Harvesting Pearls

 

“All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster's autobiography.”                          —  Federico Fellini

 

Well, here we are at the end of another year. The jury is still out on 2022 quality-wise, but my verdict: better than 2021, MUCH better than 2020, not as good as 2019 (though my memory of anything pre-COVID is rather vague). This is the moment when I always wish that I was Dave Barry (he of the famous and hilarious Year in Review for The Miami Herald, syndicated everywhere). Alas, I am a mere Elise Seyfried, and so I once again scrounge for material for this final December post. Sorry, gang!

 

I came upon the Fellini quote recently, and found it very reassuring. For you see, I have an advanced case of Fiction Writer Envy. How can these gifted folks create entire fanciful worlds on paper (from Narnia to Hogwarts)? It is (truly) all I can do to mine my every day, actual experiences for a few giggles and/or insights. But my buddy Federico reminds me that even fiction masters are really using their own lives as a filter for their writing. Me too!

And I also love the image of the pearl, which is a by-product of the oyster’s irritation! I am irritated 24/7 these days, and I had thought this uncomfortable emotion was for naught. But no! I am royally annoyed by everything from lines at the Shop N Bag checkout (even at 7:30 AM), to the mind-numbing repetitive- ness of morning cable TV show hosts (“Wow, Joe! Let’s play that clip from last night’s rally for the 10^th time! Then we’ll bring on our crew of pundits who will also say: 'Wow, Joe!' ") Now I understand that what irks me, leads to writing treasure! 

 

The corollary is the reassuring idea that travel mishaps/failures/ outright disasters are actually the GOOD STORIES. Who wants to read about the perfect, but ho-hum experiences, when the problematic ones are so much more entertaining? Mind you, I don’t want to LIVE these catastrophes, and I am hopeful that my skills as a scribe will someday render a flawless evening in Vienna as a riveting read. But deep down I know that the harrowing tale of being abandoned at JFK by our shuttle driver, beats the story of our delectable Austrian schnitzel.

Now THAT was a story

During the past several late Decembers, I have taken inventory of my writing submissions/acceptances/rejections. This year, I am tickled to discover that I had 42 accepted pieces out of 71 submissions (62%!) And the majority of these essays/articles had something to do with my real life. The other necessary part of this exercise, of course, is Goals For 2023, and I have some doozies, including The New Yorker, The New York Times and The Paris Review. Dream big, I say!

 

Will next year’s literary pearls be harvested from grand adventures, or irritating treks to the grocery store?

 

Probably a combination. But I look forward to living my 67^th year (!) and thank you all for joining me on the journey.

What Do You See From Your Window?

"Oatmeal" Sheridan's first bear

Shortly after the pandemic began, a new Facebook group was created, with the simple idea of inviting members to post photos of what they saw from their windows (with remarks about where they were posting from). I really enjoyed logging on daily, and seeing gorgeous pictures of Romania, Austria, Cornwall, Iceland. It was armchair travel, so welcome when none of us could travel anywhere. 

 

Over the past few years, the group grew in size to an amazing 600,000 people. Unlike so many other online groups that devolved into division and sniping, “What Do You See from Your Window?" remained a reliable oasis of friendliness and warmth. Even now, with the world opening up again, the group is still going strong.

 

While any member is allowed to post, some folks are more frequent contributors—and a few of them share consistently delightful snapshots and reflections. There’s Angelika in France, who photographs, and concocts adorably fanciful tales about, the squirrels who visit her “Sunflower Watch Sill.” There’s Pascal, who gorgeously photographs his town of Sorrento, Italy, and posts regular reflections about life and love, especially his love for his wife Monica. 

 

But most of all, there has been the moderator, Layne, who originally hailed from the UK but lived in Cyprus. She posted nearly every day. Over time, the group got to know and love her, her visiting family, her singing group of expats, the teddy bears she whimsically posed and gave personalities, even the colorful laundry drying on her balcony. I looked forward to Layne’s quirky, funny and affectionate takes on life and, like thousands of others, came to regard her as a friend.

