Wanderlust

Lessons from a Duck

2013-08-22T19:58:00.001+02:00

When I was about 2 my grandparents gave me a little yellow duckling for Easter. I have no idea where they got it or why they decided I needed a pet duck as an Easter gift, but they did. Somewhere in our family archives there exists an 8mm film of me toddling down the brick path from our house, picking up this little yellow chick in my chubby little toddler hands. It is cute if I do say so myself. My cousins were visiting and I was quite enamored with my cousin so I named the duck after him, Patrick. When Patrick the Duck matured and began laying eggs his name was changed to Patty. I only ever remember her being called Patty but of course I know the story, it’s family lore.

I suppose Patty lived an interesting suburban life for a duck. She had the reign of our fenced backyard amid the swing set and constant movement of children in and out the gate. I remember my sisters trying to catch her and put her on a swing or holding her still for me to occasionally pet her. Patty didn’t seem appreciative of their effort but I was. She was not a cuddly pet by any means nor did she show much interest in me at all. She mostly tried to steer clear of us and laid her eggs under the shed. We always gave the eggs to my grandfather who ate them. At that time, the idea of eating something from the underside of my duck did not appeal to me in the least. But looking back now, I don’t know why we didn’t just eat them ourselves. My mother easily could have slipped them in the egg carton and we’d never have been the wiser.

When my grandparents acquired my Patty they also acquired their own duckling and kept it in their back yard. Their duck was named Daffy. My grandfather's name was Donald so that name was certainly out. Much to his chagrin Pop Pop’s duck was male and never laid an egg. I think that was the ultimate purpose for his duck. Daffy’s existence may not have been as pleasant as Patty’s. He was kept in a pen since my grandparents didn’t have a fence all the way round their yard. To me, Daffy didn’t seem like a pet without the freedom to roam his domain. I can remember my cousins Ronnie and Heather and I sticking the tips of our sneaker-clad feet through the fencing to annoy Daffy. He would nip angrily at our toes and we would all laugh and run away. The grownups never knew.

Back at my house Patty reigned free. We kept her food in the shed. The shed was red on the outside, dark on the inside and always smelled of gasoline and cut grass. I loved to look through the mysterious things on the shelves that I am sure at some point had a purpose but seemed to have outlived their usefulness. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go in there or touch anything but I did anyway. I especially loved the oilcan. It looked just like the one they used in the Wizard of Oz. Sometimes we snuck it out into the yard and I pretended I was the tin man frozen in time. I think there is a part of each of us that is always frozen in time. The point in our lives where everything was simple and your biggest decision of the day was peanut butter and jelly or bologna and cheese for lunch

Well, one day, when I was five, the boy next door and I where going to play “Speed Racer” on our big wheels like we did most afternoons. I couldn’t find mine. It was not on the front porch or the in the driveway. It was not supposed to be in either of those places anyway, but I of course I knew that it could be. Next, I thought I’d look in the backyard. Down towards the end of the yard was a “big pile of white”. Since a five year old is easily distracted I ran down the yard to investigate.

It was Patty. She was mangled and I can clearly remember her head lying on its side with her eyes closed. Some hideous creature of the backyard had eaten her! I ran to my parent’s room. They were getting dressed to go somewhere special. I remember sitting on the edge of the bed crying and my father, who didn’t know what what to do, curtly said “what are you crying for you never fed it anyway”. He didn’t handle tears very well.

I never knew what happened to her after that. Who cleared up the remains, what did they do with her? There was no ceremonial burial or little marker in the yard to serve as reminder of her existence. She is just an anecdote in my memory. So, what did I learn from having a pet duck? I really couldn’t tell you other than tears obviously made my father uncomfortable. I know it’s a strange insight for a five year old but I could see he really didn’t know how to handle the situation. In a way I felt bad for him. Truth was, I was crying more out of guilt than anything. I felt guilty I didn’t know more about her, that I hadn’t actually made her my “friend”. I’m sure ducks must have a personality in there somewhere. Maybe it was just a gentle way for life to begin teaching me eventually everything will pass through this life so I must appreciate it.

I’d love to tell you that because of this I have never taken a pet or person for granted but that’s not true. Now, as an adult, I try never to do that but Patty the Duck wasn’t the one to teach me that lesson. Like most people that lesson is hard learned through mistakes we make. Maybe it’s as simple as having a pet as a child brings experiences that turn into memories that linger in your psyche and become part of who you are. Memories of good times spent with siblings and cousins and people we love our whole lives because they were part of that simple period that was full of innocence. Memories of a father who doesn’t like his little girl to be sad but doesn’t know how to help her so instead he puts up a stony front. Funny how every time I see a white duck it triggers memories of my grandparents’ kitchen and my grandfather sitting in his screened porch dozing in a chair, memories of my sweet cousins and I laughing and running. The pets may be long gone and more importantly some of the loved ones as well but the memories linger frozen in time for us to spend as much time with as we like. Those memories I will always cherish.

The Mile High Club

2012-12-02T12:50:00.000+01:00

Recently, while traveling with my husband, I was flipping through the inflight magazine…..what did you think I was gonna say? I did a double take when I thought I saw an advertisement for a Mile High Club. It was actually an ad for the airline’s frequent flyer club encouraging “high mileage”. But it was an amusing mistake nonetheless. Then my mind began to wander, as it often does when left unattended.

Unless you are one of the superrich who travels in your own private jet, what is the appeal? Slip into the head, which is barely big enough for one adult let alone two, and make whoopee over the toilet. Yeah, that’s hot. There's really nothing sexy about being pressed up against the flusher while listening to the flight attendants clang the food carts into motion. Or maybe you could have a semi discreet romp next to some guy squeezed into the seat next you who smells like sausage. Now there’s a romantic encounter for the ages.

Then I took it further….no not like that, like this: What if a good marketing firm convinced an airline that it’s a good idea to create an actual “Mile High Club” to increase their sales and promote loyalty in customers? We must be innovative in these trying economic times right? So here's my pitch.

Happy Ending Airlines invites you join the Mile High Club

For the LOVE of flying

· We provide private Nap Lounges for couples to enjoy romantic encounters during all our flights over 5 hours then enjoy a complimentary bottle of sparkling cider.

· Card Carrying Club members receive free use of in flight nap lounges.

· Get the High Miler credit card with a $25,000 limit with your first “encounter” and earn double miles for each flight with an encounter. (Annual fee of $200 covers airliner cleaning services)

Whenever a couple exits the Nap Lounge the flight crew applaud like the TGI Friday’s wait staff on a birthday. Couples receive the official High Miler Monthly Newsletter with great information such as:

Welcome New Club Members! Jane and Bob McEarlane from Tacoma, WA who joined the Happy Endings Mile High Club at 35,000 ft. over Boise, Id on their recent trip to Florida. We’re so proud of you and wish you much success on your return flight!

There could be a High Milers Ranking list each month.

The Smiths - 3 times at 32,000 and 1 at 36,000

The Bodnars - 2^nd time at 30,000ft over the Atlantic Ocean

And of course there would have to be an annual Awards Gala on the anniversary of the Wright Brothers first flight. Dressed in finery the couple reaching the most annual Mile High Miles for the year will receiving a mirrored Nap Lounge trophy and voucher for a round trip fares to the city of their choice.

This could really work. I think I’ll begin contacting airlines today. It will be the marketing innovation of the century!

She Was Not a Gypsy

2012-06-11T19:59:00.000+02:00

The other day we were loading groceries into the car at a large hypermarket and were approached by a young woman asking for something. This is not an unusual occurrence in any big city. Here in Warsaw they are usually dark featured Roma wearing phony pathetic looks. Gypsies. As soon as you make it known you won’t give them money they drop the sad act until they see some other poor sap to work. We’ve seen the same couple with the same baby in a carrier for the 2 years we’ve been here. Amazing how a sleeping infant never moves or even grows in two years. I’ve even seen that same woman dressed as an old woman sitting on the sidewalk begging. I’m not naïve enough to think there are no economic or cultural conditions that have created this situation but I never give Gypsies money. However, this was different.

Because of the regular occurrence of Gypsies approaching us, my first instinct is to pretend I don’t speak any Polish and disengage as quickly as possible. I purposely use improper grammar and no accent at all. When the young woman approached I was reaching for the cart to return it to the corral. She said something about help in Polish and I responded with the equivalent of “she don’t speak Polish”. She asked if I spoke English and I looked at her. I tried to disengage but something in my heart melted. In broken English, she asked for help with money or “to feed”. No one ever asks for food….. I was confused but on autopilot. I pushed the cart away while my husband finished loading and closed the trunk. He didn’t look at her at all.

