tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10806274322936860812024-02-02T16:29:56.814+01:00The Blue SuitcaseThe Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-38717144242277510022013-09-08T12:58:00.001+02:002013-09-08T12:58:49.237+02:00Lekker! Week One Amsterdam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We arrived one week ago in Amsterdam, by train from Paris. Every day we've been going full-tilt, living this city to the fullest! First things first, of course: Drop off the suitcases (we're in our same old canal house!), and get ice cream at our old favorite gelato shop across the bridge.</div>
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Oops... Look out below.</div>
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The day after we arrived, it was so fun to welcome Carly, the fifth person in our Amsterdam family. She dove right in!</div>
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Mmm... Amsterdamse appeltaart at Winkel 43. Lekker! </div>
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We looked into renting a boxbike, but the cost was the same as buying one. So yay! We did! It's cute and red and we love it!</div>
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While we're enjoying the same exact location on the Prinsengracht we had when we lived here in 2009 and 2010, we're staying on the ground floor this time. We spend our time staring out onto the busy Prinsengracht, just as we always did. Louisa's favorite activity seems to be sitting on the stoop with a little snack, making small talk with passersby and watching the boats and bikes.</div>
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Here's a snapshot of Josie's FIRST DAY OF ELEMENTARY at the Jordaan Montessorischool. We are so proud of our brave and smiling little Dutch-language learner!</div>
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Turns out putting Louisa in the boxbike is like giving her a sleeping pill:</div>
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Since we arrived, the weather has been gorgeous--astonishingly warm for several days, which brought plenty of swimming in the parks, more ice cream, a muggy haze and lots of beautiful light. The evenings have been perfectly picturesque.</div>
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Jacquie Maughan, founder of Seattle's Pacific Crest School, gave me a tour of Maria Montessori's house in Amsterdam, which not only has the famous educator's study and library, but also houses the Association Montessori Internationale, where Jacquie has been volunteering this month. Here's Jacquie in Maria Montessori's own study!</div>
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Later that day, we all met for a warm afternoon visit at the Vondel Park wading pool. The next day, with Jacquie and her AMI colleague Joke, I enjoyed a thorough and impressive tour of Josie's school.<br />
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Jacquie took a photo of our whole Amtsterdam-Fam. Thanks!</div>
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Boxbiking with Louisa--Before and After:</div>
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A little rain at the end of the week freshened things up and made the sunshine brighter...</div>
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Thanks to Carly--and two cooperative, fun little kids--Dan and I are enjoying a lot of time out in the city, experiencing it more fully than ever. This week, the Fringe Fest is ongoing and we've seen one play with plans to see one or two more.</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"> Yesterday, Saturday, we spent the morning at our favorite farmer's market, the Noordermarkt. We gathered many delicious foods and a few cute clothes too... but forgot to take pictures. Josie and I went school-clothes shopping at H&M that afternoon--love these great boxer shorts that are a staple here for girls. In the evening, we visited our friends Madeline and Dan and their three kids in Out-Zuid for a beautiful dinner in the garden. Annnd we have about 50 other things on our list... we're filling every minute and thoroughly, thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We're definitely having lots of pinch-yourself moments. Can this be real? Thanks for peeking in! </span></div>
The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-82301553173386056732013-09-03T16:33:00.001+02:002013-09-03T16:33:28.076+02:00I See London, I See France... A Fond Farewell to Paris!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
On our final night in Paris, after a late dinner and even though everyone was tired, we couldn't stand to stay inside while the city played on around us. Out we went for a late-night playtime at the park...and a visit to a certain patch of sidewalk we had "caught wind of" the night before ...</div>
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Here we are at the Eglise St.-Germain, just before the gatekeeper closed things up: </div>
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And then, on the way home, a strange wind blew... </div>
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So with THAT, we said "Au Revoir, Paris!"</div>
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Above, our Sunday morning taxi to Paris Gare du Nord...</div>
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And here they are on the fast train to Amsterdam. At last, at last!</div>
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<br />The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-41410305779245542042013-09-03T16:19:00.005+02:002013-09-03T16:21:43.013+02:00PARIS! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Three days in Paris with two little kiddos? Why on earth not? We found a great little apartment in St. Germain-des-Pres (6th Arrondissement) and it was the best location imaginable. We were able to do exactly what we wanted, all within walking distance... and the area was so very <i>Parisien</i>. </div>
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But first things first! After an all-day drive from the Dordogne (with two amazingly patient little passengers), we came upon this wonderful sight. We were a little late to check in to our apartment--it was 8 and we hadn't had dinner--but Dan was right. FIRST the Eiffel Tower, THEN everything else. </div>
