So you think you’re a hepcat? You can’t touch the cool of these guys in Provence.
They own the town. You will be tolerated. . .or possibly ignored altogether.
We tried to talk to this guy (loved his beautiful racoon tail!), but he could care less about befriending us. (He was French, he was a cat, we were clearly below him.)
And we fared no better with his neighbor:
I am a cat, not a doorstop.
But we did run across a few cats who weren’t too cool to have a little fun:
I wrote, but never published, the following post a few weeks ago. My final German class has now wrapped, and my time in Germany is slipping through my fingers at an alarming rate. I’m still a thousand miles off the shores of fluency, but I am still bouyed by a sort of wonder at the language. Das ist mein Schicksal; this is my lot.
Call me Yoda.
I am not wise; I am not green; I am not cute and pointy-eared; I am not short.
But language I do speak, in foreign and fitful patterns I do. German is like that– its subjects and verbs bounce around depending on meaning, subordination, etc. It sounds cute when Yoda does it. And I actually find it enchanting when German does it– infuriating, but enchanting. But this doesn’t help my plight in language class.
We are rapidly moving into our final weeks here in Germany, and I’m still attending German class . . . but not flourishing. I will make my excuses up front. Let’s start with my teacher. (She is very nice, but just ill matched to my learning style)
I’m back with my original teacher who is all about book work and learning all declensions, conjugations, variations, grammaticalizations . . . which is not a real thing, but you get the picture. I’m stuck back in class with the engineers and their precision-cut cogs of language (if you have no idea what I’m talking about, you are more sane than me look back at my past blog post–here). This class doesn’t really suit the way I learn, but I’m hanging in there, most days. (I have been known to play hooky a little.)
Still, the truth is that I am languishing horribly.
I like the word “languish,” it’s kind of visual for me. I see a boat stuck on a windless part of the sea, which of course is just a few days away from disaster and decay . . .but let’s say the wind eventually picks up, and disaster is averted (happier story). So, anyway, “languish” means “to lose or lack vitality, to grow weak or feeble.” And this is me in German class right now, but it occurs to me that the word “languish” sounds like the word “language” if spoken by a drunk person. This somehow makes me feel better. Like the word was specifically invented for my situation–as if it’s a natural thing to languish in a language when one is somehow lacking in mental power, for whatever reason. A reason like stress brought on by an impending move.
Or like sitting in a book-learning class with my head down in a page, when I can only absorb words by speaking and hearing and bandying them about like a game. It’s a messy, garbled way to learn, but I’m a messy, garbled person.
I like language– I bloomin’ love language, honestly– but not because of its precision bits. I love it for the most idiotic, but sonorous, reasons– like the fact that “languish” sounds like a drunkard saying “language.” That makes me happy.
And language makes me happy.
But today I sat in German class, having missed a few classes (for various reasons: some good, some bad, some worse). I was lost. And the verbs and nouns were jumping all over the place in sentences–like fleas on a dog’s back–for reasons I couldn’t quite understand. But I liked it. It made me laugh.
So there I was, some of my classmates scratching their heads and trying earnestly to grapple with the language, others following dutifully and expertly along, and me–the village idiot–just thinking how cool these slippery constructions were, although I understood them not one bit.
And then, at the end of class, came the best moment, the icing on the cake. My teacher brandished her eraser and said, “I vill vipe die blackboard.”
My ears were in heaven! While everyone else noted the homework and closed their books, I struggled to stifle my giggles. The word-fleas jumped, the teacher “viped avay” at the board, and I just laughed.
Ah, Cambridge. Two weeks ago, I was there. This week, I wish I was still there.
A few days ago, my corner of Germany was a mess. Rain/snow/hail falling in scissor patterns (like the wind was blowing two directions at once), followed by a more languid thunder storm (minus the storm, because at that point the precipitation mostly left and only the thunder came swaggering through). It was absolutely infuriating weather to have at the end of April. . . and with the pollen full out and everyone’s eyes swollen to the size of grapefruits. Mother Nature is beating us senseless here!