Something wasn’t right. Something felt very wrong. I tried to offer her the cart because it gives back a coin. I’ve had panhandlers, usually a drunk, ask me to return the cart so they could have the coin. I stopped myself. It felt like an empty gesture. This girl was maybe early 20’s with pretty blue eyes. She wasn’t dressed in the usual overplayed raggedy clothes and she didn’t have the overly pathetic look. I’ll never forget her eyes. There was desperation in them. There was fear in them. Her request didn’t feel rehearsed.

When I returned to the car she had moved on and was tentatively walking towards another person loading their car. My husband pulled the car away. I said” lets give her all the coins in my wallet”. (There is probably at least $10 worth of coins in my wallet at any given time. Cashiers don’t like to take the coins. Don’t ask my why.) He said “you know we’re not supposed to give them money.” We kept driving. I told him “I don’t think she’s a gypsy” but by then it was too late. We were already on our way.

He hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t seen her eyes, her desperation, her fear. Looking back, I know in my heart she was not a gypsy, not a scammer. I think she really needed help and we just closed our trunk full of food. She haunted me all night and still does. What kind of human beings are we? It rained all night and wondered where was she sleeping while I was cozy under my down comforter? Where was her family? What had happened to her that she had to resort to approaching strangers in a grocery store parking lot asking for something to eat. What if she were my daughter?

I send up a prayer that someone helped her or that I can find her again and connect her with the Volunteer Mission here in the city. My heart breaks for her and I will look for her everywhere I go now. Maybe I’m wrong but I don’t think so. From now on I will follow my gut and look into their eyes and I will know the difference.

The Greatest Story Ever Told....well sort of

2012-04-19T23:32:00.002+02:00

This past Easter we ate the Easter Bunny for dinner. Yes, we had rabbit and we all loved it especially my 13 year old foodie. We all got a chuckle out of the irony of rabbit for dinner. But rabbits aren’t really what Easter is about anyway. One of my favorite Easter stories happened 11 years ago and involves that same girl.

When we last lived in New Jersey we lived in an area that had a large population of retirement villages. If you’ve read my blog called “The Recovering Catholic” you know I was Catholic most of my life. We got married in a Catholic Church and I had both my daughters baptized there as well. But the Catholic Church in my neighborhood was full of blue hair and sleepy sermons that meant nothing to a young mom with toddlers. So I went looking something more meaningful where children we part of the program. I found Redeemer Lutheran Church. Everything seemed purposeful and I credit it to the pastor for sure. My girls were 2 ½ and 4 at the time and the Pastor was about the same age as I was and had young family of his own. But somehow he always made his sermons worth listening to for everyone from the retirees to families to singles and even to little girls.

My girls enjoyed going to Church with me and we went regularly. We also sometimes read stories from their children’s bible as well. But you never really know how much your little ones are taking in until they tell you and the younger one did just that. She was still too young to attend Sunday school with her older sister so she usually sat with me and colored or just sat in my lap. Easter Sunday she was sitting in my lap as usual, facing me and playing with my necklace. The Pastor began his sermon. I can remember the first few lines verbatim because of what happened next.

He began “On the third day Jesus rose again. But that means absolutely nothing if you don’t first realize that Jesus died.” Then he paused. The little girl in my lap looked up at me with big startled eyes and in the quiet of that pause she practically shouted

“Jesus DIED?”

Well everyone for several pews in front and back of us heard her and we all stifled a laugh at her beautiful honesty. All I could do was chuckle, give her a big hug and I try come up with an answer that would satisfy her. I really don’t remember what I said but whatever it was she accepted it and went back to playing with my necklace. But she was obviously listening. We may think we understand our children and often are able to predict their behavior but more often than not they will surprise us with the lucid thoughts and innocent perspective. I miss that sweet little girl but I am proud of the beautiful confident teenager she has become who is still not afraid to speak her mind.

Dental Confessions...

2012-03-16T18:44:00.001+01:00

I swear going to the dentist is like going to confession...."Forgive me father for I have sinned. It's been over 1 year since my last cleaning. I just didn't have the time nor do I floss every single day. For these things I am truly sorry." Fr. Dentist replies "I forgive you of your sins my child but here is your penance. I will take this Dremil tool and grind your teeth with it for 25 minutes whilst pulling your lips as far away from your face as I can. Now I will cover you teeth with this special gel. Then you must fast of all food and drink for 90 minutes and NO red wine or coffee today. AT ALL! This will cleanse your soul. Go in peace but come back in two weeks I found a filling we should replace. Amen"

My Article for Kontynent Warszawa

2012-02-23T17:48:00.002+01:00

This is the article that was published for Kontynent Warszawa. When published the article was translated into Polish. So I can't read most of my own article anymore. What a hoot! But here it is in English. If I can find the Polish version I'll post that too.

A recent statistic stated that there are approximately 6 million Americans living abroad. It’s difficult to say how many Americans reside in Warsaw permanently. But I have been told Americans are the largest expat group living in Poland and that most of those live in Warsaw. I know several areas in the U.S. that also have large Polish populations including my home state of New Jersey. So there is certainly some mutual attraction at work. There seems to be a moderately sized American community here, most of whom truly enjoy Warsaw. I have heard almost as many different avenues that brought Americans to Poland as I have met Americans living here. They come for corporate jobs, business opportunities, university studies, Diplomatic efforts or they may have even followed a love. Whatever brought them to Warsaw in the first place may not be what ultimately kept them here but either way most seem to have found a way to incorporate a little bit of America into their Polish lifestyle in order to carry on their traditions.

There are many different things I love about Warsaw. Some things make me feel quite at home as they resonate with other familiar places and traditions of my own country. One of my favorite things about Warsaw has to be its cathedrals. The fascinating thing about cathedrals is just how many stories are held within their walls. Poland’s history is at least a millennium long and has more stories to tell then we could count. My favorite cathedral in Warsaw is the Field Cathedral of the Polish Army because most of Poland’s stories are somehow reflected here. Whenever we have guests visiting from America I show them around Old Town and always include a stop at this cathedral.

I’ll never forget the first time I visited. I could read very little Polish but I immediately recognized the armor of the Winged Hussars hanging on the walls. I had read about them and had only ever pictured them in my imagination. A full cavalry brigade of Hussars coming across a plain with their feathers moaning in the wind must have been a fearful sight and sound. I shared the story with my children who later recognized that their new school’s mascot was a Hussar. When the Winged Hussars were at their most famous the United States of America had yet to be been formed. The length of Poland’s history by comparison seems unending.

Another feature of the cathedral that resonates with me is the chapel that is dedicated to the victims of the Katyn Massacre. Walking into the chapel with the names of murdered officers individually listed is humbling. The number 20,000 is just a number until you stand in the middle of all those names as they rise above your head and realize the enormity of the amount of lives lost. It reminds me of the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. A visitor to it walks down a sloping path beside a wall that lists the name of every American soldier who died in Vietnam. By the time you get to the middle of the wall it towers over you and it’s overwhelming to say the least.

Visiting the cathedrals of Warsaw I am also reminded of the Washington National Cathedral in Washington D.C. It too is a reflection of a country with an interesting history. This cathedral has hundreds of ornate adornments with some of the more amusing being the hippie gargoyle and a Darth Vader carving. These are not symbols of irreverence but a reflection of American history and events that shaped its modern culture. There are also centuries old stone pieces from two cathedrals in Europe to show the difference in age when compared to European cathedrals. But the feature I’ve always found the most interesting is the Space Window. It is a beautiful stained glass piece, which at its heart, it holds a piece of rock brought from the moon. Polish born Copernicus would be proud to know his discoveries have been advanced to the point of regular space travel.

The Washington National Cathedral is a traditional Gothic cathedral yet built in 20^th century America. As you know The Field Cathedral of the Polish Army, a centuries old cathedral, was destroyed at the end of WWII and carefully rebuilt. Both are reflections of peoples and cultures that are a mixture of old and new. Hundreds of years from now I am sure they will both continue to be visited and appreciated for the resilience they depict and the stories they preserve.

Remembering the stories of one’s national history is just one way to connect your host country and your home country. When you constantly live outside your comfort zone very simple things begin to evoke subtle feelings of nostalgia. Just hearing someone speaking American English can bring that feeling simply because I understood all the words they used. However, last spring when I traveled to Austria and Hungary I found myself relieved once we returned to Poland where I could at least communicate, albeit haltingly, and read the road signs. So it truly is relative.