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On our first of two full days in Paris, we walked directly to the Louvre...with a few temptations to sniff along the way. </div>
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Here they are just outside the entrance to the Louvre:</div>
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Josie had an audio guide and enjoyed learning extra tidbits about some of the major pieces. </div>
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Here is the Winged Victory of Samothrace: </div>
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Maybe you can guess what this painting is: </div>
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It was interesting and special to talk with Josie about the Venus de Milo, and how she is considered exquisitely beautiful--while she is not a princess or a wisp.</div>
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After the Louvre, we relaxed in the unforgettably beautiful (and FUN) Jardins du Luxembourg...a dream destination for kids in Paris!</div>
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Jousting Josie speared a ring!</div>
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The girls, promenading on their own while Dan and I relaxed on a park bench:</div>
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Now here's Louisa, waiting in the courtyard of our Paris apartment for the arrival of none other than her grown-up friend Carly...</div>
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... who was coming to take over dinner, playground trip, and bedtime, allowing Dan and I to have the best Parisian date imaginable. TWO restaurants, wonderful drinks, food, and walking under the stars! We will never forget that delightful night!</div>
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The next morning, we went walking again, this time to see 850 year old Notre Dame Cathedral, and to hear the beautiful noon chimes. Louisa brought her camera:</div>
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I was excited to finally visit Shakespear & Co., Paris' literary mecca for expatriate English-language writers and readers.</div>
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Then, we did the only sensible thing, which was to return to the Jardins du Luxembourg to relax and play all afternoon again:</div>
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Oh, forgot to mention there was some children's clothes shopping before we went back to the park... Louisa has a costume change at the playground because she kept stepping on her dress while climbing. Now she is wearing her little Paris clothes!</div>
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Magic! Costume change again! There will be no chocolate ice cream on our cute little Paris clothes!</div>
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Josie and I absolutely loved the Luxembourg Gardens. For our last special thing, we bought the CD of the lovely singer/accordionist who was playing in the gazebo at the garden. We adore her sweet music! Claire: A Coeur Ouvert.<br />
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One more post from Paris will reveal our last outing... and a little more! Thanks for following along!</div>
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<br />The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-5845889656861594102013-09-03T15:23:00.001+02:002013-09-03T15:23:38.748+02:00Oh, La France! A Week in The Dordogne<br />
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Greetings! We have some more to share from our happy August adventures in France. As you might recall from the last post, we rested in Lagrasse, in the Corbieres valley in the southern part of the Languedoc, from the 20th to the 23rd. Lagrasse is designated one of the most beautiful villages in France... we aimed for those ... and one thing perfect for us about Lagrasse was the lovely river with swimming holes. River swimming, canoeing, horses ... not what we pictured for France ... and yet definitely part of what made our trip a really perfect family vacation! </div>
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A little friend at dinner time. On our last night in Lagrasse, we returned to the restaurant of the first evening because of the delightful situation next to a safe-to-play alleyway.<br />
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Below you'll see two little travelers shortly before waking up for breakfast in the garden at our sweet Lagrasse B&B, <i>A l'Ombre du Tilleul. </i>Each morning, our kind host, Mireille, served us a selection of breads from the village bakery, with several jams, compotes, and honey, plus hot chocolate, tea, and coffee, as well as goat yogurt. Can you guess which item turned out not to be our family's favorite? But we all "tried it" every day. We will be ready for goat yogurt someday!<br />
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We bade farewell to Lagrasse on August 23 and drove west toward La Dordogne. On the way, we stopped at one of the most magnificent castles in France, Carcassonne City.<br />
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And a few hours later, we arrived in stunning La Roque-Gageac, another of France's "most beautiful villages," situated cliffside over the Dordogne river. Our beautiful house in La Roque would be our base for a week of exploring in an incredibly rich region; there was so much to do that even with adventures every day, we feel like we barely scratched the surface!</div>
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Our house is the one with red shutters, above (with me peeking out) and below:</div>
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Spying canoeists and "gabarre" boats on the Dordogne: </div>
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Below is the view from the girls' bedroom, onto the one-time home of a friend of Galileo Galilei. From this very tower, one night more than 400 years ago, a long object protruded into the night: France's first telescope, a gift from Galileo to his friend. </div>
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We cooked for ourselves in La Roque, shopping at the many farmer's markets around the region. Our first local market was in Le Bugue:</div>
