alis grave nil

I've moved!

2014-12-31T23:59:00.000-08:00

Seeya.

2014-12-31T19:31:00.001-08:00

2014 is donezo. Or as close to it as I will get. I have big plans to be swaddled in flannel and fast asleep well before midnight.

Generally I've made a point of answering a set of year-end reflection questions. You can read those responses (2013, 2012, 2011, 2010) if you're so inclined. But I'm changing things up. This is code for "I am too tired to answer all those damn questions." So here's what I thought about 2014:

In late January, Henry had a tonsillectomy. It frigging sucked. I had no idea how rough that kind of thing is and I just didn't see it coming. Too many adults in my life downplayed kid pain and played up kids' ability to "bounce back." Henry didn't bounce for a long time. Homeboy didn't react well to his pain medication and his recovery was slow. He's fine and in the scheme of things it was minor. But when it was happening I felt that helpless B.S. feeling that I have only known as a parent. Lesson learned (again) in 2014: Seeing my kids in pain hurts more than anything.

One of the best things I did this year was GO (my one little word resolution from last year--odd how those always work out), and specifically take trips by myself. I am just not the same person I was three years ago--the kind of person who would have thought going places was a good idea and then never done anything about it. In March I spent a day entertaining myself in San Francisco, and by June I was on a plane to Ireland. And then England, France. For the first time in my life, I actually did go. And go, and go, and go (I walked about a hundred miles in three weeks...) And I loved it. I've found that not only am I okay traveling by myself, it makes me really happy. Discovering that this year was pure joy. There is a huge world to see, and I'm not waiting for permission anymore to go see it.

My goal last year, just after finishing my MFA, was to figure out how to integrate writing into my daily life. I didn't want writing to be something I talked about and didn't do. I knew I could write if I could find time, but finishing my thesis made me an emotional wreck. I couldn't sustain that kind of writing over a lifetime. I needed to find a way to make writing as routine as showing up to my [other] job. I was panicky about this in December. At that point I didn't even have a space in our house dedicated to writing, and it felt like writing was something extra I was layering on top of all my other responsibilities. I didn't want it to be that. The most important thing I did this year was develop habits that would facilitate writing (and work as a book critic) as a viable job. I didn't want it to take me away from my family or leave me drained by the end of the day so I'd be Horrible Troll Mom. I feel really good about the fact that I've figured it/myself out. I am writing (and reading, the other part of this job that takes a billion hours), which I love, but I am also present for my family. I am very busy, but I am very happy. The routine will change--in fact, it's always changing--but I've figured out what my process looks like. I've also given myself permission to call it my job.

2014 wasn't the best year, but it wasn't the worst year, either. So many wonderful things happened to me (and I stood in front of the oldest known Beowulf manuscript, you guys. Gah.) I think the best part of 2014 was giving up fears I'd held on to for a long time: That I'd never be able to work writing into my real life. That I wasn't the kind of person with enough confidence to travel. That I couldn't be a good mom to my kids and wife to E if I was working diligently at something just for myself. Goodbye to all that.

So. Tomorrow I'll be writing about 2015, but it won't be here. I decided it's time for a change, so I'll be moving over to a domain that's my name, like a big girl. I will leave all of my posts here until I have the time to go back over 1500 of them and update links. (Eek?) But beginning tomorrow, you can find me at hspartington.com. See you there.

(You can go look right now, if you want.)

The End

2014-12-14T17:26:00.001-08:00

I just woke up from a pillow-mark-on-my-face, sweaty-hair, drool-on-the-pillow nap. Work hard, nap hard, I guess. The sun is setting and the resort is quiet. Almost all the writers are gone.

I came back this residency to TA--to work for the school keeping the schedule of editor and author appointments and to do anything I could to help out. In exchange, I got to be here to see my mentee graduate and catch up with my friends. I'm dog tired, and not in the way that I usually am. Ordinarly my brain is fried by the end of the week. This week it's my cankles. Assisting is not a huge mental challenge, but I was always moving.

Last night was the end of something. The end of my time here? Maybe. At least the end of my time here as it has been. Being here two residencies after my own graduation has shown me, as my friend Maggie puts it, that we're all completely replaceable. There are new people at the fire pits now, new people who have their usual spots in the R Bar and their own jokes and their own memories of drinking cheap wine while they laugh and cry about awkward moments in workshop. New people eager to hear advice about publishing and discover more about this world. I'm excited for them and what they're discovering. But it's been good to discover that the thing I think I miss has very little to do with convening in the desert. The thing is the people I took with me, and they're with me just as much at home.

The people--my people--are so much a part of my daily and weekly life now that I don't need the excuse to meet up. Being here I just feel the absence of the other friends who are not. But in real life, they're all there. Several times a year we're together in person, and in-between, it's our texts, chats, Google Hangouts and phone calls that keep us close. One of the best things about a low-res program in 2014 is that all these people live in my phone where I can reach them instantly, regardless of where they live.

I want to say that being here showed me that I don't need this place anymore. That sounds kind of sad, or maybe a little rough. But I think it was the lesson of this, my 6th residency. I guess it's shown me that the thing I was so dizzy about finding over the course of the first few--the community, the feeling that there are people out there who understand me and what it is I want for myself--isn't only something that exists here.

I didn't take that many pictures this time. We're all too comfortable with each other. Just family. Plus it just feels like I'll see them again. I feel less frantic clinging, because I know who has proven they'll be there next week, too.

If anything, being here reminds me that I am responsible for keeping the ties I have to this network of people. If I want to workshop, I owe pages to the two friends that read my work every few weeks. If I want to get together and laugh, I need to keep making time for it. If I miss people, I need to call them.

This school helped me find myself as much as anything. To figure out that I can call myself a writer and that having a group of like-minded nerds might enrich my life. I have that part down. I'm good. I just need to go forward and work hard. I need to keep the people close to me who I want close, even if this phase is over.

My Year in Reading

2014-12-09T14:08:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things to do is to ask people about the books they've read. Naturally, I love The Millions' A Year in Reading series. Each day they post a few more authors' musings on a year of books. They range from the new to the classic. I can't get enough. They feed my desire to be both nosy and well-read. I thought I'd write about my own Year in Reading. I'm up to 60 books so far this year--more than ever before. It's been a year of great reads. I am rich in the written word.

The first book that I got lost in this year was Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch. Like practically every other human in America, I couldn't read enough about Boris or antique furniture restoration. But I loved quite a few smaller, quirky novels this year too: Shane Jones' bizarre and transfixing Crystal Eaters. Daniel Seery's oddball novel A Model Partner. The raw and beautiful Green Girl by Kate Zambreno. Sarah Gerard's haunting, scientific Binary Star. I also spent some time in the dark world of The Beat Generation in the late Don Carpenter's Fridays at Enrico's. Tod Goldberg's Gangsterland made me both laugh and contemplate my mortality. And Gina Frangello's gritty, sweeping, sexy tale, A Life in Men, I finished in one big gulp.

I raced through Jenny Offill's Department of Speculation and Ruth Ozeki's A Tale for the Time Being after seeing both authors at the LA Times Festival of Books. Both works ask questions about what we expect from a story: Offill makes a collage out of disparate parts, while Ozeki changes the game midway through. I listened to Time Being on the train from London to Paris and back. I heard Ozeki read the final lines as I pulled into the tube stop for Heathrow. It was a joy to read something that took me out of myself while I was also displaced from home.

I read more short story collections than ever, and many of them--Beside Myself by Ashley Farmer, How to Catch a Coyote by Christy Crutchfield, Does Not Love by James Tadd Adcox and See You in Paradise by J. Robert Lennon, to name a few--were wonderful books that challenged me to read in new and different ways. My eyes really opened this year to how much freedom there is in short fiction. I read some weird stuff this year, man. But so much of it was great, weird stuff.

I reread books for teaching: The Great Gatsby, Anthem, and for my appearance on Literary Disco, Albert Camus' The Stranger.

In an attempt to make myself a better person/artist, I read books like Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit and 10% Happier by Dan Harris. In an attempt at escapism, I read Mindy Kaling's Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, which was decent, and Amy Poehler's Yes, Please, which was a delight. I also read Lena Dunham's Not That Kind of Girl, but this became a vehement hate-read after only a few pages. (Seriously, don't bother.) I'm ending the year as I began it, walking on the treadmill to a mystery book. (First was Ben H. Williams' Countdown City, then Marisha Pessl's Night Film, and finally the Robert Galbraith--née Rowling--mystery The Cuckoo's Calling.) I like a little crime in the morning.

Two essay collections I loved this year were Megan Daum's The Unspeakable (especially for the opening essay), and Dinah Lenney's fabulous The Object Parade. Leslie Jamison's The Empathy Exams rocked my world. Somehow, the memoirs I read this year began to coalesce around the idea of faith. I read Sara Miles' City of God, Megan Hustad's More than Conquerors, Diogo Mainardi's The Fall, and Krista Bremer's My Accidental Jihad.

But the best read this year wasn't the best book. I read Sharon Creech's middle grade novel, Walk Two Moons. My daughter read it for seventh grade English class, and she loved it so much that she asked me to read it. She wanted to talk about it. There's no better read for me than a shared one.

What did you read? Let's talk about it.

Twelve.

2014-11-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

Last night I showed Addie a picture of her that I'd posted on my Facebook page. In the picture she is a spiky-haired one year old with green frosting covering her nose. It's the requisite "we let our kid smash up her own cake" first birthday photo. This was before people started making applesauce lentil cakes topped with blended kale, or whatever they're doing now. Maybe it was already a thing not to let your kid have sugar. In our family, you grow up knowing frosting.

"Do you remember that?" I teased her.