 

In March, Layne first mentioned being sick. She never dwelled on her health, and usually posted about almost anything else. She began feeling weak, and went out for what she called “wobbles,” instead of walks. Unfailingly upbeat through lots of pain and treatments, it seemed inconceivable that Layne wouldn’t find a way to beat her cancer. 

 

Layne’s last post was on December 11. Days of silence, then her sister Lynn posted that she was traveling to Cyprus to be with Layne. And, Sunday morning: “Layne is flying with the angels.” This special woman, who loved showing us her beloved island in the Mediterranean from her window, is now mourned by more than half a million people. Including me. 

 

Every one of Layne’s posts ended the same way: “Tell someone you love them. Keep it kind. See you tomorrow. Love and light from Cyprus.” Layne, and the group’s creator Arik, grew an incredible online community at a time when the world had shut down. I hope that the group will continue now, without dear Layne. That’s what she would want, I am sure.

 

Since her death, I’ve been more grateful for the world views I’ve glimpsed, through so many windows. I thank God I can still see through mine, and I will do my best to share love, every day I’m given to live. And to keep it kind. 

Sunny December morning from my window

Rage Against the Machines

We do NOT own one of these

In the race to the bottom that is the rapid decline of our body parts, my sweet hubby and I are tied at the moment. Equally creaky joints, although my knee replacement will probably happen first. Steve’s vision definitely trumps mine (he doesn’t even wear his glasses much these days), but I can out-hear him by a country mile.   

That good hearing of mine, though? It’s a mixed blessing. I am noticing that certain types of sounds are grating on my aural nerves more than they used to, sounds largely made by some other denizens of our fair suburb. Children at play? Dogs barking? No problem! But for some reason, motorized yard tidiers are driving me nuts.

As a little kid, I fell asleep to the lullaby of horns, sirens and occasional bursts of gunfire in Manhattan. When I re-settled out of the city, I breathed a sigh of relief: no more loud noises after bedtime!! And, generally, that’s true. Post midnight, it’s pretty darned quiet here in Oreland.   

But during the daylight/early evening hours, it’s a whole ‘nother story. For that is when some of my fellow Orelanders emerge from their houses, armed to the teeth with massive and ear-splitting ammo. Lawn mowers!! Weed whackers!! Leaf and snow blowers!! It’s a veritable symphony of industrious but annoying sounds! At times, I can focus on my writing, or cooking dinner, and ignore the cacophony for a while. But it’s always irritatingly THERE, right outside, the uninvited guest at our backyard barbeques, stealing our serenity, making normal conversation nearly impossible.   

We are far from house-and-garden proud; if our yard ever made it onto a map of beautiful properties, it would be a mistake—or a blooming miracle. But at least we have this going for us: we don’t make a lot of extraneous noise outdoors. Not for us the driveway screaming matches of my youth (in Atlanta we lived next door to Gone With The Wind author Margaret Mitchell’s cousin. Luckily, Willis himself was not a writer; otherwise, the Cunningham dramas might well have been chronicled for all the world to read). You can ask our sainted neighbor Annemarie—for a family with five children, we Seyfrieds really weren’t too bad. Over the years, I’ve enjoyed greeting her without always having to apologize because of a ruckus.  

It’s mid-December. This should be the lull, right? It’s not snowing yet, and the leaves are down and out. Nothing, I gather, is growing much. So what’s with all the loud electric garden implements NOW? Why are weeds still being whacked and lawns still being manicured? I can imagine a few meticulous homeowners, even after every last blade of grass has been cut down below a nub, still hauling out their machines and running over the bare dirt.    

And I’ll go ahead and say it—it’s overwhelmingly men, out there revving their motors. So guys, it’s break time! And good news! Santa’s bringing you all rotary mowers, snow shovels and rakes! Ho ho ho!  