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On our way home from the market that day, Dan noticed signs about a circus performing in nearby St. Cyprien that night. What fun! </div>
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Here we are later in the week at the market in Cenac:</div>
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The Cenac market had something new for Josie to wear, too! </div>
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At home in La Roque, we always ate on our terrace (except one rainy evening): </div>
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Even after a lot of unforgettable French restaurant meals, the farmer's markets and our own kitchen made us very happy! Here, Louisa and Josie absconded with one evening's entire entree: Fresh figs with bacon and cheese:</div>
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But there was still dinner...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4tKTD-Y_-c8EFfRF9uFgzFldsJBUy64XmhBEtAT7z4qOaIP1kvxXGDx_Pat9l3MjKbHaYjAqQJ1xCzfBL-McUV3Ct63n2vnrJjxHPGFoh_ir4G7QAIU8THz2yF7snsCbCyO96VEjeYMN-/s1600/DSC_0061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4tKTD-Y_-c8EFfRF9uFgzFldsJBUy64XmhBEtAT7z4qOaIP1kvxXGDx_Pat9l3MjKbHaYjAqQJ1xCzfBL-McUV3Ct63n2vnrJjxHPGFoh_ir4G7QAIU8THz2yF7snsCbCyO96VEjeYMN-/s320/DSC_0061.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Josie worked on assembling "perfect, beautiful bites."</div>
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This was our favorite local wine, and here is Louisa helping me make dinner one night: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillSVL_MsuKozSV_YdnbvOLp_Fb3s9eY3Fl_Kumq6t3BXNRBt-EKY8wrEGxqmcZyvZfRu9y7fLkg3SKOc4Vg15WLetHZglJNm2Gv14QgQX33yrf3e3B8-kWm3oiT1rHbpAWvkttNoE_AEu/s1600/IMG_3405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillSVL_MsuKozSV_YdnbvOLp_Fb3s9eY3Fl_Kumq6t3BXNRBt-EKY8wrEGxqmcZyvZfRu9y7fLkg3SKOc4Vg15WLetHZglJNm2Gv14QgQX33yrf3e3B8-kWm3oiT1rHbpAWvkttNoE_AEu/s320/IMG_3405.jpg" width="239" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejneGJ5BiDmXIOowaarpOWVJqdZ3mzlGtpxKZfryWGZCGnXrOjwHYzrhTMwySmTW7HspDwPxzDkGWs6qIm4Q5LuV8TWvYM0msaOtv892-uXt2Y_it3SOG3si77sRVKu-o4VcIciTft3Sw/s1600/DSC_0712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejneGJ5BiDmXIOowaarpOWVJqdZ3mzlGtpxKZfryWGZCGnXrOjwHYzrhTMwySmTW7HspDwPxzDkGWs6qIm4Q5LuV8TWvYM0msaOtv892-uXt2Y_it3SOG3si77sRVKu-o4VcIciTft3Sw/s320/DSC_0712.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">The ice cream shop was so close the girls were allowed to walk there alone together after dinner. This is them, viewed from the terrace, as they return to show off their purchases:</span></div>
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Louisa began insisting that we take more pictures of motorcycles. Here are a couple from her collection: </div>
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A visit to the beautiful hilltop village of Domme, where we could look out over the Dordogne valley:<br />
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I liked this guy a little: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt77YSdXXkbYanFIGK8IbqPkjiWgmn-d64Pw4FPSUp1N5_vNalr13m0665CAi5nG-kU6CMZ5fjExiTJ071pT2qmjAGROQ-l-7ZB8xX6DEpj5bM6IiLNhxZAAEUzqdUW57zg67c1HfAaFO/s1600/DSC_0033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt77YSdXXkbYanFIGK8IbqPkjiWgmn-d64Pw4FPSUp1N5_vNalr13m0665CAi5nG-kU6CMZ5fjExiTJ071pT2qmjAGROQ-l-7ZB8xX6DEpj5bM6IiLNhxZAAEUzqdUW57zg67c1HfAaFO/s320/DSC_0033.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Many walnut groves and sunflower fields in the valley: </div>
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Castles, castles galore in the Dordogne: Here we are visiting Castelnaud, visible from our house in La Roque:<br />
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And the next day, my personal favorite castle of the trip, Beynac:</div>
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Picnic above the castle:</div>
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A foggy morning in La Roque:</div>
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One of the most extraordinary parts of the Dordogne has to be the huge number of prehistoric sites, including the very famous caves at Lascaux and Rouffignac. At Lascaux, one visits a faithfully reproduced version of the original cave, which cannot be visited due to deterioration. The reproduction was 11 years in the making and managed to be very impressive anyway... the original paintings are 17,300 years old! </div>
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At Rouffignac, we took a train 1 km into a cave and saw ORIGINAL cave drawings of mammoths, rhinos, and horses... as well as ancient claw-marks and hibernation nests of extinct prehistoric cave bears!</div>
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A side trip to see a the beautiful Chateau Losse, while we waited for our reservation at the Rouffignac grotto:<br />
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We swung through gorgeous (and well-discovered) Sarlat one evening as we headed home:</div>
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A final evening walk in La Roque-Gageac, with a stop in the village chapel and only one small sisterly misunderstanding:<br />
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And with that, we were on to PARIS!<br />
The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-64705822746401526432013-08-22T17:37:00.001+02:002013-08-22T17:40:50.031+02:00En Chemin en France: Catching up!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b>Saturday, August 17: </b></div>
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Hilltop <b>Vezelay</b>
is home to the show-of-lights Basilica Ste-Madeleine. I slipped out early for a
morning walk to see the sun rising against the medieval Benedictine church. </div>
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I followed the balloon as it led me to a beautiful cemetery, which reminded me of losing Uncle Greg earlier this year. As I watched the balloon I thought of the word “uplift,” which can indicate disorientation, and also enlightenment. I also thought of “levity.” Greg was so funny, and he encouraged me to bring out my sense of humor more in my writing. I am trying. Not in this paragraph though. This paragraph is not funny.</div>