"No! It was so many years ago. How can you even remember that, Mom?"

I assured her it was not that many years ago, it was a blink.

"For me that was a whole lifetime ago," she said. And then she looked at me like I was ridiculous.

She's twelve today, and if I think about it too hard I get a big lump in my throat.

She is wonderful and sensitive, in so many ways the person I wish I could have been when I was twelve. Yet she is distinctly of both me and Eric. I find her existence to be just as overwhelming a miracle as I did the first time I heard her cry on the morning of November 16, 2002.

I didn't sleep the night before she turned one. I was up all night making a scrapbook for her, dripping tears on the photos and pretty paper. I cried some more on the keyboard, trying to get out my big, sloppy feelings. I wanted to let her know how much she changed me, our family, the whole world. I was afraid that night. Those tears were panicky. Her first year had been so good and special that I was worried it would change at one. I was worried she'd be big and wouldn't need me.

But she doesn't remember that night. And she doesn't remember the day before she was born, the twenty six hours of labor and the dropping heart rate and the machines and the exhausted, fearful decision to do surgery. She doesn't remember her orange fleece outfit or the knit beanie she wore home from the hospital that made her look like a pumpkin. She doesn't remember bottles in bed and sleeping in with Dad or the way she would grip my thumb as I would guide her chubby arms into the holes of a onesie. There's so much she doesn't know.

Her birthday is a reminder of how lucky we are to share her, how much her humor and wit and creativity make all of us better. How great each stage is. How much she's grown into this human who does things and knows her own beautiful world. But it's also, weirdly, a reminder of so many memories she doesn't have. The way we waited for her. The way we wanted her. The way we rolled out of bed a million times to answer her cries. The way we'd let her tiny body curl into sleep on us, and the way we'd give anything for it now.

Currently: Hamlet Time

2014-10-27T20:57:00.002-07:00

Well. This morning from 4:30-6:00 AM, everything was Hamlet, anyway.

I was up working on my Ploughshares blog series that will start in November. I am equal parts terrified and excited that I get to write about something that I love so much for a publication that is so... I can't even describe it. My nerd heart is about to burst: I get to write about old stories told in new ways, hence the above reference to everyone's favorite emo-king. But excitement needs backing up with some hours of hard work, which is why I've been up at ungoldly hours making lists and falling down internet research rabbit holes. As ever, I am so nervous/anxious/excited to try to do my best with it.

Lately I haven't wanted to write here much--even when I've had time, which isn't often--because I worry about waxing too poetic about my newfound pre-dawn routine. But suffice it to say that it's still working for me. And I am a firm believer in the idea that anything can happen if you schedule it on your calendar and set ten reminders. So, that.

Life is good right now. Life is busy as hell, but one year out from the MFA I am just in a place of acceptance about it. Busy means people are asking me to do things and sending me books, and not falling apart means this book critic gig is something I can do. Am doing. The fact that I am just as excited about reviewing books (maybe more?) a year and 30-some-odd reviews later is craze amaze.

I dig this quote in Our Secret Life in the Movies, out soon from A Strange Object.

It is so painfully apparent to me that when work (either one) gets busy, I pacify myself with mundane, familiar, and predictable TV. This explains why last year as I finished my thesis, I swathed myself in the soothing, vanilla-bland voice of Rick Steves. It is why this fall I've taken up LOST again like it's my job.

I know. There's no helping me.

I am such a wimp. Exhibit A: the above picture I took just after freaking myself out with the stupid episode where the freighter blows up and ye olde Losties start skipping through time. Only I already knew what was going to happen, so...?

It feels like fall. Lots of LOST and lots of coffee (I eased myself off into decaf for a whole month and then gave it up in one day--all for no good reason) and lots of movie scores on Pandora. Tights and boots. Extra quilts. Teaching continues to be much more manageable since I am not sacrificing myself weekly on an altar of 100ish AP English 12 essays. What I have now is a much more even arrangement of time/bang for buck. My job is crazy hard, but it's not crazy impossibly hard in a time-management way anymore.

Improvement.

In Literary Things With Other People News, a few weeks ago I attended the 3rd anniversary reading for Under The Gum Tree in Sacramento. After that I was in Oakland to see Tod Goldberg in conversation with Josh Mohr, and then the following weekend I stayed in San Francisco with friends so I could attend LitCrawl, and so I could attend breakfast at the Ferry Building and eat my weight in bread. God, San Francisco. I'm so glad that to you, twee toast is a thing. You get me.

Anyway, America. You should buy Tod's book.

After that, you should read this piece, SUBMITATHON! by Jill McDonough, a poet I discovered at the Threepenny Review reading in SF, thanks to my friend Lizi. Oh, and this poem that McDonough read, too.

In a little over a month I'm going back to Palm Springs to MFA residency--this time to TA and to see my mentee, Eileen, graduate. And to try as hard as I can not to feel weird about hanging around like some weirdo who used to go there. But at the moment, my excitement about being in a) a hotbed of literary geekdom and b) Palm Springs outweigh whatever awkward feelings I'm having about it. Also, this is me we're talking about. Awkward is my mileu. Anyway, that's in December and I can't wait.

For now I'm just biding my time, trying to type with one hand so the other hand can cat.

Morning Light

2014-09-27T08:26:00.000-07:00

Morning light is the best light. It's the time of day I'm most productive, hands down.

This means some prioritizing. I write the best in the early morning, but it's also when I find it easiest to run. If I run, I mean. (Which I've been doing again successfully for a grand total of two weeks. Holler.) This morning, writing won though. All week I've been setting my alarm for 4:00 (Yes, 4:00) just so I knew I'd do the work first. (I'll run later, BTW. I made myself a promise.) (Parentheses!)

I realized as I carried my coffee over to the couch to open the window and start working: even the smell of morning air makes me think of that kind of productivity. I wish I was able to focus on things for the rest of the day the way I can focus on them in the hours before 7:00. Even reading has become a morning activity. I've been having trouble finding time to finish a book for a review, so I made that my morning task for a while, and it worked. Focus times ten.

Yes, this means I need to get to bed before most people are sitting down to Must See TV. But (thank you, Benadryl) I'm not having too much trouble with that. Usually after teaching all day, I'm just counting down the hours until I get to return to my nest of blankets and memory foam.

I spent some time this week talking to a bright high school senior who wants to be a writer (the rare unicorn of my high school English world) and we talked about how unique each person's process and habits can be. When I hear myself talk out loud about having two kids (one, ultra tweeny lately), a full-time job, a household to run, etc, I feel like it doesn't make any kind of sense that I'd be able to get any of it done. Somehow, it's all working. For now. Talking to the student made me think about how flexible it all is, though. How much it changes.

I wrote a review this morning on the couch by the open window, and Henry snuggled up next to me with his 3DS. I've been reading in my car as I wait for Addie to get out of school in the afternoons. But the working-next-to is lessening. When I do get to spend quality time with them--watching them swim at night or when we sit together as a family for dinner, or when we chat on the way to and from the myriad schools and activities, it's good. Easy. And I'm happy in those undistracted moments that I'm not trying to scramble to finish some kind of writing task like I was when I was in school. This year post-MFA has mostly been about how to work the same amount but to calm the freak down about it.

I have to say, it sure helps that the kids are not tiny anymore. One of my friends with a small baby is struggling to find work-life balance. I remember how it made me feel broken all the time. When mine were babies, infants, toddlers, I split in two. And not for anything good like writing that would have filled my soul. At the time, anything other than work-work (read: anything that did not fill the bank account) came with guilt. Just the daily demands of work cut at me--that unforgiving obligation of a job that brings a necessary paycheck--which made me feel constantly at war with my biology and hormones.

One of the things I see my daughter struggle with now is the idea that if something hurts now--or is difficult--now, she thinks it will always be this way. And that's not specific to teenagers. I fall prey to it, too. When things are hard or are not happening successfully it's easy to feel like I'm never going to figure it out or get it together. This week, it worked. Next week one of the monkeys will probably forget they have had a project to work on for four weeks, and the whole thing will crumble. For this week I'm happy I was able to drag myself out of bed to get things done. For today, it's enough.

Writing Process Blog Tour 2014

2014-09-18T16:45:00.002-07:00

My friend Maggie Downs was kind enough to tag me in the Writing Process Blog Tour. You can check out her answers to the same questions here, and you can read our other friend, Maggie Thach's, responses here.

Here's a little about my process:

What are you working on?

I am usually working on several things at once. I shoot for a balance between reading for book reviews (which isn't writing, but still feels like my writing life), writing book reviews, and writing short stories or essays. Probably an even third each.

Currently in the reading for reviews category, I'm about to start reading The Hollywood Trilogy by Don Carpenter for a review. I reviewed Fridays at Enrico's for The Rumpus a few months ago, and I enjoyed that. I'm hoping I feel the same way about THT.

As far as review writing: Tuesday night I started collecting quotes from Justin Taylor's Flings and organizing my notes so I can write a review. I'm sort of midway through the process, which is to say I've been doing all the grunt work before I sit down to actually write anything. But assuming I've done all my work in the reading and note-taking and organizing, the act of writing reviews is usually very enjoyable. I'm hoping I can carve out a few hours after work and before I pick up my kids today so I can get a draft done.

I'm busy, so my creative work is suffering a little bit. It's always the thing that I put off when I have a deadline for a review or a lot of grading at school, but I make an effort to work on something each week. Lately I've been alternating between nonfiction essays and short stories, but I don't feel like I've had enough time (or attention, maybe?) to do a good job of starting anything new. I've mostly been revising old things for submission and keeping notes in my phone for new stuff.

Why do you write what you do?

I like what Joan Didion says:

I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.

