine we will need or, even worse -- want.

For now, I relish the small hand that snakes into mine as we walk down the street....even when I'm already maneuvering the dog and two cups of coffee...always room for one more.  I cherish the wet kisses that suck (er, lick) my cheek, even though it's a bit wetter than anyone would actually enjoy.  I make a point of laying down with my big 11-year old every night so that we can talk or read because, especially with her, I know that time is flashing by and she might soon not want me there.  I sit in the parks and watch them run around playing and think how little they were the first time we came.  Songs about time and regret make me cry.  Songs about happiness and love make me wish more fervently for more time, even though I know it will never be enough.

Mostly I try not to think too much about someday because I'm pretty sure that it won't be as beautiful as everyday is now.  After all, if I enjoy every day the best I can, then maybe someday will never actually come.

South Africa

My awesome parents are headed to Africa in October - never been, just feeling it might be a good idea -- which has brought back reflections of my own trip to South Africa some years ago.  Summertime is the best time to do this kind of musing, by the way.  Along with the sunshine and warmer temps, summer seems to bring with it new clarity regarding just about everything.  Lately I find myself thinking about experiences that happened years ago -- apparently for no reason other than my mind is less cluttered and more free to wander during these quieter, calmer months.  As for South Africa, it's been a while since I've really "gone back" to that particular time, and although the entire experience is really memorable, there was a game reserve that I visited - Londololozi - that stands out in particular. 

The routine at Londolozi was peacefully monotonous.  We would awake early, around 5:00 AM, head to the main lodge for a huge breakfast buffet (marveling at the monkeys swinging around just outside the open-air seating), and then head out on one of the specially outfitted, topless land rovers for a morning safari.  We would return a few hours later for lunch and a free afternoon, followed by an early evening safari and an outdoor, grilled meal served at large communal tables.

The game rangers at Londolozi were generally young, white South African men who had studied to become rangers and were well-trained regarding all of the animals and flora that we saw on our daily jaunts.  The trackers (ie, the men who would sit at the front of the vehicles and hunt for animal tracks), were generally well-weathered, black South African men who were not necessarily trained, but who had so much knowledge of the bush that all one could do was sit back in wonder as they repeatedly led us to spots where we could closely observe a multitude of animals (lions, hyena, elephants, rhino, cheetah, to name a few), in their natural habitats.

Being young and alone, I was befriended by some of the game rangers early in my stay and began attending their after-hours parties.  The rangers were required to dine with all of the guests at dinner, but afterwards I would go with them to a different area of the reserve where the staff would have their own more casual gatherings. These experiences were great fun as they offered a window into what seemed to me to be authentic South African culture -- something I greatly admired and was happy to be included in.

One night, my new friend John M. suggested that we go into the bush alone -- he wanted to show me something.  I agreed and wasn't much concerned when he strapped on a rifle (red light, anyone?) before heading out on the land rover.  As we made our way into the bush we passed an old pickup truck with a huge mound of impala in the back.  Some were still breathing, but all were doomed to be our dinner the following night.  It was one of the first times I acutely realized where our meat comes from -- and probably laid the groundwork for my later decision to go veggie.  At the time I was wolfing down a lot of cheeseburgers and, on this trip, impala.  John explained that killing and serving the animals for dinner (kabobs!) was an efficient way of handling over-population.  Just like the deer back at home.  Sigh.

We continued onward; me holding a large lamp that John entrusted to me and which I clumsily jerked around the darkness as he called out instructions, hoping to spot something interesting.  Have you ever been in the African bush at night alone with a dude you just met a coupla days ago?  It's a surreal experience.  Aside from the excitement of doing something so completely unexpected, the sounds we heard during that night drive were like something out of a movie.  Add to that the fact that John would periodically kill the lights and the engine of the land rover so that we could sit in darkness to "hear better" and, well, it was pretty much an incomparable experience.

