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posted by jules @ 3:02 PM
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Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Different Latitude, Same Attitude
As a four year old I had no words for it, but I knew that something big was happening. It was a hot summer evening and I felt weird – some odd combo platter of emotion…dread…excitement…fear? I couldn’t tell. But I knew that my six brothers and sisters were thrilled, and that my mom, though she was smiling, was feeling something else, something much more sinister.
Around 6pm my dad burst through the door with a puffed up chest and a mischievous smile. “Pack up the kids Doris” he bellowed, “We’re going on vacation.” It was a Friday in late August, commission check time for feed salesman in small town Southern Minnesota, and it had been a good week. My brothers and sisters were jumping and hollering. “Whoo Hoo! Vacation! I get Mom’s lap.” “Hugh-ungh you got it last time.” My mother got this odd look on her face – something between fear and homicidal mania.
You see vacation to our family was not some rustic, cozy cabin in the north woods on a lake – or even roughing in a tent with a camp stove. Our vacation home was an old abandoned farmhouse in the middle of a cricket-infested field in southern Minnesota. It had no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no bedding, no dishes – and my mother was to pack up seven children, supplies, equipment, and food at 6 pm on a Friday night so that we could arrive before dark. How she went 55 years without smothering that man in his sleep I will never understand.
Packing the car was an exercise in advanced geometry and triangulation. Nine people, food, sheets, towels, supplies, and Poncho – the nervous, incontinent, motion sick terrier were all to fit into the midnight-blue Buick Roadmaster. We were lap-sitters, the lot of us, four in the front and five in the back. As the baby of the family, I got to ride in back window of the sedan along with Poncho, and it was my job to yell “CAR” whenever I saw one approaching or trying to pass.
What would turn out to be our very last visit to the abandoned shack began just as all the others had, with frenzy and excitement and undeniable dread. And now it was nighttime – dark as pitch. I was curled up with my sister on an army surplus cot built for one. We were a tangle of clammy arms and legs, sweaty brows and musty old blankets, waging a sleep-war for the only pillow. It was a hushed symphony of cricket chirps and sleep murmurs. Then everything changed.
At first I could only hear the huffing. This was not the rhythmic familiarity of my dad’s snoring. No, whatever was breathing like that was definitely not human and it smelled horribly of musk and mold and decay. Satan’s perfume. I heard my mother’s voice.
“Ellis” she whisper-screamed “there is a BEAR in here!”
“Just go back to sleep. It’ll leave” my dad replied.
“GET IT OUT OF HERE!” She was no longer whispering.
“How in hell am I supposed to do that? I don’t have a gun.” He said.
“WELL THEN CHASE IT OUT!”
“You want me to chase a bear?”
“I WANT YOU TO CHASE A BEAR!”
Muttering curses like Yosemite Sam, my dad hurled himself out of the bed and made all the noise a 5 foot 4 inch, 145 lb man could make. He shouted and flailed and banged on whatever was near him, completely blind in the darkness. My nine year-old brother Jimmy took an inadvertent cuff to the ear and howled out in pain. This started a chain reaction of screaming and falling to the floor from seven children and a very small, very frightened terrier.
The commotion died down when Mom lit the gas lantern and we looked around the cabin. No bear, no boogeyman, just that unholy, lingering odor.
The door was standing wide open and we held our breath as Dad bravely advanced on the door, and beyond it, the wild, ferocious animal that had nearly massacred his family.
There at the bottom of the steps sat a very confused, very hairy golden retriever, panting and huffing with his head tilted a little to one side. “Well there’s you bear Doris, there’s your damn bear.” My father shook his head, quenched the light, and went back to sleep.
Fast forward 35 or so years and I am in a lovely hotel with my husband and three kids. We have a pool, a beach, a kitchen and air conditioning. “C’mon you guys, this will be an adventure.” I coaxed. I had met a man named Christian who was building a resort on one of the undeveloped outer cayes in Belize. His resort wasn’t open for guests yet, but would be very soon. He was looking for someone to market the resort in the US, and I, being a travel agent who was already marketing a hotel on another caye, I was a natural choice. He offered free accommodations for the weekend.
We packed a boat with provisions and took the two hour ride to Long Caye Resort. As we docked the boat and unloaded, I noticed that my husband had this strange look on his face. He didn’t seem nearly as excited for this adventure as I was. “Jeez” I thought. “Where’s your sense of fun?”
The cloud of mosquitoes descended on us almost immediately. I’d never seen anything like it. They were as thick as fog, buzzing and biting like the frenzied vampires they are. At once they were in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth and ears. Choking and swatting, we jumped into the ocean to escape.
“Careful of the stinging jellyfish ma’am.” Christian, our host announced. “They’re everywhere.” We snatched the kids out of the water and put on long sleeves and pants, hats and bandanas. Trouble is, it was about 106º and humid. Everyone was miserable, sweating and itching like crazy. “Quick – inside the hotel” I offered.
Christian showed us to our rooms – a 10x10 box with no cross ventilation, no screens on the only window and gaping holes in the unfinished roof. It did have a ceiling fan, and I was hoping that after the sun set the mosquitoes would abate and the breeze of the fan would keep us cool.
“You have electricity right?” My husband accused.
“Yes, of course.” Replied Christian.
And he did. Except, he forgot to mention that the generator was turned off every night around 10 pm - turning the 10x10 hot box of a room into a sweltering, buggy oven. We passed that hideous night taking turns trying to cool off in the shower down the hall – fully clothed.
The next morning we were up and out of there before our host was even awake. I was appropriately contrite about my mis-adventure. However, on the way back I asked my husband if we could stop at another island just a little further south. I had heard about a resort that some American had built and then abandoned. Apparently he had been in trouble with the law and had to flee country. “We should stop and take a look.” I said. “I guess it’s brand new and just sitting there empty for anyone to use. We could stay the night. It would be an adventure!” He just looked down and shook his head.
How that man has gone 22 years without smothering me in my sleep I will never understand.
Word Count 1248
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
Around 6pm my dad burst through the door with a puffed up chest and a mischievous smile. “Pack up the kids Doris” he bellowed, “We’re going on vacation.” It was a Friday in late August, commission check time for feed salesman in small town Southern Minnesota, and it had been a good week. My brothers and sisters were jumping and hollering. “Whoo Hoo! Vacation! I get Mom’s lap.” “Hugh-ungh you got it last time.” My mother got this odd look on her face – something between fear and homicidal mania.
You see vacation to our family was not some rustic, cozy cabin in the north woods on a lake – or even roughing in a tent with a camp stove. Our vacation home was an old abandoned farmhouse in the middle of a cricket-infested field in southern Minnesota. It had no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no bedding, no dishes – and my mother was to pack up seven children, supplies, equipment, and food at 6 pm on a Friday night so that we could arrive before dark. How she went 55 years without smothering that man in his sleep I will never understand.
Packing the car was an exercise in advanced geometry and triangulation. Nine people, food, sheets, towels, supplies, and Poncho – the nervous, incontinent, motion sick terrier were all to fit into the midnight-blue Buick Roadmaster. We were lap-sitters, the lot of us, four in the front and five in the back. As the baby of the family, I got to ride in back window of the sedan along with Poncho, and it was my job to yell “CAR” whenever I saw one approaching or trying to pass.
What would turn out to be our very last visit to the abandoned shack began just as all the others had, with frenzy and excitement and undeniable dread. And now it was nighttime – dark as pitch. I was curled up with my sister on an army surplus cot built for one. We were a tangle of clammy arms and legs, sweaty brows and musty old blankets, waging a sleep-war for the only pillow. It was a hushed symphony of cricket chirps and sleep murmurs. Then everything changed.
At first I could only hear the huffing. This was not the rhythmic familiarity of my dad’s snoring. No, whatever was breathing like that was definitely not human and it smelled horribly of musk and mold and decay. Satan’s perfume. I heard my mother’s voice.
“Ellis” she whisper-screamed “there is a BEAR in here!”
“Just go back to sleep. It’ll leave” my dad replied.
“GET IT OUT OF HERE!” She was no longer whispering.
“How in hell am I supposed to do that? I don’t have a gun.” He said.
“WELL THEN CHASE IT OUT!”
“You want me to chase a bear?”
“I WANT YOU TO CHASE A BEAR!”
Muttering curses like Yosemite Sam, my dad hurled himself out of the bed and made all the noise a 5 foot 4 inch, 145 lb man could make. He shouted and flailed and banged on whatever was near him, completely blind in the darkness. My nine year-old brother Jimmy took an inadvertent cuff to the ear and howled out in pain. This started a chain reaction of screaming and falling to the floor from seven children and a very small, very frightened terrier.
The commotion died down when Mom lit the gas lantern and we looked around the cabin. No bear, no boogeyman, just that unholy, lingering odor.
The door was standing wide open and we held our breath as Dad bravely advanced on the door, and beyond it, the wild, ferocious animal that had nearly massacred his family.
There at the bottom of the steps sat a very confused, very hairy golden retriever, panting and huffing with his head tilted a little to one side. “Well there’s you bear Doris, there’s your damn bear.” My father shook his head, quenched the light, and went back to sleep.
Fast forward 35 or so years and I am in a lovely hotel with my husband and three kids. We have a pool, a beach, a kitchen and air conditioning. “C’mon you guys, this will be an adventure.” I coaxed. I had met a man named Christian who was building a resort on one of the undeveloped outer cayes in Belize. His resort wasn’t open for guests yet, but would be very soon. He was looking for someone to market the resort in the US, and I, being a travel agent who was already marketing a hotel on another caye, I was a natural choice. He offered free accommodations for the weekend.
We packed a boat with provisions and took the two hour ride to Long Caye Resort. As we docked the boat and unloaded, I noticed that my husband had this strange look on his face. He didn’t seem nearly as excited for this adventure as I was. “Jeez” I thought. “Where’s your sense of fun?”
The cloud of mosquitoes descended on us almost immediately. I’d never seen anything like it. They were as thick as fog, buzzing and biting like the frenzied vampires they are. At once they were in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth and ears. Choking and swatting, we jumped into the ocean to escape.
“Careful of the stinging jellyfish ma’am.” Christian, our host announced. “They’re everywhere.” We snatched the kids out of the water and put on long sleeves and pants, hats and bandanas. Trouble is, it was about 106º and humid. Everyone was miserable, sweating and itching like crazy. “Quick – inside the hotel” I offered.
Christian showed us to our rooms – a 10x10 box with no cross ventilation, no screens on the only window and gaping holes in the unfinished roof. It did have a ceiling fan, and I was hoping that after the sun set the mosquitoes would abate and the breeze of the fan would keep us cool.