I think I write narrative for the same reasons everyone writes narrative. To figure out what I think about what's happened to me, and to imagine myself into other people's lives, which is both fun and a challenge. And because I can't help myself.

But in the last few years I discovered my niche of the literary world. Or, at least what I want my niche to be. I love writing critical work. Book reviews. My background in teaching English and my love of reading and my desire to be creative somehow combine to make this something I am suited to do. I heard David Ulin speak at my first residency about how critical writing is creative writing, and something just clicked. As I worked my way through my two and a half year MFA program, I began to notice I was one of the only students who didn't hate writing critical papers. I found that I even enjoyed writing about books I didn't like. I loved the act of writing in order to figure them out. It was a lot like teaching, which I love. My thesis advisor, Tod Goldberg, suggested I should start writing book reviews. At that point I didn't even know being a literary critic was a thing. But once I figured that out, I felt very strongly that critical writing was a thing I should be doing. I spent all the time I had left in the program trying to learn as much as I could about critical work.

Now I write critical work because I love it. I want to be a part of the literary conversation with so many writers I admire. I want to push myself as a reader and as someone who can organize her thoughts into something worth reading.

How does your work differ from the other works in the some area/genre?

One thing I learned from reading John Leonard's Reading for My Life is that a critic's work is only effective if it's filtered through the writer's individual voice and experiences. I was really moved by how unique his reviews were, and how together they became a kind of autobiography in books. I like to think about my own work like this. It's really only about my own experience with a book, and nobody else's. In the very beginning I struggled more with why anyone might want to read what I think about a book. I worried too much about getting it "right"-- What if I misunderstood a book and identified something about it that was different than what other people thought? Reviewing is an exercise in standing up for your own opinions. It's a struggle still, sometimes, but I really try to let that go. And I try to just write from my own little corner of the world.

I suppose my work is different because I try to specifically speak to my own experience and perspective. That's all I can do, anyway. It reminds me of when I was dancing. You can only work effectively if you embrace your own movement style. Worrying about how you're different from others doesn't accomplish anything. You just have to do good work and hope you keep improving. Eventually you figure out how your body moves and it works better. It's being different that makes you interesting, anyway.

How does your writing process work?

I have such a routine, because my life is so busy that if I don't I won't get anything done. And oddly enough, the thing that helped me the most for creating a writing routine was training for my first marathon. I learned a lot about how I need to know what to expect, and how I need small, manageable deadlines to get anything accomplished. I also learned that if I try to force myself to do something and it goes against my natural rhythms, I will fail. Miserably.

And writing is supposed to be enjoyable, right? I wanted to make it possible for myself to enjoy it.

Beautiful distractions.

Anyway, I'm so driven by routine. This is good, because book reviewing is a complicated dance of pitching to editors, requesting advance review copies from publishers, reading, and meeting self-imposed deadlines. I map out reviews and pitches months in advance. I sit down every Sunday and look at what I have "due" in the week ahead, and then I break the work down into hourly increments. I probably work somewhere between 10-20 hours a week on writing and writing-related tasks, depending on how much work I have.

I know it will take me about an hour to read 50 pages, and I know about how long it will take me to write and edit a review, based on length. I schedule everything on my calendar. Things like read 50pp Taylor or write review Carpenter. Or sleep. The benefit of this is I never wonder what I should be doing to get everything done by Saturday. I don't have to look too far ahead and get worried. And this way I never feel overwhelmed by a whole task. If I just wrote TO DO: read and review The Hollywood Trilogy, that would make me want to die (respect to the author, it's not about him, it's about the 450 pages he wrote), which would make me want to read and write nothing.

Once I've carved out the time, it's not so hard. It is something I enjoy, after all. And if I tell myself I only need to read 50 pages or write half of a review, it's not overwhelming. I can relax and enjoy the book or relax and let myself be creative. Often I find myself doing more work than I need to accomplish, because I'm so into it. This is dorky, yes? But it works for me. I think once I realized how I work I have been a much happier writer. No more trying to finish something at midnight, because midnight is my sleep time. If I'm awake and trying to write, I'm probably going to be crying, and whatever I'm writing won't be any good.

I've also learned lately that it's important to take days off. If I plan to work 365 days a year, I'm going to fail. This is also like running... I think you get stronger when you take a rest day, sometimes.

Continuing the blog tour: I tag Jenn-Anne Gledhill and Emile Barrios.

About JA: JA has called Chicago "home" since June 1, 1995. She relocated from Orlando after receiving a "message" to do so during the Winona Ryder/Susan Sarandon version of the film "Little Women." (She is fully aware it could have been the booze fumes talking, but those fumes were on to something if that's the case...) She sometimes works on her novel tentatively titled "The Branson Novel," but so what, right? Everyone is working on something. She wants you to know that she digs you. Like, kinda hard.

About Emile: Emile Barrios is a graduate of UC Riverside Palm Desert’s low residency MFA program. He the author of the memoir Nub: Story of an Ex-Cripple, and is currently at work on a novel about his native South Louisiana. Emile’s writing career began after thirty years as a TV news producer, industrial filmmaker, corporate executive, and PR consultant. He lives and works in San Diego.

Avoidance and Other Behaviors

2014-09-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

My brain is a lazy jerk. You might look at me and go oh, Heather is getting shit done, she seems like she is making it happen. She gets up every day. But really I am playing mind games with myself just to do the things I'm required to do. All my brain wants to do is go to sleep and maybe wake up to eat some gummy bears and then go back to sleep again. My brain hasn't changed in the last few years; I've just gotten better at tricking me. It's all a game. This all has to happen if I want to -- I don't know -- keep moving and have some kind of career as a book critic and/or writer. Remain employed. Earn a paycheck.

You know what I learned in grad school? How to work ALL. THE. TIME.

So it's all a big sham, I'm saying. This "motivation." Ninety nine percent of the time if I'm getting anything done, it's because I am avoiding something else. I can generally make this work for me.

Day-long, boring teacher inservice?
Write three months of daily lesson plans.
Stuck in the car waiting for kid to get out of school?
Read 25 pages of book for review.
Don't want to grade papers?
Write essay.
Don't want to do submissions?
Grade papers.

I survive by making my avoidance behaviors just other things that need to be done. How dorky. I know. I have to have a to-do list, and sometimes doing something else on the list feels like more fun than whatever I'm supposed to be doing. Avoid, avoid, avoid. Yes, this makes me the same as the kid in my class who is trying to do her math homework when I'm not looking. I was that kid, anyway. The irony is not lost on me.

I bring this up because on Sunday I went off the rails. Avoidance reached critical mass. Well. Backing up. I think I lost the first wheel on Wednesday night when E was out late after his softball game, having a beer with the guys. I couldn't sleep and I needed something to do, so I organized my closet. As one does. And in the middle of organizing my closet I had this idea that maybe I should have a list of, like, just exactly how many cardigans I own and what colors they are. For science. And then maybe blouses and tanks and pull-over sweaters. This is a thing I needed to know, you guys. So I start writing it down on some binder paper (no joke!) and I think to myself that damn it, this is 2014 and if Clueless taught me nothing, it is the fact that we should all have digital closets by now. So a little searching proved that there's an app for that. Of course. There are actually a bunch.

Cut to me spending all day Sunday taking iPhone pics of each shoe, accessory and clothing item in my possession. Why? Because I needed to be able to create digital outfits and catalog my stuff. Because cataloging my clothing in photos was the biggest emergency, ever.

Or maybe I was avoiding reading for a book review. And writing said book review. And talking to humans. And doing anything other than sitting in the middle of my bedroom in Soffe shorts and an overstretched tank top, watching reruns of LOST for the umpteenth time just so I didn't have to think about real life. Sometimes a project feels like an emergency feels like it's easier to think of than your actual list of responsibilities and/or feelings.

This all comes up now for two reasons.

1) My work schedule changed. I was only part time for five days. I picked up another class. I'm back to full time teaching, which means I'm back to no time for writing, thinking, and doing all the little organizy shit that constitutes the rest of being a writer. My strategy of avoidance won't let me get it all done. There's too much.

I'm having to find time to do work when I can't just pretend I'm avoiding other things. The only free hours in my day are morning hours, so I'm getting to work at about 6:30 AM. The only thing I am avoiding is sleep. It's okay, but it's not my normal deal. Pros: nobody else is at school at 6:30 in the morning, so it's real quiet. Cons: 6:30 in the morning, dude.

2) This post is avoidance of actual work that I should be doing. As always, there's a ton.

I better go.

Analog

2014-08-14T20:26:00.002-07:00

The other day I found my box of letters from high school and college. The pink and purple floral chest lives in our attic now, in a larger box full of framed pictures of people no longer in my day-to-day routine. I can't bear to take them from their frames, but they'd feel false in our house. Anachronistic, maybe. They're pictures from a time before I could sit down to my computer and see almost anyone in my life, past or present. I used to display those frames around my bedroom as a confirmation (to myself?) that that people liked me: my analog friends list.

Tonight I took that box of notes down. For some reason--avoidance of real work, I suppose--I thought it would be good to read them.

I unfolded familiar scraps of binder paper and tensed up. Because I didn't just save the positive things. Oh no. I saved notes that hurt me, too. I printed out emails that made my ears burn for who I was and how I acted when I didn't know any better. Added them to the box. I read them now and cringe for what that felt like to read them then. The words evoke muscle memory very quickly. I don't know why I'd keep letters cataloging my defects, notes that chastised me for being too much one thing or another. Teenage obsession with depth of feeling? (Have I outgrown this? My desire to take the box out tonight so I could feel in any direction says no.) I've always collected words, even the rough ones. So I could study them. And myself. Pair up the two for analysis. I've always been awed by the ability we have to make each other feel by marking things down. Maybe that was why I needed such truth in archiving.