Food is another great vehicle for bringing people together and learning about a culture. When I first arrived here in Poland it was my first time living overseas since college and I was excited. I wanted everything Polish. I had to eat where and what the Poles ate, drink what the Poles drank and speak like the Poles speak. That last one is still a work in progress. But after all this time I understand the need to find a little bit of home. If I get a hankering for some American food and atmosphere there is one particularly good place to visit in Warsaw; Jeff’s on the edge of Pole Mokotowskie. Jeff’s is an American style restaurant with the typical diner style décor and Americana signage. You can just take comfort in recognizing things you haven’t seen in a while and knowing that the staff will understand your English better than you can speak Polish. Last fall we had an American friend visit from Kazakhstan. There is very little in the way of an American escape for her there so we took her to Jeff’s for a burger and a feeling of home. It did the trick.

With the Holiday season upon us everyone in Warsaw are sharing traditional meals of the season. The American holiday of Thanksgiving passed just recently. It is an important holiday in the United States and most Americans I know here in Warsaw continue to celebrate it. It gives us a time to reflect on the good things in life while sharing a meal together. The centerpiece of the meal is a roasted turkey and the side dishes are made with items found fresh during Autumn. Even though some of the side dishes are regionally specific to America most items are also grown in Poland and can be found in local markets here in Warsaw. An American friend invited a number of us to her home for dinner. She and her husband took care of roasting the fresh local turkey and some of their favorite sides dishes and she asked us to each bring our favorite Thanksgiving dish. I brought a pumpkin pie which is enjoyed not only on Thanksgiving but Christmas as well. There are many varieties of pumpkins here in Poland so I was easily able to recreate this American favorite for my family and friends.

Many expats in Warsaw have also found that groups like American Friends of Warsaw (which is not just for Americans) and the PTO at the American School are great places to meet friends. These are not only places to meet people but great resources for information as well. They often organize social events and the AFW even hosts a Christmas party complete with a visit from an American Santa Claus. So all in all Americans living in Warsaw have been able to carve out their own pockets of Americana within their Polish lifestyle just as many immigrants to America, including our many Poles, have maintained their home country traditions.

Wesołych Świąt

Jackie Kennedy-Russo

Thanksgiving Pumpkin Pie

Cut up a small pumpkin, clean out the seeds and roast in oven on a baking sheet until soft all the way through. Cool pumpkin, clean pulp from the rind and puree in food processor. You can use all one kind of pumpkin or roast more than one kind and mix them together in equal parts. (cooked pumpkin can be frozen as well)

Prepare 9 inch pie crust. Line pie dish and set aside.

2 cups of the freshly pureed pumpkin

1 12 oz can of evaporated milk

2 eggs

¾ cup packed brown sugar or granulated brown sugar

2 teaspoons ground ginger

2 teaspoons freshly ground nutmeg

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground cloves

½ teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 400˚F. In a large bowl, with mixer at medium speed, beat pumpkin with the remaining ingredients until well mixed. Pour pie mixture into pie plate. Use a small pastry brush dipped in some milk to wet the edges of your crust to prevent over cooking it. Place pie in oven for approximately 40 minutes or until pie appears solid in texture all over. Remove from oven and cool 2 hours then chill 1 hour before serving. It’s great served with freshly whipped cream dust with a little fresh nutmeg on top. Serves 8 - 10

Georgia on My Mind....

2011-11-08T08:31:00.004+01:00

We recently spent a week in Georgia, The Republic of Georgia. My husband had a conference to attend. Sometimes his job takes him to places that I might not ever have seen had the opportunity not presented itself. So when opportunity knocked, I answered with a YES.

The Republic of Georgia is a mixture of old and older and some newly budding growth. Gaining independence not all that long ago and joining the EU looks to have been a good decision for forward progress. But right now its still like walking back in time and I am completely in love with yet another Georgia. In Tbilisi there are so many abandoned buildings you'd think people were leaving the city but there are plenty of people everywhere, and they are all wearing black. Every single one of them is dressed in black, all black. We stood out not by our language but by the fact we weren't wearing all black. They are striking people with black hair, olive skin and dark dark eyes.

Not many tourists go there but I'm sure it is only a matter of time until the rest of the world realizes what a fascinating place it is. The city is mostly buildings the color of desert adobe topped with tiled roofs. I think the color comes from years of communist neglect mixed with dust kicked up from the new construction and building restorations. Beyond the dust, the architecture reminded me of a cross between the Old West and New Orleans with wooden facades and balconies. Many homes have grapevines climbing across arbors and up walls. Everything was so beautiful in such an organic way it made me wish I was a painter so I could capture the texture and color of the buildings and the rolling hills of the mountain landscapes. Our first day, before the conference started, we all toured some of the oldest sights in and around the Tbilisi area which included two Orthodox Christian cathedrals each approximately 1000 years old. There was a Baptism going on in the first cathedral and a wedding at the second. These are not sterile tourist sites. Life is actively going on in and around them.

I have to admit that being the "guest" at a conference is a great way to travel. While my husband spent the next few days in a conference room I was enjoying tours of the city, the bath houses and a tasting at a cognac distillery all complete with private guides and escorts. Plus, our escorts were two 30 something Georgian men who were definitely easy on the eyes. Does traveling get any better than that? We went from visiting 1000 year old cathedral and castle to visiting the new National Cathedral which is less than 10 years old and has yet to have its frescoes painted. Many of the new buildings are built mainly of glass and just a few blocks away are the Turkish baths a mere millennium in age. I felt like I walked back in time but someone had left the time doorway open to allow the 21st century to begin changing the landscape.

When the conference was over we hopped a quick flight to Batumi on the Black Sea coast. It's a resort town with mountains ending at a rocky beach. There is a ferris wheel and a fantastic strolling walkway along the beach called The Boulevard built in 1934. The famous Singing Fountain on The Boulevard has a nightly light and water show choreographed to music. We stayed at the Intourist Palace Hotel just off The Boulevard. That particular hotel had originally been chosen for a meeting with President Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin (who was born in Georgia) at which they would determine areas of influence in Europe after the WWII. Notice I said "originally chosen". Had it remained chosen what you know as the Yalta Conference you would have known as the Batumi Conference. Batumi has long been a sea resort for Georgians and Russians but rarely for Americans so we were a novelty there too. No one really seemed to care that we were there but everyone still stared as we passed by. My sandy hair and blue eyes may have given away the fact I was not a local, or it might just have been that I was wearing a color other than black. I blend much better in Poland than I do in Georgia.

My favorite part of the trip had to be the Batumi Aquarium. It was probably the worst aquarium I've ever been in and I loved it. Growing up on the East Coast of the US and being from a somewhat aquatic family I've visited many aquariums including the biggies like the Baltimore Aquarium, the Georgian (state of) Aquarium, the New Jersey Aquarium and of course Sea World...you get the picture. These are big places with enormous tanks filled with fish from all over the world. Always their dolphin or other sea mammal shows get top billing. Batumi Aquarium had none of that flash. For the equivalent of about $2 we entered a room of fish tanks. It smelled, well....like a room of fish tanks. If you know the smell of the fish section at a pet store then you know what I'm talking about. The only light came from the cloudy sky outside the doors and the lights inside the tanks. All the tanks were cloudy and the largest population of fish were Japanese Koi and fancy goldfish. There was one tank with some kind of bottom feeder most likely related to a shark. This fish was about a meter and a half in a tank the was best suited for a meter long fish. He didn't seem to mind having to bend in order to swim back and forth in order to get our attention. And I do think he was trying to do just that.

There was a large tank in the middle of the room with a few steps down to a walkway that went all the way around. I assume that all the fish came from the Black Sea which was just a few hundred meters away. But we couldn't read any of the water logged paper descriptions tacked to the wall since they were all in Russian and slightly blurred anyway. The fish were unremarkable but the huge crabs were fun to watch. The lady who took our tickets at the entrance, who was of course dressed in black, came in the room about 10 minutes after we walked in and dropped some food in the top of the tank so we could watch the fish perk up and the crabs run around. Simple charm.

The Piece de' Resistance was the dolphin show. We had to pay extra for that; about $15 each. There were six or seven dolphins including one baby that was obviously just being trained. The baby didn't understand all the commands which was adorable. There was at least one other dolphin who didn't really feel like he needed to follow directions either and seemed to take great delight in frustrating his trainer. There were four trainers, all dark haired and wearing red AND black who gave it their all. None of the staff really had uniforms but the emcee did have on a bright blue polo shirt. But the best part were the "ushers". They had no uniforms either but were all wearing black. They stood on either side of the stadium seats dressed in black pants, black shirts, (all different of course) with their arms folded across their chests. It was like a mobster dolphin show. "You betta enjoy da dolphin show or else!" We clapped like trained seals when expected just in case. Eat your heart out Sea World. It will be a sad day when they complete the new state of the art aquarium planned for the empty space on the beach across the street. It may ultimately be fancy and flashy but I am sure it will loose some of the charm I loved.