“You have electricity right?” My husband accused.
“Yes, of course.” Replied Christian.
And he did. Except, he forgot to mention that the generator was turned off every night around 10 pm - turning the 10x10 hot box of a room into a sweltering, buggy oven. We passed that hideous night taking turns trying to cool off in the shower down the hall – fully clothed.
The next morning we were up and out of there before our host was even awake. I was appropriately contrite about my mis-adventure. However, on the way back I asked my husband if we could stop at another island just a little further south. I had heard about a resort that some American had built and then abandoned. Apparently he had been in trouble with the law and had to flee country. “We should stop and take a look.” I said. “I guess it’s brand new and just sitting there empty for anyone to use. We could stay the night. It would be an adventure!” He just looked down and shook his head.
How that man has gone 22 years without smothering me in my sleep I will never understand.
Word Count 1248
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
posted by jules @ 11:42 AM
0 Comments
Life Lessons in St. Lucia
Long about load number sixteen of the pre-trip laundry piper-paying , I wonder. “Is this going to be worth it?” How much fun will this trip have to be to justify the weeks of sock matching and grocery hauling, necessary to leave 3 children for 8 nights. “A lot” I think. “One hell of a holy lot”.
But the moment I round the corner of the MN-5 exit and the Lindberg terminal bursts into view, I am in love. Yes, the obnoxious long lines, the crabby, clueless travelers, the slow, confused, elderly man in front of me in the security line, who stinks of mothballs, garlic and Efferdent, and has to be prompted to remove every single personal item, “And your belt please sir…and your jacket please sir…and your hat please sir…and your phone please sir…and your shoes please sir…” I love them all. Ditto the self-important business man talking into the collar of his expensive shirt, sporting a star trek, blue tooth, headset, and shoving me with his $1400 alligator briefcase as he cuts ahead of me…okay, maybe him I don’t love.
But I do adore the delicious anticipation as the seatbelt glides across my lap and I hear that satisfying click. And I always, oddly, feel a trifle self satisfied if I need to cinch it in just a tad – that means I am thinner than the last occupant. I poke the earbuds in my ears and Springsteen wails “Baby We Were Born to Run”.
“Yes Bruce. Yes we were.”
The plane starts its jerky rumblings down the runway. It relaxes me so much that I often fall asleep just then. While nervous flyers are white-knuckling their armrests and jamming their heels into the floor all around me, I am off in dreamland, head lolling, probably drooling, pleased with my good fortune. But this time, awake, I turn and catch my reflection in the window, and I am changed. I am a woman on a trip. That’s what travel does for me.
And this trip was to be better than most. My husband and I were off on a second honeymoon of sorts (though I contend that 3 nights of watching my husband fish in northern Wisconsin does not qualify as a first h
oneymoon). We were off to St. Lucia – an island deep in the Caribbean West Indies. This island is said to be for lovers – very popular with the honeymoon set. I had heard it offered lots of adventure, diving, sailing, jungle treks and great food.
St. Lucia has a romantic, if violent history. It is called “The Helen of the Caribbean” for its great beauty and desirability. In fact, it is so beautiful that the powerful rulers of France and England each saw fit to allow their soldiers to die in battle over her, not once but seven times. But it was a battle of a different sort in which I would find myself embroiled here. It was a battle of intuition and trust.
On a dive boat we met Stuart, a Canadian man traveling alone. He seemed a rather nice guy – and the fact that he said “a boot” when he meant “about” made me giggle. Perfect traveling companion. He was also interested in finding a private charter sail around the island.
“But” I asked “Aren’t there catamarans that do group sails much cheaper?”
“Oh sure” he answered. “They have those eh? - 150 sweaty drunks, jammed elbow to knee on top of each other trying to get to the buffet first. And speakers the size of refrigerators that blast rap music and scare the dolphins halfway to Cuba. Here comes one now. Look at that tall bloke peeing off the starboard. Charming bloke eh? And what’s it called? The S.S. Chl
amydia?”
But that meant we had to find someone who would do a private charter. To travel like this you need to be either astoundingly rich, or willing to trust people you don’t know. I am not rich and so I must trust. “See that fellow over there with the blue toque?” Said Stuart. “That’s Robert. He’s supposed to be the one to hook us up”. I saw that he was referring to a very shaggy looking island boy, whose dreads were gathered up in a blue stocking cap. “Oh dear” said mid-western sensibilities.
Robert met us on the beach under a palm tree. “You like-a my office mon?” He smiled gesturing toward the sand. “Friends are callin’ me Doctor Feel-Good.” Now either he was a licensed Doctor of mind-body holistic medicine, practicing on the beach for the connection it offers to the earth, or he was a drug dealer. Everyone knew Robert, greeted him by name, and he assured us that he would be able to hook us up with anything we wanted.
“Well Robert, we want a sailboat, a nice one. And a captain, also nice, to sail around the island tomorrow. What would that cost?” Stuart asked.
“You are my friends, and for you - good deal” Robert replied. We agreed on a price and made plans to meet the next morning.
That night I awoke with worrying dreams. What did I really know about this guy? Sure he had water-taxied Stuart around for a few nights – had looked after him at the local festival, but what was I doing? Was I being naïve, irresponsible? Or was this feeling of uncertainty a racist response to a person who looked different than me? In the creaky, rusty hours of the night, my paranoid fantasies had me believing horrible things about this young man, and alternately about myself.
The next day was cloudy and rainy – an ominous sign if you believe in such things. Robert and his pal Frederic arrived right on time to pick us up in the water taxi. Robert assured us that the weather at the south end of the island would be better. I looked at him with uncertainty on my face as he held out his hand to help me into the boat. “Do you trust me?” He asked. And at that moment, for better or worse, I did.
This story ends well, with a beautiful day of sailing, another glimpse of the S.S. Chlamydia as it passed to our port side, with too much noise and too many people, confirming the wisdom of our decision. But it also ends with a lesson in trust - a lesson for both Dr. Feel Good and me.
We had just started our sail – beautiful weather, beautiful boat, when I realized that my formerly predictable feminine cycle was betraying me, and arriving a full two weeks early. I had nothing in the way of feminine products. NOTHING. There was nothing on the boat, and we had sailed out of the only populated area for miles We were hours from anything but a tiny village with no stores. But I could see women there on the beach and I know where there were women there are feminine products.
I had my husband ask the captain to find a mooring here, and ferry us into the beach for a little while. The captain said that while we could moor here there was no reason to go to the beach. “There is nothing here to do. No snorkeling, no restaurant, no stores. I have a much better place up ahead in one or two hours.”
But my husband insisted. Suspiciously the captain moored the boat and ferried us in the dingy. We walked the beach for awhile trying not to look so conspicuous. I went from one group of women to another asking for a “favor”. Finally a very bohemian-looking young woman nodded. She had the “stuff” I needed, and we ducked behind a palm tree to make the exchange. She didn’t want to take money, but I insisted knowing that supplies like these, in places like this are neither inexpensive nor easy to come by. She had saved me.
My husband told the captain that we were ready to go back to the boat. I noticed a distinct chill coming from both Robert and the Captain. I wondered if they were embarrassed to have to deal so blatantly with a woman’s issue and I began to get indignant. I was ready to show these men a little American Feminism. I asked, “Is there some problem?”
“Yes” Robert said. “That stuff is not legal here on the island and is not legal on the boat. The captain is afraid he will have big trouble from this and be fired from his job.”
“What is not legal?” I asked incredulous.
“What you bought from that girl” Robert said.
“You mean these?” I replied and opened my hand to reveal half a dozen tampons.
Robert’s eyes grew wide. He covered his face with both hands and doubled over with laughter and embarrassment “No,” he said “No, not that.”
In the end both Robert and I learned a little something about trust, about making assumptions, and about what all women really want at one time or another. Who knows, maybe Dr. Feel-Good carries them himself now.
Word Count 1528
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
But the moment I round the corner of the MN-5 exit and the Lindberg terminal bursts into view, I am in love. Yes, the obnoxious long lines, the crabby, clueless travelers, the slow, confused, elderly man in front of me in the security line, who stinks of mothballs, garlic and Efferdent, and has to be prompted to remove every single personal item, “And your belt please sir…and your jacket please sir…and your hat please sir…and your phone please sir…and your shoes please sir…” I love them all. Ditto the self-important business man talking into the collar of his expensive shirt, sporting a star trek, blue tooth, headset, and shoving me with his $1400 alligator briefcase as he cuts ahead of me…okay, maybe him I don’t love.
But I do adore the delicious anticipation as the seatbelt glides across my lap and I hear that satisfying click. And I always, oddly, feel a trifle self satisfied if I need to cinch it in just a tad – that means I am thinner than the last occupant. I poke the earbuds in my ears and Springsteen wails “Baby We Were Born to Run”.
“Yes Bruce. Yes we were.”
The plane starts its jerky rumblings down the runway. It relaxes me so much that I often fall asleep just then. While nervous flyers are white-knuckling their armrests and jamming their heels into the floor all around me, I am off in dreamland, head lolling, probably drooling, pleased with my good fortune. But this time, awake, I turn and catch my reflection in the window, and I am changed. I am a woman on a trip. That’s what travel does for me.
And this trip was to be better than most. My husband and I were off on a second honeymoon of sorts (though I contend that 3 nights of watching my husband fish in northern Wisconsin does not qualify as a first h
oneymoon). We were off to St. Lucia – an island deep in the Caribbean West Indies. This island is said to be for lovers – very popular with the honeymoon set. I had heard it offered lots of adventure, diving, sailing, jungle treks and great food.St. Lucia has a romantic, if violent history. It is called “The Helen of the Caribbean” for its great beauty and desirability. In fact, it is so beautiful that the powerful rulers of France and England each saw fit to allow their soldiers to die in battle over her, not once but seven times. But it was a battle of a different sort in which I would find myself embroiled here. It was a battle of intuition and trust.
On a dive boat we met Stuart, a Canadian man traveling alone. He seemed a rather nice guy – and the fact that he said “a boot” when he meant “about” made me giggle. Perfect traveling companion. He was also interested in finding a private charter sail around the island.
“But” I asked “Aren’t there catamarans that do group sails much cheaper?”
“Oh sure” he answered. “They have those eh? - 150 sweaty drunks, jammed elbow to knee on top of each other trying to get to the buffet first. And speakers the size of refrigerators that blast rap music and scare the dolphins halfway to Cuba. Here comes one now. Look at that tall bloke peeing off the starboard. Charming bloke eh? And what’s it called? The S.S. Chl
amydia?”But that meant we had to find someone who would do a private charter. To travel like this you need to be either astoundingly rich, or willing to trust people you don’t know. I am not rich and so I must trust. “See that fellow over there with the blue toque?” Said Stuart. “That’s Robert. He’s supposed to be the one to hook us up”. I saw that he was referring to a very shaggy looking island boy, whose dreads were gathered up in a blue stocking cap. “Oh dear” said mid-western sensibilities.