I couldn't read for long, though. I was looking for a note from a particular time period, but those few minutes of reading curled my body into an uncomfortable posture on the couch. My shoulders crept up, I slid down into the cushion, and I wrapped into my own knees. Without thinking, I lapsed into the physicality of that high school girl who smiled and curtsied when she was supposed to, who deferred to anyone who criticized her, and who felt like a failure most of the time.

It's better, with them put away. The letters. I don't want to toss them, but I don't want to remind myself of how awkward I felt. Of how little I knew about how to approach the world, and how little I was able to do anything about it. That's the same reason I'm glad now that social media didn't exist when I was a teen. Not because I don't love it now for what it can do, but because having the record now would be too much. Too human. Beyond us humans.

Feelings are embarrassing.

In the attic, in the box next to mine are all the cards I wrote to Eric when he was 300 miles away for our freshman year of college. Three years before we got married. One of my most miserable years of life (in that way that teenage things feel miserable before life calibrates you), as I was painfully reminded in a recent conversation with K. I put my box back and glanced at the envelopes I'd carefully addressed to Eric, but didn't open any of them. If reading other people's words sent me back into myself, reading my own was out of the question.

I struggle with this, sometimes: how to reconcile the fact that writing, feeling, and creating are so messy and vulnerable. Imperfect and revealing. Beautiful, when they're done well, but scary too. Each sentence I put down on the page is potential embarrassment, a reminder of how fallible I was back when. We're too human, there on the page. Writing takes our feelings out of the safe container. I think most people would say they're thankful to forget.

Would you believe this was going to be a post about the first day of school? I'll save that, but I'll say that I had feelings today. Vulnerable, imperfect, high-potential-for-embarrassment feelings. Not just about starting my 13th year in the classroom (how, already?) but about having a daughter who is old enough to go to junior high. About my marriage, which keeps happening even when I need to do the Mrs. P Show, and which will never (it appears) be anything other than messy and necessitating late night strife.

I use that option on Facebook all the time: I don't want to see this. Abused dogs. Bleeding children. Mean things people say about others who don't share their beliefs. Hide, hide, hide. I hide more than I like. We all do, right?

I realized after I put the box back in the attic that I did it again. I don't want to see this. Even when I know we all carry that box around inside of us, too.

Things in jars.

2014-07-24T20:47:00.001-07:00

No, not jam. Other things.

It's a weird summer this year. I mean, hooray, my big trip. But since I've been home I've been feeling very much like a hermit, like going out of my house to see anyone or do anything exceeds my energy level. Or maybe my emotional strength? I'm good hanging with my kids--I love that--but I've been laying pretty low. Working at home, being at home. Not leaving much or going far. I don't really know what it's about.

Change, maybe? Addie starts junior high in a few weeks and I have this feeling that once she does, she'll be heading off to college in five minutes. It pains me to think about how fast she's already grown. And I'm going part time at work this year. This is good. But I think maybe the idea of my kids being in two different schools and myself being in a new situation is just making me want to dig in my feet. To stand still, even if just for a second.

This, also: I felt really low this week for two days... sore all over, tired, cranky. And then I got a migraine that took two more days to go away. I should know better by now to read the signs, but I didn't see it coming. (I kept telling E I thought I was getting sick.) So I'm sure migraine-me contributed to Operation Hermit Crab a little bit.

So let's talk about putting things in jars. Because I've had too much time on my hands. There's really no good reason for this behavior. I mean, I could blame the fact that I've been watching a lot of Ina Garten lately, but Ina hasn't put anything into a mason jar that I've seen. I think her nervous laughter, the "how easy is that"-s, and the bright, shining kitchen are making me invent kitchen projects.

But no jam. Because it's hot as heck, and I'm not trying to sweat it out and make a big sticky mess (there's a great essay on the Paris Review Blog about making jam, though, and it makes me think that yes, I will go there again someday). Not now.

My culinary efforts lately have been other protective measures (imaginary, maybe?) against the imminent approach of the school year. Black feathers to my Dumbo anxiety. They feel like things I can do to get myself ready for Super Mom/Teacher Time. I went down the rabbit hole of Pinteresty ways to make lunches ahead (read: not every single morning when the kids go to school because that always ends in angry peanut butter messes). I started making sandwiches and freezing them. I made 48 granola bars, wrapped them, and froze those too.

And I started putting things in jars. Testing recipes. I am not going to torture you with a picture of the first thing I made, Overnight Oats. Because it looked as bad as it tasted. Who is eating this crap? It wasn't fit for human consumption. I love me some oatmeal, but I am 100% unconvinced why anyone in their right mind wants to eat that sick paste. Don't comment and try to change my mind, either. Overnight Oats are dead to me.

Anyway, the things that worked:

Layered salads in jam jars.

Hey. I admit that I've been seeing this on Pinterest for a thousand years and I didn't get it. I thought people just did it because they thought it looked cute or something. (Aside: I'm cool with jars being functional to hold our foods, but let's stop fetishizing them, huh? You don't really have to drink your vodka out of a mason jar sippy cup.) But you can make salad in there and it will last five days. Here's a post that has more info, if you want it.

You basically go: dressing, hard veggies, softer veggies, cheese, greens, paper towel, lid.

Boom. And then you have a healthy lunch for five days. Put some protein on it. Or put it on the side of your dinner. It's your disco, Stu.

This other one is kind of silly. It's the laziest thing I've ever made.

I saw this post on Smitten Kitchen about easy refrigerator pickles. And I made it even easier because I didn't really measure anything I put in the jar. Basically I just filled it up about halfway with some kind of vinegar (white or rice wine are favorites), add 1ish tsp of salt, a pinch of dill, and whatever else you feel like. What I feel like lately is a clove of garlic. Mmm, pungent. The liquid only fills the jar about halfway, but if you shake it and turn it upside down a few times over a day or so, eventually the water is drawn out of the cukes and into the brine.

I think any cucumbers would work (peppers, etc too), but so far I like Armenian cucumbers the best. (The ones in the picture are just regular ol' grocery store cukes... have to get the good ones at the farmers' market since my garden is terrible this year). I've made three different jars and they're all good eatin'. We all know that pickles are just a vinegar and salt delivery device.

So there you go. A post on how to keep yourself busy when you have lots of time but threemany feelings. And you don't want to leave your house.

Jars.

The Summer BFB

2014-07-19T09:33:00.001-07:00

BFB = Big F____ Book

Fat. Fun. Famous. Ferocious?

Or, you know. The other thing.

For a few years I've been using my summer as a chance to tackle big books. Classic books. Books that people I admire have read. For me, beach reading is the kind of book that barely fits in your hands and takes many a lazy July afternoon to finish. And I allow myself to destroy them. I am not being figurative here. I get them wet at the pool, I cram them into my purse and they end up with gum between the pages. I get all up in these books.

These BFBs are not always great literature, but they can be. I try to find balance -- especially when I started BFBs and I made myself read one classic for every new book. (That part has since gotten a little messy, which is fine...) They almost always fall into the category of things that I would not have time to read when I am teaching/in school/reviewing.

Previous BFBs: Gone With the Wind, The Thorn Birds, East of Eden, Middlesex, and Anna Karenina.

What's funny about looking back at those reviews is that my feelings about many of those books have changed over time. Some that I was not a fan the day after finishing have grown on me. And honestly, with things like Anna Karenina there's a nice confidence that comes later from being able to jump into a conversation about a big-ass classic and know what you're talking about. It makes me grow to love the book more than I did when I was like crap, I just read a thousand pages and I need a rest.

But the point of summer BFBs is not really enjoyment, per se. It is challenging myself in some tangible way to read more than I think I can read. It's the grownup equivalent of that Summer Reading Challenge at the library when I was 8 where I could earn points on the library wall and win at reading. The point is winning, basically.

There are no page requirements for a BFB. But it has to feel hefty. It has to be doorstop of a book. I have read all but one of my previous BFBs in actual book form. Even though I'm a fan of ebooks too, there's something about having a book that looks like nobody in their right mind would pick it up that appeals to me.

So, okay. This summer. I have actually read one BFB, and I am just over 10% through the other. The first was the first book in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series, which is the basis for the HBO Game of Thrones show. It's not a literary classic (let's not argue, okay?), but it is over 800 pages. It qualifies on length alone. And in terms of how much goodwill it buys me with my fantasy book-loving husband. I just finished it this morning (I'll compose my thoughts on it soon) but I definitely have that glad I'm done feeling.

My second BFB this summer (modeled for you on the couch next to me by Puppy) is Middlemarch. I bought Middlemarch as a joke to myself about three years ago after a conversation with my (then to be) program director, Tod Goldberg about how students in the UCR Palm Desert MFA program choose their own reading lists. "You can read whatever you're interested in," he said. "It's not like we're going to make you read Middlemarch. I mean, if you want to read Middlemarch you can, but we're not going to make you." That phone call changed my life--I found out I was accepted to my MFA program and immediately set off reading books that were not Middlemarch for the next three years. When I saw a brand new copy in a used bookstore soon after, I took it as a sign.

And I promised myself I'd read it once I was done with the program. I had absolutely no intentions of liking it, but since I know I can make myself read (and finish) anything, I didn't care about that too much.

But here's what I'm finding, and this means I am a hopeless nerd and I should just surrender any cool cred now. I am actually liking Middlemarch. Like, really, really liking it. I know you're not shocked because you already get what kind of grade A dork you're looking at, but I am pleasantly surprised. It's really good.