     

             

All I Want For Christmas Is...I Have No Idea

Evan will be home for Christmas! Gift enough for me!

It’s that time of year again—time to wrack my brain and come up with a couple of items my family can “surprise” me with on Christmas morning. I’m not (remotely) an inspired gift-giver; it’s even worse when the Christmas stocking is on the other foot, so to speak. But I do have to try and think of something for under the tree on December 25th.

Rose has posted a “Draw Names” page for us. “Draw Names” is a higher-tech online version of the hat we used to pull slips of paper from on Thanksgiving evening for Secret Santa. The hat was always problematic, because A) rarely were we all together on Thanksgiving and B) I would invariably lose my slip of paper by bedtime, and forget who my lucky recipient was. In any event, we’re all matched up now, and several folks have posted their wish lists. Others, including me, have not yet committed to sharing any Yuletide heart’s desires. 

 

So what the heck DO I want?

 

Well, there are no gift cards redeemable for world peace, alas. Nor is it feasible to ask my family for a positive response from The New Yorker regarding my latest humor essay. And while I would just adore a little beachfront cottage in Lewes, I’m afraid my Secret Santa would have a ho-ho-heart attack over the astronomical price tag. 

 

Otherwise? I’m all set for clothes, especially since I no longer work at church. My typical “office attire” these days is jeans and whichever sweater I bump into first when I open my dresser drawer. I wear almost zero makeup, and I can make one bottle of cologne last a year. I have enough earrings to open a jewelry store. As for the spare bedroom I’ve fixed up at home as my writer’s space, I have plenty of plants and wall hangings and desk doodads. Moving to the kitchen, I would definitely enjoy an ice cream maker, but we have no room for one (and I have no business eating any more ice cream than I already do.)

 

Our family room looks rather spiffy these days, which makes our living room’s “shabby chic” décor appear infinitely more shabby than chic. I floated the idea of requesting a new sofa and armchairs, but then we examined the budget and I floated it right back down. 

 

I guess buying me a knee replacement is unrealistic too.

 

I know I’m a pain to shop for, in the grand tradition of older people everywhere. Our wants do diminish as we age. Even so, I know I will love whatever is in the package sporting my name, from whichever dear one picked me. Aiden and Peter just went to the elementary school holiday shop with a few bucks from Mama, and Aiden was super excited to reveal that he bought me something for Christmas. That’s so sweet, and I can’t wait to find out what he selected.

 

Does the Jarrettown Holiday Shop stock new knees, I wonder?

All I need is love--truly!

Happy for You (Really)

With two very talented writer friends, Casey and Robin (Robin is on my right)

I read an interesting article in The New York Times online the other day, about something the author called “freudenfreude,” the opposite of “schadenfreude." Schadenfreude is defined as "taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune" (“how the mighty have fallen!” said with glee). I’m not a ninny; I know it’s not uncommon in human nature to feel this way periodically. And, full disclosure, I have felt a smidge of it myself at times--not when someone is actually suffering, mind you, but when their charmed life hits a little snag. Not proud of myself, but there it is.

True to form, the comments section lit up, with quite a few can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees folks taking exception to the word “freudenfreude” itself. “But it isn’t even really German—it’s a made-up word!” they huffed. Others offered instead the Buddhist word “mudita,” which, it turns out, means the exact same thing. I kept getting back to: who cares what it’s called? Celebrating others’ good fortune, might just save the world.

 

Think about it. Why are there wars? Simple answer: I want what you have. I’m not happy until you suffer. Why is there such absurd disparity between the top 1% of the population and the rest of us? Billionaires could shed many of their billions, while still keeping so many more, by feeding the world’s hungry and housing the homeless. Yet many choose not to. Are they actively pleased that others are in need? I'm sure not. But there is, there has to be, a large degree of indifference. In both of these situations, our fellow humans are either wished the worst, or else ignored entirely. 