Robert met us on the beach under a palm tree. “You like-a my office mon?” He smiled gesturing toward the sand. “Friends are callin’ me Doctor Feel-Good.” Now either he was a licensed Doctor of mind-body holistic medicine, practicing on the beach for the connection it offers to the earth, or he was a drug dealer. Everyone knew Robert, greeted him by name, and he assured us that he would be able to hook us up with anything we wanted.
“Well Robert, we want a sailboat, a nice one. And a captain, also nice, to sail around the island tomorrow. What would that cost?” Stuart asked.
“You are my friends, and for you - good deal” Robert replied. We agreed on a price and made plans to meet the next morning.
That night I awoke with worrying dreams. What did I really know about this guy? Sure he had water-taxied Stuart around for a few nights – had looked after him at the local festival, but what was I doing? Was I being naïve, irresponsible? Or was this feeling of uncertainty a racist response to a person who looked different than me? In the creaky, rusty hours of the night, my paranoid fantasies had me believing horrible things about this young man, and alternately about myself.
The next day was cloudy and rainy – an ominous sign if you believe in such things. Robert and his pal Frederic arrived right on time to pick us up in the water taxi. Robert assured us that the weather at the south end of the island would be better. I looked at him with uncertainty on my face as he held out his hand to help me into the boat. “Do you trust me?” He asked. And at that moment, for better or worse, I did.
This story ends well, with a beautiful day of sailing, another glimpse of the S.S. Chlamydia as it passed to our port side, with too much noise and too many people, confirming the wisdom of our decision. But it also ends with a lesson in trust - a lesson for both Dr. Feel Good and me.
We had just started our sail – beautiful weather, beautiful boat, when I realized that my formerly predictable feminine cycle was betraying me, and arriving a full two weeks early. I had nothing in the way of feminine products. NOTHING. There was nothing on the boat, and we had sailed out of the only populated area for miles We were hours from anything but a tiny village with no stores. But I could see women there on the beach and I know where there were women there are feminine products.
I had my husband ask the captain to find a mooring here, and ferry us into the beach for a little while. The captain said that while we could moor here there was no reason to go to the beach. “There is nothing here to do. No snorkeling, no restaurant, no stores. I have a much better place up ahead in one or two hours.”
But my husband insisted. Suspiciously the captain moored the boat and ferried us in the dingy. We walked the beach for awhile trying not to look so conspicuous. I went from one group of women to another asking for a “favor”. Finally a very bohemian-looking young woman nodded. She had the “stuff” I needed, and we ducked behind a palm tree to make the exchange. She didn’t want to take money, but I insisted knowing that supplies like these, in places like this are neither inexpensive nor easy to come by. She had saved me.
My husband told the captain that we were ready to go back to the boat. I noticed a distinct chill coming from both Robert and the Captain. I wondered if they were embarrassed to have to deal so blatantly with a woman’s issue and I began to get indignant. I was ready to show these men a little American Feminism. I asked, “Is there some problem?”
“Yes” Robert said. “That stuff is not legal here on the island and is not legal on the boat. The captain is afraid he will have big trouble from this and be fired from his job.”
“What is not legal?” I asked incredulous.
“What you bought from that girl” Robert said.
“You mean these?” I replied and opened my hand to reveal half a dozen tampons.
Robert’s eyes grew wide. He covered his face with both hands and doubled over with laughter and embarrassment “No,” he said “No, not that.”
In the end both Robert and I learned a little something about trust, about making assumptions, and about what all women really want at one time or another. Who knows, maybe Dr. Feel-Good carries them himself now.
Word Count 1528
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
Labels: Life Lessons in St. Lucia
posted by jules @ 11:41 AM
0 Comments
Discover Nicaragua
One of best thing about visiting a place like Nicaragua is telling people that you did. They look at you as if they think you are spectacularly insane, and I was beginning to think they were right. Nicaragua, the largest country in Central America – about the size of New York State - boasts 9 volcanoes, 4 of them active, a history of political unrest, civil war, devastating earthquakes, and tsunamis. Now, I know that my sense of adventure sometimes overcomes just plain sense, but even I was a little apprehensive about this one. I was headed to a Travel Trade show in Managua, and all I could think about was how far I would be able to crawl on my belly and knees dodging stray bullets if that need should arise.
We flew low into the capital city of Managua and from the airplane window I could peer into the blue-green liquid center of a giant, dormant volcano crater. With views of stacked cumulus clouds, luminous green foothills, and hazy sunshine I felt like I was entering the Garden of Eden. If it is an Eden of sorts, it is certainly undiscovered – for now. Experts in the travel industry are touting Nicaragua as the next hot destination for investors and tourists seeking unspoiled natural beauty and adventure travel.
VOLCANOS
On our first adventure we visited Masaya volcano. I wandered into the information center, and met Jose, our guide. On the wall was a giant relief map of the world, with the center being Nicaragua. What was striking, other than the models of violently spewing volcanoes, were the lines drawing the tectonic plates that cover the earth. They all seemed to converge in and around Nicaragua. Jose assured us, with an odd display of pride, that these plates were responsible for earthquakes, tsunami, and volcanic activity in Nicaragua. Quickly adding that “Nicaragua is the safest country in all of Central America” with a broad grin.
We set off to discover the volcano on foot. Jose warned us to “stay on the path,” though at times the path was almost impossible to discern from the “not-so-much” path. He assured us, again with that giant grin, that “It is very dangerous to leave the path. You could break through the crust.”
“The crust of WHAT?” I gasped.
“The crust of earth over the boiling pools. It is very hot – nearly 3000 degrees” he proudly replied.
“So you’re telling me that in the course of my afternoon I could accidentally wander off the path, break through the earths crust, and fall into a boiling cauldron of hot magma – nearly 3000 degrees Fahrenheit?” I asked incredulously.
“Well, yes, you could, but it hardly ever happens” said Jose shaking his head.
“I see.” I replied, more than a little alarmed. “And, how often do visitors come up here and have a look around?”
“Oh,” he paused and looked at me with the barest hint of a twinkle in his eye “Hardly ever”.
Fortified with the uncertain news that I was either to be boiled in hot magma that afternoon, or not, we headed off to explore the volcano. We learned that in 1972, upon hearing threatening rumbles from inside, people from nearby village of Masaya went to the precipice and tossed a 6 month old baby into the volcano in order to quiet it (the volcano, not the baby). I wondered what it must be like to live in a place where symbols of the destructive power of nature are so close at hand. You would think that it would make the people guarded, vigilant, suspicious. You would be wrong.
Without exception people were unbelievably generous and welcoming. Carlos, whom we met at his restaurant Hippos in the capital city of Managua, treated us to stories, pictures of his family, food and drink. Vicente, our cab driver patiently endured my fractured Spanish, and showed us the sights as only a local could. He took us to a restaurant overlooking the crater lake Caterina, the market in Masaya, and the Artist Center of San Juan D’Orient. He patiently waited while we dined, played, and shopped, and charged us about $25 for the day!
The importance of family in this country cannot be overemphasized. No one ever asked me about my job, not once. But everyone asked about my children, their names, ages, interests. They wanted to know if we played baseball, the national pastime of Nicaragua. They were curious as to what Americans know about Nicaragua. They asked me to tell my friends that Nicaragua is a safe, friendly country, and encouraged me to come back with my family.
CULTURE
We visited the city of Granada, with its Spanish Colonial style architecture, gigantic, intricately carved doors, cobblestone streets, ornate columns, and fountains. Sitting at a very funky café/youth hostel called Che Cafe, we watched as a white horse-drawn carriage, overflowing with hot pink, yellow, and purple flowers transported a coffin from the church to the burial grounds. The family of mourners, all dressed in brilliant colors followed on foot, weeping, singing, and crying out in anguish. From the most elderly to the tiniest baby, all of the family made the mile journey to deliver their loved one to his final resting place. I was awestruck by their display of emotion and family unity.
You have to be a bit of an intrepid traveler to enjoy Nicaragua on your own. The hotel amenities can be sketchy (no hot water in summer) and the cab rides rival NASCAR simulators without the benefit of paved roads. It is a lovely, unspoiled country however, and an unbelievable bargain. Beautiful hotel rooms in Granada go for US $70 per night, and we had a gourmet, 8 course dinner complete with a nice French Bordeaux for about US $20.
Armed guerillas, boiling hot lava, earthquakes and tsunamis? Turns out the most danger I encountered was a well-deserved hangover from some concoction called Caballo del Rio or Riverhorse Punch. I’m not sure what it was made from, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up wearing spurs and a six-shooter.
Word Count 1017
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
We flew low into the capital city of Managua and from the airplane window I could peer into the blue-green liquid center of a giant, dormant volcano crater. With views of stacked cumulus clouds, luminous green foothills, and hazy sunshine I felt like I was entering the Garden of Eden. If it is an Eden of sorts, it is certainly undiscovered – for now. Experts in the travel industry are touting Nicaragua as the next hot destination for investors and tourists seeking unspoiled natural beauty and adventure travel.
VOLCANOS
On our first adventure we visited Masaya volcano. I wandered into the information center, and met Jose, our guide. On the wall was a giant relief map of the world, with the center being Nicaragua. What was striking, other than the models of violently spewing volcanoes, were the lines drawing the tectonic plates that cover the earth. They all seemed to converge in and around Nicaragua. Jose assured us, with an odd display of pride, that these plates were responsible for earthquakes, tsunami, and volcanic activity in Nicaragua. Quickly adding that “Nicaragua is the safest country in all of Central America” with a broad grin.
We set off to discover the volcano on foot. Jose warned us to “stay on the path,” though at times the path was almost impossible to discern from the “not-so-much” path. He assured us, again with that giant grin, that “It is very dangerous to leave the path. You could break through the crust.”
“The crust of WHAT?” I gasped.
“The crust of earth over the boiling pools. It is very hot – nearly 3000 degrees” he proudly replied.
“So you’re telling me that in the course of my afternoon I could accidentally wander off the path, break through the earths crust, and fall into a boiling cauldron of hot magma – nearly 3000 degrees Fahrenheit?” I asked incredulously.
“Well, yes, you could, but it hardly ever happens” said Jose shaking his head.
“I see.” I replied, more than a little alarmed. “And, how often do visitors come up here and have a look around?”