So I’m meditating this week to keep my wits about me. I’m closing my itchy eyes and thinking back to the bright evening we spent punting on the Cam in Cambridge, when the world was beautiful and spring was a given.
A book in the window of G. David Bookseller, St. Edward’s Passage, Cambridge
If “punting on the Cam” is a phrase that leaves you scratching your head, not to worry. It has that effect on many people. The Cam is the river that runs through Cambridge, and punt boats are traditional flat bottomed (square and stodgy looking) boats. The “punter” is the unlucky bloke who stands at the back of the boat and both steers and propels the small vessel with a long pole.
It looks easy enough, but I’m told it’s a little tricky and tiring for beginners. Conventional wisdom in Cambridge: if you live there, take the time to learn to punt and then enjoy self-hire boats at your liesure; if you’re a tourist, pay the boatman and enjoy the ride. Most of the punting guides will offer their “puntees” a bit of history and Cambridge trivia along with the beautiful ride.
Punting under the Bridge of Sighs at St. Johns College, Cambridge UChurch spires, red phone booths, and tartan blankets– very British.
We did our punting in the early evening. It was still bright, but it was a weeknight and campus was mostly quiet along the backs by the river. The air was growing crisp, to the point that our punter had to lend my son a blanket while we strolled around the block and waited for him to prepare our boat.
Pretty soon, we were afloat and learning about the many colleges that make up Cambridge University, ohhhing and ahhhing at the fabulous architecture, and occasionally being heckled by beer swilling students on the banks–which, as long as it’s done in lovely British accents, still sounds pretty posh to Americans. (It’s embarassing, but true–it hardly matters whether a Brit is performing a Shakespearean sonnet, reading from the phone book, or berating us, we Americans will swoon regardless.)
Under another bridge we go. (Still looking at St. John’s College, I think.)
Cambridge University is made up of 31 colleges, many of which have backs along the River Cam. Each college has its own architectural character, and even modern buildings (usually dormatories) occasionally pop up next to Tudor arches and ruddy red brick.
Our punt ride lasted just under an hour, and that was perfect– no time to get fidgety, plenty of time to be lulled into a serene trance on the tranquil river, to soak up a little history, to nibble at the edges of tales of Kings, Queens, scholars, actors, and socialites. As the sun began to fall over Cambridge and a sliver of moon showed itself in the sky, our punt, having come to the halfway point of our journey, turned itself around and we retraced our steps. This slow boat ride home offered us the chance to see the backs once again, from another angle, in another light. . . it seemed fitting in a place like this, where so much history has turned and turned again, and the water keeps dreamily floating its passengers on by.
You’re likely to find lots of photos of the when and where–the seasons and the sights–in my blogposts, but less of the who. My kids don’t like to be plastered across the internet, and I’m okay with that, so I don’t offer many photos of traveling companions.
Sometimes that seems radically at odds with what my blog is all about. Nobody would ever mistake this blog for a travel guide or a treatise on “how to travel.” More often than not, it’s all about “the feels” for me. Did I laugh, did I cry, was I horrified or amused, or surprised or underwhelmed, etc, etc.
But “the feels” and the way they linger in our travels are just as much about our traveling companions as about where we went, what we saw or did. Right? No journey is just about the road you travel, the views you stop to marvel. They are just as much about the companions we travel with. It’s a simple thought, and it should be a simple post to write.
It’s anything but.
Ollie and Bebe– the dynamic duo.
Some months ago, our most loyal and loving traveling companion passed away, and I’d like to honor her in this blogspace.
Her name was Bebe, and she was a very bright light in our lives. She passed away at 15 years old, and she loved every moment oflife right up until the end.
Yes, it’s unbelievable!
She was a rescue dog who came into our lives when my daughter was just a toddler. Bebe was so full of love and personality– from the moment you met her it was clear that she was one of a kind. Even her questionable breeding made her stand out: she was a Mini Dachshund/Black Lab mix. Just let that sink in for a minute.