I decided to attack this particular BFB from all sides. I have the paper copy, and I had a copy on my Kindle from a long time ago. I bought the audio book from audible, so I am also listening to it when I walk my dog. I am never without Middlemarch, you guys. It's fabulous. I am really taking my time and trying not to rush this one, and so far it is the perfect summer book.

Any suggestions for BFBs?

They should probably come home now.

2014-07-17T22:55:00.002-07:00

I've been a mom for long enough that I'm often not entirely sure which parts of my identity are me and which parts are dictated by being around my kids. It's like when you've been dyeing your hair for so long and someone asks "what's your natural color?" and you press your lips together and raise your eyebrows and you're like "brown...ish?" because let's be clear: you really have no idea how much of your "natural brown" is blended for you in that little black tub of hair dye by your stylist. You can't remember what color grows out of your head, and you have a sneaking suspicion what grows out of your head looks more like those grey wires you try to tuck underneath a sly part so you don't get the urge to pluck them.

Or so I hear.

Anyway, my kids have been gone all week. They're up at their Mimi's house taking swim lessons and running all over the mountain. I miss them like crazy, but I'm not complaining. I have used this time. I'm still playing book review catch up from playing hooky in Europe for three weeks, so quiet time in my house has been a total luxury. I've tried to be good and work and also get some things done around the house, too. It's not just book time in the middle of a crazy pile.

I wonder a little if these rare times alone aren't some way to see what I'm really like, now. Like, maybe the reason I am not Beyoncé-fabulous and Lizzy-Caplan-chic and Misty-Copeland-fit and Herman-Melville-published is that I have too much to do when we're four of us. When there is nobody to ask for things or dictate a schedule or leave the bag of Lays potato chips on the carpet for the billionth time in a row, maybe it's super easy to be awesome. I can't go off of what I was like pre-kids, because at this point that already feels too long ago.

So of course like any neurotic 35 year old woman, on Sunday I decide I am going to DO ALL THE THINGS during my week alone. The list:

I am going to floss like nobody has ever flossed before.
I am going to read three books, one of which is Middlemarch.
I am going to reorganize my kitchen (see also: be a better person.)
I am going to find the floor in my closet.
I am going to eat only fresh, fabulous and mysterious vegetables because
a) Gwenyth
and b) I'm sure it's not hard to give up Icees.
I am going to probably lose ten pounds. Or so.
I am going to write like five book reviews and maybe a novel.
I am going to plan my first semester of English 9 and AVID.
I am going to write some short pieces for essay contests.
I am going to get up and dawn and run every morning.
I am going to eat hella stuff out of Mason jars.
I am going to make like five kinds of jam.
I am going to meditate, and take long, thoughtful walks.
I am going to binge watch like three new shows.
I am going to keep my house spotless.

So yeah, all that happened. Because that's who I am. See you later.

HAHAHAHA NOT REALLY YOU GUYS

I mean. I guess what I learned that week is I am not the kind of person who can do all that in one week, even if my kids are not here.

Don't get me wrong. I did a lot of stuff. Just sometimes I was a total asshole about it. To myself. Take today for example. All I did was go for a walk finish reading a review book, and my internal dialogue was not a pleasant one. I won't tell you the words I said, but it felt like it took forever to finish reading 50 pages. Neat.

It's not like I didn't know this, but in my haste to be skinny and productive and published this week, I forgot to account for the two things I was going to spend the most time doing:

1. Naps
2. Being fascinated by my pets

There have been a lot of cat pictures up in here.

And cat talking. And weird talk-to-dog voices. And you get it.

I did some good things. Sunday I got a desk. A real honest-to-God desk so I can type there and stop having couch related laptop neck pain. It's very simple and very small and very much better than the card table I've been using.

Plus it has bookshelves, which my forays into critical work are quickly demanding we need more of. I filled the top with books on my to-read (not for reviews) list, and I filled the bottom with books by people who inspire me.

Oh hey, professors.

So, listen. I did read. And I walked the dog a lot. And I ate a little bit better than normal. And I did cull about 20% of the crap out of my kitchen and haul it to Goodwill. And then I did the same for my closet. And I sent reviews to editors and I kept the place pretty clean and I tested some new recipes. But that's about it. There are probably 8 or so hours each day I can't account for, and I'm guessing only about two of those hours were spend Googling obscure facts about Nicole Richie's hair color.

I didn't become an entirely new person, no matter how many inspirational pins I found on Pinterest. I was productive, but I'm probably just about as productive when the monkeys are here.

More than anything, I missed 'em.

Yesterday

2014-07-05T07:57:00.001-07:00

Yesterday felt long. A side effect, I'm sure, of the early waking/still not sleeping right thing. I finished a review before 6, took the dog for a run before 7, and was done dragging the kids through Walmart and the pet supply store before lunch time. After lunch and unpacking all the snacky American processed goodness I purchased at the 'mart, we swam at my mom's for a while, and we hadn't even made it to the actual 4th of July party.

But after a short visit with E's parents--who stopped by to bring me a bookshelf for my classroom and a new quilt ladder that my father in law made for me (yay! more on that soon)--we were in the car and off to see the rest of the family.

Is it just me, or does it seem like we spend a lot of time in the car on holidays?

We had a great BBQ with E's family, most of whom we haven't seen in quite some time. We reunited with our fellow travelers from the trip, though, so it was fun to catch up about life since we'd been back.

And of course, Henry made sure we had our s'mores. For the S'moreth. They were delicious, too.

I couldn't stay awake for the end of fireworks, though, and I was almost knocked out in the comfy chair inside by the time E came in to say we were all done. I crawled into bed when we got home and somehow Addie ended up asleep there next to me. I didn't realize until I woke up this morning to an elbow in my face--I assumed it was E, but it was Miss Roo.

And now I'm trying to drink a smoothie of last week's farmers' market leftovers. For two reasons: A) use up all of the produce that was left from last week's purchases and about to go bad or get tossed. B) to atone for all the Coke I drank and marshmallows (okay, and doughnuts) I consumed yesterday.

Happy Birthday, America.

Lumps and the S'moreth of July

2014-07-04T09:20:00.004-07:00

I've been home now for a week, and most of that has been spent asleep. Jet lag has been kicking my patoot, and as of last night I have yet to remain awake later than 9:30 PM. The flip side of this is that I have been awake by about 5:00 AM every day, so I've had the quiet hours I need to catch up on some book reviewing. Not a loss to sleep that much, really, and since I don't have to be anywhere right now, I can stay at home and nap myself back to normal.

Life always gets small in the summer, but this week my car died and needed to be at the dealership for a few days, so life shrunk to the size of a pinpoint. For most of the week I didn't go any farther than my parents' house so the kids could swim in the afternoons, and that's only about a half mile away.

I'm happy to be home. As awesome as it was to be away, I missed my bed and my pets and the simple joy of being home with the kiddos during the summer. We've had a great week even though Mom has been kind of a lump. The pets, of course, do not mind this lumpiness at all.

I wasn't able to get myself into gear while I was traveling to do any reviews (or even to read for them), so I've been really busy on that front. Luckily, I scrambled to finish a bunch of them right before I left, so I think I'm okay. It just means I have to stay on my organizational game.

Will this summer seem too short? I keep wondering about that, like I'll have to pay for spending three weeks of my time traveling. I paid a little already with a stinging sunburn on Monday when I didn't think about the fact that my skin had been under cloudy European skies. It wasn't up to its ordinary June bronze. Oops.

We'll see about how long this summer feels. My garden is kind of a non-starter, since the sprinklers were unplugged for the three weeks I was gone. I might get a few tomatoes, but I don't expect anything else. And I know that there won't be any peach jam this year. The peaches ripened while I was gone and they all either got picked or fell on the ground before I came home. Sads. I'm sure I'll be making some strawberry, so it won't be a total jam fail. But it won't be like it usually is. (Strange that I measure my summers in jars of preserved fruit, no?)

I'm trying not to think too much about the end of summer, and to just be happy I'm not at work (that's not hard, by the way). Today we'll be with family for the 4th rather than all alone like last year, but Henry just asked if we can go get marshmallows to continue the S'moreth. Sounds good to me.

Paris

2014-06-29T05:36:00.000-07:00

Paris was a whirlwind. Originally, we weren't going to see it at all. Our plan was to stay in Normandy for the entire last week. I was completely okay with this, especially before I knew that E was going to be joining me for that part of the trip. Normandy is beautiful and I knew we'd have plenty to do there. But when E decided he'd come, he said knew that being so close to Paris and not seeing it was going to be something I'd regret. So we decided we'd leave Normandy one day before the rest of our group (our train went through Paris, so the plan was to meet up at the train station the next afternoon to head back to England) and we'd try to see as much of a gigantic city as one can in 24 hours.

I was a bit nervous the morning we left Bayeux because I was still not certain the railroad strike was over. French newspapers still said things like "it is pretty much over, so 7 out of 10 trains are running." I was worried that our train would be canceled again, and worried that it would be harder to deal with logistics from a small train station like Bayeux, but our train was still listed online so we figured we'd go for it. We walked to the train station, and had a completely ordinary train ride to Paris. Just what I was hoping for.

Once in Paris we found our subway lines and transferred so we could get to the hotel. Once again I was happy we were not dragging bags behind us, and I was pleasantly surprised by how easy the Paris subway system is to navigate. We popped up at Saint-Michel, right next to the Seine, and I couldn't stop grinning.

Paris felt like a dream. I'm not sure if it's because we had such limited time there, or because I've never seen a city like it before. But I was happy to be the goofiest tourist, ever. God, it was beautiful.