“Oh,” he paused and looked at me with the barest hint of a twinkle in his eye “Hardly ever”.
Fortified with the uncertain news that I was either to be boiled in hot magma that afternoon, or not, we headed off to explore the volcano. We learned that in 1972, upon hearing threatening rumbles from inside, people from nearby village of Masaya went to the precipice and tossed a 6 month old baby into the volcano in order to quiet it (the volcano, not the baby). I wondered what it must be like to live in a place where symbols of the destructive power of nature are so close at hand. You would think that it would make the people guarded, vigilant, suspicious. You would be wrong.
Without exception people were unbelievably generous and welcoming. Carlos, whom we met at his restaurant Hippos in the capital city of Managua, treated us to stories, pictures of his family, food and drink. Vicente, our cab driver patiently endured my fractured Spanish, and showed us the sights as only a local could. He took us to a restaurant overlooking the crater lake Caterina, the market in Masaya, and the Artist Center of San Juan D’Orient. He patiently waited while we dined, played, and shopped, and charged us about $25 for the day!
The importance of family in this country cannot be overemphasized. No one ever asked me about my job, not once. But everyone asked about my children, their names, ages, interests. They wanted to know if we played baseball, the national pastime of Nicaragua. They were curious as to what Americans know about Nicaragua. They asked me to tell my friends that Nicaragua is a safe, friendly country, and encouraged me to come back with my family.
CULTURE
We visited the city of Granada, with its Spanish Colonial style architecture, gigantic, intricately carved doors, cobblestone streets, ornate columns, and fountains. Sitting at a very funky café/youth hostel called Che Cafe, we watched as a white horse-drawn carriage, overflowing with hot pink, yellow, and purple flowers transported a coffin from the church to the burial grounds. The family of mourners, all dressed in brilliant colors followed on foot, weeping, singing, and crying out in anguish. From the most elderly to the tiniest baby, all of the family made the mile journey to deliver their loved one to his final resting place. I was awestruck by their display of emotion and family unity.
You have to be a bit of an intrepid traveler to enjoy Nicaragua on your own. The hotel amenities can be sketchy (no hot water in summer) and the cab rides rival NASCAR simulators without the benefit of paved roads. It is a lovely, unspoiled country however, and an unbelievable bargain. Beautiful hotel rooms in Granada go for US $70 per night, and we had a gourmet, 8 course dinner complete with a nice French Bordeaux for about US $20.
Armed guerillas, boiling hot lava, earthquakes and tsunamis? Turns out the most danger I encountered was a well-deserved hangover from some concoction called Caballo del Rio or Riverhorse Punch. I’m not sure what it was made from, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up wearing spurs and a six-shooter.
Word Count 1017
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
posted by jules @ 11:38 AM
1 Comments
Skimming My Way Through The Black Hole Drop
“Just sit back, put your feet in front of you and all of your weight on your backside.” Those were my instructions. Now, this not a position with which I am unfamiliar. Rico, our well-muscled, handsome guide was essentially telling me to sit down, kick back and relax. Funny how this time those words made every nerve in my body scream “No! Stop! Fake a stroke!”
I was deep in the mainland jungles of Belize, trussed up in a jumble of rappelling equipment. The harness, a series of 4 inch wide straps, was pulled tightly across my stomach, the tops of my legs and mid thigh. This is not a flattering look for a 40ish woman, ample of rump and portly of thigh. I looked like a pink, sweaty pork roast.
Precariously hovering on the edge of a cliff, I began to weigh my options: Temporary, fear induced paralysis? Sudden onset coma? How might I get out of having to do this? I began to tremble impressively and my once-steady breathing deteriorated into short staccato gasps. “Just relax.” Rico was saying. “You’ll be fine.” And then I did it. I took the first few shuffles backwards off a cliff into a 300ft. deep sinkhole called The Black Hole Drop.
“Why?” You might ask. Do I do this for the adrenaline? Do I do this for the adventure? No. Mostly, I do this because when it comes to reading brochures, information packets and instructions, I’m a shameless skimmer.
“It’s called the Black Something Cave I think.” My husband offered absently. “It’s a hike through the jungle and then a rappel down some rock or something – sounds fun. Here’s the brochure.” And the photos were lovely. Fresh-looking, twenty- something hikers marveled as they gazed up hundreds of feet at the jungle flora. They looked as if they were thinking “I can’t believe my good fortune at being in this magical place with such outrageously attractive, freshly showered companions!”
And true to the photos, we did gaze up and marvel at the wonders of the Belizean jungle – for about the first 15 minutes. The remaining hour of the “hike” was more like something out of Survivor. You see, in order to rappel down 300 feet, you must first climb up 300 feet.
I also was not aware that I would be sporting a backpack which held eight lbs. of rappelling equipment and three liters of water. The temperature in the jungle was somewhere near “caution – steam room – avoid if prone to fainting” and this hike quickly turned into a climb on hands and knees, over slippery boulders. This was patently outside of my physical endurance ability, and I began to whine. “How much longer? Are we almost there? What stinks? Oh….never mind…it’s me.”
Occasionally, when I was unable to reach the next foot hold, our guide would helpfully boost me. “Here, let me help” he’d offer, and then hoist my bottom end with his shoulder – causing him to emit a low pained-sounding “Oooofff”. This was not pictured in the brochure! My pride was completely gone.
We stopped to rest every once in awhile and Rico would tell us about the jungle. Mostly, he told about all of the things that could kill, maim, or otherwise make you rather cranky. There are six varieties of wild cats, including the jaguar, ocelot and puma that would, I imagine, be happy to eat your face. There are two types of deadly snakes, the coral snake and the fer-de-lance. While an encounter with either would ruin your day, the fer-de-lance is the deadliest reptile in Central and South America, and is responsible for more deaths than any other reptile in all of the Americas.
There are scorpions, tarantulas, fire ants, and bees that could inadvertently be stepped on or grasped while searching for a hand hold, and there is a type of bamboo thorn so sharp that it can shred right through the sole of your hiking boot into the tender flesh of your instep. Think it’s hard to hike through the jungle? Try crawling on your knees as gangrene sets in on your thorn-speared foot. Again, not pictured in the brochure.
But that’s not all! There are at least nine types of plants that can equally interfere with your happiness. Oleander, Poisonwood, Give and Take, Basket Tie Tie, and Dumbcane trees can cause symptoms including dizziness, swelling, convulsions, vomiting, suffocation, and death. Really. “So you’re telling me that even if I could deftly escape the advances of a venomous fer-de-lance snake by quickly climbing a tree, I could be done in by the tree’s sap? That first my hands, lips, and forearms would inflate to Popeye-like dimensions and then I would suffer fits of dizziness, vomiting, convulsions and eventually suffocate? Really – from tree sap?” Rico nodded. Well then.
Part of me suspected that Rico shared these details to keep us motivated to push forward despite being exhausted. Nobody wanted to linger seated on a tree stump with that kind of information swirling around in their head. And, I suspect he was trying to prepare us for the most terrifying moment of all – blindly walking backwards off of a 300 foot cliff.
We had finally reached our destination. The vistas were stunning. As far as I could see was lush, untouched rainforest with mist rising from the ground. I looked down at the canopy of the trees and the imagined the jungle floor 300 feet below. Then it occurred to me. I didn’t have to rappel down this cliff. Sure, I could get out of the jungle the way I came in…on foot.
Just then I felt a slight brushing along my right side and heard a plop by my feet. I looked down as a huge, black scorpion scurried away under some leaves. Giant scorpions falling from the sky? I think I’ll go first.
And as I took those first terrifying steps backward off the cliff I looked, wide eyed, at my husband of 20 years. “Honey” I asked. “Did you read the brochure?”
Word Count: 1021
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
www.julesnolan.com
www.takethekidswith.com
I was deep in the mainland jungles of Belize, trussed up in a jumble of rappelling equipment. The harness, a series of 4 inch wide straps, was pulled tightly across my stomach, the tops of my legs and mid thigh. This is not a flattering look for a 40ish woman, ample of rump and portly of thigh. I looked like a pink, sweaty pork roast.
Precariously hovering on the edge of a cliff, I began to weigh my options: Temporary, fear induced paralysis? Sudden onset coma? How might I get out of having to do this? I began to tremble impressively and my once-steady breathing deteriorated into short staccato gasps. “Just relax.” Rico was saying. “You’ll be fine.” And then I did it. I took the first few shuffles backwards off a cliff into a 300ft. deep sinkhole called The Black Hole Drop.
“Why?” You might ask. Do I do this for the adrenaline? Do I do this for the adventure? No. Mostly, I do this because when it comes to reading brochures, information packets and instructions, I’m a shameless skimmer.
“It’s called the Black Something Cave I think.” My husband offered absently. “It’s a hike through the jungle and then a rappel down some rock or something – sounds fun. Here’s the brochure.” And the photos were lovely. Fresh-looking, twenty- something hikers marveled as they gazed up hundreds of feet at the jungle flora. They looked as if they were thinking “I can’t believe my good fortune at being in this magical place with such outrageously attractive, freshly showered companions!”
And true to the photos, we did gaze up and marvel at the wonders of the Belizean jungle – for about the first 15 minutes. The remaining hour of the “hike” was more like something out of Survivor. You see, in order to rappel down 300 feet, you must first climb up 300 feet.
I also was not aware that I would be sporting a backpack which held eight lbs. of rappelling equipment and three liters of water. The temperature in the jungle was somewhere near “caution – steam room – avoid if prone to fainting” and this hike quickly turned into a climb on hands and knees, over slippery boulders. This was patently outside of my physical endurance ability, and I began to whine. “How much longer? Are we almost there? What stinks? Oh….never mind…it’s me.”
Occasionally, when I was unable to reach the next foot hold, our guide would helpfully boost me. “Here, let me help” he’d offer, and then hoist my bottom end with his shoulder – causing him to emit a low pained-sounding “Oooofff”. This was not pictured in the brochure! My pride was completely gone.
We stopped to rest every once in awhile and Rico would tell us about the jungle. Mostly, he told about all of the things that could kill, maim, or otherwise make you rather cranky. There are six varieties of wild cats, including the jaguar, ocelot and puma that would, I imagine, be happy to eat your face. There are two types of deadly snakes, the coral snake and the fer-de-lance. While an encounter with either would ruin your day, the fer-de-lance is the deadliest reptile in Central and South America, and is responsible for more deaths than any other reptile in all of the Americas.