 

My good writer friend Robin sold a terrific piece today, to a wonderful online magazine that is one of my dream publications. Her essay is a perfect fit for the site, and I am genuinely delighted for her. In this case, my “freudenfreude” (or whatever it’s called) comes easily; Robin is a lovely person, and has been a huge supporter of me and my writing. But before I got a cramp from patting myself on the back, I forced myself to imagine someone I truly dislike, someone who has been really unkind to me, achieving similar success. How would I feel then? 

 

That, my friends, is the real test. It’s the Jesus test. Love your enemies. In practice, wish them well. Celebrate them. Wish them into a better place. Be a mirror for them, reflecting a more enlightened, happier, peaceful way of being. And if they don’t respond in kind, you’ve made it a better world just by trying.

 

How do we spread love and joy in the often loveless and joyless place where we find ourselves? Can we ever make this the Peaceable Kingdom, lion and lamb lying down together? 

 

We have a lousy track record, but I haven’t lost faith yet. Deep down I believe most of us WANT to live in a world where we are truly happy for each other. 

 

It sure beats the alternative.

Talking Turkey

Charades after dinner! Always! But maybe not this year?

At long last, the truth comes out.   

Rose does not like turkey, never has.   

Actually, I’m not a big fan either. Julie is a vegetarian. Evan will be in Seattle. Steve, Sheridan and Patrick tend to enjoy Food, however it presents itself. Ya-Jhu is also quite agreeable. By the time I cut up Aiden and Peter's portions, those bitty-bites of meat might just as well be beef, fish, or pork (they are dutifully consumed, the sacrificial slog that must come before the reward--dessert).   

But a Traditional Feast has always been weirdly important to me (maybe not so weirdly; I’m haunted by the memories of horrific Thanksgiving dinners cooked by Mom, and have spent my adult life in active opposition to those and most other aspects of my upbringing).   So all these years I’ve been filling the oven with a mammoth, relatively tasteless bird, and I didn’t need to???  

It’s OK, truly. My daughter came up with a solid Plan B, still in the poultry family. Rose suggested we fry chicken and serve it with all the other regular trimmings. It does feel strange to be at T-Day Minus 1 without juggling fridge space for a thawing Butterball, but no regrets. I have a great recipe for fried chicken: boneless thighs, marinated in buttermilk and spices, then rolled in flour mixed with some baking powder (yes! And the resulting crust is so tasty you don’t even realize there’s no chicken skin!)   

Christmas has also evolved over the decades, with multiple church jobs and traveling offspring affecting such things as schedule and manner of gift opening (one year Evan “watched” the unwrapping via FaceTime from Thailand). We’ve been trying to get our annual holiday soup dinner with our dear friends the Carlsons on the calendar (in person after a pandemic hiatus), so far without success. I’m resigned to the strong possibility that this event will be postponed into the new year. And those beloved Seyfried family Christmas benefit concerts? They are definitely a thing of the past. 

I’ve been trying to go with the flow, and look at the bright side of all these adjustments—less stress than when the bar is set sky high, as it used to be. I’m trying hard to banish the impulse to take everything ridiculously over the top.  A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving spread would not have cured what ailed my family of origin; neither will my super-efforts magically make everything perfect in the family I’ve helped create. Deep down I know that love is the only truly vital component of all festive family celebrations, as it is of life in general. And I definitely feel the love, no matter the population of our dinner table, and which dishes served.   

As President Biden “pardons” Chocolate and Chip (this years’ ceremonial White House gobblers), may I pardon myself. May I set myself free from all the “must dos,” and just enjoy whatever Thanksgiving Day 2022 brings.   

But we WILL watch the Macy’s parade. Some things are non-negotiable.