Eventually, after crashing around through some trees and bushes (never leaving the vehicle) we came to what seemed to be a large clearing.  My heart was pounding out of my chest as John directed me to shine the lamp directly in front of us.  There -- to my astonishment -- was a pride of 15 or more lions lounging about in the pale moonlight.  To our right two were mating.  John looked at me; I gawked at him and he grinned broadly.  Apparently, mission accomplished.  I grinned in return and thought, "Okay, a little weird, but best date ever!", while the words to Prince's song strummed along in my head, "...animals strike curious poses...."

Fast-forward to 2011 and it nearly feels like that whole episode never happened -- good thing I have some photos (pre-digital, so only a precious few) to remind myself.  In them I am young, naive and obliviously happy.  They record one of those brief and rare moments in a lifetime -- in my lifetime, at least -- when I achieved something I was always looking for back then, and even sometimes today -- anonymity.  I yearned for the feeling of being "lost" and creating a new me.  Who can say why.  I have a close and loving family that, then as today, I miss intensely when I'm away for too long.  And yet -- there was/is something magical about wandering alone in a place where no one knows you -- and where no one knows you are.  I think it's possibility. 

When it came time for me to leave Londolozi, I was sad, sad, sad.  I'd been there only a short time, but the lifestyle and beauty of the land, the people and the animals had resonated deeply.  I didn't want to leave, but I did anyway, telling myself that I would go home, save money, and come back to stay.  I remember sitting in my seat on the little prop plane, literally waiting for a giraffe to leave the runway so that we could take-off, and thinking, rather dramatically and grandly, "This is where I belong."

Of course, those feelings faded after I returned home to work, friends, family and a new boyfriend (hello, Roc!), whom I later married.  I did keep in touch with some of the people at Londolozi for a few months afterward -- actually, based on letters I've recently uncovered in my stash of treasured notes, we kept in touch longer that I realized - mostly via fax - which is hard to imagine now.  Funny how time washed away the relationship part, but left the strong connection to South Africa intact.  Our minds do that sometimes.

A friend suggested that I could "find" some of the people I met at Londolozi on Facebook if I really wanted, but I'd rather not.  I like to remember them just as they were then -- young and idealistic, entertaining the tourists...showing off the lions and showcasing the best thing of all...possibility.

Summer Skiing at A-Basin

Roc, Isabel and Stella hit the slopes at A-Basin today -- on July 1st.  Crazy, yes?  I love Colorado.

The day began not so well as Stella was still recovering from our hike up Quandary the previous day, so we basically dragged her out of the house and she cried/complained/whined for a good portion of the 20 minute drive from my parents' house to the Arapahoe Basin (A-Basin) ski area.  If you like to ski and have never been to A-Basin, it's really worth adding to the to-do list.  Not far from the large, commercial resort area of Keystone, A-Basin is like stepping into the past -- in a good way.  The "lodge" is small and smells a little; the food selections are basic; the "village" is....well, there is none.  There are also no Beginner slopes, so skiing at A-Basin is a little more like skiing in Europe where they don't slow down the lift for every new skiier trying to hop on....you either get on or get out.  Which is refreshing, in its own way.

Anyway, by the time we arrived Stella had decided that she wanted to participate in this adventure after all and, overhearing Roc and I discussing whether HE should take her or I should take her (neither of us really relishing the idea of the tired and whining menace) she commented slyly from the backseat, "It seems like nobody really wants to be with me today," which made all of us laugh, and the mood instantly lifted.

We got them suited up (the power was out -- soooo A-Basin), and although there were no lights in any of the base buildings we managed to rent snow pants ($10 each - brilliant idea for summer skiing!) and bought some gloves and socks (the kids were dressed in shorts and flip-flops); and off they went.  Lola wasn't interested in skiing, despite our best cajoling, so she and I headed off to the Dillon Farmer's Market while Roc took the other two up the mountain for a spectacular day.  Best part was apparently the pond-skimming, during which skiers whisk down the slopes and then skim across an alpine lake (hopefully not sinking in the process).  This was something new to us, so from what I can tell, standing by the pond and watching who made it -- and more interestingly -- who didn't, was great fun.