There are scorpions, tarantulas, fire ants, and bees that could inadvertently be stepped on or grasped while searching for a hand hold, and there is a type of bamboo thorn so sharp that it can shred right through the sole of your hiking boot into the tender flesh of your instep. Think it’s hard to hike through the jungle? Try crawling on your knees as gangrene sets in on your thorn-speared foot. Again, not pictured in the brochure.
But that’s not all! There are at least nine types of plants that can equally interfere with your happiness. Oleander, Poisonwood, Give and Take, Basket Tie Tie, and Dumbcane trees can cause symptoms including dizziness, swelling, convulsions, vomiting, suffocation, and death. Really. “So you’re telling me that even if I could deftly escape the advances of a venomous fer-de-lance snake by quickly climbing a tree, I could be done in by the tree’s sap? That first my hands, lips, and forearms would inflate to Popeye-like dimensions and then I would suffer fits of dizziness, vomiting, convulsions and eventually suffocate? Really – from tree sap?” Rico nodded. Well then.
Part of me suspected that Rico shared these details to keep us motivated to push forward despite being exhausted. Nobody wanted to linger seated on a tree stump with that kind of information swirling around in their head. And, I suspect he was trying to prepare us for the most terrifying moment of all – blindly walking backwards off of a 300 foot cliff.
We had finally reached our destination. The vistas were stunning. As far as I could see was lush, untouched rainforest with mist rising from the ground. I looked down at the canopy of the trees and the imagined the jungle floor 300 feet below. Then it occurred to me. I didn’t have to rappel down this cliff. Sure, I could get out of the jungle the way I came in…on foot.
Just then I felt a slight brushing along my right side and heard a plop by my feet. I looked down as a huge, black scorpion scurried away under some leaves. Giant scorpions falling from the sky? I think I’ll go first.
And as I took those first terrifying steps backward off the cliff I looked, wide eyed, at my husband of 20 years. “Honey” I asked. “Did you read the brochure?”
Word Count: 1021
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
www.julesnolan.com
www.takethekidswith.com
posted by jules @ 11:37 AM
0 Comments
Look Before You Leap...Or Don't
Sometimes it is critically important NOT to look before you leap. The danger, of course, is losing your nerve, and missing the experience. That is how I found myself plummeting 30 feet off a cliff, into a pool at the base of a waterfall, while my male adventure companions thoughtfully contemplated the distance.
My husband and I were both facing major career changes. He had left his job in broadcasting, and I was looking to enter the workforce again after 10 years of raising kids. We had decided to take 2 months of our retirement early, to travel around New Zealand, home-schooling our children, having adventures, leaping.
The natural beauty of New Zealand is astounding! It is exactly as if God had taken all of his greatest works, combined them into an area about the size of Colorado, and then plunked them down, on the underside of the world. There are miles of deserted beaches, soaring craggy mountains, ice blue glaciers and lakes, impossible waterfalls, fjords, rivers, hot springs, geysers. New Zealand is also the adventure capital of the world. Boasting the original bungee jump, zorbing, and a host of other ways to violently hurt yourself in all this splendor.
It was a bright, beautiful Tuesday in February, and we were to go canyoning. As it was explained to me, canyoning meant climbing up a small mountain, and descending through a dozen or so waterfalls. Sometimes you rappelled with ropes and harness, sometimes you slid, waterslide style, on your backside, and sometimes you jumped into the pool at the bottom of the falls. Occasionally, but hopefully most infrequently, you fell to your death.
Our guide, Mick, of Wanaka Canyoning Expeditions, helped us suit up. Wearing only swimming suits, tennis shoes, and a backpack, we began our ascent. Now, I am no athlete. In fact, my 3 children (bless their hearts) had EACH left me with an additional 10lbs – a memento if you will – of the time they spent in my body. I was closer in age to 50 than to 20, and our previous 4 weeks traveling had involved championship bouts of eating.
At first the climb seemed no more challenging than a stroll up a hill with a slight incline. “No problem” I thought, “but tomorrow, I will definitely start an exercise program.” The path began to change from “rapid breathing steep” to “scrambling on hands and feet, face like a tomato, gulping and gasping steep”. I was pouring sweat and seriously falling behind. The other members of my party, my husband and 3 younger men, were much more fit, and beginning to look back at me awkwardly, with concern.
I found some comfort in and silently cursing my husband – (i.e. naughty word, very naughty word, extremely naughty word,) – you get the picture. Suddenly, I found myself gaining on one of the men. A youngish, handsome-ish, gentleman, turned as I approached. He motioned for me to pass him on the narrow trail. “Are you tired?” I asked – he certainly didn’t look it. He glanced at his shoes, embarrassed. “No… …um……I’m a doctor”.
Ah, that’s it then. These men were afraid that I was about to go into cardiac failure and they would have to carry my lifeless, ample body back down the mountain. They had likely had a conversation to this effect, and this young doctor had been elected to watch me for signs of impending catastrophy. Nice. Humiliation, frustration, and physical exhaustion is a powerful cocktail. I rallied all my strength and finally reached the top.
Still burning with embarrassment, I donned my wetsuit, raingear, and helmet as the rest of the party peaked over the edge of the cliff to survey the first drop. Mick, captain of understatement and
confusing New Zealand-style English, said “I thought we’d have a bit of a jump off here, who’s the toppers?”
“I’ll go first” I heard a voice offer – barely aware that it was my own. The men turned; stunned to see this roundish, red-faced, middle-aged woman of outstandingly inadequate fitness, committing to a jump she hadn
’t even seen. They thought I was kidding of course, or maybe hoped so.
“All right then” said Mick. “Go ahead and have a go. Just remember to point your toes and tuck your elbows. Oh, and try to give that bunch of rocks on the left a bit of a miss” And so I leapt.
Here is where I am supposed to tell you that it was the most exhilarating, freeing, exciting experience of my life. But it wasn’t. Mostly it was terrifying and nauseating. My stomach felt every inch of that 30 foot free-fall. I had sufficient time to scream, inhale, scream. It was a LONG way down.
But the memory of it; looking up 30 feet at the astonished faces of my companions, these 3 young, fit, men; seeing their fear and embarrassment as they tried muster the courage to take the jump themselves; …….that was life changing.
Word Count: 827
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
For more information and pictures of this adventure go to www.nolanonline.com
My husband and I were both facing major career changes. He had left his job in broadcasting, and I was looking to enter the workforce again after 10 years of raising kids. We had decided to take 2 months of our retirement early, to travel around New Zealand, home-schooling our children, having adventures, leaping.
The natural beauty of New Zealand is astounding! It is exactly as if God had taken all of his greatest works, combined them into an area about the size of Colorado, and then plunked them down, on the underside of the world. There are miles of deserted beaches, soaring craggy mountains, ice blue glaciers and lakes, impossible waterfalls, fjords, rivers, hot springs, geysers. New Zealand is also the adventure capital of the world. Boasting the original bungee jump, zorbing, and a host of other ways to violently hurt yourself in all this splendor.
It was a bright, beautiful Tuesday in February, and we were to go canyoning. As it was explained to me, canyoning meant climbing up a small mountain, and descending through a dozen or so waterfalls. Sometimes you rappelled with ropes and harness, sometimes you slid, waterslide style, on your backside, and sometimes you jumped into the pool at the bottom of the falls. Occasionally, but hopefully most infrequently, you fell to your death.
Our guide, Mick, of Wanaka Canyoning Expeditions, helped us suit up. Wearing only swimming suits, tennis shoes, and a backpack, we began our ascent. Now, I am no athlete. In fact, my 3 children (bless their hearts) had EACH left me with an additional 10lbs – a memento if you will – of the time they spent in my body. I was closer in age to 50 than to 20, and our previous 4 weeks traveling had involved championship bouts of eating.
At first the climb seemed no more challenging than a stroll up a hill with a slight incline. “No problem” I thought, “but tomorrow, I will definitely start an exercise program.” The path began to change from “rapid breathing steep” to “scrambling on hands and feet, face like a tomato, gulping and gasping steep”. I was pouring sweat and seriously falling behind. The other members of my party, my husband and 3 younger men, were much more fit, and beginning to look back at me awkwardly, with concern.
I found some comfort in and silently cursing my husband – (i.e. naughty word, very naughty word, extremely naughty word,) – you get the picture. Suddenly, I found myself gaining on one of the men. A youngish, handsome-ish, gentleman, turned as I approached. He motioned for me to pass him on the narrow trail. “Are you tired?” I asked – he certainly didn’t look it. He glanced at his shoes, embarrassed. “No… …um……I’m a doctor”.
Ah, that’s it then. These men were afraid that I was about to go into cardiac failure and they would have to carry my lifeless, ample body back down the mountain. They had likely had a conversation to this effect, and this young doctor had been elected to watch me for signs of impending catastrophy. Nice. Humiliation, frustration, and physical exhaustion is a powerful cocktail. I rallied all my strength and finally reached the top.
Still burning with embarrassment, I donned my wetsuit, raingear, and helmet as the rest of the party peaked over the edge of the cliff to survey the first drop. Mick, captain of understatement and
confusing New Zealand-style English, said “I thought we’d have a bit of a jump off here, who’s the toppers?”“I’ll go first” I heard a voice offer – barely aware that it was my own. The men turned; stunned to see this roundish, red-faced, middle-aged woman of outstandingly inadequate fitness, committing to a jump she hadn
’t even seen. They thought I was kidding of course, or maybe hoped so.“All right then” said Mick. “Go ahead and have a go. Just remember to point your toes and tuck your elbows. Oh, and try to give that bunch of rocks on the left a bit of a miss” And so I leapt.
Here is where I am supposed to tell you that it was the most exhilarating, freeing, exciting experience of my life. But it wasn’t. Mostly it was terrifying and nauseating. My stomach felt every inch of that 30 foot free-fall. I had sufficient time to scream, inhale, scream. It was a LONG way down.
But the memory of it; looking up 30 feet at the astonished faces of my companions, these 3 young, fit, men; seeing their fear and embarrassment as they tried muster the courage to take the jump themselves; …….that was life changing.
Word Count: 827
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
http://www.julesnolan.com/
http://www.takethekidswith.com/
For more information and pictures of this adventure go to www.nolanonline.com
posted by jules @ 11:36 AM
0 Comments
Lost and Found In Mexico
The city of Guanajuato, in the mountains of central Mexico is a maze of cobblestone streets that disappear around corners, hidden subterranean tunnels, alleys so narrow that lovers can meet for stolen kisses on opposing balconies. There are no right-angled corners where streets neatly intersect with avenues. Many streets don’t even retain the same name as they wind their way through this city, and sometimes they just terminate into brick walls. In fact, Guanajuato was purposely designed to be a confusing labyrinth, to protect its treasures from invading armies.