We used to call her our “pocket lab” — a 20 pound version of those gentle giants. She had no idea that she was tiny. In true Lab character, she chased every frisbee you threw, and (if you threw them low enough) she caught most of them expertly. Dragging them back to you was a little harder, as some frisbees were taller than she was. But she was young, eager, and very athletic . . . and we quickly discovered soft, flexible frisbees (easier to drag, so problem solved!).
Bebe was the first to kiss away your tears, the fastest to steal your breakfast if you weren’t vigilant (which we quickly learned to be), and the most eager traveler, always with her nose to the ground and leading the charge. On a trip to Rothenburg ob der Tauber (Bavaria), she sat at attention for a rickshaw ride and, I believe, enjoyed the experience more than our kids did.
It was inconceivable to us that she would ever not be in our lives and our travels.
But there is no life without death, and the unbridled joy of sharing life with a pet does exact the steep price of grief when they are gone. Unquestionably a price worth paying.
Bebe changed our family is so many ways, and all for the better. How did she change our travels? When she couldn’t join us on the travels, she gave us a compelling reason to come back home when the trip was done– instead of grumbling that our trip was over, we cheered to see our pup again. When she did join us, she reminded us to venture down each alleyway of a new town–and sometimes we’d find something unexpected and wonderful. She reminded us to run full speed ahead when there was something interesting in front of us. She reminded us to roll down the window and let the breeze greet us as we cruised into a new town, to stop in the parks and sun ourselves in the green grass, and to turn all of our senses over to a new place. If we were in the French countryside and grumbling that there was no wifi to check our messages, she’d drag us out for a walk, or stick her nose in the air to say “Do you smell that? There’s lavender, sunshine, and fresh baked bread– get up and let’s get moving.” And she’d be right, every time.
There was never any lack of joy or openness to new adventures with Bebe– she was our better natures in every way. We miss her terribly, but she taught us well. And she left us her trusty sidekick Ollie to continue the lessons.
Have dog, will travel. This is our motto.
I’ll leave you with photos of just a few of my traveling companions, past and present.
With baby in Zeugma, banks of the Euphrates in 2000 (just a week before the town was flooded by a new dam). Interesting place–see links below if you want to learn more.With kids in Lindesfarne, Northumberland, UKWith pups in Bremen, Germany 2014
Easy riders, in the Yucatan Penninsula 1988With our first pup, Teak, in Turkey. 1998
Chichen Itza, Mexico
Turkey, 1998 or 99
1998 or 99 –our neighbors, in a Byzantine era cave church in the Ilhara Valley, near Guzelyurt, TurkeyCousins in Edinburgh, at Greyfriar’s Bobby Memorial ,2007 or 2008Bashful travel companions, Salzburg 2015. My son came prepared to erase his identify from any photographic evidence–at 13 years old, he’s already a man of mystery.
*To read up on Zeugma–which I should get around to blogging about some day, it’s a fascinating place– check out these links
My husband and I just celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary. By anyone’s standards, 24 years is a good chunk of change. It’s been two decades of perpetual motion, so it’s no wonder that I find myself reflecting on it this week in a blog named “Travels and Tomes.”
For all of the enthusiasm I have for the next few decades together, and all of the certainty that they will involve “settling down” soon, I look back over our past adventures and our many homes and travels and I think what a long, strange, and utterly remarkable trip it’s been.
Here’s the two cent version of that trip.
CONNECTICUT: This predates the 24–it’s where we met in school. Spring and autumn in New England were glorious; winter was long but happily punctuated by sledding on cafeteria trays. We hung out in coffee houses, bought cheap theater tickets at the Rep, frequented the Brew and View pub in the next town, and made the occasional trip via commuter train into NYC (where we splurged for a Broadway show once or twice, but usually used our pocket change to visit the Met Museum or Museum of Modern Art, or stroll Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas). We drove out to Cape Cod. It was a great start, tinged with a little wanderlust.