All in all Georgia was one of the most fascinating places I've been in a long time. Its organic beauty untouched by tourism is the kind of experience I love. The national pride expressed by our hosts was evident and the food and wine was some of the finest in Europe. When friends heard I was going to Georgia they all told me to make sure I had some wine and it did not disappoint. The red was divine and the white was crisp and lively. If I ever have an opportunity to go back I will jump at it again. I would be interested to see what changes will be brought by the future. But I truly hope progress doesn't change its essence and I'm sure the Georgians would agree me on that.

What I remember...

2011-09-11T16:52:00.000+02:00

We all know where we were when it happened. It has become the event that defined our generation and of course changed how we all live. Here’s my story. It’s not particularly riveting or heroic. It’s just mine.

September 11, 2001 I was living in the Florida Keys. We had moved there from central New Jersey 3 months before. My girls were in school. One was in kindergarten and one was in preschool. I was working in my home office on some paperwork. I was in a direct sales business and had a deadline to reach. I had not turned the TV on all morning. Sometime between 9:30 and 10:00 my friend called from Alabama. She was frantic and astonished that I didn’t understand her panicked, frenzied ramblings. She kept saying “We’re under siege, we’re under siege!” Always the leveled headed person in an emergency I tried to assure her that couldn’t be the case and she must be misunderstanding something. This is the United States of America. How could some phantom attacker have the ability to make a direct strike on New York City of all places in broad daylight. I think it was as unfathomable to me as it was to most.

Well, of course, I was wrong, wasn’t I? Both towers had already been hit by then and all the news stations were continuously reporting the aftermath. My friend and I stayed on the phone together for a while, I think until her husband beeped through and they decided to meet up somewhere. They felt a strong need to be together. I don’t remember contacting my family or even talking with my husband until that night. Alone in my house, I watched replays of the planes crashing into the towers and the continuous news coverage. I watched as the towers melted to the ground. I couldn’t understand how that could even happen? Those towers were massive.

I don’t remember picking my youngest up from preschool but I must have because she did come home. I do remember when my kindergartner came home there was talk at the bus stop that the teachers had the kids watching the news and told them what was happening. I don’t know if that was true. My daughter’s teacher was a veteran kindergarten teacher and fully understood how to talk to the children in terms they could understand. She told them it was a sad day for America and something terrible happened in NYC. The rest she left up to us parents to handle as we saw fit. I remember that evening, my husband, who was in law enforcement, telling me he felt helpless as all his former colleagues in New Jersey were responding to the attacks. He wanted to be there with them.

I honestly don’t remember much else from that day. What I do remember is how life changed. At first, people were so fearful and confused. Even in Key West there was panic in the ensuing days. I heard people voicing fears that maybe they’d attack Key West next because of the Naval Air Station. It seemed like the country was holding its breath in anticipation of another immediate attack. At the same time they clung to each other and a unity grew among Americans that probably had not been present since WWII. I wonder where it is now.

I’m not sure I took in the gravity of the situation for a while. I had relatives, friends and customers in New Jersey but New York seemed far from there too. It wasn’t until about a week later I was continuing to work as usual and contacted a customer in New Jersey. I had forgotten that her husband was a Port Authority Police Officer. She told me they had lost some friends and one was still missing. She was in shock and her daily life was in turmoil. Then it began to hit me. Life was never going to be the same. I may not have been that unusual in my response though. This week I attended a 9/11 Memorial Ceremony here in Poland. One of the Polish speakers commented that when the attacks happened 10 years ago the Poles seemed more emotional than the Americans she knew here. The Americans seemed to want to move on right way and get back to work. I guess I was of that vein. I think the Poles, with their history of wars and struggles for national sovereignty, have more of a collective understanding of what this attack actually meant. It was so outside of our realm of experience that we Americans had a hard time processing it.

My kids don’t remember a pre 9/11 life. Bin Laden is dead now but al Qaida lives on. There will always be some fanatic to fill the last one’s shoes. A friend from our last NJ hometown posted a comment on Facebook wondering about the reality of the recent NYC car bomb threats. How real were they and should she be more vigilant being that she lived so close to NYC. I think we should always be vigilant now, no matter where we live. I have come to believe that the reality is there is always a threat and we should never take peace for granted. But, at the same time, I don’t want to live under a veil of fear either. That wouldn’t be living. I am a risk taker by nature but they are calculated risks and I don’t foolishly jeopardize my safety or that of my family. One of the most useful books I’ve ever read was “The Gift of Fear” by Gavin De Becker. He teaches us to follow our intuition and protect yourself as best you can while not shutting down your life. Being an expat, that book carries even more weight for me.

I actually have no insightful thoughts to add to the many that have been written over the last 10 years and especially the last few weeks. I live in the era to which I have been born. I have no choice and pining away for a time of societal innocence is wasted energy. I just know that I have worked hard to create a life with my husband and family filled with joy and laughter because life is short. We go on living but we do remember. We remember where we were, what we saw, how we felt, and we teach our children to be vigilant but to continue to live to honor those who didn’t have the chance.

The Recovering Catholic

2011-07-27T18:38:00.005+02:00

I am a Recovering Catholic. I would love to claim to have come up with the moniker myself however; I’d be lying if I did. A friend from Georgia calls herself that and I assumed the name as well. It amused me. She spent 12 years in Catholic Schools, I only was sentenced to serve 4. Of course, before that, I went to my Catechism classes every Saturday morning where I completed all my required sacraments until adulthood, Baptism, First Holy Communion and Confirmation. Those are the required sacraments for growing a Catholic. After that they are mostly voluntary until Last Rites. No one lives forever.

As a child, I really don’t remember going to church being much of a family affair. My siblings and I dutifully went to church, most of the time, while my parents slept in on Sundays. That didn’t make sense. In the summer we never went since we spent the weekends on our boat. That didn’t make sense. We attended as a family only on Christmas and Easter. That didn’t make sense. I remember one time in Florida during Easter the priest decorated the altar with Lilies and Poinsettias so that all those who only attended on Christmas and Easter would feel at home. I thought it was funny at the time but I was only 14. Looking back I think it was highly inappropriate and sarcastic. I am not above sarcasm and maybe this essay is sarcastic but I think if a priest wants you to feel welcome in his church sarcasm is not going to give you a warm fuzzy feeling.

In High School, while wearing my perfectly plaid and pressed uniform all I really saw was a set of rules we were “supposed” to follow, not a holy faith. We had, what appeared to be, a disengaged priest for a Principal who seemed more interested in his tennis game than his “flock”. And, unless you were part of the “cool” crowd he didn’t know your name. Most of the other clergy who taught there really didn’t seem to like kids at all. I remember two members of the clergy who I can honestly say were there for us kids and enjoyed us. One was a priest who made being a priest actually seem cool. The other was nun who was my English teacher. She had a warm heart everyone could see. She is now Principal of that same school and I couldn’t think of a more deserving woman. She truly was dedicated to her students. The rest I’m not so sure about.

My mother-in-law is a devout Catholic. I remember her telling me that as a child of 7 or 8 she would go to church alone because it was the only place where she felt safe and accepted. That’s certainly not my experience. I never found anything comforting there it was just something I was told to do. To me the church felt restricting yet mysterious. Our local church was built in the late 60’s and had that modern angular design typical of the times. It had three shortened isles and the main one had a column at the beginning. I didn’t even want to get married in it because I thought it was ugly and didn’t have a traditional center isle.

I remember the trip to Europe with my high school; after the first few days we began calling it the “ABC Tour”; Another Bloody Church Tour. We visited churches, cathedrals and cloisters in Switzerland, Italy and France and even heard the Easter Sunday blessing by Pope John Paul II from St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City. Maybe they were hoping one of us would have an epiphany and hear the “Call” but I think most of us went on to some other profession. However, that Easter Sunday was quite memorable for the church service we attended. It was a local church closest to our hotel in Rome. It was one of the most beautiful churches I’d ever seen. I remember wishing my corner church looked like that. Everything was warm vanilla colored marble and decorated with gold ethereal paintings. We didn’t understand a word the priest said because it was all in Italian but we knew when to do the sign of the cross and go to communion. Plus the nuns were watching so we behaved appropriately.