Thanksgiving 2014--no Peter yet (we didn't know what we were missing)

Serially

I’ve recently been reading Louise Penny’s mysteries. They are set in rural Three Pines, Quebec, and star the flawed, fascinating Chief Inspector Armand Ganache and a gallery of wonderfully eccentric characters. Penny's fan club is legion (Hillary Clinton even co-authored her thriller State of Terror). I look forward to reading more, and thank my friend Becky for recommending this terrific author.

 

What is it about serials that is so compelling? My theory is that it’s their sheer predictability, the profound comfort of knowing that another installment, featuring characters that have become friends, is always brewing. As a child, I was a Superfan of both Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins, and still remember the joy of holding the latest books of those series in my hands. So what if their escapades strained credulity? I was all in for the winsome Flossie and Freddie, as well as teen sleuth Nancy’s chums and her beau, the mellifluously named Ned Nickerson. In the midst of regular personal life upheavals (seven schools in three states over the years), I could always curl up under the covers with my familiar fictional posse, and feel right at home.   

 

I remember my kids finding similar solace with different series, which also sparked their love of reading in general (I didn’t care if they were reading Isaac Asimov’s masterful Foundation collection or the Goosebumps books, as long as they were turning the pages). And now here we are with Aiden and Peter, devouring the latest Big Nate and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Do I take equal pleasure from these tomes, with their simplistic line drawings and numerous potty references? Of course not, but it is great to witness the boys’ excitement when the newest book in a favorite series drops.   

 

As a writer, I am hyperconscious about repeating myself (confession: before writing this, I searched my previous 560 plus posts to make sure this subject hadn’t been covered before). I am a brutal self-editor: I recently caught myself writing “in the face of___” twice in a 1000 word essay, and was appalled. I hate the idea that any of my prose reminds the reader of stuff I’ve written before, and much prefer the image of the polymath who zips effortlessly around the verbal landscape, forging new pathways for the reader’s neurons.   

 

But then I had a conversation last week with someone who has been reading my own four books of essays. She wasn't put off by their familiarity. She was enjoying them precisely because they WERE familiar, with characters she came to know and care about, a comfortable refuge in a topsy-turvy world. There are far worse reasons for reading a book (or writing one--I'm currently putting Book #5 together).

 

So, dear reader, please think of this whole blog as a serial. And when you inevitably come to a repeated word or phrase, or even an entire derivative post, just remember: I’m doing this on purpose to make you feel cozy and safe!   

You're welcome!

Testing that theory since November, 2011!

Who Cares?

Not nearly as important as I think

My self-esteem, forged in the crucible of a Catholic education in the 1960s, has always been rather shaky. So why, when confronted with the obvious global indifference to many of my own choices and practices, am I bewildered and, even, a bit hurt?

Case in point: NO one, with the sole exception of Ya-Jhu, seems to have noticed that it is November and I am not writing a new blog post every day this month! I took on the challenge of daily postings six Novembers ago, and prided myself on consistently adding 30 new mini-essays to my total during the 11^th month each year. Whenever inspiration faltered, I imagined my legions of fans (OK, my handful) logging eagerly online for their daily dose of Elise style wit and wisdom, and I soldiered on. 

 

To be fair, in November, 2022, my life situation has utterly changed. “Retirement” for me has been a significant shift from writing part-time to full-time. Previously I patted myself on the back for any scribbling not connected to my church job. Now—well, I have no excuse for not churning out oodles of lucrative prose. So far, I’ve had a steady stream of paid writing gigs, and I’ve been diligent about pursuing new leads and calls for submissions and pitches. Much as I took a measure of satisfaction from my annual blog-a-thons, they weren’t exactly payin’ the bills. And so, at least for now, I decided to pull back and post an entry just once a week. 

 

Where is the outrage, I ask? Incredibly, the sun still rises and sets, babies are born, autumn leaves continue to flutter from branches. Rumor has it that we even had an election (just kidding, I voted at 7 AM yesterday, mostly for an end to those ridiculously dark and dystopian TV ads). In any event, in the grand scheme of things, my bold blogging non-move hasn’t caused even a tiny ripple in the pond of life. 