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<br />
Inside the Basilica one can see a relic believed to be bone from St. Mary Magdalene.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">I would be lying if I said we had not experienced some "shushing" on our trip.</span></div>
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Vezelay is a main starting point for pilgrims hiking the
trail to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. We saw many backpackers in the
village, and inset in the streets are telltale scallop shells. We noticed that
the idea of a labyrinth is connected with pilgrimage. Each of these handmade
mugs at Cabalus, a comforting pilgrim’s rest where we stopped for coffee and
warm milk, featured a labyrinth carved into the bottom. </div>
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We decided to leave Vezelay, as the village didn’t have much
for the kiddos and our lodging was a disappointment. We drove through Burgundy
that day, and wheat and sunflower fields gave way to vineyards, chateaux, and
beautiful ivory-colored Charlebois beef cattle. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Here is the detailed map we wished we’d had as we searched
and searched for Chateau des Hauts somewhere near <b>St. Bonnet de Joux</b> in southern Burgundy. </div>
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<br /></div>
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A farmer told me that his
friend told him there was a room we could rent there. Too bad I didn’t ask directions. It took a long, confusing pre-dinner witching-hour of nearly
high-centering the rental car on all the wrong narrow dirt country roads until we came upon
the chateau. TA-DA! </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Once there, we learned more: We would be renting the top level of
the old servants’ quarters on this 360-hectare piece of forest, which had
belonged to a duke when dukes were the thing in Burgundy. Here's our place, next to the clay tennis court: </div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The chateau is
private and the lovely couple living there now—she will inherit the title
of Duchess from her mother—have a startlingly beautiful Woody-Allen-film-esque
cadre of children and grandchildren. Those grandchildren possess toys. Josie and
Louisa had no trouble finding them right away. </div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">We cooked that night since we had a kitchen, but we had to get creative about procuring wine. We dreaded the thought of getting in the car again, but worse was the idea of not having wine with dinner in Burgundy. Soon enough, with a little polite fumbly French and a few Euros, we had in hand two bottles of the family’s own label from their cellar, one white from Macon and a lovely Beaujolais.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<b style="text-align: center;">Sunday, August 18</b><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Sylvie is the caretaker for the vacation house at Chateau
des Hauts, and the animals on the property belong to her. In the morning, as
the girls stared longingly at the beasts from their wagon, she took
pity and brought up one of the horses. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The donkey, Nestor, became easily jealous and nosed in so insolently. </div>
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We left Chateau des Hauts in the afternoon after a picnic on the beautiful
grounds. We passed quickly through Cluny, which once had the most massive abbey
in Christendom (and equivalent influence) until St. Peter’s Basilica rose in
the Vatican. </div>
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The abbey at Cluny lies in ruins now. (Not because we parked in the middle.)<br />
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The country appeared much more populous as we passed through Lyon and south. We realized we weren’t going to make it to our expected destination—too
much driving, not enough planning. We decided to settle for the night in <b>Le Puy-en-Velay</b>. We had plenty of light
left to scale the 268 stairs to the top of a volcanic spur where the exquisite,
millennium-old Chapelle St.-Michelle d’Aiguile finds its perch. The next photo is the view from the bottom of the rock.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Hungry. Will not descend.</div>
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<br /></div>
<b>Monday, August 19</b><br />
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We awoke to our first cloudy weather and all felt a little
grumpy. We missed the beautiful countryside of Burgundy, where there was no
such thing as suburban sprawl. Had we made bad plans? But soon enough, as we
came out of Le Puy, we drove out onto a high wheat-farming plateau. We passed
through a busy Monday-morning marketplace in a little agricultural village and even
though it was cloudy, we felt refreshed to see neighbors walking side by side, sharing the weight of their vegetable-laden produce bags. Dan and I have both remarked how much
we love small towns. The smaller and older the better, as long as there’s still
a bakery. The terrain changed again as passed into the Gorges du Tarn, an
incredible canyon of the river Tarn. Josie and I were very glad to spot the
stellar medieval village of <b>Ste.-Enimie</b>
from the cliffs above. We were heading down there and we would try to find a
room for the night. </div>
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As we walked around the village, rain began to fall. Louisa
napped in the car with Dan standing watch while Josie and I ducked into the
lovely little Eglise de Sainte-Enimie, where we learned the legend of the saint
and discovered that people invoke Ste. Enimie for problems of the skin. I lit a
candle and prayed for my family, and Josie lit a candle and gave thanks for the
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A few minutes
after we came outside, the sun appeared and set the whole village glittering.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Tarn river is slow, placid, and crystalline through the gorge. People swim, dive, and canoe. We had our first canyon swim in Ste.-Enimie.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">The gorge is dotted with breathtaking villages crammed into the