I joke and say that I am a Recovering Catholic. I am not really “recovering” from anything. I didn’t have any horribly traumatic experience that drove me away. I did get married in a Catholic Church and both my children were baptized in one as well. But that’s where it stopped. In 2000, I officially joined the Lutheran Church, which I called Catholic Lite. The Pastor was young and his sermons were always relevant. A few years later at a different Lutheran church I soured on Lutheranism too. I was asked to fill a post on the Church Council. Our task was to guide the church on its mission to build a new church building. Our Pastor just kept saying, “I don’t see how we can do it, we’ll never get this done”. I was shocked that our spiritual leader had so little faith. Faith is belief in what we can’t see and trusting that a way would be provided. He was leading them down his own path of faithless fearfulness. He did eventually leave and they did get their church built but for me that was end of organized religion all together. But that’s not to say I don’t believe in God and do not communicate with Him. In my mind He is still a He and I communicate with him regularly. There are many beliefs in other paths to God. I actually like the Hindu premise that accepts all paths to God. But I’m not a Hindu either and don’t really purport to be anything but a non-practicing Catholic girl from New Jersey.

I continue to visit the churches and cathedrals in all the European cities we visit. I love to visit them actually. They are amazing feats of architecture, often house priceless works of art and usually have some interesting story to tell. The quiet echoes of the devout move in a hush across the cold floors. The gilt always seems to shine from within and the burning candles curling prayers towards God always bring a peaceful feeing. I can’t help myself but to stick my fingers in the Holy Water and bless myself with the sign of the cross every time I enter a one. It’s a vestige of my youth that brings a feeling of communion with a quiet space in my heart. Maybe I’m really a recoverED non-practicing Catholic or maybe I'm really a heathen doomed to eternal damnation. We’ll just have to wait and see.

There Must Be Fireworks

2011-07-07T11:11:00.006+02:00

Do they have the 4^th of July in Ireland? Yes right between the 3^rd and the 5^th. I remember the first time I spent “The 4^th of July” in a foreign country. I was 13 and we spent the first two weeks of July in Ireland. It was the first time it occurred to me that “The 4^th of July” was not the actual name of our Independence Day holiday. In Ireland, and everywhere else, it’s just the date. I have a very vivid memory of that day. We were a large group in a small pub in the Maam Valley. This was 1980 before Ireland had such a large tourist industry, so our Irish American clan was somewhat of a novelty. Everyone wished us a happy holiday and there was even a round of God Bless America. But there were no fireworks. I felt like something was missing.

I love how it’s just called “The 4^th of July” and everyone knows what you are talking about. It’s usually a long weekend and the REAL kickoff of summer. All weekend we celebrate being American with all the kitch and casual lifestyle for which we are known. I just paged through my social media page and saw all my friends’ photos of pool parties, face paintings and beach BBQ’s complete with sack races and fireworks. There has to be fireworks. I love it! Pure Americana. There is a certain beauty in the faces of the children in those pictures that captures the freedom that’s represented by our country.

Our NJ town always had the traditional parade where we kids marched behind the VFW group with our ball teams and scout troops waving like A List celebrities. Back then I had no idea why those old men in faded uniforms were included. It was The 4^th of July not Veterans or Memorial Day. The day always ended at the Little League field with some fireworks. It wasn’t until I was a little older and understood that a fireworks display is a celebratory way to recall a victory in a war. If it weren’t for those old men and their predecessors there would be no parade in the first place.

My Dad had a big boat when I was growing up. He kept it on the Chesapeake. In 1976 we anchored in Baltimore Harbor, across from Ft. McHenry, to watch the fireworks. It was the Bi-centennial Year for America. We’d been our own nation for 200 years. In 1814 “The Star Spangled Banner” was written in that harbor while there were actual “bombs bursting in air”. So the fireworks were fully significant. I was 9 years old but I was acutely aware that if I can live to be 109 I will witness the “Tri-Centenial” when our country will turn 300. We have 65 more years to go.

One of my favorite years was 1986; The 100^th Anniversary of the Statue of Liberty. My father piloted our boat up the Hudson River for a vacation stopping at Kings Point Merchant Marine Academy, West Point Military Academy and culminated in anchoring in New York Harbor to watch the fireworks display celebrating Lady Liberty. I tried to capture some great photos of the fireworks and The Lady with my camera and tripod. They came out like they had been made with a Spirograph since the boat was constantly in gentle motion.

That weekend there were thousands of boats in the harbor. The tides in NY Harbor rip quickly and you could tell which were the inexperienced boaters and sailors. People would just pull up along side of any other boat and drop their anchors never giving a thought to the fact that when that tide shifts every boat around you will swing on their anchor lines. My father and brother-in-law stayed up all night to make sure we weren’t part of any mess. Around 5:00am I heard the big throaty engines roll to life. There was a group of boats knotted together drifting right toward us. We needed to move quickly. We’d already seen the fireworks, so it was okay to leave now.

This year I again spent “The 4^th of July” in a foreign country. However, this year we are part of an Embassy community so we still had “The 4^th of July”. It was an official function at the Chief of Mission Residence. The Star Spangled banner was sung mildly accented by Polish followed directly by the Polish National Anthem. There were hundreds of people. It was a lovely evening of American food and International colleagues. There were no sack races or face painting but there were some pretty good fireworks. My kids weren’t with us though and when my girls realized they didn’t get to see the fireworks they were disappointed. My 15 year old was adamant about doing something special next year. I guess she felt a little cheated, like something was missing. There is no way around it, for an American, there is no 4^th of July if you don’t see some fireworks.

Americans don't do naked very well

2011-07-01T11:14:00.003+02:00

Europeans really have a very different attitude towards nakedness than Americans do. I first noticed this at the gym. I’ve been a gym rat for many years and have never experienced the level of nakedness anywhere else than I have at the local gym I use here in Warsaw. Most European women think nothing of carrying on a conversation with you whilst standing totally nude or just walking around the whole locker room totally nude. You can tell us American girls right away. We’re the ones trying to change our clothes after a shower while still covered by the towel. Have you ever tried holding the towel up and putting your underwear on with out anyone catching a glimpse of your goods? It’s not easy but we can do it and usually the injury from the inevitable fall is minimal. European girls make their lives much simpler by just dropping the towel and dressing. I have to admit I envy the absence of self-consciousness. However, I’ve been treated to more than one of Babcia’s backsides in the air while she takes off her swimsuit. I could see all the way up to her middle name, if you know what I mean. Not something you really want an eye full of just before lunch.

What I’ve found really interesting though is the wearing of bras out in public. I'll give you a couple of examples. A friend and I were driving along side of a field on the outskirts of the city and there were about half a dozen older women working in the field wearing their shorts and only bras. It was a funny seen and we had a good chuckle. If only I’d had a camera ready. Then, a few weeks ago, my family and I were playing tennis. There was another family on the court next to us. It was a Mom, Dad, and two boys about 11 & 13 maybe. It was hot. Abnormally hot for early June in Warsaw, maybe 85 degrees. So the Mom rolled up her shirt to expose her belly. No big deal, right? About 5 minutes later she just took her shirt right off and proceeded to play tennis with her family in her capri pants and bra. They weren’t “tennis” people so they probably don’t know tennis etiquette usually calls for something a little different not to mention being in public normally does too. And finally, a friend told me a story of walking along a bike path and two women coming towards her looked as though they were wearing bikini tops. Once they got up close it was actually cross your heart stlye plain white bras. I know bikini tops actually reveal much more than a bra but I still find it odd. It is called UNDERwear. Funny how in the U.S. someone could be sited for indecent exposure for wearing just her bra in public but she can walk around in a bikini top and daisy dukes and that’s okay…….hummm. What’s wrong with that picture?

Maybe we Americans are really the odd ducks. Most American girls are willing to talk about anything and everything when we’re all together. I am often shocked by the level of openness women share in conversation even upon a first meeting. But see each other naked, The Horror, The Horror! We were raised in the age of “Barbie” and Playboy bunnies so of course we have body image issues. We all think we’re supposed to fit an image of perfection that continues to morph over time. I think the damage to our collective psyche is the true horror. I have a friend who is a personal trainer and, of course, very fit and beautiful to boot. She writes a fitness blog and speaks openly about struggling with her own body image right along with the rest of us. We shouldn’t treat ourselves so harshly but that’s easier said than done isn’t it?

I’ve heard so many American women complain about their hips or thighs or that little bump on their bellies that showed up after having kids. I go up and down in sizes at times and am always working to get to myself to that dream body I never seem to obtain. That is a lot of pressure to carry around on a daily basis. We are not Barbies. We are women with real bodies and real curves. There has been much debate over the years as to what Barbie would look like if she were actually human. For the most part her proportions are unattainable at best, unhealthy at worst and she might be over 7 feet tall. That is ideal? And the amount of money spent on plastic surgery and anti aging skin treatments in the U.S. is another horror. Ladies just take care of yourselves; mind, body and soul. I think we need to quit trying to stop aging but age gracefully instead. A woman who has taken good care of her health, her skin, and her heart is much more beautiful than the fat lipped frozen faces of the botox generation. And yes we can tell you've had work done.