Our next stop was CHICAGO. These were our salad and frozen pizza days. We lived in three different apartments over 3 years and each one smacked of “Barefoot in the Park” in its own way. (Great play, and great movie with Redford and Fonda, if you haven’t seen it.) The first was at a fine address in the Gold Coast, but it was, literally, a closet. Literally. It was a temporary do.
The second was a coach house over a garage in the DePaul area. Charming. Until winter came, and we realized that there was no insulation. . . anywhere. Not in the walls, not in the roofing, and not under the floor. Cranking the heat did nothing but fill the apartment with gas fumes and heat the air in the middle of the room (as in, three feet up from the floor, three feet down from the ceiling, and three feet in from the walls). So when the owners raised rent, we went packing for warmer (and cheaper) digs.
Which we found in our third apartment, just north of Wrigley Field (home to the Chicago Cubs). We had a scant view of the top of Wrigley Field in the distance from our South-facing window, and an up close and personal view of a transient hotel across the street in our front windows…where we also had one bullet hole. During our stay, no more bullets flew, but our neighbors at the hotel regularly pulled their fire alarms at 3 a.m. (followed by a brigade of firetrucks), and on the rare occasion took firefighting into their own hands and threw flaming matresses out their windows. It was like having a front row seat at the theater each night.
In the winter this last apartment kept us warm, although ice crystals would obscure our view out the windows. In the summer, we would broil and spend our evenings walking through the grocery store and opening the doors on the freezer aisle, postponing the inevitable return home. Weekends found us wandering the boroughs of the city, eating in cafes and people watching–cheap entertainment, but always a good time. Each weekend, we’d walk a different neighborhood: German, Lebanese, Czech/Slovak, etc. We had no idea this would be good practice for the life of travels that was to come.
DC: A fast turn around — we lived there one year. Loved the city, hated the traffic. Great food, lots of culture, but far too much talk of politics. Some weekends, we’d storm the city for ethnic markets and museums, other weekends, we’d escape to places like Chesapeake, the Shenandoah river, or the Chincoteague shore–sand dunes, ocean tides, and wild horses. . . paradise.
TEXAS: Our Texas roundup:
Steak–never liked it until I lived here. A revelation.
Tex-Mex– again, no one does it like Texas.
Tumbleweed and Mesquite– lots and lots of tumbleweed and mesquite.
Our time in Texas wasn’t marked by a wanderlust or cultural broadening–it was more of “going deep” into a down home experience of that region. It was different, but it was delightful. And we left town with a secret recipe for salsa from our restaurateur friends Ted and Lena– a priceless gift.
TURKEY: Culture shock after moving from west Texas to the mediterranean coast of Turkey, but absolute love after that. If you’ve ever wanted to time travel, rural Turkey is the closest you’ll come. Hop on a mountain bike and take off through the fields of sheep and shepherds, or explore ruins of ancient cities on the coastline with only goats for company, and you’ll know what I mean. And the people of Turkey are the most hospitable people I have ever met.
In lots of ways, Turkey is where life “got real” for us. We hit incredible highs; we hit incredible lows. This is one way living abroad differs from simple travel–you’re not just there to see the sights, you are getting on with the business of living a life. In Turkey, we saw amazing sights: the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia and homes hollowed out of these natural structures; old frescoed cave churches, in disrepair, but still dotting the landscape in remarkable numbers. We also endured some tough times: a miscarriage and a strong earthquake that crippled much of the surrounding town and tumbled houses in the older section of the city (which was very old indeed), leaving people homeless. But life cycles back to joy, always: our daughter was born in our final six months there, and our family began its travels together. Have dog, have kid, will travel–that’s been our motto ever since.
Turkey: the memories are less fuzzy than the photos.