It is a nightmare for someone like me who has a special, almost magical talent for getting lost. I cannot possibly over-state this. I am a moron when it comes to finding my way in a new city. And maps don’t help. I swear when I am supposed to go north my first instinct is to look skyward. And so, I have completely given up with standard techniques, and have taken to employing the “Rolling Stones” method of navigation. You know, “you can’t always find what you want……..” and all.
So, finding myself alone with my 3 children (14, 11, and 9) in this city of one million - primarily Spanish speaking - people was enough to give me teeth-grinding dreams for a week. I had arranged for us to attend a language school for three weeks and then take off on our own, traveling around the Colonial Heartland of Mexico. In short, we were doomed.
Founded in 1570, Guanajuato became famous because of its rich gold and silver mines. Today, it is considered the culture capital of Mexico, and is filled with strolling minstrels – college students dressed in black velvet costumes with white tights and matching Elizabethan collars. They meet on Thursday and Friday nights in the Central Garden and lead a group of revelers –anyone is welcome to join- throughout the city singing, telling jokes, and drinking wine carried by a genteel burrow. There are mariachi bands and drama troupes that stroll the streets performing wherever crowds have gathered. Dancers, mimes, painters, musicians, choirs, and actors mill around in the plazas and central garden performing for anyone who happens to pass by. I couldn’t find any of it……………...until I stopped looking.
Frustrated by a day of trying to usher my hot, tired kids to museums and gardens and plazas, I gave up and sat down at an outdoor café to have a cold drink and admit defeat. Within minutes a mariachi band – all silver brocade jackets and gold tassels - began to perform. The cobblestone plaza filled with local couples of all ages dressed in their very best clothing. They took to the center square and began performing slow, beautiful, Latin dances. One couple in particular, they must have been in their 80’s, were an amazing sight. She was dressed in a crimson cotton skirt and blouse with tiny embroidered flowers of cobalt blue. He was in a matching electric blue jacket and pants. Both of them looked weathered and grey from years of life and hard work under the hot sun. And then they began to dance. They gazed into each other’s eyes and moved together in perfect symmetry. They bowed, and dipped, and smiled at each other coyly, like young lovers. The other dancers stopped to watch these two, and at that moment I learned all I needed to know about this city and her people. What they valued, what they enjoyed, what they considered important. It didn’t matter if I found the most righteous museums or fountains or paintings; I was beginning to understand the soul of Guanajuato. Now it was time to learn the language.
We attended Academia Falcon – an international Spanish language school set into the rocky, desert hillside. The classrooms, painted ochre and teal and tangerine, surrounded an outdoor common area where the children met to play “uno, dos, tres, mes amigos” – like hide and seek – and take blindfolded swats at a piñata. After class each day we and gathered with other students to share a chocolate churro and practice our new Spanish phrases. We learned Latin dancing and cooking, and even a few “naughty” words. At one point another student approached me and asked “Is Jack your son? He is HILARIOUS! You should hear how he describes you in conversation class! Do you really get lost that much?”
At the school I was lucky to find traveling companions who met my most important criteria – either being more fluent in Spanish than I, or reasonably able to navigate. Off we set, this rag-tag band of 4 adults and 3 children to explore the Michoacan State of Western Mexico. In October and November, Monarch Butterflies from the Great Lakes Region migrate to this state for their winter hibernation. In the early mornings, the branches of the fir trees in the Monarch reserve droop with the weight of millions of these creatures. By afternoon, the ground is a living carpet of orange, yellow, and black as the butterflies slowly flutter their wings and mill about…………We didn’t actually so much “find” this place – but brochure photos were remarkable!
We visited the city of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan, and a most lovely city. It is Spanish-European in style, with an imposing cathedral and gardens in the center of the city plaza. The outdoor café tables sit under arched verandas where beautifully dressed visitors sip aged tequilas and snack on tapas. Many of the public buildings have stair-well murals that depict the Mexican Revolution……..Yea…I didn’t so much find those either…… but I did have the most amazing experience in the cathedral. It was a hot day, and I walked into the darkened church during mass. I was immediately hit with a familiar scent from my childhood. It was the exact combination of musty paper, incense, lilies, and sweat that I remember from years of attending daily Catholic Mass. I was instantly 9 years old. Before I knew what I was doing I bowed my head, blessed myself, genuflected, and knelt in a pew. I had a wonderful, spiritual moment sitting there alone listening to the Spanish prayer. I found inspiration.
My favorite city, Patzcuro, is situated in the highlands on the lake of the same name. In 1529, a Spanish conquistador named Guzman ruled this region with such unspeakable cruelty toward the natives that the Catholic Church and colonial government sent Bishop Vasco de Quiroga to help. Quiroga developed a utopian community, with an emphasis on education, agriculture, and crafts. All of the villagers were required to contribute equally to the society, and encouraged to develop a craft. As a result, Patzcuro has become a lovely hamlet filled with educated citizens who value arts and social responsibility. You will find beautiful weavings, pottery, blown glass, jewelry, ironwork, and furniture, and a giant lake which makes for an easy point of reference when trying to locate your hotel after a sangria or two.
We learned so much about Mexico, ourselves, and each other during this adventure. I had some of the most amazing family experiences and proud mommy moments. And I us got lost. I us got lost a lot. But here is what I found.
My kids are remarkably self-sufficient, smart, funny, entertaining people.
If necessary, and ONLY then, I can do laundry with just a washboard and ringer
.….And if you try sometimes….you find what you need.
Word Count: 1236
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
www.julesnolan.com
www.takethekidswith.com
(507) 382 5404
It is a nightmare for someone like me who has a special, almost magical talent for getting lost. I cannot possibly over-state this. I am a moron when it comes to finding my way in a new city. And maps don’t help. I swear when I am supposed to go north my first instinct is to look skyward. And so, I have completely given up with standard techniques, and have taken to employing the “Rolling Stones” method of navigation. You know, “you can’t always find what you want……..” and all.
So, finding myself alone with my 3 children (14, 11, and 9) in this city of one million - primarily Spanish speaking - people was enough to give me teeth-grinding dreams for a week. I had arranged for us to attend a language school for three weeks and then take off on our own, traveling around the Colonial Heartland of Mexico. In short, we were doomed.
Founded in 1570, Guanajuato became famous because of its rich gold and silver mines. Today, it is considered the culture capital of Mexico, and is filled with strolling minstrels – college students dressed in black velvet costumes with white tights and matching Elizabethan collars. They meet on Thursday and Friday nights in the Central Garden and lead a group of revelers –anyone is welcome to join- throughout the city singing, telling jokes, and drinking wine carried by a genteel burrow. There are mariachi bands and drama troupes that stroll the streets performing wherever crowds have gathered. Dancers, mimes, painters, musicians, choirs, and actors mill around in the plazas and central garden performing for anyone who happens to pass by. I couldn’t find any of it……………...until I stopped looking.
Frustrated by a day of trying to usher my hot, tired kids to museums and gardens and plazas, I gave up and sat down at an outdoor café to have a cold drink and admit defeat. Within minutes a mariachi band – all silver brocade jackets and gold tassels - began to perform. The cobblestone plaza filled with local couples of all ages dressed in their very best clothing. They took to the center square and began performing slow, beautiful, Latin dances. One couple in particular, they must have been in their 80’s, were an amazing sight. She was dressed in a crimson cotton skirt and blouse with tiny embroidered flowers of cobalt blue. He was in a matching electric blue jacket and pants. Both of them looked weathered and grey from years of life and hard work under the hot sun. And then they began to dance. They gazed into each other’s eyes and moved together in perfect symmetry. They bowed, and dipped, and smiled at each other coyly, like young lovers. The other dancers stopped to watch these two, and at that moment I learned all I needed to know about this city and her people. What they valued, what they enjoyed, what they considered important. It didn’t matter if I found the most righteous museums or fountains or paintings; I was beginning to understand the soul of Guanajuato. Now it was time to learn the language.
We attended Academia Falcon – an international Spanish language school set into the rocky, desert hillside. The classrooms, painted ochre and teal and tangerine, surrounded an outdoor common area where the children met to play “uno, dos, tres, mes amigos” – like hide and seek – and take blindfolded swats at a piñata. After class each day we and gathered with other students to share a chocolate churro and practice our new Spanish phrases. We learned Latin dancing and cooking, and even a few “naughty” words. At one point another student approached me and asked “Is Jack your son? He is HILARIOUS! You should hear how he describes you in conversation class! Do you really get lost that much?”
At the school I was lucky to find traveling companions who met my most important criteria – either being more fluent in Spanish than I, or reasonably able to navigate. Off we set, this rag-tag band of 4 adults and 3 children to explore the Michoacan State of Western Mexico. In October and November, Monarch Butterflies from the Great Lakes Region migrate to this state for their winter hibernation. In the early mornings, the branches of the fir trees in the Monarch reserve droop with the weight of millions of these creatures. By afternoon, the ground is a living carpet of orange, yellow, and black as the butterflies slowly flutter their wings and mill about…………We didn’t actually so much “find” this place – but brochure photos were remarkable!
We visited the city of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan, and a most lovely city. It is Spanish-European in style, with an imposing cathedral and gardens in the center of the city plaza. The outdoor café tables sit under arched verandas where beautifully dressed visitors sip aged tequilas and snack on tapas. Many of the public buildings have stair-well murals that depict the Mexican Revolution……..Yea…I didn’t so much find those either…… but I did have the most amazing experience in the cathedral. It was a hot day, and I walked into the darkened church during mass. I was immediately hit with a familiar scent from my childhood. It was the exact combination of musty paper, incense, lilies, and sweat that I remember from years of attending daily Catholic Mass. I was instantly 9 years old. Before I knew what I was doing I bowed my head, blessed myself, genuflected, and knelt in a pew. I had a wonderful, spiritual moment sitting there alone listening to the Spanish prayer. I found inspiration.
My favorite city, Patzcuro, is situated in the highlands on the lake of the same name. In 1529, a Spanish conquistador named Guzman ruled this region with such unspeakable cruelty toward the natives that the Catholic Church and colonial government sent Bishop Vasco de Quiroga to help. Quiroga developed a utopian community, with an emphasis on education, agriculture, and crafts. All of the villagers were required to contribute equally to the society, and encouraged to develop a craft. As a result, Patzcuro has become a lovely hamlet filled with educated citizens who value arts and social responsibility. You will find beautiful weavings, pottery, blown glass, jewelry, ironwork, and furniture, and a giant lake which makes for an easy point of reference when trying to locate your hotel after a sangria or two.
We learned so much about Mexico, ourselves, and each other during this adventure. I had some of the most amazing family experiences and proud mommy moments. And I us got lost. I us got lost a lot. But here is what I found.