Maybe we could all just meet in the middle somewhere. We American girls can thumb our noses at Barbie in appreciation of what our bodies can do. We will promise to stop obsessing about being seen naked if the European ladies can promise to just stop going bottoms up before lunch. We’ll just call it a draw on that whole bra thing.

Thank you to our WWII Vets

2011-05-18T22:35:00.000+02:00

Below is a link to a 2 minute video thanking our own US World War II Veterans.

http://media.causes.com/1060527?p_id=175378540

Auschwitz

2011-05-09T14:14:00.000+02:00

Gates of Auschwitz I

I don’t remember the first time I learned about the concentration camps of WWII but I do remember “The Diary of Anne Frank” having a profound effect on me. By the end I was so sad for the girl who felt like a friend. Her romantic spirit and undying faith in humanity was admirable. I always remember the last line went something to the effect that she still believed people were basically good at heart. It seemed such a waste of a beautiful person to have her life cut short. Her diary ended with her capture but of course her story didn’t end there. She spent time in concentration camps and sadly died just a few months before the liberation of Bergen-Belsen. It was hard to grasp that she was one of MILLIONS. Those huge numbers are hard to imagine until you begin visiting some of these camps.

We don’t know the horrors she saw but we do know the horrors endured by others in concentration and death camps many of which are here in Poland. I’d like to think she died with that hope in humanity still intact but we’ll never know. In my day they didn’t have us read detailed accounts of life in concentration camps. I suppose many had not even been written yet as survivors were still trying to cope with what had happened to them and rebuild their lives. Since that time many of the survivors felt it was time to tell their stories. I have read a number of them along with other personal accounts of wartime atrocities. I do believe it’s important for us to remember what happened along with how and why society allowed it.

I visited Auschwitz last month, twice actually, once with a friend and once with my family. Some questioned whether it would be too much for my 12 year old. I didn’t think it would be as this is life and life can be harsh. I will tell you though, if you plan to visit, know as much about happened there as possible. Having read so much about it, recently and while earning my degree in History, I knew what I’d be seeing. I think if I hadn’t known about the piles of shoes, luggage, eye glasses and human hair it could have been emotionally overwhelming. It was for many of the visitors there. So I made sure to let my kids know what they would see before they got there. Just seeing the huge display of human hair and knowing that it represented only a few thousand people puts a new reality on it.

You could die many ways in concentration camps. Many were gassed upon arrival but still thinking up to the very last minute that there was hope for them. They arrived with luggage and whatever valuables they still had expecting a new life somewhere, only to be deemed useless. The useless were old, sick, physically handicapped, young children, babies, pregnant women and anyone else who could not work in some capacity. They may not have even known they were about to die until the zyklon B gas was choking them. But the others chosen for slave labor had at least a small chance of making it out alive. Many died in the camps from starvation, disease, beatings, infraction of rules leading to punishment or hanging or firing squad. The list could go on but I think you get the picture. Most people lasted only a few weeks or months before it became too much for them. But those who survived are the ones who truly amaze me. After seeing the places and walking where they walked I can only imagine the will it would have taken to survive.

There are two parts to the museum which opened just two years after the war ended in 1945. Auschwitz I and Auschwitz II/Birkenau. They were part of a much larger compound of many camps covering a large area. Auschwitz I was originally an army barrack for the Polish Army years before. In the early spring of April it almost looked pleasant with trees blooming and warm breezes. However, there was no orchestra absurdly playing a march to keep prisoners in time as they marched off to labor in nearby coal mines, factories or fields. There were no armed guards with permission to shoot on the spot those attempting escape. The people walking around were not all wearing the same striped pajamas and not starving to death on the same meager food rations. Everyone who walks into the gas chamber now walks out again. The ovens for cremating the bodies are cold. There is no smell of burning flesh or human waste. The smoke stacks don’t spew smoke and ashes into the air. There are no moans or screams. But there is crying. Many walking through silently yet visibly cried for the lives lost. Each pair of eyeglasses represents a human being with friends, families, hopes and dreams, now gone. Each piece of luggage represents a belief of “resettlement.” Each stand of hair and sweet child’s braid represents the vulgarity of the Nazi’s use of human beings for raw materials. Each prayer shawl represents someone’s faith and hope for the future. Each shaving brush represented someone’s husband, father, grandfather, uncle or friend. My husband uses a shaving brush…… And the baby shoes…….. I am a mother…..All those families…gone. They are gone for the crime of existing. Such a horrific loss of humanity.

The second part of the tour takes you to Birkenau, It doesn’t even almost feel pleasant on a nice spring day. You can’t appreciate the size of Birkenau from pictures. The place is huge and stark and held thousands of people. There were plans to enlarge it as, well had the war not ended. At the back are the destroyed gas chambers. The Nazi’s tried to remove evidence of what they had done there. I am always fascinated by survivor stories. The harsh conditions and cruel treatment made it difficult to survive but survive about 200,000 did. I don’t think I would have been tough enough to survive very long there. The conditions there must have been beyond belief. When I saw those barracks made of just boards with very little heating I was amazed anyone survived malnourished in just their striped pajamas. Winter in Poland is so harsh. How they managed to survive the cold alone is astonishing. It gave me a new appreciation for those who did manage to survive and I will continue to read their stories as often as I can and encourage others as well. My next blog will be a list of those I’ve read so far. Some are not concentration camp survival stories but war stories worth reading.

So how do we as just regular people living an average western life prevent this from happening again? We educate our children. We take our 12 years olds and even younger to see places like this and explain it in terms they can understand. We teach them kindness and tolerance in a world where there often isn’t any. We teach them to stand up for themselves and others even when it is not easy. We don’t look the other way when someone is being mistreated. Others will not teach their children these same things. Others will still teach hate and prejudice but that does not mean we give up. We affect the world the ways we don’t always see. Our time here on earth has a ripple effect and will touch many lives. Maybe what I do today may not have an immediately evident effect of the outcome of a global situation but maybe the fact that I’ve chosen to see it, show my children and talk about it will affect someone else’s decision to act. We can only give our best to the world and hope that our best is enough. I may not be the one out protecting free society on the front lines but I know the are others out there and must continue to be there. I appreciate them for doing it. We do this because atrocities like this did not end in 1945. Other exterminations have taken place since then in Cambodia, Rwanda, Iraq and other places. So when you feel like we are the policemen of the world remember it is necessary. If no one steps in to stop brutal regimes they may show up at your door or your children’s doors. Otherwise, maybe Anne Frank was wrong and humans really aren’t good at heart. Something to think about isn’t it?

A Moral Compass

2011-03-24T09:10:00.000+01:00

When I was 11 years old I had not yet developed any leadership skills nor did I have much confidence. One day a new girl moved to town and joined our 5^th grade class. Our town was a very plain white bread homogeneous New Jersey suburb. Most of the kids were of either Irish or Italian descent starting from generations back. We were mostly Catholic and had been together since kindergarten. When a new kid came to school it was a big deal. This new girl was very outgoing, smart, pretty and much more “developed” than the rest of us girls. Therefore, the boys loved her too. Everyone wanted to be chosen by the new girl as her friend. She picked me. I went to her house a few times after school. We were friends and I thought she was cool.

Then there was the incident with Gisela. Gisela had moved to town a year or two before. She was from Portugal and had a weird name. She was so quiet she went largely unnoticed and that was probably on purpose. Well, New girl decided Gisela was a problem and needed to be put in her place. So after school one day New girl followed Gisela across the playground as she was leaving school. Since New girl was my friend I went with her. I didn’t have any idea why we were following Gisela. I remember New girl being mean to Gisela and threatening to beat her up for I don’t know what. I had never witnessed anything like that and it was kind of exciting. I stood next to New girl and said “yeah” “yeah” like I knew what I was doing. I never considered Gisela in any of this. I never thought to stop it because New girl wouldn’t think I was cool anymore. It didn’t really seem like a big deal when it happened and Gisela never made a fuss about it anyway. So…..so what right? How horrible.

Fortunately, Gisela did not keep quiet about the incident. She told the teacher the next day. My mother got a call from the teacher and we had to go in to meet with her and Gisela and her mother. Gisela’s mother didn’t speak any English and Gisela had to translate the whole meeting for her. I was removed from the Safety Patrol, with my mother’s blessing, because I “should have known better”. My mother was appalled by my behavior. She let me have it. How could I be so mean? The poor girl’s mother doesn’t even speak English. How could I treat someone like that? The girl was probably so scared. Why did I do that? That was not what I was like. She was right of course and I felt so ashamed of myself. Gisela had never done anything to me. There was no reason to go along with this. I am so grateful to my mother for setting my moral compass that day.