 

Something else that doesn’t seem to matter? How many steps I walk! Even my long-suffering hubby has wearied of my joyful noise when I top 10,000, and my corresponding sorrow on those blah days when my total is a measly 1500 steps (bed to desk to refrigerator to sofa). In Europe, where I logged over 20,000 nearly every day, there were no ticker-tape parades in my honor (annoyingly, Europeans just naturally expect to walk a lot). 

 

Be it physical fitness or literary output, it seems clear that, whenever I do chalk up a personal win, I’ve been expecting it to be top of mind FOR EVERYONE. But no more! Henceforth I will be comforted by the fact that people, generally, really don’t care that much one way or the other. Which sets me free from both imaginary great expectations and scathing critiques. 

 

Maybe next November (or April—why not?) I’ll get back to a daily blog. I may also work up to enough steps to break my Fitbit. 

 

If not, we’ll all be just fine. 

The Rest of the Story

Wouldn't that make a cool alarm clock?

In our last exciting episode of “Elise and Steve Conquer Europe,” we were quickly turning into two pork sausages, and walking more than I ever thought humanly possible (if that human is me). Now, as veteran radio commentator Paul Harvey used to say, it’s time for “the rest of the story.” Or at least a few impressions of our final two stops.

I had decided to save a little money and only buy transit passes for two of our four cities. Salzburg is small and eminently walkable (or climbable, if you’re nutty enough to attempt an Alp). Prague (or at least Old Town where we were staying) is also a reasonable walk/hike from and to anywhere. But we were glad to be able to hop on and off the U-Bahn in Munich and Vienna--at least once we figured them out. As we’d stand there on the subway platforms studying Google maps late at night, we felt utterly fearless. I had to compare this pleasant emotion to the sheer terror I always feel on New York and Philly public transportation, where looking even vaguely lost marks one instantly as easy prey. Sigh.

 

We stayed longest in Vienna, and loved every moment. Highlights included a beautiful classical concert at Musikverein, and learning about the mighty Habsburgs, including the lovely, doomed Empress Elisabeth--nicknamed “Sisi”-- who struggled mightily with depression, and was reportedly relieved to be killed by an anarchist. At the time, the family was still incredibly rich and powerful; Sisi’s story was a stark reminder that those things do not ensure happy lives. 

Steve at Schonbrunn, just one of the Habsburg palaces (the structure behind him isn't even the palace, it's just a "little something" in the gardens!)

On a lighter note, we really enjoyed a show at Vienna's Spanish Riding School, featuring the Royal Lippizaner horses, the majestic beasts performing routines set to (of course) classical music. We also took a delicious food tour of the city, complete with glasses of “storm,” a seasonal drink of fermented grape juice served before it becomes fully wine. 

With new friends, drinking up a "storm" in Vienna

Prague was our final locale, and it was magical. Our apartment was right next to the famous 15^th century astronomical clock, with figures of the 12 Apostles that come out of little doors every hour). We went to Prague Castle, took a cruise on the Vltava River, and ate great Czech food (not 100% pork products, there was also a lot of duck:-). On a day trip to the town of Kutna Hora, we visited the Bone Church, where hundreds of thousands of ancient human bones have been made into chandeliers, coats of armor, winged Angels of Death, etc. Strangely, it isn’t TOO creepy. 

How'd you like THAT hanging in your dining room?

We got home late last night, and are eager to give Aiden and Peter their Viennese chocolates, and regale the boys with tales of palaces, musical clocks, prancing horses and (of course) all those bones. 

 

Legend has it that touching the bronze statue of Saint John of Nepomuk on Prague’s Charles Bridge brings good luck. We did so, but there was really no need--we knew beyond doubt that we were already the lucky ones. 

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Wurst of Times

  

Glockenspiel in Munich

Germany and Austria are incredible countries to visit, just a two hour train ride apart between Munich and Salzburg. Both cities have Old Towns and more modern areas. In both, as is our pattern, we got really turned around walking from place to place, even with GPS. 