First look at the Seine

Our hotel (the three open windows on the right are our room)

Lunch, and Notre Dame peeking through the trees behind E

Another day, another metric ton of fromage

We arrived about noon -- the bells of Notre Dame were just starting to ring as we walked down the Left Bank. Our plan was to drop our bags at the hotel so we could explore, and we'd go back later once we could check in. Our room was ready, though, so we were able to check in. Of course by then we were starving, so we just found a little cafe and got to work on consuming more cheese. Our post-lunch plan was to take one of those (completely nerdy--I know--but easy ways to see a bunch of things in a little bit of time) hop-on/hop-off bus tours. And it was great, especially because our time was so limited. We both got sunburned, though, because it was HOT. At the Eiffel Tower, we got off the bus and proceeded to take our mandatory Eiffel Tower photo. Of course this means handing my camera to some random person who looks like they might not run off with it, so of course I have a bunch of really bad photos. The first girl I asked to take our picture took just our picture. I have a picture of our faces with some black bars behind us--we might as well be in Sacramento. We decided we'd walk to the other side of the Tower and try again. The second batch worked, at least. Paris wins. I couldn't get over it. I will try not to embarrass myself by gushing, but I was awestruck. I definitely had a moment. Well, I had a moment when I wasn't regretting my dark grey jeans. I was so, so, so sweaty. After we got off the bus (even though I was a sweaty mess) I made E go with me to Shakespeare and Company. The original had such history for all the Americanexpat writers in Paris during the 1920s (i.e. where the Lost Generation found themselves). That one closed during WWII, but this current store (named in honor of the first) opened in the fifties and has also been an important literary site since. It felt like another necessary stop on the Heather Sees All the Literary Things Tour.

Me. Paris. Books. Win.

In what I am sure will be the story of my life, by about 5:00 I had overdone it, not had enough water to drink, and I felt like crap. Our plan had been to go back to the hotel to clean up and then to go to Notre Dame or maybe Sainte-Chappelle, but of course I was a giant turd who felt like I was going to get sick. I just couldn't keep going. So even though the bells of Notre Dame were ringing just outside our hotel room window, we decided we couldn't do it. It was closing at 6:00, and there was just no way. Les sads. But listen. When you're in Paris, you're not allowed to be sad for too long. Because you're in PARIS. So I rested a bit, showered, and by dinner time I was ready to hit the ~~fromage~~ streets again.
We wandered the narrow streets around our hotel and eventually settled in at a little bistro and enjoyed every touristy minute. Even the accordion player playing La Vie en Rose over and over again next to each restaurant. I was happy for another nice, slow dinner that ended in cheese.

Notre Dame from our hotel room

Sunset over the Seine from our hotel room

...and Notre Dame from our hotel window, by night. All lit up. Quite a view.

After dinner I realized that my time in this country was limited; we wandered the streets and I continued to eat French pastries with an almost academic dedication. We were back to our room just as the sun was setting on Notre Dame.

Our plan the second day (or what we had of it--we had to be to Paris du Nord to meet the rest of our group by 1:30 PM) was pretty much the Louvre. We were packed up early so we could leave our bags at the front desk and walk to the Louvre before it opened. I am so glad we were there early. We were inside right at 9:00 and had about an hour and a half of seeing things almost completely by ourselves. The busiest pieces--the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, etc had a small crowd, each, but the majority of the museum was empty and we wandered alone in front of so many great works.

Favorites: Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix, Canova's sculpture of Cupid and Psyche, Jacques-Louis David's massive painting of Napoleon crowning Josephine, Hammurabi's Code, the Assyrian winged human-headed bulls, and Michelangelo's sculptures of slaves. But I think one of the best things about the Louvre was just being in the Louvre. Miles and miles of art and history. My one bummer at the Louvre: the one thing I really wanted to see, Winged Victory, was out for restoration.

Basically, I'm saying I need to go back.

We walked until our feet wouldn't carry us anymore. Which was (I think?) about 11:30. Somehow we managed to see all of things we wanted to see. We had about a mile to walk back to our hotel and we needed to eat, so we ducked into a pizzeria just after hearing the the bells of Notre Dame ring for 12:00 again. Our time was up. It was back to the hotel to grab our backpacks, then onto the subway so we could get back to Paris du Nord. It ended up being a long travel day. Our train back to England was delayed about an hour, and then once we were back at St. Pancras we had to take the subway another hour to get out to our hotel, which was by Heathrow, and even then it was quite a walk. My legs and feet were really aching by that night. we ate a hearty dinner at the hotel and collapsed. Heathrow was a crowded, insane mess when we got there. British Airways' luggage system was down, so the line was wrapped around the building. Luckily, we found an agent who helped check us in and we were able to get to our gate early. We decided at some point that we wanted to go straight home, rather than spend the night in San Francisco as had been our original plan. Luckily, I have the best friend in the whole wide world in K, and she agreed to drive to San Francisco that night to get us. We couldn't wait to see our kids, and we surprised them that night at my parents'. This trip was amazing and I still don't think I've processed all of it. I'm happy to be home, but I'm already thinking about the next trip.

Bayeux Tapestry and Cathedral

2014-06-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

Our last day in Bayeux was very low key. The combined effect of taking in the DDay beaches plus racing around the region because our driver was in such a hurry the day before left us all pretty tired.

We'd decided to go see the Bayeux Tapestry first thing in the morning so the museum wouldn't be too crowded. Since you can't take pictures inside (for obvious reasons), I only have my picture in front of the museum. You can see the panels of the Tapestry here. This was one of the things I was most excited to see in France. Scholars estimate the BT was made in about the 1070s as a piece of propaganda detailing the importance of oath-keeping and William the Conqueror's victory at the Battle of Hastings. It's in surprisingly good shape today. The Tapestry (which is really embroidery, not tapestry) hung at one time inside the Bayeux Cathedral, which we visited later the same day. I can't find a picture of this online, but in the Tapestry museum they had an artist's rendering of what the Tapestry would have looked like hanging inside the nave of the Cathedral. The museum was small but well done, and even though we had museum overload by this point, we were impressed with the display.

After the Tapestry, we walked over to the Cathedral, which we had only seen from the outside. Portions of the Cathedral survive from the 1000s, which blows my mind. But it's also in really good shape (and a working church), and the Gothic portions and stained glass from the 1800s are really beautiful. I tried to go into the crypt--which is one of the parts of the church that survives from William the Conqueror's time--but the mold really aggravated my allergies. The Bayeux Cathedral is an amazing structure.

By the time we saw the Cathedral, we were hungry. We stopped by breakfast location #1 and had some lunch, and then we spent the rest of the afternoon napping and reading. I was so exhausted by that point, and I felt like I had a bit of historical whiplash from jumping between WWII and medieval history so much. We decided to rest up for the remainder of the day, because E and I were catching a train to Paris in the morning.

What I Packed

2014-06-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

Three weeks out of a backpack. No checked bags.

In the Heathrow airport, headed home

For my three weeks in Ireland, England and France, I knew I'd be moving around a lot. I decided I wanted to bring a bag I could carry on the plane. And because I wanted to be even more portable, I didn't want to deal with wheels. I limited myself to my backpack and one crossbody bag that I'd be using as my purse/day bag.

The good thing about taking a backpack is that the bag itself is pretty light. I wanted to be able to carry everything myself without having to ever ask for help, and I wanted to feel more like I was in control of my stuff (no extra bags hanging everywhere or things to keep track of).

This is what I packed, if you're interested. It wasn't perfect (see notes), but it was pretty good. I read a lot of travel sites before I left (this one in particular).

THE BAGS
Backpack: Kelty Redwing 40 (E has the 44)
Shoulder bag: Baggalini Partner Backpack (could also alter straps to wear it like a small backpack)

Inside the backpack I used some packing cubes from ebags and nylon pouches from Ikea to keep everything organized. I needed to unpack and pack a lot, and that way I knew right where everything was without having to dig for it.

I washed laundry as we went--mostly in the sink, a few things in the hotel laundry service, and in the washer when we had it at our flat in London. Since it was cold/rainy in Ireland and hot in France, I tried to pack things I could layer. If I was going to be in one climate for the whole time, I wouldn't bring as much. But I ended up using pretty much everything between the three countries. Almost all of the clothes I brought were black, gray, or white. Everything could be worn with everything else. I rolled all of my clothes inside the cubes except for my jacket and sweatshirt.

The packing list, including what I wore on the plane:

CLOTHES

Fleece zip-up sweatshirt (compressed in a gallon ziplock to save space)

Waterproof shell rain jacket

1 pair Jeans

1 pair lightweight pants (like these)

1 pair Leggings

1 pair shorts

1 skirt

2 sundresses

1 pair shorts to wear under skirts (like Spanx)

1 scarf (E's aunt bought me another one along the way)

1 pair PJ pants

2 T-shirts (bought 2 more along the way)

3 camisoles

1 long-sleeve top

3 sleeveless blouses/shells

1 cardigan

1 pull-over sweater

1 canvas jacket (like a denim jacket, kinda?)

5 pair socks

1 bathing suit (didn't use... but you never know)

6 pair underwear

2 bras

SHOES

1 pair Converse (old, so I could toss them if I needed space)

1 pair running shoes

1 pair Toms (old, so I could toss them if I needed space)

1 pair flip flops (I never wore them)

TOILETRIES/STUFF

sleep mask/ earplugs
travel-size Kleenex/ hand wipes

Shampoo and conditioner

toothbrush/toothpaste

floss

hair ties and bobby pins

medicine/ band-aids/ Q-tips

razor
nail clippers/ tweezers

brush and comb

makeup remover

moisturizer/ chapstick

contact solution and case

glasses and case

Packtowel and clothesline

laundry/body soap (This and this. They both worked fine. I used the liquid as a body/face wash for most of the trip.)