New girl and I remained “friendly” but our friendship pretty much ended there. She hated Gisela after that and didn’t seem to feel any remorse for threatening her. I couldn’t really understand why she was so mad at Gisela when New girl was the one who started the trouble and Gisela hadn’t done anything to her. I suppose the fact that she existed and was different made her an easy target for someone like New girl. There was trouble lurking under that pretty smile. But fortunately for Gisela, and for me, Gisela stood up for herself.

I always felt guilty about that day. I was constantly aware of her after that and was actually intrigued by her and her ability to speak 2 languages. I had never met anyone who didn’t speak ANY English like her mother. I thought everyone did. Like I said our plain white bread town didn’t have much diversity. We stayed away from each other. Having been part of that day there was no hope we’d ever become friends. I probably missed out.

I often think, what if my mother hadn’t set my moral compass that day? What if, when I got home, my mother made some racial slur and berated Gisela and her mother for not being able to speak English. What if my mother told me I was unfairly punished because I hadn’t done anything wrong. I would be a very different person. There are parents who would have reacted that way and unfortunately there still are. Whether it’s race, religion, social status or general oddities adults are just as unkind to others as children. Take a look around at the world and you will find wars fought over every one of these issues. It’s not really any different is it? Our moral compass is set for us at an early age by an incident or series of incidents where our actions are determined to be either right or wrong by someone whom we respect. After that it's up to us continue checking on it. What kind of moral compasses you setting? You’ll see it in those you influence.

This has obviously carried with me and influenced how I treat people. I of course am not perfect and have surely made other mistakes but none stick out in my memory as much as this. It even effected how I raise my own children. I have always made sure to teach them to think of others and treat them with kindness. Both of my girls have witnessed someone at their schools being picked on by other kids. In each situation is was a child who could easily be singled out for one reason or another. Both girls felt for the victims and made sure to always treat them kindly. Neither is afraid to speak up when she sees someone being mistreated or to at least offer a comforting word or gesture. Both of my girls purposely fly above the radar of the drama that can be so prevalent among teens. They see it’s petty and are often the voice of reason among their friends. I am proud of them. I certainly didn’t have that maturity and wisdom at their ages.

I guess I’ve been able to pay my lessons forward to ensure there are at least two girls in this world who are willing to do the right thing instead of the easy thing. Isn’t that what our job is as parents anyway? We teach our children the lessons of our lives so they can grow beyond us. But if Gisela ever does read this I’d like her to know I’m sorry. I had my moral compass firmly set that day to do the right thing and treat people with respect and dignity. I’d thank her for standing up for herself. I hope she’s been able to pass that on to someone in her life as well.

Incremental Change

2011-02-17T10:25:00.002+01:00

Exactly seven years ago I began working out 5 days a week with a personal trainer. He was part fitness trainer, part therapist, and part philosopher. We used to have many lengthy conversations in person and through emails about fitness and life in general and how they reflected each other. In a society where we are so used to instant gratification waiting for the long earned results was frustrating to say the least. He would always tell me to look for the incremental changes. I couldn’t always see them. My vision of myself was so skewed that I had a hard time seeing the muscular athletic body that was showing itself. Since then I continued my workouts but often without the same level of commitment and conscious focus as I did those months with my trainer. So several weeks ago I committed to myself that I would workout 5 days a week again instead of my then current 3. After many reps and hours of navigating through all the other gym rats I noticed, all on my own, an incremental change.

On the way home as I reflected on my incremental change I was reminded of that point in my life, 7 years ago, in its entirety. So much has changed since that time. Aside from reaching my fitness goal that year, it was not a stellar year for me. My business goals were not reached and my home life was strained by my husband’s long term assignment that took him overseas. I spent a lot of time reading and praying and hoping for the best. I knew I could not change all the things or people around me but I realized I could change me. That was the only thing over which I truly had control. So I changed the way I responded to people and, above all else, looked for incremental changes. And things did change. It was hard to see each change as it happened but because I had learned from my workouts to appreciate the smallest changes I was able to see them when they happened and understand that it truly was progress.

You cannot expect a relationship to change overnight, just as you can’t expect to lose that extra 10 pounds in a week. But you can expect small changes that add up over time. When I look back at the last 7 years I see leaps and bounds of change in the dynamics of my relationships and my attitudes. But it was slow, painstaking work with a persistence and belief that I was on the right track that took me there. I learned a long time ago not to try to control everything in my life. It was actually one of the most freeing things I ever did. That was one of those times when it took a tremendous amount of concentration not to try to control what was happening around me. In the middle of chaos we think control will give us calm. Then the realization hits that there are so many moving parts to the chaos and it is impossible to control it all. Panic could easily set it and frantic behavior could soon follow. Those of us who are controllers put a lot of pressure on ourselves to run everyone’s show and the truth is it is not something at which you can be successful. The only thing we can truly control is our own behaviors and reactions to events and people. It was important to learn to let the rest go.

If we consistently behave in a way that does not elicit the kind of response we want, we can be certain that continuing to behave that same way will not ever get us what we want. You know the definition of insanity is “continuing to do the same thing but expecting different results.” And you can’t just stop a behavior you must replace it with a new one. You have to find a new way to behave, incrementally. A perfect example is the spouse who harps on her mate because he never takes the trash out. When he finally does as she asked her flippant response is “it’s about time”. Why would he want to continue doing as she asked if it didn’t make her happy as she promised it would? A better response would be to just say “thank you” and hold her tongue, even if she truly feels she is right. It's not always important to right. An appreciated action could potentially beget another appreciated action. It’s the little changes that can bring about big results over time, incremental changes. But the change has to start with ourselves because we can't force them from anyone else. Also, we have to learn to recognize the results no matter how small. It’s when we take a minute from looking down the road wishing that desired end result would just be here that we are able to see those small things moving in the right direction.

Some goals can be reached with obvious results. For example if you put one brick with mortar on top of another in a long row you WILL build a wall. However, those intangible goals sometimes need a little more intuition to build a plan that will take you there. In our frenetic lifestyles it's so important to take time for yourself and really assess where you are going. Decide if it is where you want to go and figure out what needs to change to get you there. It is equally important that once you have devised a plan that you believe in with all your heart that you persist. Winston Churchill said “Never, Never Quit”. It is simple and the only certainty of your failure is if you do quit. As long as you are moving in the direction of your goals whether they are relationship, physical, health, financial or business goals you have not failed. You may have found ways that won’t take you there and you may have had set backs. You might even discover that you have to adjust your goals to certain realities of life. But you have not failed if you have not quit.

So these incremental changes that I see make it much easier to continue daily to stick to my chosen course of action. I get it. Finally I can see it and appreciate it all on my own. Progress in anything will always have to be measured incrementally.

In The Company of Women

2011-02-08T19:54:00.001+01:00

We woman all know there is a certain therapeutic value of just hanging with the girls for a few hours. A whole girls’ weekend or vacation together can refresh your soul like not much else. As I look over my life I’ve always managed to find some girls with whom to share “sisterhood”. You’ve probably heard the saying “people come into our lives for a reason, a season or a lifetime”. And as cliché as it sounds, it’s profoundly true. People come into our lives at different times for different reasons. They might teach us something or guide us through a difficult situation. They might be there just to share a certain phase of life like childhood, high school or a divorce. And then there are the ones who never leave your life even if they leave your regular company. We communicate with them regularly and will always do so. But no matter why or when they show up they figured importantly in your life at that time and hold a special place in your heart. With all of today’s social media it’s easier to continue contact with people or regain contact with people. It can be nice to reconnect with some people from past seasons of your life. Some you realize were better left in the past. So we once again disconnect.

When I was growing up there was only one other girl on my street of all boys. We talked about everything from which boy we liked and how unfair our parents could be, to grades, siblings and which new boy we liked. But most of the time it didn’t matter what we talked about as long as we were talking…together. Isn’t that all we really need; to just be together for a while. That first girlfriend and I thought we’d be the proverbial “best friends forever”. I have not seen or spoken to her in over 25 years. Our lives took drastically different paths once I graduated from college and began following my wanderlust. Life happens, doesn’t it? Our season together was over. However, I’m sure that if I had the opportunity to spend a few hours with her there would still be some connection that would allow us to share a bit of our lives once again. Once you’ve shared a bit of your soul with your girlfriends they carry it with them for the rest of their lives. And when you again have the opportunity to talk together you can rewarm that bit of your soul and savor the moment and the memory.