cliffsides. We stopped to have a look at a few--especially this one: </span><br />
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We stayed in a little hotel called “Les Detriots” (the
narrows) and had a beautiful dinner on the patio with the canyon lit up across
the highway. Louisa and Josie shared a trout for dinner. Louisa’s kitten-like
crunching sounds filled the soft night air as she polished off the tail—fins
and all. </div>
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<b>Tuesday, August 20</b><br />
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Le canoeing! </div>
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After our big journey, it was time for Somebody to have a big nap
in the car. We drove three hours south until we could see the Mediterranean and
even the fog-blue hills of Spain. Then Somebody woke up and it seemed necessary
to document at least one of our 7,493 roadside pit stops. We took a side road
into Corbieres country; now grapevines squeezed the road, plane trees stood
tall, and the hot sun slanted invitingly. </div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">We drove into </span><b style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Lagrasse</b><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> and saw where we would spend the next few days swimming:</span></div>
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Le diner. The restaurant was full of families and children
until late—11 at night—and nobody had a meltdown. The wall of the restaurant
opened onto the street and the children sprinted up and down the cobbled
medieval alley together. The wine here is the best yet.</div>
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Above: Gazpacho (more Latin influence here, in Catalan country. We are close to Barcelona.) Below: Veggies all dressed up!<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Above: Duck for Bonnie. Below: Fish for Dan.</div>
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Finally, here is the abbey that makes Lagrasse one of France’s most beautiful
villages. </div>
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We are relaxing in Lagrasse for three nights total, to depart tomorrow, on August 23. (We have been chasing wireless signals here, with very little success.) As I write, Dan is bringing the girls home from riding their little inflatable boat down a slow
rapid on the river. The sun is hot, doves coo, cicadas whir, it is 5:30, and
dinner is in two hours. Family melon-on-the-terrace time. One more of three beautiful dinners in Lagrasse, and tomorrow, we will travel through Carcassonne and on into the Dordogne. Thank you for sharing our adventure! </div>
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The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-3404518616153304402013-08-17T00:41:00.000+02:002013-08-17T00:53:43.240+02:00Delights of Burgundy: Noyers to Vezelay, via Semur-en-Auxois<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S4kDpw806c9rRLl3z6Y8XrnfmLQ4vsxRPc38Dk49mReWbanO46MEU0axNbk9Nv5ANKVvb7uHf8zDa47jdC5UzAEUUeeGFHh0-gr6KHcIvkcN10l3ObvJJSgP6ai30ErYFa7C8zYGzibf/s1600/DSC_0175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S4kDpw806c9rRLl3z6Y8XrnfmLQ4vsxRPc38Dk49mReWbanO46MEU0axNbk9Nv5ANKVvb7uHf8zDa47jdC5UzAEUUeeGFHh0-gr6KHcIvkcN10l3ObvJJSgP6ai30ErYFa7C8zYGzibf/s1600/DSC_0175.jpg" height="640" width="424" /></a></div>
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Voici Georges, a gentleman out of time, who has fashioned his own home into a museum. Voici his tower, one of the remaining 19 along the village's 13th-century ramparts. On his rather costly guided highlights tour, Georges will walk you to the top of his tower and point north: "Voici le church! Beautiful!" Then he will point across the street to the south. "Voici another tower!" (Yes, we could see it from the ground.) "Beautiful, no?" he will shout. And then, highlight of highlights, Georges will slowly raise his pointer finger to draw our eyes to the evergreen tree swishing above his tower home. He will pronounce slowly in French, so that we will know the extreme rarity of this arborial curiosity, and feel assured our entrance fee was well spent: "Voici la Se-qoui-a Ca-li-for-nie!" Ok merci, Georges. </div>
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As his copious laminated literature will tell you, Georges is regularly denied funding by France's cultural foundation. This explains why some of his knights wear intricate metal gauntlets, and others sport blue rubber gloves spray-painted silver. C'est la vie, non?<br />
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Dan and girls paddled Le Serein in the afternoon.</div>
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Louisa fell asleep on Dan's shoulder on the way home. He plopped her on the couch at La Treille.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Josie spotted her conked-out sister and, in the land of charm, was charmed all over again.</span></div>
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After dinner, a moonlight walk.</div>
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Friday morning, back on Le Serein. This time Josie is with her German friend Gabriel, who is 10. His parents are staying in Noyers this week in order to work on their paintings. </div>
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About to have riverside lunch behind the B&B.</div>
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Gorgeous saucisson, comte cheese, soft gooey gougeres, pate de campagne en croute (Dan: "Tastes like Thanksgiving dinner all in one bite!"), baguette, plums, and a gigantic meringue... all for 10E. And you can't hear the serene classical music our neighbor added to the atmosphere. It was so dang perfect Dan busted up and couldn't stop laughing.</div>
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Au revoir, Noyers-sur-Serein!</div>
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Magnificent Semur-en-Auxois made a reasonable stop for ice cream.</div>