Makeup

Hair spray and curl cream

Neck wallet/ Passport/ credit cards

Bag for dirty laundry

Collapsable backpack (like this) in case I needed more space to pack on the way home (Didn't use)

Ziplocks (a big one to hold memory stuff)

TECH/ STUFF

earbuds
DSLR camera/ charger

extra camera batteries and memory cards

iPad/keyboard/ chargers

iPhone/charger

Travel power adapter (similar)

Small power strip (like this)

TSA locks/thin cable

iPad camera connector kit and USB cord for camera

copies of all important paperwork (also emailed to myself)

pen and pencil
Small coin purse

I weighed my backpack before I left and it was 18 pounds. It was full, but manageable. I measured it to make sure it fit carry-on regulations, but nobody gave me a second glance any of the times we boarded a plane.

As we went, I ended up ditching a few things that I didn't absolutely need. I prioritized before I left and knew which things I'd ditch. I left my Converse in London on the last night. They lasted the whole time but they were ready to go. In retrospect I would have brought different running shoes. My Nike Free Runs didn't have enough support and the bottoms of my feet hurt when I wore them, which is why I ended up wearing the Converse almost every day (even with dresses). They have a thicker sole. I was tired of wearing everything by the end, but I could have kept going easily. Wash, wear, repeat.

A word about photo back-up:

I was really concerned ahead of time about how I'd make sure to back up my pictures. Since I wasn't planning to really buy very much, I knew those pictures were the main souvenirs I'd want of the trip. I brought my gigantic DSLR camera which was a pain in the ass to lug around but it takes great pictures. My backup process was to put the pictures onto my iPad every night and then when we had good wifi, to back them up to Dropbox. It worked fine as long as we had good wifi (which we sometimes didn't). I also kept them on the memory card so they were in three places. I know I'm unusually freaked out about losing files, but I didn't want to wait until I was 35 to go anywhere and then accidentally delete all the pictures. The system worked, but it took some odd cord-plugging since Apple doesn't yet make a memory card reader for the lightning plug and my camera uses the old CF cards. But I worked it out.

In my day bag, I'd carry my camera and phone and kleenex, chapstick, water, etc, but no credit cards and never very much money in case it got nabbed. When I flew to and from London, I also packed it full of my prescriptions and the ipad, just in case my big bag got separated from me. I had my passport and anything important in my neck wallet--as much so I didn't lose them as so they'd be protected.

I can't tell you how HAPPY we both were that we didn't bring bags with wheels. I knew that having a backpack would be better over cobblestones, but I didn't have a sense of just how many cobblestones we'd be looking at, and how wobbly they be. And how many stairs... And how many escalators... On the subway, being able to carry everything easily was a lifesaver. We never got stuck in a turnstile, and I never felt like my stuff was too far away from me. When we were traveling from place to place (subway, train, etc) or leaving our bags anywhere for any length of time, I locked the zippers shut.

When we got to Heathrow to head home, there was a line wrapped around the entire terminal because their baggage system was down. It felt so good to bypass that mess and get right on the plane with our stuff.

I think that's it? We're total converts to backpacks now, and packing less.

Normandy: DDay Beaches

2014-06-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

I decided to wait until we got home to finish the rest of the posts about our trip. I'd been trying not to be too specific about E being with me for the second half of the trip (I didn't want to advertise that we were both out of the country), but I realized after the day we visited the DDay beaches that I couldn't keep that up. I also needed time to process after we spent the day visiting each of these sites. I couldn't get right into what I was feeling by writing that same night.

But anyway. We're home now, so here are the rest of the things we saw...

I started my second day in Bayeux just as I had started the first. I had breakfast at my two favorite breakfast spots. Yes, two. Breakfast 1 was in a little cafe so I could have some wonderful coffee (I was missing good coffee so bad when we were in Ireland and England) and a little protein. Breakfast 2 was at the patisserie next door. Every day. No shame in my pain au chocolat game.

For our tour of the American landing beaches (we were only touring those, so we didn't see the British or Canadian landing areas), we had a private tour guide and car. This made our experience much more focused. We were able to ask questions and get a lot of personalized information. E's grandfather was at DDay, serving on an LST for the navy. We were able to cater the tour mostly to things that related to his service.

But before we did that, we started at the Airborne museum in St. Mere-Eglise. If you've seen The Longest Day, you know this as the place that a paratrooper, John Steele, got stuck on the spire of the church as he attempted to land. St. Mere-Eglise also has a small museum dedicated to the 82nd and the 101st, the men who liberated the town in the early morning hours of DDay.

The museum was good, but we were antsy to get to the sites related to our family. Most of our day felt rushed, which was too bad. We could have spent a long time at Utah and Omaha Beaches.

At Utah Beach there's a pretty new memorial to the Navy and their contribution to DDay. Our guide was really knowledgeable about each branch of the American Service and what they'd done. He was able to tell us about how the Navy was particularly successful at Utah, but that they had not been recognized as much as other branches of the military until more recently. Utah has such a gradual slope that it is shallow for as far as you can see. And it's huge. I was really moved by not just how big each beach was, but how much area the entire invasion took up. We spent most of the day driving between spots and it's hard to really convey in pictures just how many miles this invasion encompassed. After seeing Utah, where E's grandfather landed first (and where the Navy memorial is), we made a stop at Point du Hoc, where the craters from the bombardment are still virtually untouched. Our guide had pictures (that's what he's showing in the one below) of the men who fought at Point du Hoc and eventually found the guns the Germans had moved before the invasion. Our last stop was Omaha, specifically the area of Fox Green where our information says E's grandfather's ship came in during the third wave to deliver supplies and take out wounded. This is farther East of Verville, where the worst casualties of Omaha occurred. Our guide was able to give us an idea of exactly what people on his ship would have seen at Omaha. All of this was surreally juxtaposed with the fact that many families were enjoying a swim on the beach the day of our tour. It felt more than a little weird, but it's a sign of how life moves on, I suppose. After Omaha, we visited the American Cemetery on the hill above.

Allons-y.

2014-06-21T13:01:00.001-07:00

It's Saturday, right? I am so mixed up about the day of the week lately. Not that it matters. Forgetting the day of the week is one of my favorite luxuries of summer, but traveling makes it feel even more like I'm out of time.

Anyway. I made it to France, but getting here was much more of an adventure than I thought it would be. We boarded our train in London for Paris and arrived right on time. Just as we were pulling into the station, they announced that the railway workers are having an industrial action (read: strike) and that some trains may have been affected. Cool. No problem. We figured we'd get as far as we could get and then we'd deal with any problems. We found the subway so we could transfer to the other terminal (so we could get to Bayeux) and as we waited, a woman asked if any of us spoke French. I said I did a little bit, and she proceeded to tell me that rather than waiting on the platform where we were, we could catch the train that was arriving in four minutes and going to the same place. And I understood all of that in French and managed to thank her. (I studied French in high school and almost finished a minor in it during undergrad, but it's been about 14 years since I have spoken a word of it. I was shocked I could do it again.) We found our train and arrived at the correct station.

And then it got a little hairy.

We couldn't find our train on the display at all, and the information office was closed. We figured we were coming up against the strike, so I tried to do what I could to see what we needed to do. Finally I found one tiny ticket office that was still open and managed to communicate with enough broken French to learn that our train was canceled, but that we could use our tickets to go to Caen and then take another train to Bayeux. We just barely made it on the train as it was taking off and found a few scattered seats. At this point I was completely shocked by my ability to make anyone understand what I meant/needed. But it was working. So as we pulled into the Caen station, I asked a woman in our car a few questions. And that worked too. Incredible.

Anyway, at the Caen station we had to figure it all out again, so I had a lovely (and very slow) conversation with a very HANDSOME and patient man at the ticket booth who said we could get on a train leaving in ten minutes. And somehow, we made it to Bayeux.

It is a huge surprise to me that I retained enough French to make this happen. But you can imagine that I was pretty happy it worked.

Bayeux is lovely. There's a gorgeous cathedral in the center of town, and it was spared by bombers in WWII, so it's adorable and old. This morning I spent some time wandering around by myself, eating my way through the medieval streets. It's a good thing I'm walking 5-9 miles every day, because I plan to eat every single pastry and baguette in this country. Holy moly. I have never tasted anything like it.

We had a later start today, which was nice because I didn't have to rush. We drove out to Mont St-Michel and spent the afternoon climbing up and up and up into what is the most unreal place I've been yet. Just gorgeous. And almost overwhelming. But the sun was shining and the sea breeze was blowing and it was not very crowded. All great.

Here are some pics from the last two days. Train, Bayeux, and Mont St-Michel.

Bonne nuit.

... read more at http://www.nothingisheavy.com/

Three Full Days in London

2014-06-19T12:23:00.001-07:00

This is long. Apologies. You can just skip to the pictures at the bottom if you want.

I meant to write each day in London as I was trying to do in Ireland, but I ended up getting sick in the middle of our stretch here. Yesterday was kind of a wash. We've been doing so much and pushing so hard since I got to Europe that I think I just wore myself down. Tuesday was the busiest day yet, and by Wednesday morning I had a super-duper migraine. After crying myself into an ugly snotball because I was upset that I might miss something, I went back to bed and waited until my migraine meds made things a little better. The headache didn't go away, but after a few hours' rest I managed to drag myself into the shower and then get on the tube.

Being sick meant I didn't do everything I wanted to do, but it's okay. I will just need to come back. We saw so much of the city anyway, so I can't really be sad. I think it was just forced relaxation. I've been hydrating, eating, and resting more. That all appears to be working.

Anyway. What we've seen...