Lola and I picked them up at 3:00 and we headed back to the Frisco Marina for kayaking in the warm afternoon light.  A perfect day.  Lucky girls.  Lucky parents.

...till they saw our faces

A few weeks ago I went with my closest friends to visit another wonderful friend in her hometown of Columbus, Ohio. It's our tradition (more recently, thought of as a divine right) to take a "girls' trip" every Spring, so our families weren't surprised when we disappeared one warm weekend for a few precious days spent eating, drinking and walking around doing nothing. In addition to our monthly dinners and impromptu breakfast meetings, these times together are vital to each of us in different ways.  Over the many years that we've known one another our tastes have changed, but our relationships have remained (miraculously) much the same - which is comforting some unidentifiable way.

One of our habits on these trips is to keep a list of all the hilarious (to us) phrases that we mutter as we waste away a few days in each others constant company.  These lists (usually 15-20 phrases long) are the best remedy to a bad mood, a back-talking kid, a frustrating job and a litany of other "problems" that might plague one.

On this trip, one of the phrases that entered our lexicon was "...till they saw our faces."  Originally meant as a compliment, ie, "Hey, those guys were checking us out....till they saw our [older] faces", it ended up being, "Hey, those guys were checking us out....till they saw our [lined, dry, craggy, droopy-eyed, sorry-ass] faces."  This would be even funnier if it weren't true, but...well, time marches on, no?  One (20-year old) kid even had the nerve to comment loudly as we walked by in all our giddy glory, "Mommies!", which really sent us into spasms of disbelief (although, in fact, most of us are moms -- some of us many times over).

So you could say we had our ups and downs in Columbus, but nowadays it's those two phrases, "...till they saw our faces!" and "Mommies!" that can bring me to tears (from laughing).  Not because they're particularly funny lines, but because it reminds me not to take myself (or anybody else) too seriously.  Life is short.  Enjoy your face.

Rescue on the "High" Seas

Our vacation continued today with some interesting events on Lake Dillon -- actually, the Dillon Reservoir, which is a fresh water reservoir from which Denver (located, oh, some 4000 feet below Dillon in elevation) receives a good portion of its drinking water.  We decided to take out a kayak (Lola and myself) and canoe (Roc, Isabel and Stella) for a couple of hours -- something we've done maybe 4 or 5 times in the past.  Our plans were pretty routine -- paddle to some of the islands that dot the lake, get out and take a look around (supposedly there is an osprey nest out there, but we never saw it), then hop back in and paddle around some more, followed by lunch at the marina.  Adventure on the "high" seas -- get it?  "High" as in altitude?  Yes, folks, I'll be here all day.

Anyway, the sky looked ominous as we headed out, but we had been assured by the dock-hands (who shrugged at the dark clouds) that it would be fine.  The wind was behind us and strong, so we were pleased to zoom along to the first island without much effort.  A few feet behind Lola and myself I could hear Roc commentating repeatedly on the wind, and about how difficult our return paddle would be.  Roc is a really good sailor and grew up on the water, so he really does know what he's talking about.  I grew up on a little lake (a pond, really), skimming around on a Sunfish and thinking (dementedly) that I actually knew what I was doing.  Anyway, I knew he was right, but what could we do?  A storm was clearly on its way, so we would just have to wait it out on the island and then paddle back later (cold and wet).

Unfortunately, Stella was still beat from the long hike the previous day on Quandary, so she melted down almost immediately, wailing very loudly that she was tired and wanted to get back to the marina. We indulged her drama as we had no alternative, and when the rain and winds picked up we tried to find shelter under the tall pines in the middle of the island.  It was around this point that the marina called Roc's cell and informed us that they would be sending a "rescue boat" as the storm looked to be a big one and they didn't want us stranded on the island, or trying to paddle back.  Now this was exciting news!  A "rescue" boat sounded awfully important and we all wondered what, exactly, a "rescue boat" from the Frisco Marina might look like. 