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See the tower? We climbed up inside with Georges' more reputable counterpart, the President of the Historical Society, which meets weekly at the top of the tower from 10 a.m. to noon-on-the-dot, when they break and go out to lunch together. Our guide (who charged very little, and who was fascinating, and whose tower was full of life's wonders, including ancient Roman artifacts, 17th Century Books, and a medieval solar panel, and even an unexpected pigeon egg on the highest window sill) instructed us not to worry about the massive fissure in the tower. (See it?) It's been there since the 1500s and nobody's died of it yet. </div>
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From here, on to Vezelay, a hilltop charmer. Here we are, hopefully not desecrating the beautiful Basilique Saint-Marie-Madeleine:</div>
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At dinner: </div>
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She gets a bite of chocolate mousse every time she says "my name is Josie" in French.</div>
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"Je m'appelle Louisa!"</div>
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Bonne nuit, Vezelay. </div>
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Ok so let's be honest--my jet lag is contributing to these lengthy posts. I hope you won't mind when they get a little shorter and sweeter as originally promised. I AM JUST SO EXCITED I CAN'T HELP IT! Tomorrow (Saturday) we travel to Southern Burgundy, and after that to a mountain hideaway in the Cevennes National Park. Not sure if we will have wifi again until the 20th or so. When we do, I'll share more! Thanks for peeking in.<br />
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<br />The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-51214551097268083492013-08-15T16:13:00.001+02:002013-08-15T16:17:59.284+02:00Noyers-sur-Serein, BurgundyWhat are our reasons for this 6-week adventure through France and on to Amsterdam?<br />
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Speaking for myself: To test notions of romance--do my glittering dreams of the French countryside and Amsterdam's big gabled canal houses have anything to do with reality? I know, at least, that they have something to do with me. Perhaps this trip will reveal the last chapters of the the new story I have been writing.<br />
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Further: We're here in Europe both to return and to escape. To gather new notes and recover old memories. We want to see friends and familiar faces, and we want to visit the quiet ghosts of the selves we were when we lived in Amsterdam and traveled this continent. Now we are four, now we have been back in the U.S. for three years, and now we have made a lovely life in Seattle surrounded by beloved family and friends. Still, every day, we find ourselves missing a little something essential. What is it, exactly? Can we find it, put a name to it, bring it back?<br />
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After a 10+ hour flight from Seattle to Paris, we drove right out of the city into the heart of France, passing sunflower fields in full bloom. Now we are in Noyers-sur-Serein, a 15th century village considered one of the most beautiful in all of France. (We will be visiting more in that category. I must give la romance a chance!)<br />
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Noyers-sur-Serein looks like this. </div>
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After climbing 300 stairs, we visited stone carvers hard at work in an ancient tradition.</div>
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Before the "300 marches" down. </div>
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Les escargots! A Burgundian specialty.</div>
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Eats first snail.</div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Eats first snail.</span></div>
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After 24 hours of traveling with just 3 hours of sleep.</div>
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Breakfast at La Treille, our thorougly enchanting B&B</div>
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Paddling le Serein</div>
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View of Noyers, including our chambre d'hotes, from the swimming hole.</div>
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The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-13897026861009453032013-08-13T22:26:00.001+02:002013-08-13T22:26:38.127+02:00We're Off!Just a quick salute from the airport taxi in Seattle. France for August. Amsterdam (again, at last) for September. More to come: snapshots, moments, and more about the idea behind our trip. Thanks for remembering The Blue Suitcase.<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc1b3VWGlUvfOHi8gTq8z5okWaK_lqg-n6rtj2fPsWBLmOG_p8NAf7bjfVblfy5RnLxhk1VCzr_TwhcfGnoxYPEzpAJAsE2Sb5Qlg_eIP_wm8rWyLkCjMmycEzZPNcBt2OSATVeTI6X_N/s640/blogger-image-580434549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc1b3VWGlUvfOHi8gTq8z5okWaK_lqg-n6rtj2fPsWBLmOG_p8NAf7bjfVblfy5RnLxhk1VCzr_TwhcfGnoxYPEzpAJAsE2Sb5Qlg_eIP_wm8rWyLkCjMmycEzZPNcBt2OSATVeTI6X_N/s640/blogger-image-580434549.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCrhKKETAoGHgtsjVSQbDIBIA2epYgWM3qMRM9WqgQAZmyk1qtVl_2h9NaZDnqJbF_ZJJVCPGiY-7rq0k1FF7TBwNWaYDBmV2hq_zCUTww141mzv1mfQUc3giuOyQpTWsGlrC2dSxzulm3/s640/blogger-image--725310837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCrhKKETAoGHgtsjVSQbDIBIA2epYgWM3qMRM9WqgQAZmyk1qtVl_2h9NaZDnqJbF_ZJJVCPGiY-7rq0k1FF7TBwNWaYDBmV2hq_zCUTww141mzv1mfQUc3giuOyQpTWsGlrC2dSxzulm3/s640/blogger-image--725310837.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOUiaWRT-PXGVtXVmqvk_Tk5t-JRM_lbE-lFQr3wSOkoxpVaUOHkcKHrf37o8RK7oG7zSBGC1hKX4_b6kDc4m1pjG_Pk1D3aXzJJJ42BP9azoOXLkeCT2hSzhxB2RnGYGeA1zzTjcrUOg/s640/blogger-image-2043148085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOUiaWRT-PXGVtXVmqvk_Tk5t-JRM_lbE-lFQr3wSOkoxpVaUOHkcKHrf37o8RK7oG7zSBGC1hKX4_b6kDc4m1pjG_Pk1D3aXzJJJ42BP9azoOXLkeCT2hSzhxB2RnGYGeA1zzTjcrUOg/s640/blogger-image-2043148085.jpg"></a></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-77697029842366704642011-12-31T22:00:00.000+01:002012-01-02T01:01:36.560+01:00Postcard from 2011: A Look Back<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">For
a last post of 2011, I’m taking a page from baby Louisa’s book: Stop crawling.