Our travel day from Ireland to England was fairly easy. We took an Aer Lingus flight from Dublin to London, so much of that was just waiting around in airports. Once we got here it was easy to catch the train to Paddington and then walk to the flat we rented on airbnb. It isn't fancy, but we have plenty of space, a kitchen, and my favorite: a washer and dryer. London meant clean clothes that I didn't have to wash in the sink. I really tried to pack light (I just have a carry-on size backpack and my purse) so I was needing to do a load of laundry by the time we got here. Monday night was pretty much dinner and clothes-washing. We have comfy couches and a comfy bed, and it felt like we could stretch out a little bit more.

Tuesday we decided we'd see museums. We got kind of a late start (we were starting to drag a bit from more than a week of travel without a ton of rest), but we saw The British Museum. And when I say we saw it, I mean we saw almost the whole darn thing. Save a couple of exhibits, we wandered through those halls gawking at antiquities for the better part of the day. Highlights: all the mummies (but especially the cat mummy) and Egyptian relics, the Rosetta Stone, the Sutton Hoo finds (a Viking ship burial that proved Vikings made it all over the place), all the Greek and Roman stuff, the Elgin Marbles/Parthenon stuff, giant Egyptian sculptures. I know I'm forgetting something, but it was overwhelming. In a good way.

After the Museum, we headed over to the British Library, to see their collection of manuscripts. The room--the Treasury of the British Library--was the single most awe-inspiring room I've ever been in. It was nerd heaven. In one small room are The Diamond Sutra (the world's earliest printed book), a Gutenberg Bible, the oldest (and only surviving) manuscript copy of Beowulf, the Magna Carta, Jane Austen's writing desk and her manuscript of Persuasion, Bronte's manuscript of Jane Eyre, a handwritten poem by Sylvia Plath, Shakespeare's first folio, Handel's Messiah, a collection of lyrics from The Beatles, DaVinci's notebooks, and so much more. My feet were killing me by the time we were there, but I didn't want to leave the room. I was completely under the spell of all those great works. It was incredible.

So like I said, I got sick the next day. Big migraine-and-nausea sick. My late start meant I had to play catch-up with everyone once I got to the Tower of London. But I saw the Crown Jewels, the torture room, the White Tower--all the good stuff. After being in empty Irish castles, it felt strange to be in one in the middle of the city, and full of life (and windows). I liked it, but I think all the touristy aspects of it made it harder to imagine what it was really like. I know it's an important historical site, but it didn't feel real. It felt kind of Disneylandy, which is a horrible thing to say about a place where real people lived and died. But I couldn't get my imagination to what it might have actually been like. (That was easier for me in Ireland, where Castles stand in the middle of fields and you don't see skyscrapers.) I loved the Tower, though. I'm glad I saw it.

After the Tower we walked through Westminster Abbey. It felt strange, too, but for a different reason. It's always strange for me to be in a place I've seen on TV a bunch of times. It felt smaller. And so much is packed into that one building. Wow. So much. We did the audio tour (those little things you hold up to your ears) and I couldn't believe it kept going and going. It's a beautiful structure, but it's also a lot to take in.

By the time we finished there, my head hurt again and my legs wouldn't stop shaking. We decided to head home and get something to eat so I could make it an early night. We keep inadvertently stepping into pubs as World Cup games are about to begin (I know, I know... I'm not sporty!), but we found a quiet corner at The Cow pub, and ordered a Cow Pie. (Hee!) I was out really early.

And today (I'm sorry this is so long), our last full day before moving on to France, we went out to Oxford. We caught a bus about 9:00 this morning and spent the better part of the day there. I know I'm nerding out over everything I see, so a positive word from me about something doesn't mean much now, but I was really glad to make it out there. Oxford is a great place to indulge a childhood desire to duck into nooks and crannies and discover things. We started at Christ Church, had a picnic in Christ Church Meadow and walked along the Thames, drank a pint at The Eagle & Child (where Lewis and Tolkien hung out), wandered the streets and shops, bought a copy of Tolkien's Beowulf from Blackwell's (why not?), and checked out the Bodleian Library and Radcliff Camera before wandering back to catch the bus again, taking our time and ducking into open gates when we saw them. Our bus dropped us off near Buckingham Palace, so we took the obligatory pictures near the gate and then found an address my grandpa gave me where one of my ancestors lived, on St. James Place. Another full day.

Tonight it's laundry time again, and packing. Now, France!

Last Day in Ireland

2014-06-16T13:54:00.001-07:00

Took a day off from writing yesterday because I was out trying to soak up the last little bits of the city. Also, I didn't think I took any pictures. I was wrong.

In the morning we got on one of those hop-on-hop-off buses and rode it to the Guinness brewery at St. James. I'm torn about it. It was slick, but it was a really slick advertisement. They have done a good job of convincing you that Guinness is something very speical. And they built a very special building around that idea. Very high tech. Smooth. Like Disney designed it. But still a good time, especially getting to fool around with the taps. I also really enjoyed the gravity bar at the top of the thing, because the views of the city were amazing.

On our driving tour we saw a lot of Dublin. Since what I knew about Dublin before going is exactly zero, I was pleasantly surprised by what we saw on the tour, specifially the churches and the bits of city wall and castle. (Did you know they filmed a lot of The Tudors in Dublin?) After we finished our Guinness experience, I decided to go on by myself. I wanted to finish the tour and have the afternoon alone in the city. I picked up lunch at a market, went back to the room to FaceTime E and the kids, and then I headed out in search of a cafe where I could sit and people-watch. And city-watch. And write.

I spent a lot of time wandering, and one of the places I wandered past was The Bailey. Since today is Bloomsday (big James Joyce thing), it was already the place to be yesterday--the day before. Too crowded for my tastes, but I was happy to see it. I wandered a few blocks over and found a tiny table where I could sip my cappucchino, nibble on my pain au chocolat, and write down a few thoughts in my journal about what I've thought of Ireland. The stillness of the afternoon was welcome, and the cappucchino was delicious.

Dinner was Mexican(ish) food in St. Stephens Green, and we had a nice after-dinner stroll and one last toast in the pub before we had to head back to the rooms to pack. We were headed for London...

Dublin in Pictures

2014-06-14T13:57:00.001-07:00

Trim and Newgrange

2014-06-13T09:12:00.001-07:00

Not many pictures today... it was pretty much a travel day. But before we left Trim this morning we snapped a few pictures in front of the castle. From there we went to Newgrange, a burial mound from about 3200 BC. It was fascinating and I'm glad I saw it, but the reason I don't have many pictures is that I didn't last 2 minutes inside the burial mound. It's a covered stone structure with a narrow, low entryway of stone that aligns perfectly with the sun on the date of the Winter Solstice. There's only one way in and out. I got in there and didn't want to get stuck behind all the people as I waited to leave. I started to feel kind of panicky, so I hightailed it out of there and sat on the grass as I waited for the rest of them to come out. It was cool, but that didn't mean I was going to be able to stay inside for any length of time. I ended up with a nice view of the sheep in the hills nearby. And lots of open air.

From Newgrange we dropped our car at the airport, and now we're in Dublin for a few days. I haven't really been sleeping too well, so I'm pretty tired. Hoping that gets better since we're in the same spot for a while. After being in the country for a week, Dublin looks so busy.

Tonight's big plan is to do some laundry and pass out early.

I haven't been able to time it right to talk to either of the kids at home (I've FaceTimed with E) because of the time difference, so I'm looking forward to hearing from them. This is the longest I've been away from them without contact. Henry sent me a nice long email this morning about all the things he's been doing in his last week of school, so that was a good little bit of home. Today was his last day.

And as much as I'm enjoying this experience, I'm missing all my UCR friends like crazy. Some of my most special people are graduating this weekend at June residency and I couldn't be there. Feels weird, all of my favorite people being together and I'm not there. I'm so happy and proud of my friends. I just wish I could be there to hug 'em a little.

I think I need to go eat something. Or maybe lack of sleep is catching up with me. I feel exhausted tonight. And I feel like all I've had to eat for three days is scones. I'm over scones, btw. And I haven't had nearly enough Irish cheese.

More soon.

The Rock of Cashel

2014-06-12T10:54:00.001-07:00

Putting this here so I don't forget it:

Today we visited The Rock of Cashel, a mix of many centuries of building styles. It's probably my favorite structure we've seen so far because of how many things you can see built together. The oldest structure is a round tower from about 1100, and there's a Romanesque chapel (Cormac's Chapel) which dates from later in the 12th century. (Inside the chapel are a combination of Celtic carvings in the sandstone and medieval frescoes. MEDIEVAL FRESCOES, YOU GUYS.) Attached to that is a gothic cathedral, built between 1235 and 1270. And attached to that, they eventually knocked down the nave to build a tower house (a castle, basically) for defense. Cashel is an important religious and historical site.

Our guide standing next to the replica of the Roman cross.

Round arches inside the Romanesque chapel. Protestants painted over the frescoes. Jerks.

Pointed arches at the cathedral (built into the round tower)

I would be remiss to leave out the fact that as I stood and studied all the arches, I remembered the lectures about architecture and arch shapes from my 10th grade World History class. (Thanks, K!) I'm still feeling like this is all unreal. In a really good way.

Yes, I wore tights as pants. DON'T TELL ANYONE.

Ther original sandstone Roman cross. It's been moved inside to protect it.

After we toured the structures on top of the hill, I headed down to Hores Abbey by myself to take some pictures. It sits at the foot of the hill. The rest of my group visited yesterday when I was getting my nap on, and I didn't want to miss it.

All of that before lunch! Then I sat in the sun, people watching, for about an hour as I waited to meet back up with my group. It's been a beautiful sunny day. :)