The storm intensified while we waited, with a few flashes of lightening and some really loud thundercracks accompanied by strong wind.  Eventually a large tree branch that fell about 200 yards away from where we stood was enough to set off some panic alarms for Lola and Stella (who, yes, was still crying).  For a few moments I worried that a tree might actually fall on us, but almost as soon as the thought occurred to me we heard the whistle of our "rescuers" on the other side of the island (the windier, wetter side) and so we trucked back through the pines and piled onboard the boat (maybe 30 feet with a center console).  They loaded our canoe and kayak onboard as well and we were off to the marina -- suddenly rescued and thinking about what we might have for lunch once we arrived.

Later, the storm passed and we spent the afternoon poking around in sunny Breckenridge. Strange how you can go from a seemingly menacing situation to a completely benign one in a matter of hours (or maybe 30 minutes, in our case).  I don't think that we were ever in any real danger, but it rallied us together as a family anyway, and as we skimmed along the water of Lake Dillon in the "rescue boat", wrapped in warm, woolly blankets and trying to stay out of the pouring rain, it seemed we all knew that this would make a good story at somebody's wedding someday -- probably Stella's.

Climbing Mt. Quandary

We've got the whole gang out in Colorado for a couple of weeks visiting my parents in Frisco -- about 9 miles from Breckenridge. We love coming here.  The fresh air, blue skies and perfect weather are the ideal antidote to city-overdose after a long year of school and everything that comes with it.

Today we decided to climb what is known as a "fourteener", ie, one of about 53 mountains that peak at an altitude of more than 14,000 feet above sea level. Not all summits over 14,000 feet qualify as fourteeners -- mountains that qualify are generally those considered by mountaineers to be independent.  Climbing all the fourteeners in this area is a popular Summit County pastime, and there are blogs upon blogs about it if you might be interested in more.  For us, coming from Chicago and staying in Frisco at at altitude of about 9000 feet, the altitude gain at Quandary is fairly significant (ie, we knew there would be lots of huffing and puffing).

Lola chose to spend the morning with Nana and Papa, so it was Roc, Stella (almost 8), Isabel (11) and myself who headed to the trailhead at around 8:00AM - a little late by most guidelines, but we were giving ourselves a little slack as we weren't entirely optimistic about summitting with two little ones in tow anyway.  The day was crisp, cool and clear -- as every day in Colorado seems to dawn in the summer months.  We struck out cheerfully, even though I had spent a good portion of the night searching the internet for assurances (to no avail) that we weren't insane to take young children on this "advanced" and "strenuous" trail.  As it turned out, Stella was especially tenacious - perhaps because this was her first time on this particular mountain. Roc and I have climbed it once before without kids, and last year Roc and Isabel went up about two-thirds before turning back (too cold!)  Stella raced up the steep inclines, pausing only to sip water and peel off layers -- which she threw to me to carry (of course).

At around 12,500 feet, far about the tree line and with spectacular views of two alpine lakes and a couple of other fourteeners in the distance, Isabel complained of a headache and shortness of breath.  Both she and Roc have occasional bouts of mild asthma -- usually altitude-induced -- and unfortunately, Roc had forgotten an inhaler.  I was feeling good as I spent last week hiking around Beaver Creek (up and down the mountain), but Roc was tired (he only arrived 2 days ago), and with Isabel slowing down, I thought it best to call it a day and head back down.

Ohhhh, not so fast.  Stella had the summit in her line of sight, and there was no way she was going back down without achieving her "goal".  We agreed that Isabel and I would wait and enjoy the spectacular scenery while Roc and Stella continued to the next ridge -- about 500 feet higher.  Much to our surprise, we were treated to a great sighting of two wooly mountain goats clambering toward us up the steep mountainside -- followed by two more a few minutes later.  Meanwhile, Roc and Stella had reached the next ridge and we could see them in an animated discussion (lots of gesticulations!) which ended with them turning around and heading back toward us.  (We later discovered that this conversation was not about the mountain at all, but about which kind of beef jerky tasted better.)