Sit up, turn around. Make sure the stuff behind you is the same stuff that was
there a minute ago. (Even if it’s just daddy eating leftovers.) Louisa’s
frequent backward head-checks remind me to stay oriented with the past as I
chart my way forward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">A little
over a year ago, here on The Blue Suitcase, I mentioned that <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2010/10/postcard-from-amsterdam-goodbye-to.html" target="_blank">my big challenge</a>
in repatriating would be to import the good things I learned about living well,
finding ways to fit those lessons into a new American life. I’m so proud of my
family for continuing to meet those challenges. For one thing, our bikes get
near-daily use, and of course on every outing, the boxbike brings a half dozen
admiring and curious comments from folks in our neighborhood. Our healthy
eating habits and addiction to fresh air and devotion to our local economy all
remain intact. Josie continues Dutch-language Saturday school, and attends a
community-minded Montessori school during the week. More and more, over our
shared weekend coffee, and sometimes in the dark before sleep, and once and
awhile with a few tears of regret or longing or frustration, Dan and I have
shared conversations that reveal to us the more complicated cultural
differences between the contemporary cultures we’ve traded. Many of our
discussions revolve around major social issues that make the difference between
families thriving or simply surviving: education, nutrition, health care, gun
laws, discrimination, child care, environmental toxins, and livable
communities, to name a few. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">These
issues are taking root in my mind and cropping up more and more prominently in
the writing I’m doing now. Somehow, the pieces all fit together. I have these
two beautiful girls and a head full of wishes for the world in which I want to
raise them. Over naps and with the help of a good babysitter, I’m tapping those
ideas and shaping new essays. At the same time, I’m continuing with other
aspects of my work: editing, teaching, and traveling for speaking engagements.
Sometimes, when I get overwhelmed between running a family and running a career
on the fumes of sleep deprivation, my head does somersaults: I’m spending time
away from my family in order to maintain the pilot light for my career. I want
this work I love to support my family. I’m having this family to find greater
meaning in my life. I use this meaning to fuel my work. I want my family to
find my work meaningful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The
Blue Suitcase has been a fairly quiet, as my work time is quite limited lately,
and I’ve been doing a lot of new writing for other projects which I hope will
see publication in 2012. Each of these new pieces considers the American future
I dream of, thanks to the lessons behind me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Now
for a head-check at the ground we covered in 2011: January: A visit to <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/01/postcard-from-seattle-passing-pie.html" target="_blank">Rocky Bay</a>, reminding us why we moved. A trip to <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/01/postcard-from-st-martin-uninhibited.html" target="_blank">St.-Martin</a> as a family of three-and-a-bump. February: Josie settling in at Pacific Crest, her perfect-fit
of a new school. March: Boxbiking with big-bellied mama, to all the parks and
markets and bookshops the neighborhood. At the playground with a view of the Seattle
skyline, getting to know the Wheedle on the Needle. <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/03/postcard-from-seattle-nest.html" target="_blank">Anticipating baby.</a> April: On the first sunny
morning after days and days of gray, <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/04/postcard-from-home-new-beginning.html" target="_blank">Louisa Jean</a> was born at home and greeted
by her mother, father, and sister (as well as doula-auntie Amanda, dear friend and photographer Jessica, and two helpful midwives). She seemed to catch that morning's sunrays,
and still beams approximately ten smiles a minute. (Oh, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carrier </i>won a Minnesota Book Award!)
May: Josie’s fabulous fourth birthday party, complete with live performing
pigs! June: Dan and Josie traveled to Amsterdam on a <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/06/postcard-from-here-and-there-about-dad.html" target="_blank">father-daughter trip</a>. She
remembers her old city very well, certainly due in part to the reinforcement of
this special weeklong visit to dear friends and favorite places. July: Josie’s
progress: climbing trees, riding a bicycle, crossing the monkey bars, gaining
the crawl stroke, learning to pump on a swing, showing the sprinklers who’s
boss. For me: an <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/08/postcard-from-good-place-plaisir.html" target="_blank">unforgettable soiree</a>, my fancy dream come to life. August:
Cycling every day of summer with both girls, Louisa wrapped to mommy’s chest.