There are some differences. Munich is near Dachau (where we visited the concentration camp, so sad and powerful). Salzburg isn’t near much except more Alps. In Munich it is necessary to take trams to get from one side of the city to the other; Salzburg is eminently walkable. Munich has a famous glockenspiel in Marienplatz, with figurines that move around on the tower face every few hours. Salzburg has The Sound of Music, which everyone seems to adore, but about which we are lukewarm. We prefer the city’s Mozart everything—his birthplace, his residence, the cathedral where many of his works were performed. Mozart square and statue too. But yes, if you want, you can see the spot where “Do-Re-Mi” was filmed. Whatever floats your boat.

Salzburg Old Town

Many similarities as well. Such as, beer. Beer is available everywhere, all the time, and it’s both delicious and really cheap. At our first Munich lunch at an outdoor café, we asked for regular size beers and were served large steins; we later noticed that there was another, much larger size, favored by the young people eating and drinking near us. Language: German, though everyone speaks decent-to-great English. Food: lots of schnitzel (veal and pork) and wursts--sausage of all kinds, from Munich’s weisswurst to Salzburg’s bosna (curry sausage)—to the point where I do wonder how vegetarians navigate in these Lands of Meat. 

Other very local specialties include Germany’s döner kebap, actually a Turkish dish with lots and lots of grilled meat (surprise!), wrapped in a special bread. Then there’s Salzburger nockerl, a dessert found only here. I ordered it for dessert in a restaurant one night, and learned to make it the next day at the Edelweiss Cooking School. Nockerl’s a kind of souffle shaped like the three mountains of the city, and even eating one “mountain” is overwhelming. 

Making nockerl

I’m writing this in Salzburg on Tuesday. We just toured Mirabell Palace and gardens, and we’re back at our Airbnb taking a break. Our days have been full, but we’ve learned about the value of a little pacing, and afternoon naps (or maybe we’re just getting old.) Later we’ll attempt a hike up Mönchsberg (Monk’s Mountain), before dinner and a Mozart (natch) concert up at the Fortress Hohensalzburg overlooking the city. 

 

Tomorrow we leave for Vienna, the next stop in our magical mystery tour. We anticipate more museums, palaces, concerts and beer. And meat. Lots more meat. Good thing we’re averaging many miles of walking per day (my Fitbit thinks it’s attached to the arm of an entirely different person).

 

Do I miss home and fam? Of course. But would I have missed this phenomenal experience with Steve? Not on your life.

 

Auf Wiedersehen!

My favorite traveling buddy!

Anticipation

Together in Florence, Italy April 2018

I don’t really do anticipation well. Even as a kid, when all around me little guys and gals were waiting, thrilled, for Santa’s descent from his sleigh, I was stressed. Stressed about the fact that our NYC apartment didn’t HAVE a chimney. Stressed about the North Pole travel conditions, the reindeers’ state of health, the very real possibility that I was not going to get a pony (see NYC apartment, above.)

In later years, my anticipation of future “great events” was always tempered by that little Eeyore deep inside (“Nope. Probably not gonna happen. And if it does, it’ll be terrible. Usually is.”) And then I’d get so nervous that I’d forget to enjoy the happy moments when they did occur. This applied to events like my wedding, the birth of my children, every wonderful thing that happened in the lives of said children, etc. It’s all, unfortunately, a blur: newlyweds and newborns, violin recitals, soccer triumphs, college graduations. 

 

I never did get the hang of pure, positive excitement, that tingly feeling that amazing experiences were just around the corner. It’s a shame, because I hear anticipation is pretty cool. 