I was relieved to see them coming back, even though I suspected that Stella would be sorely disappointed.  She often sets very high (sometimes unrealistic) goals for herself and can be harsh with self-criticism if it doesn't work out.  We hear this a lot from her teachers, and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with keeping up with her older sisters.  Also, it was just a little over a year ago that she underwent a procedure to close an atrial septal defect (a hole in her heart) and we are currently overdue for her 1-year follow-up appointment.  As we went up Quandary I couldn't help from repeatedly asking her if she could hear her heart pounding and she would answer me with exasperation, "YES!  It means I'm alive!"

Anyway, they came back down and Stella was surprisingly not fazed by missing the summit this time.  Instead, we started the long descent in high spirits, feeling that we had accomplished quite a lot.  There were no other hikers nearly as young as Stella or even Isabel, and some who passed us (both going up and going down) made comments about how "tough" they were.

Maybe a half mile from the bottom Stella finally faltered and began to cry -- she was tired.  Isabel, on the other hand, had gotten a second wind and sped away from us -- nowhere to be seen.  We regaled Stella with stories of Tom Sawyer and continued down the mountain.  After 30 minutes or so I began to wonder if we should be concerned about Isabel (where was she?)  I made some cuckoo noises to which there was no response (nobody can ever hear me) but we did hear a faint response to Stella's "IZZY!!!!!"  As it turned out, she had indeed gone off the trail, but had righted herself and was waiting near the trailhead when we came down.

So -- why this long (okay, boring) story?  I guess it's my pride at what they accomplished, and with so little fanfare or drama.  I love that when we say that they can do something, they actually trust us and believe in themselves enough to believe that it's true.  It's something my parents did for me (telling me I could do/be anything) and I think it really impacted how I move through life.  No problem is really insurmountable.  Nothing is really that bad.  There is so much that children pick up from our cues.  Hint that they can't do it, and they can't.  Tell them that they can and they will.

Italy

My girls (ages 11, 9 and almost 8) announced today from the back of my rickety Honda Pilot that there are 18 days till summer break begins.  I waited with trepidation for the next logical questions, which came quickly:  "What are we going to do?  Can we go back to Italy?"

Lola, Stella & Isabel at lunch, Fiesole

Ahh, Italia.  Last summer we managed a trip to Florence, Milan and Venice via house swap with an Italian family I found randomly on the internet that far surpassed our expectations.   Our kids are well-traveled -- we're fortunate to have family in a multitude of fun places to visit (Colorado, Florida, Arizona, California, Michigan, to name some favorites) and I have never been shy about dragging them all onto a plane - mean people don't really register with me.  With my first child (mellow, calm Isabel), she and I flew to 13 different destinations before she was a year old -- mostly to nearby places like Columbus, Ohio and Evansville, Indiana, but she also experienced her first trans-Atlantic flight with mom and dad -- to Paris at the ripe age of 6 months.  Some of you might remember a favorite picture of Roc holding her up in the air with the Eiffel Tower in the background.  A few years later, when the brood had grown to three, I vividly recall several trips to Colorado to see my mom in Summit County, without Roc, making my way through the airport sporting a Baby Bjorn with Baby #3 stuffed in, pushing a double stroller with 3 carseats piled precariously on top, and doggedly calling to the two meandering toddlers behind me as they helpfully left a trail of Cheerios should we somehow become lost between Gates 2 and (what seemed like) Gate 1037.  Travel is my thing.  As a friend once pointed out (and not necessarily in a complimentary way), "You have serious ants in your pants."