NORTH CAROLINA: Our return to my home state for 5 years didn’t involve a lot of travel, except to see grandparents in a nearby town. No, these were the days of total immersion in young parenthood. Puppies and children–we were dripping with them. Our daughter was six months old when we returned to NC, and our son was born a couple of years later. Both of our children were born at lightening speed. (I did make it to the hospital for my second, but didn’t make it into the hospital gown before he was born. I remember nurses RUNNING me down the hall on a gurney, shouting “don’t push, don’t push!”–but there comes a point when you really have no choice. . . just trust me on this one, men.) And so my husband insisted there would be no third child unless I was willing to move into the hospital at 8 months pregnant. He had no intention of delivering a baby on our kitchen floor. He had a point. No more babies. But we did adopt our sweet puppy Bebe in NC, and she was my furry baby for 15 years.
But, as I said, few travels of the suitcase variety. Loads of adventures in pumpkin patches and parks, on sleds and tricycles, etc. That’s how it goes with toddlers.
ENGLAND:
Oh, England. I love this place. For me, it combines new and exciting travels with the comfort of a culture that you understand intimately. It’s also the setting for so many childhood memories for my kids: dress up at the knights
Ripon Cathedral, view from the river.
school at Alnwick Castle (also home to many scenes from Harry Potter and Downton Abbey), being pulled onstage during theater productions of The Tempest and Robin Hood Tales, winning a contest for decorating the Queen’s Knickers (on Queen Elizabeth’s birthday), visiting with Santa at the local brewery . . . the list is too long. Every day that we walked into the market square of Ripon (pretty much every day!) was a treat for us. It was home, but it never seemed mundane.
As a home base, Yorkshire, England was a great jumping off point for Scotland, Ireland, France, Germany, Italy. We traveled by plane, we traveled by train, we traveled by car. We traveled. I had no blog then, so instead of posting travel notes and quips, I did send postcards from the road. That seems a little quaint and slow now, but there’s something solid and permanent about the postcard, isn’t there? It doesn’t say much, but it’s a tangible artifact of your travels . . .and it has the magical ability to fall out of a scrapbook decades from now and catch you by surprise with a flood of memories of a place and a time, of a holiday greatly enjoyed. I wonder if blogsites will age as well?
We’re traveling back to England very soon, and to some of our old stomping grounds in Yorkshire. It will be an absolute delight to walk the streets of Ripon, eat the scones of Ripon (!), and wander the dales of the surrounding countryside . . .but I think that it will be a little bittersweet too. We all have a soft spot for our old life there.
From this chilly scene in England
To a sunny backyard in Georgia
From England, we found ourselves venturing on to GEORGIA and ALABAMA. These states are next door neighbors, each with its own personality–please don’t take offense that I am lumping them together, but the truth is that this post is getting long-winded, so I’m picking up the pace. Do you know what struck me most dramatically about the South in our first weeks back? Tree frogs and cicadas! The sounds from the trees, especially at dusk each night, is fantastic. For me, it’s the sound of summertime and my childhood in North Carolina. About the time when you’d be out playing kick the can with the kids in the neighborhood, or with cousins at your grandmother’s house, the trees would come alive. You get used to the sound, you take it for granted, but once you’ve gone without for years, you really hear it again and it’s like a symphony. Give me a screened porch, a cold drink, a hot day, and tree frogs at dusk, and I am a happy girl.
And now we are wrapping up our sojourn in GERMANY. Time has flown way too quickly. There is no sense in listing out our recent travels here–you’ve seen many of them posted in this blogspace, and it will take me the next year or more to continue catching you up on the places, people, language struggles, and food (and how!), but I’ll do my best.
If these posts won’t have that magical ability to slip, pop, or leap out from a scrapbook at me in my dotage, reminding me of continents I traveled and tales I told, they do have another astonishing talent–sharing my thoughts and travels far and wide with friends I rarely see, and even some new friends I’ve never met. It’s like telling tales around a campfire that is surrounded with so many people–some out on the dark edges, beyond the glow, beyond my ability to know who is even out there.
This is the place where any self-respecting postcard would say “Wish You Were Here!” but it feels to me like you are.
Thanks for reading, and, if it’s not too much to ask, how about raising a glass for my husband and me– to another 24 years of adventures, big and small.
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 