 

Well, gang, here we go again. Steve and I are mere hours from our departure for our thrice COVID-postponed trip to Europe. I have been doing my best over-the-top nutty travel agent impression, jumping around from website to guidebook, frantically booking the heck out of Viennese palaces, Salzburg museums, Munich restaurants. I pride myself on handing these myriad details without assistance. This leads to snafus like yesterday, when I scheduled a concert in Prague for the same night and time I’d gotten tickets for a “black light” theatre performance. And, of course, though 99% of my bookings were refundable, this one was not. I look forward to sitting in a theatre next week, knowing our concert seats across town are empty, and my purse is 80 euros lighter. Score, Elise!

 

Julie and I were on the phone Monday night, talking about my trip, and reminiscing about her own three-month, multi-country solo European backpacking adventure at age 18. She sent me photos of her younger self in the exact same cities we’ll be visiting, standing on a mountaintop with some new buddies from a hostel, navigating a mirror maze, at the opera. As far as I recall, she did very little micromanaging of her schedule—yet she still had a wonderful, life-changing time. 

Julie and friends in Salzburg, Austria October 2013

I pay lip service to the notion that I’ve learned valuable lessons from the pandemic, lessons about letting go of worry—"carpe diem” in spades, right? And maybe I have. However, my grateful, hopeful, anticipatory new self, forgot to tell my inner Eeyore, and Eeyore’s still pretty darned skeptical.

 

And so I spend this, the morning our journey begins, trying to banish the “what ifs,” in favor of the “oh, wows.” The world is opening up again, and we are so, so lucky to be traveling in it. 

 

“Anticipating” the inevitable problems, may I also anticipate much joy. 

Getting Carded

Family photo from retirement party (only missing Evan)

My retirement party was back in June, but you’d think it happened just yesterday. You see, I have yet to redeem 90% of the amazing gift certificates I received from friends and family. It’s not (just) a matter of wanting to spread out the enjoyment. I am mostly paralyzed with indecision when I spread out my bounty. From experience I know that once I get going, my Amazon dollars will dwindle quickly, and soon I will have recipient’s remorse, realizing that I absent-mindedly used a chunk of my balance to buy a new dustpan, or the Kindle edition of a book that sounded intriguing, until I find out it sounded intriguing because I already had it in paperback. 

 

I have been gifted with over $100 in cards for Starbucks, which is lovely. I used to go to my local shop and sit upstairs for hours, writing and nursing a chai latte. Alas, since the pandemic they have eliminated all of their seating permanently, and writing in my car in their parking lot isn’t quite as satisfying. But I’m determined not to spend my Star-bucks on the family ground coffee supply, so I’m looking for a more distant location that might still have chairs and tables. 

 

Additionally, there are generous certs for spa treatments, dinner at a fabulous restaurant, The Philadelphia Orchestra, even Airbnb! Should I combine all of these in one splurge day? Mani-pedi, dinner, concert, ending with an overnight at a center city apartment? Or should I spend them gradually? Or should I (as occasionally happens), let their eventual expiration dates make my decision for me? 

 

As bad as I am about redemption, I’m worse when the giving shoe is on the other foot. For many years, we thanked our teen and tween VBS volunteers at church with a little something at week’s end. One of the moms would just give out bags of candy, which I thought showed a real lack of creativity. So, when I took over, I opted for gift certificates to, first, good old Amazon, and later, Rita’s Water Ice. The problems were both the paltry amount of the gifts ($5), and the fact that our young recipients were pretty underwhelmed by printed pieces of paper exchangeable for future treats. In other words, they really preferred the candy.   

 

So is it better to give and receive actual items, and not glossy promissory notes? But I struggle with gift registries too, ending up buying the wedding couple six hand towels because that’s all that’s left in my price range (ditto the multicolored sippee cup set if it’s a baby shower). And if I can just get my act together, I really do love pondering how to spend gift cards I’m given.

 

The bottom line is: all presents are gifts from the heart, equally to be cherished because of the messages they send: you matter. I care about you. I wish you well. 

 

That settles it. Logging on to Amazon right now. TWO dustpans this time!! Woo hoo!!