Isabel wandering, Burano

So last year, following the precipitous decline in real estate in Chicago (my husband is a real estate developer, so this was especially bad news for us), our summer plans looked grim until I came up with the idea of doing a house exchange somewhere in Europe.  I had used mileage almost a year previously to purchase tickets to Milan, but where would we stay?  I began a search for a house exchange with an Italian family, and in a short time our dream family materialized -- in Tuscany (a 2-hour train ride from Milan), but so what?  I hadn't been on a European train since studying in London in 1989....time to see how times havw changed.

I informed my husband of the new plan for Summer 2010 and he gamely agreed.  One of the many wonderful things about my husband is his willingness to follow when possible, and lead when required. Our house - which we had recently completely renovated -  had been on the market for several months so it was pristinely clean and ready for occupation.  We even threw in our car (yes, the rickety Honda) for good measure so that "the Italians" - as we came to call the mystery family - could traverse the city easily.  I spoke with Patrizio, my exchange partner, only once -- on my cell phone while shopping at Target.  He huffed at me that Lake Como was over-rated and that Rome was too crowded (apparently only Tuscany was worth our while).  I asked about Venice.  He grudgingly acknowledged that the kids might enjoy "all of the water" and, since we were flying to Milan, I decided to make it a triangle -- by train to Milan to Florence to Venice and then back to Milan for our return flight.

Our friends thought we had lost our minds.  Amid protests that everything we owned would be stolen, our house vandalized and our car wrecked, we jumped on the plane to Milan and set off on our adventure.  The flights from Chicago to New York (2 hours) then from New York to Milan (7 hours) were fine as we had taken all three girls to France and Switzerland two summers before when they were 8, 6 and 5; however, taking the bus from the Milan airport to the train station (45 minutes) to board the train to Florence (2 hours) to find a cab to take us to Patrizio's city apartment so that he could give us his car (20 minutes) and then to drive the winding roads from Florence into Tuscany (30 minutes) was a bit of a push.  The last leg (from Florence to the hills of Tuscany) was crazy as the girls had completely gone into overdrive and were laughing in that hysterical way that lets you know a major meltdown (consisting most likely of hitting, pinching and screaming) was dangerously close.  I urged Roc to drive faster -- never mind the narrow, winding, roads with the cliffs dropping off the side.  Meanwhile, Patrizio (charming, enthusiastic and very Italian) insisted that after settling at his place in Tuscany we drive back to Florence to have dinner with him, so after a quick dip in the lovely pool of our beautiful Tuscan villa (Patrizio and his wife own a small hotel in which they have a fantastic apartment, which is where we stayed), we loaded the girls back into the car and headed back into town.  We were all a bit zombie-like, but that particular night was one of the best, mainly because Patrizio turned out to be such a welcoming and lovely person.  The girls dozed in their seats at the restaurant and we rolled back into the villa around midnight.  Whew.  Long day(s).

Stella in St. Mark's Square, Venice

I could fill many pages of this blog with stories about our stay in Italy, but suffice to say that we couldn't have been more delighted.  Tuscany was as gorgeous and historic as we had imagined.  Venice was magical, with its (somehow) romantic gondolas and the crazy pigeons in St. Mark's Square (Stella, Dr. Dolittle, was in heaven).  Milan felt just a bit like Chicago - big, noisy and crowded, but still overwhelmingly Italian.  We shopped for school clothes.

As for Patrizio, after welcoming us to Florence he left to meet his family at our house the following day and we communicated via text for the entirety of our trip.  His texts would come rapidfire:  "Headed to Oak Street Beach for swim! Using your bikes!" or "Dinner on Wells Street tonight."  One of my favorites regarded his upcoming plans to meet friends in the Hamptons (post-Chicago).  "Why do I want to go to the Hamptons?" he wrote incredulously, "I have the Mediterranean!" Another regarded his wife's frantic search for an iron (I don't own one) so that she could iron our bedsheets before their departure.