When it comes to my “lifetime girlfriends” I am as staunchly loyal to them as they are to me. I have one girlfriend from high school who would fit in that category. She has always been there for me in a crisis and for fun and I would do the same for her. In college I met several girlfriends who fit this category as well. These are the kind of friends you can go without talking to for ages and pick up right where you left off without judgment or guilt. That’s not to say there have not been bumps in the roads of these relationships. There were times we didn’t like each other much and sought out others. But we always returned to the friendship in person or spirit like our own magnetic north.

I spent 12 years in the female dominated business of direct sales. There was never a shortage of girl friend time in that world. For me it was “the meeting after the meeting” that was the best part. Another of my truest friends, who is so awesome, came from this place in my life. For those years I was fortunate enough to be able to combine a business with girlfriend time that even included regular travel together. Then there are my girlfriends from tennis. With our group “tennis” usually didn’t end when the court time was over. At least once a week we went to lunch that lasted for hours. We also had built in girls’ weekends when we would travel out of town for tournaments. In that group I met another sister whose soul is as full of wanderlust as my own.

Now I am in yet another new place in life and again I have found women with whom I share sisterhood. We call it wine night, but it’s not at all about the wine. It’s about spending time in the company of other women. It occurred to me that my life always seemed to have a system in place to facilitate these types of relationships for me until I moved here. So I have naturally sought them out and look forward to the new experiences these women will bring to my life. Although I have not been here long I know I have already found a few more soul sisters who will remain in my heart long after we have been sent off in different directions.

So if you’ve had a bad day, a fight with your man, (or woman if that’s your path) kids getting under your skin or you just need to vent about your boss? Then good girlfriends are what you need. Ones who will laugh with you until your sides ache, cry with you when your heart breaks and can be trusted to keep your venting to themselves. They may offer advice and you may offer advice. Some advice you will wisely take, some you will wisely ignore. They will support you and if they are really good girlfriends they will set you on the straight and narrow when you stray. Honestly, it doesn’t matter why we gather, just that we gather. The support is understood. So to my girlfriends all over the world, I raise my glass to you and rejoice in the sisterhood of knowing you.

What Home Looks Like

2011-01-30T11:01:00.000+01:00

I lived in the same house for the first 25 years of my life. Other than going away to college, the furthest I ever moved was across the hall of our suburban bi-level. So the first permanent move out of my childhood home was uncomfortable to say the least. I knew I was stepping into a new life with my soon to be husband and life would never be the same. Although it was what I really wanted, it scared me too. I still hadn’t figured out who I was. Was I someone's daughter, sister, friend, or wife? Could I be good at all of them? Was I good at any of them? I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. Yes, I know I was 25 and had a college degree but I was a procrastinator. All I knew was I we were going to get married and live happily ever after. I was naively looking for the fairy tale ending not realizing life was a marathon that was just beginning.

That was nearly 20 years ago and each move has taken me further and further from that place in time and space. I am now quite sure of who I am and I do not take it or anything else in my life for granted. We've worked hard to reach this place. To our family we’ve added 2 girls, a cat named Spot and an absentee dog. We just took our 8th move in 18 years of marriage. This one has taken us to Europe. Before we left, my girls and I took our annual road trip to NJ to spend some time visiting family and friends. Returning to what was once my childhood neighborhood and home is now a step out of a comfort zone rather than a step back into one. It’s not my home any more.

The subtle nuances of the street on which I grew up have changed. The houses look smaller than I remember. Some look exactly the same as though they’ve been hopelessly trapped in 1972. Some have grown and changed with time and some have grown shabby. In my memory they are all fresh and clean with the 12 year olds I knew living in them. Some of those houses now give life to new generations of some of the same families with new 12 years olds. This includes my childhood home. My sister lives in it with 3 generations of her family. They’ve made it their own home, the same yet different. And although it hasn’t left family hands I haven’t actually been there very often in the past 10 years. So it, too, looks different to me. It feels different. It smells different. My eyes haven’t had time to adjust to these differences so I look around for something familiar. I see my daughter's face, we smile and I feel at home.

As far as my neighborhood goes, as a child I didn’t know what kind of neighborhood it was other than it was mine and I kind of liked it. Now it is different. If I were moving there from some other destination I probably wouldn’t choose it. I don’t mean it is not a nice place with valuable people in it. It’s just not for me although it’s still part of me. It is where I grew my roots and first stretched my wings. The school up the street is where I learned the word wanderlust. The park at the end of street is where I had my first kiss.

I saw someone who lived a few houses down when I was growing up. He still lives there in the same house. He never left it. He still behaves like a hot-headed 15 year old boy. He too is hopelessly trapped in the 70’s. He, like many others, is in the same place doing the same thing and won't move on. You don’t have to move out but you should move on in life. When I visited certain, once familiar, places it felt a bit awkward. Not the adolescent feeling of being out of place kind of awkward but something much more subtle and elusive. There was no place for me. I have moved on.

I do know, however, that it is the change in my perspective of life that has changed the most. I suppose that awkwardness was always there and is one of the reasons I chose to wander. I could feel there was a part of me that needed exploring and I couldn’t do it there. I would have been like a potted plant that has become root bound, unable to grow to it’s full potential. I suppose I was more melancholy during this trip than usual. We were leaving for Poland shortly after our return to Georgia and I had, and still have, no idea when I will next visit. I know my perspective will change even more while I’m gone. It is one of those ever changing constants in my life.

In some ways leaving is harder now than it was the first time. It’s harder because I am aware of what I am missing and what I am taking away from my family. But like that first permanent move from my childhood home it really is what I want. It is where I can be completely myself. Since we began our nomadic way of life I’ve always told my girls that wherever the 4 of us are together, that is home. I truly am at complete peace no matter where I live as long as it is with my husband and my two girls. And someday I’ll look back and I’ll have to smile to myself because those two girls will probably be off changing their own perspectives somewhere. That is the risk I take in sharing my wanderlust with them. But for now we journey together and once in a while I will look back and always appreciate being able to find my way home.

The Beginning.....

2011-01-24T20:54:00.005+01:00

“Wanderlust” noun: strong desire or impulse to travel.

I remember when I learned the word “wanderlust.” I was in the 7th grade and it was a vocabulary word. I’d never heard such a word before. I lit up and thought “I have that!” I immediately loved the word. It sounded grown up and sexy, mostly because part of the word was actually “lust.” I wanted to see the world, I lusted to see the world. But I didn’t want to just visit the tourist attractions; I want to live them. I want to become a local of as much of the globe as I can; a global citizen if you will. When you visit a place as a tourist it is a special experience but I always feel like an outsider. Like the people who lived there knew something special and secret and would only share it with me if I lived there. Tourist attractions. We must see them. They are attractions for a reason. Some of them are ancient and wonderful historical sites, some are novelties but interesting nonetheless and some are just plain cheesy. But the nuances of life on the ground is something else all together. You can’t see it, feel it, smell it, or really know it without putting in the time of living it.

So we've moved around a lot. The uprooting has it’s costs that many aren’t willing to bare. We must leave family, leave friends, make new friends, find new schools, find new groceries stores and find new foods of to eat. We miss birthdays, births, illnesses, deaths, anniversaries, holidays, and just being there while children grow. We miss participating in some people's lives because we are participating in the lives of new people. We need to change our wardrobes, ours shoes, the cars we drive and our driving habits. We purge our belongings every few years; sometimes later realizing we got rid of something we wish we hadn’t. Some need the security of constancy in their lives. I need the security of change. The constant challenge of being forced outside my comfort zone just to get through my days is an exciting security to me. The new friends bring new experiences, flavors, cultures and languages or accents. This was true for all moves I’ve had no matter the destination. Learning to “Bless her heart” in the Southeastern US was as new to this Jersey Girl as learning to say “Dzien Dobry” in Warsaw The new friends bring wonderful experiences and challenges to my daily life. We get one walk on this earth and I literally don’t want to walk the same path everyday.

It is hard for some to grasp this as a “need.” It was hard for me to understand it as a need in myself. When I was a newly emerging adult I tried very hard to fit into the mold I thought my family wanted for me. Grow up, get married, buy a house as close to them as possible, put them first. It wasn’t until almost ruining a perfectly good marriage that I realized that that was not good for me, my husband, or my family. That was also not what my extended family actually wanted for me. Yes they wanted me close to participate in life with them but they wanted me happy too. When we started inching away by moving one hour away I really didn’t get the flack I imagined I would get. The truth was they kind of always expected I’d do something a little different. It just goes to show you that sometimes our perception of peoples expectations of us and their actual expectations can be vastly different.

My family has always been happy to visit our new destination even though I’ve missed their milestones and continue to do so. With all the social media these days it’s easier than ever to stay tapped into their lives. So I send my wanderlust out into the blogosphere as another way to connect with the people I love.