My kids are remarkably self-sufficient, smart, funny, entertaining people.
If necessary, and ONLY then, I can do laundry with just a washboard and ringer
.….And if you try sometimes….you find what you need.
Word Count: 1236
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
www.julesnolan.com
www.takethekidswith.com
(507) 382 5404
posted by jules @ 11:30 AM
0 Comments
Never Eat The Tourists
Never Eat The Tourists
At 90 feet below the surface of the water, my air tank should last another 25
minutes. Providing I don’t hyperventilate, freak out or pass out, I will be ok. But given the circumstances that was beginning to seem impossible. “If I don’t follow my buddy out of this tunnel, the dive master will surely come in after me. Just do what you’re supposed to do and don’t panic”. - That is what I kept telling myself.
Scuba divers are trained to assess the facts of the situation when they are frightened and calmly talk to themselves through all options. I knew that I had plenty of air and plenty of time. Still, I found myself beginning to breathe more rapidly and that little fluttering feeling in my chest was moving up towards my throat, constricting my airway – the first sign of panic.
I was diving in Belize, Central America, home to the second longest barrier reef in the world. The underwater life is amazing with schools of electric blue tangs, giant queen angelfish shimmering as they appear to change from green to blue to yellow. The corals are alive and healthy and sway with purple sea fans, florescent blue and yellow tube sponges and enormous orangey brain coral. But the real attractions at this particular dive sight are the really big creatures. A 600 lb. jewfish, speckled brown and black and white, hovered just a few feet away. Giant spotted eagle rays glided past, looking like cast extras straight out of Star Wars.
Then, suddenly, there were the sharks. Three nurse sharks ranging from five to nine feet in length were swimming menacingly near. Now, I’m sure they hadn’t intended to menace, but when you have the reputation for being a killing machine, sport assorted jagged scars from life-threatening battles and have the cold dead eyes of a thug; it’s pretty hard to seem cuddly.
Everett, my Belizean friend and dive master had attracted the sharks with sardines and they were following him through one of my favorite swim-through tunnels. It was about 15 feet long and four feet in diameter. Daylight was streaming from melon-sized holes in the ceiling of the tunnel, casting little light inside. It was shadowy and spooky and filled with creatures. “Yikes,” I thought, “I’m glad those sharks aren’t following me.”
I entered the tunnel, remembering to adjust my kicking to shorter strokes. It is very easy to stir up the sand in a tunnel making it impossible to see. Once vertigo sets in you can easily become confused and lose your way. The diver in front of me was flopping around like a boated marlin, silting up the tunnel. He had just turned the corner, out of my field of vision and I found myself in a very narrow spot. My air hose kept snagging on the tunnel walls, threatening to be pulled from my mouth and with every inhale my tank hit the ceiling. I needed to let all the air out of my lungs, cross my arms and maneuver myself through a turn. “Relax,” I thought, “You’ve, done this before.”
Suddenly, three sharks appeared in front of me. They were swimming quickly toward me, with a bold swish of their tails. I startled. “Oh no, sharks can smell fear can’t they? Or is that blood? Did I scrape my skin banging around on this coral alerting them to a tasty human snack trapped inside?”
“Yum” they must be thinking, “I love the soft puffy ones!”
Now, I know that nurse sharks are not aggressive. They don’t have jagged exposed teeth like the “jaws” we know from the movies. But, they do have teeth and at no time do they stop being sharks. I waited, dangling on the edge of panic, for them to pass. But they didn’t pass. In fact, they all came to rest directly beneath me. They just stopped swimming, and lay on top of each other, occasionally jockeying for position like 6th graders in the lunch line.
I tried again, but I couldn’t move forward. My tank was still hitting the ceiling, and with these three sharks almost touching me, I couldn’t drop any lower. I was going to have to encourage them to swim away without scaring them. Nurse sharks won’t attack, but they will defend themselves if they are frightened.
I decided to give the nearest shark; let’s call him “Herbert the Killer”, a little poke. I tapped him with my index finger, much like you might tap a stranger to call their attention to the fact that they are sitting on your coat. “Um, excuse me Herbie, but one of us has gills and it’s not me.” I sent him telepathic messages to “Move it along cowboy.”
Herb was unimpressed. He simply whooshed his tail and shook his head as if to say – “Hey, I’m not the one playing it fast and loose with my oxygen supply buttercup.” I poked him again, this time with a little more insistence – nothing, not even a bored eye-rolling dismissive snort.
I was beginning to move into full-fledged panic. I checked my air gauge again, plenty of air, depth 90 feet. I can’t move forward, I can’t turn around. What should I do? And so I screamed. Now, I’m not much of a screamer, I don’t rely on that skill much in my regular life on the surface. I was expecting it to have thunderous effects, calling out the nearest coast guard personnel, shocking the sharks into a cowardly retreat.
But underwater, a scream sounds like nothing more than whistling-gurgle. The shark seemed to cock his eyebrow and impatiently drum his fins on the sand. I realized that my courageous roar was not frightening at all. It was pathetic.
I was panting now. Bubbles were spewing out of my regulator like champagne from the bottles of drunken party revelers on New Years Eve. I could barely see. And then, when the bubbles cleared, I saw the sharks begin to swim away. Not afraid, not fleeing, more just bored “moving along”. Holy Cow I’m going to live to tell this story!
I got to leave that tunnel feeling a bit of a tough guy. I had tangled with some sharks and come out victorious. I had wrestled with my own fear and panic, and mostly didn’t do anything overly stupid. In the end I did what I should have as a diver (except for the poking – NEVER poke a shark). And the sharks did what they should have as sharks -NEVER eat the tourists.
Word Count: 1098
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
www.julesnolan.com
www.takethekidswith.com
(507) 382 5404
At 90 feet below the surface of the water, my air tank should last another 25
minutes. Providing I don’t hyperventilate, freak out or pass out, I will be ok. But given the circumstances that was beginning to seem impossible. “If I don’t follow my buddy out of this tunnel, the dive master will surely come in after me. Just do what you’re supposed to do and don’t panic”. - That is what I kept telling myself.
Scuba divers are trained to assess the facts of the situation when they are frightened and calmly talk to themselves through all options. I knew that I had plenty of air and plenty of time. Still, I found myself beginning to breathe more rapidly and that little fluttering feeling in my chest was moving up towards my throat, constricting my airway – the first sign of panic.
I was diving in Belize, Central America, home to the second longest barrier reef in the world. The underwater life is amazing with schools of electric blue tangs, giant queen angelfish shimmering as they appear to change from green to blue to yellow. The corals are alive and healthy and sway with purple sea fans, florescent blue and yellow tube sponges and enormous orangey brain coral. But the real attractions at this particular dive sight are the really big creatures. A 600 lb. jewfish, speckled brown and black and white, hovered just a few feet away. Giant spotted eagle rays glided past, looking like cast extras straight out of Star Wars.
Then, suddenly, there were the sharks. Three nurse sharks ranging from five to nine feet in length were swimming menacingly near. Now, I’m sure they hadn’t intended to menace, but when you have the reputation for being a killing machine, sport assorted jagged scars from life-threatening battles and have the cold dead eyes of a thug; it’s pretty hard to seem cuddly.
Everett, my Belizean friend and dive master had attracted the sharks with sardines and they were following him through one of my favorite swim-through tunnels. It was about 15 feet long and four feet in diameter. Daylight was streaming from melon-sized holes in the ceiling of the tunnel, casting little light inside. It was shadowy and spooky and filled with creatures. “Yikes,” I thought, “I’m glad those sharks aren’t following me.”
I entered the tunnel, remembering to adjust my kicking to shorter strokes. It is very easy to stir up the sand in a tunnel making it impossible to see. Once vertigo sets in you can easily become confused and lose your way. The diver in front of me was flopping around like a boated marlin, silting up the tunnel. He had just turned the corner, out of my field of vision and I found myself in a very narrow spot. My air hose kept snagging on the tunnel walls, threatening to be pulled from my mouth and with every inhale my tank hit the ceiling. I needed to let all the air out of my lungs, cross my arms and maneuver myself through a turn. “Relax,” I thought, “You’ve, done this before.”
Suddenly, three sharks appeared in front of me. They were swimming quickly toward me, with a bold swish of their tails. I startled. “Oh no, sharks can smell fear can’t they? Or is that blood? Did I scrape my skin banging around on this coral alerting them to a tasty human snack trapped inside?”
“Yum” they must be thinking, “I love the soft puffy ones!”
Now, I know that nurse sharks are not aggressive. They don’t have jagged exposed teeth like the “jaws” we know from the movies. But, they do have teeth and at no time do they stop being sharks. I waited, dangling on the edge of panic, for them to pass. But they didn’t pass. In fact, they all came to rest directly beneath me. They just stopped swimming, and lay on top of each other, occasionally jockeying for position like 6th graders in the lunch line.
I tried again, but I couldn’t move forward. My tank was still hitting the ceiling, and with these three sharks almost touching me, I couldn’t drop any lower. I was going to have to encourage them to swim away without scaring them. Nurse sharks won’t attack, but they will defend themselves if they are frightened.
I decided to give the nearest shark; let’s call him “Herbert the Killer”, a little poke. I tapped him with my index finger, much like you might tap a stranger to call their attention to the fact that they are sitting on your coat. “Um, excuse me Herbie, but one of us has gills and it’s not me.” I sent him telepathic messages to “Move it along cowboy.”
Herb was unimpressed. He simply whooshed his tail and shook his head as if to say – “Hey, I’m not the one playing it fast and loose with my oxygen supply buttercup.” I poked him again, this time with a little more insistence – nothing, not even a bored eye-rolling dismissive snort.
I was beginning to move into full-fledged panic. I checked my air gauge again, plenty of air, depth 90 feet. I can’t move forward, I can’t turn around. What should I do? And so I screamed. Now, I’m not much of a screamer, I don’t rely on that skill much in my regular life on the surface. I was expecting it to have thunderous effects, calling out the nearest coast guard personnel, shocking the sharks into a cowardly retreat.
But underwater, a scream sounds like nothing more than whistling-gurgle. The shark seemed to cock his eyebrow and impatiently drum his fins on the sand. I realized that my courageous roar was not frightening at all. It was pathetic.
I was panting now. Bubbles were spewing out of my regulator like champagne from the bottles of drunken party revelers on New Years Eve. I could barely see. And then, when the bubbles cleared, I saw the sharks begin to swim away. Not afraid, not fleeing, more just bored “moving along”. Holy Cow I’m going to live to tell this story!