People sometimes ask me why we go to "all the trouble" of taking our kids so far away when, really, they would be just as happy playing on a Michigan beach. It's true - children do find joy in just about any new experience - but I think there's value in these cultural experiences -- even young as they are.  One of my favorite pictures from a trip to Paris a couple of years ago is of Lola sitting in the Louvre pouting on a bench (she's 6 years old).  She was miserable and it was definitely our fault.  Despite our plan to traverse the city via every Parisian park that we could find (there are a LOT!) - interrupted only by croissant and cappuccino breaks - we had uncharacteristically broken from the routine and decided to  squeeze in a few museum visits - the Louvre being one of them.  Of course Lola remembers nothing from that experience in "...the most boring museum in the world," but that's all right.  The picture is priceless.  What she does remember is going to the top of the Eiffel Tower at midnight with her dad.  And what her sisters remember is playing with French children whom they met in the awesome playground inside Luxembourg Gardens.

In Italy, as in other places we've visited, our kids played with children who spoke different languages and had foreign customs but who, surprisingly, were "just like us."  They laugh and cry and bleed just like us, too.  How miraculous to realize that "them" is not so different from "us", whatever country it may be.

On a more ethereal level,  we recently visited the spectacular home of John Ringling (of the Ringling Brothers' Circus) in Sarasota, Florida, which is clearly designed with Venetian architecture at its core. To our surprise, as soon as we walked through the first archway, 7-year old Stella commented casually, "It looks like Venice here," and then skipped down the flowered lane, while her surprised builder-dad and architect-grandpa looked on.

But....Italy was last summer.  This summer there's no European vacation in the works.  This year...while many friends are busy booking their kids into a myriad of amazing camps (it's Chicago, after all), we hope to soak up some much-needed downtime. It's been a hectic six months with the sale of our house (December 21 closing; that was awesome), a move to a rental home while we figure out what to do next, plus the usual frenetic pace that comes with three very active children and two working parents.  So....while we have some travel planned (those ants really have taken residence in my pants), what I'm really hoping for is a lazy summer spent down the street in the trees at Trebes Park, lots and lots of lemonade stands, and plenty of bike riding along Lake Michigan. Carpe diem!

The Seduction of Whole Foods

Those of you who know me accept that I'm a rather too-frequent shopper at Whole Foods Market.  This self-proclaimed "world's largest retailer of natural and organic foods, with stores throughout North America and the United Kingdom" beckons to me with its gleaming windows and cheerful green signage every time I drive near the intersection of North Avenue and Sheffield.  My husband feigns shock each month when he reviews the MasterCard bill where my addiction is clearly documented.  "I shop the European way!" I tell him grandly.  "You know, I buy fresh stuff every day.  Like if we lived in Paris or something."  He rolls his eyes to which I respond tartly, "I'm doing it for you guys.  You should thank me; it's not an easy job."  And then I storm off to secretly tune into Dancing with the Stars or something like that while he's left to struggle with my selfless shopping at the most expensive grocery store in America.

The truth is that Whole Foods makes me feel good.  When I go into one of the "competitors" I find myself worrying about the risk of pesticides on the produce, mercury in the fish, and the all-out lack of concern for using a separate plastic bag for every three items. At Whole Foods everybody smiles benevolently as they bustle about sniffing organic peaches and tasting samples of the best guacamole ever made.  My kids wander off to the "Trail Mix Bar" where they fill brown paper bags (recyclable, of course) with things like banana chips, organic granola and pumpkin seeds.  If it's been a long day, I might grab a glass of wine to sip from the Wine Bar (yes, they have a wine bar!) as I stroll around happily tossing things into my cart.  Sometimes they have live music in the bar section; or shoulder massages upstairs.  If it's a nice day, you might sit outside and eat lunch, watching the Chicago River flow by.

On the downside...there is a certain degree of judgment I can't help but acknowledge. "Mais, non!" you say?  "Mais, oui!"  I say.  When I stand in the checkout line I am careful to place my lettuce and apples and strawberries on top to hide my less impressive selections (ie, cookies, ice cream, pizza) lest the shoppers lined up behind me think me unworthy to shop at this mecca.  Oftentimes I'll see one person with a cart full, I repeat, a cart FULL, of wheatgrass, radishes, kamut and other unappealing items in the checkout and I'll think, "Come on!  You really eat that stuff??" Of course, this is my own inferiority raising its ugly head, but that's what can happen at Whole Foods if you're not careful.

Fashion can also be a little confusing at Whole Foods, too.  Many shoppers shuffle around in old jeans and torn t-shirts, only to load their many bags of groceries into a waiting Lexus SUV.  Add that to the rows of shiny new hybrids stacked in the primo "Hybrid Only" parking spots up front and your brain may begin to pulse, "Does not compute." After all, when the average cost of a bag of groceries is $50-$60, you ain't fooling nobody.  It reminds me of the scene in "The Kids are All Right" where Annette Bening totally loses her mind during dinner with friends as they ramble on and on about composting and the health benefits of acai (pronounced "ah-sah-ee").  "I just can't take it anymore!" she grumbles as she slugs down another glass of red wine.
  
A lot of my friends shop at Whole Foods, too, so hopefully I'm not making a bunch of frenemies -- I'm there all the time, after all.  I'll be the first to admit that this place just draws me in.  And although Roc is prone to proclaiming in exasperation (while peering into the refrigerator), "What?  Are we rationing normal food now?" I still can't shake the feeling that I am doing good by my family by making this place a part of my regular routine.  I reason that there is probably little else more important than what we feed our kids (and ourselves), so maybe the inordinant amount of time and money I spend there is somehow justified.  Either that, or I've been seduced by something a lot worse -- appearances.

Waiting for Spring in the Windy City

Another beautiful spring day in the Windy City.  Blustery, gray and cold on this 17th day of May, but hope lures us onward with a promise of warmer temperatures by Saturday.  I realized yesterday that we are a city full of amateur meteorologists when, while waiting in line at Whole Foods, I found myself in earnest discussion about the weather with three or four strangers.  It began innocently enough with the usual, "How about the weather?" comment from the hip, young, bohemian thing weighing my overpriced organic avocados, but morphed quickly into a full-on discussion as the bagger joined in, and then the man behind me, and then someone from across the aisle.  I think some poor soul up on the balcony may have been desperately trying to shout down some statistics that he had quickly accessed from his Iphone, but we were too far away and too engrossed in our own conversation to hear, so he no doubt went back to his independent Reiki studies.  Meanwhile, following several minutes of intense discussion my new comrades and myself agreed that if we can just make it till Saturday we may be able to tuck away our parkas, boots, and mittens until at least September 1st when Old Man Winter will surely come galloping back into town, shattering our short-lived summer bliss.

Yes, weather is a frequent topic, ie, water-cooler talk, when living in Chicago, but I've no doubt it builds character.  The whole city swelled with pride when President Obama remarked that upon moving to balmy Washington D.C. his children were astounded that their classmates didn't want to go outside in 30-degree temperatures.  My three daughters (and basically, all the children I know) are sent packing into temperatures well below 0 on a routine basis.  We'd all go mad if they stayed indoors.  And besides, there is a (misguided) demented pride that goes along with surviving in this climate.  My friends in California routinely comment on the lovely "perfect" weather they are having in stealthy, "oh, did I say that?" ways, but I generally don't take the bait.

Recently my sister-in-law, who is fortunate enough to live in Malibu, remarked that she could see whales passing by from her living room window.  This information could have sent me into a funk as we struggle through yet another cold, unpredictable Chicago spring but, instead, as I looked out to my sad little patio with its wilted flowers (planted too soon, as I optimistically do every year), her comment reminded me that perhaps now is a good time to call Herb, the Rat Man, again.  The weather will be turning soon, most likely, and the little critters will be on the move.