I got to leave that tunnel feeling a bit of a tough guy. I had tangled with some sharks and come out victorious. I had wrestled with my own fear and panic, and mostly didn’t do anything overly stupid. In the end I did what I should have as a diver (except for the poking – NEVER poke a shark). And the sharks did what they should have as sharks -NEVER eat the tourists.
Word Count: 1098
Julene Nolan
jules@julesnolan.com
www.julesnolan.com
www.takethekidswith.com
(507) 382 5404
posted by jules @ 11:24 AM
0 Comments
Monday, January 28, 2008
Paris Is for Mothers...And Children
“WOW! You’re an amazing woman!” he blurted. His eyes flashed with admiration as a giant smile washed across his face. Realizing what he’d just said, how he’d just proclaimed his private feelings, he shyly dropped his chin and glanced down. I have never heard more enchanting words. Sure we were holed up in some dimly lit café in Paris, the epicenter for passionate outbursts. But the fact was this was not some dashing young suitor. This was my 13 year old son, thoroughly impressed with my ability to get him a coke and a hamburger in my halting college French.
Two years ago I took our sons, 10 and 13, to Paris over their Thanksgiving break. Those who didn’t think I was crazy surely thought I was stupid. I admit I have an uncommon love for Paris and all things French, and I probably painted a slightly biased picture in their imaginations (hot coco and chocolate filled croissants for breakfast!). But truly, Paris is a wonderful travel destination for children. The secrets? Stay close to a metro stop. Keep museum visits short – less than an hour. Never get too hungry or too tired. Forget shopping – except in the toy stores which are delightful. Keep it fun and active.
At first a sunset cruise on the Seine, directly upon our arrival seemed like a horrible idea. Two jet-lagged boys on a guided tour sounded like a recipe for disaster. As it turned out we were practically the only people on the boat that chilly November evening, and my boys were so tired they were incapable of round 27 of “He’s Touching Me – I’m Not Touching Him”. As the sun set, the twinkling lights of the Eiffel tower reflected in their eyes. They were awed by the sights, the sounds, the thrill of this new city.
The next day at the Louvre my boys displayed an astonishing amount of art appreciation. The secret here was telling them the dollar value of the art they are meant to appreciate. I didn’t know it myself of course, but gave them fantastically inflated numbers that made their eyes grow big and round. Plus, somehow they got the impression that if the even seemed to be considering touching the art, before their fingertips could brush the canvas, they would be shot by guards who dressed as tiny old French ladies in big coats. These women were everywhere in the museums, always alone, and staring at young children with menacing glares (Think Granny from the Bugs Bunny cartoons with an enormous hound’s-tooth check overcoats and maybe…… just maybe, an M16 hidden in the folds). They didn’t believe me of course, but when they saw how well-behaved and fearful the French children looked in their tidy little uniforms and precise straight lines, they did wonder.
We saw all the greats, Mona Lisa, Water Lilies, Winged Victory; but we never spent more than 30 minutes in any museum or between snacks. It worked wonderfully. In fact, due to the untold hours that each had spent playing some computer game called Age of Mythology, they recognized the Greek and Roman God sculptures much better than I. Don’t think I didn’t revel in the admiring glances from other parents as my young boys, in their turtle necks and corduroys said “Mom, look! It’s Aphrodite and Eros!” Ah yes, the value of a classic education!
The food was incredible and not terribly expensive. My boys squeamishly tasted pate, fois gras, and escargot. They hated it of course, but now take pride in telling people that they a
te liver and snails in Paris – just like fear factor! We usually ate from street vendors and bakeries at impromptu outdoor picnics, keeping restaurant visits to a minimum. Their favorite activity was our self-guided hot chocolate tour of Paris. They kept a journal, and rated the delicious concoctions at each café. The very best, at Café Flore en I’lle, was served in 2 separate steaming pitchers, one of milk and one of liquid chocolate. It was the distinct winner, and my boys were consumed with creating the perfect mixture. I got to rest my feet and enjoy views of Notre Dame from our cozy table by the window, my sons on either side of me with matching chocolate mustaches.
Best of all though, is that when I embarrassed myself, as I do in every place I visit, my children were spared the humiliation since they didn’t understand the language. We were visiting a glorious little chapel called St. Chapelle. While inside, I set down my guidebook and camera to tie my son’s shoe, and accidentally walked out without them. Just as we were leaving, I realized my mistake, but the doors had been locked behind us and I couldn’t go back inside. I wandered around searching for security when I came upon a small cluster of young policemen. I asked them in French “Please, can you help me?” Then realized I didn’t know how to say that I had “left” my things inside. So what came out was “I have a book and a camera inside, can you help me?” (Complete with my most charming smile).
Well, I thought it was odd that the policemen all smiled sheepishly, hands in pockets, and looked at their shoes. They shot sideways glances at one another, and seemed embarrassed, on the verge of laughter. Again I pleaded “I have a book and a camera in there. Can you help me please? It is closed and no one is inside.” (Again the smile).
Finally, after much gesturing, I got one of the men to understand me and he kindly helped me retrieve my things. We left without further incident.
As I was falling asleep that night I was trying to understand my failure with the language. Then it dawned on me. The French word for book is “livre”. I had been saying “lit” which means BED! I had been begging these men “Please, come with me inside; no one is there. I have a BED and a camera; come with me now! No one is around.”
Don’t get me wrong here. It wasn’t a week full of meaningful moments filled with famous, awe-inspiring artwork while the sparkling lights of Paris reflected in my son’s eyes. There were plenty of excruciating rounds of “I Know You Are – But What Am I” “I Did Not – You Did Too” and the perennial favorite “Nolan Children Family Smack Down”. The point is that with humor, a sense of adventure, and lots of activity we had an unforgettable time together.
And not that I’m counting, but twice……TWICE they told me they thought I was amazing.
You can read more articles by Jules Nolan at www.julesnolan.com
Word Count : 1110
Two years ago I took our sons, 10 and 13, to Paris over their Thanksgiving break. Those who didn’t think I was crazy surely thought I was stupid. I admit I have an uncommon love for Paris and all things French, and I probably painted a slightly biased picture in their imaginations (hot coco and chocolate filled croissants for breakfast!). But truly, Paris is a wonderful travel destination for children. The secrets? Stay close to a metro stop. Keep museum visits short – less than an hour. Never get too hungry or too tired. Forget shopping – except in the toy stores which are delightful. Keep it fun and active.
At first a sunset cruise on the Seine, directly upon our arrival seemed like a horrible idea. Two jet-lagged boys on a guided tour sounded like a recipe for disaster. As it turned out we were practically the only people on the boat that chilly November evening, and my boys were so tired they were incapable of round 27 of “He’s Touching Me – I’m Not Touching Him”. As the sun set, the twinkling lights of the Eiffel tower reflected in their eyes. They were awed by the sights, the sounds, the thrill of this new city.
The next day at the Louvre my boys displayed an astonishing amount of art appreciation. The secret here was telling them the dollar value of the art they are meant to appreciate. I didn’t know it myself of course, but gave them fantastically inflated numbers that made their eyes grow big and round. Plus, somehow they got the impression that if the even seemed to be considering touching the art, before their fingertips could brush the canvas, they would be shot by guards who dressed as tiny old French ladies in big coats. These women were everywhere in the museums, always alone, and staring at young children with menacing glares (Think Granny from the Bugs Bunny cartoons with an enormous hound’s-tooth check overcoats and maybe…… just maybe, an M16 hidden in the folds). They didn’t believe me of course, but when they saw how well-behaved and fearful the French children looked in their tidy little uniforms and precise straight lines, they did wonder.
We saw all the greats, Mona Lisa, Water Lilies, Winged Victory; but we never spent more than 30 minutes in any museum or between snacks. It worked wonderfully. In fact, due to the untold hours that each had spent playing some computer game called Age of Mythology, they recognized the Greek and Roman God sculptures much better than I. Don’t think I didn’t revel in the admiring glances from other parents as my young boys, in their turtle necks and corduroys said “Mom, look! It’s Aphrodite and Eros!” Ah yes, the value of a classic education!
The food was incredible and not terribly expensive. My boys squeamishly tasted pate, fois gras, and escargot. They hated it of course, but now take pride in telling people that they a
te liver and snails in Paris – just like fear factor! We usually ate from street vendors and bakeries at impromptu outdoor picnics, keeping restaurant visits to a minimum. Their favorite activity was our self-guided hot chocolate tour of Paris. They kept a journal, and rated the delicious concoctions at each café. The very best, at Café Flore en I’lle, was served in 2 separate steaming pitchers, one of milk and one of liquid chocolate. It was the distinct winner, and my boys were consumed with creating the perfect mixture. I got to rest my feet and enjoy views of Notre Dame from our cozy table by the window, my sons on either side of me with matching chocolate mustaches.Best of all though, is that when I embarrassed myself, as I do in every place I visit, my children were spared the humiliation since they didn’t understand the language. We were visiting a glorious little chapel called St. Chapelle. While inside, I set down my guidebook and camera to tie my son’s shoe, and accidentally walked out without them. Just as we were leaving, I realized my mistake, but the doors had been locked behind us and I couldn’t go back inside. I wandered around searching for security when I came upon a small cluster of young policemen. I asked them in French “Please, can you help me?” Then realized I didn’t know how to say that I had “left” my things inside. So what came out was “I have a book and a camera inside, can you help me?” (Complete with my most charming smile).
Well, I thought it was odd that the policemen all smiled sheepishly, hands in pockets, and looked at their shoes. They shot sideways glances at one another, and seemed embarrassed, on the verge of laughter. Again I pleaded “I have a book and a camera in there. Can you help me please? It is closed and no one is inside.” (Again the smile).
Finally, after much gesturing, I got one of the men to understand me and he kindly helped me retrieve my things. We left without further incident.
As I was falling asleep that night I was trying to understand my failure with the language. Then it dawned on me. The French word for book is “livre”. I had been saying “lit” which means BED! I had been begging these men “Please, come with me inside; no one is there. I have a BED and a camera; come with me now! No one is around.”
Don’t get me wrong here. It wasn’t a week full of meaningful moments filled with famous, awe-inspiring artwork while the sparkling lights of Paris reflected in my son’s eyes. There were plenty of excruciating rounds of “I Know You Are – But What Am I” “I Did Not – You Did Too” and the perennial favorite “Nolan Children Family Smack Down”. The point is that with humor, a sense of adventure, and lots of activity we had an unforgettable time together.
And not that I’m counting, but twice……TWICE they told me they thought I was amazing.
You can read more articles by Jules Nolan at www.julesnolan.com
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Labels: Paris is for Children
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