<a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/09/postcard-from-orcas-island-checking-my.html" target="_blank">Orcas Island</a>, my beach-brown daughter reflecting my girlhood back at me. Warm
blackberries and cold seawater in Port Townsend. September: Outside constantly,
reveling in our Indian summer, sampling the sweet life in <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/02/postcard-from-walla-walla-sweet-unknown.html" target="_blank">Walla Walla</a> for the second time in 2011. October: The
long-awaited stuffage-of-<a href="http://www.thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/#!/2011/10/postcard-from-seattle-one-year.html" target="_blank">baby-inside-jack-o-lantern</a>. At just six months, our towering
tot was almost too big for the plumpest pumpkin in the patch. November:
Co-hosting Thanksgiving with my sister, sixteen of our closest family members
warming my home. Now, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>we couldn’t
do in Amsterdam, or Minneapolis, or Iowa City. December: The return of
<a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2010/12/postcard-from-seattle-dag-sinterklaas.html" target="_blank">Sinterklaas</a> (and, regrettably, the Pieten). Our family’s first Christmas
morning, together at our own hearth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Returning
my eyes to the road ahead, the only thing I can think is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">slow down, slow down</i>. I don’t want to miss a thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-91394987490153900472011-10-29T17:45:00.002+02:002011-10-29T18:03:38.609+02:00Postcard from Seattle: One Year<br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">It’s been a year. Four full seasons since we awakened to our first Seattle sunrise after leaving Amsterdam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The night we arrived, Josie and I took a windy walk outside in the dark, six blocks to the grocery store. It was late, but I needed to stretch my legs, and give my growing belly a good sway after a day of travel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Why is it so quiet?” Josie asked. “Why aren’t there any people on the sidewalk?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">It wasn’t as if Josie hadn’t spent any time in the U.S. She lived most of her first two years in Minneapolis, and visited Seattle at least twice a year while we lived abroad. But at age 3, she somehow understood that this was different. We would be making a new life, starting over, learning and re-learning a different culture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Wind sent leaves skittering around our feet. We passed a bus stop. “Mommy! Look! This is where we wait for the tram.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">As she unwrapped her new world in terms of her old home, my heart swelled and sunk, swelled and sunk. I loved that she considered foot, bike, and tram traffic commonplace. I was sorry that there were no trams in our new neighborhood. Certainly we ought to have had them.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">A few cars passed, a tabby crossed the street, wind pressed papery maple leaves in great heaving bunches.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">“Oops, sorry Mommy!” Josie said, both of us startled as she jumped to my hip.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">“Sorry for what?” I asked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">“I walked in the road!” she said, pointing behind her at a change in the pattern of sidewalk squares. Where a planting strip usually bordered the foot path and the curb, here it had been paved over, making a long, smooth stretch alongside us. She thought she had strayed into a bike lane.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">I felt so proud of her learning, her vigilance, the responsibility she felt for her own safety. I barely had the heart to tell her that here in our new city, bike lanes were few and far between, and always lay below the curb. In a moment of despair, I thought our family was about to undergo a period of unlearning—a regression.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">But as I worried, Josie delighted herself. We had come from one urban center to another, but the Seattle sidewalk might as well have been a mountain trail. Like a billy goat, she stripped every yard we passed, yanking dandelions and laurel leaves, reaping lavender stalks and sedum flowers, gathering pine cones and bark, raking up sticks and the micro-daisies only her shining eyes could find in the dark.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">The neighborhood corner store provided another odyssey: carts that tipped if you stood on them, sugar cereals the likes of which my child had never seen. (“Mommy, look at this,” she said with equanimity, pointing at a box of Cocoa Puffs. “These look like something I would like.”) We turned for home with milk, eggs and pancake mix. At bathtime, she sang about her friends from Amsterdam, naming them all: Zadie and Lilou and Amelie and Jemima and Luc and Pedro… and then she played with her bath-toy friends and spoke the best Dutch I’d ever heard her use, full sentences, ending with one toy describing for another a <i>moeilijk </i>(difficult) task.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Difficult, yes, but the work of repatriation was a task we chose. Last Halloween, the whole neighborhood poured onto a central avenue to parade their costumes, and our very social little girl buzzed from person to person, commenting on their disguises. As she addressed whomever she wished, friendly conversations bubbled in English, the native language my daughter had always, almost feverishly, loved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">As she flitted down the sidewalk ahead of us, her little red ladybug wings ever so slightly parted our curtain of jet lag and sadness. Just beyond: the glimmer of our path into a year of precious wonders. </span></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-23077345051282401322011-09-08T06:23:00.000+02:002011-09-08T06:23:19.209+02:00Postcard from Orcas Island: Checking My List<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIpLQ8tz8Nv3VQ8z1HB96tF9Vt4s2yXTaFSs6Fk0dqk1GFRdwLC3Xk5LAlODXiEPomw7sPnzm0F4NUZko72KaKRgiTVzdY-Y2mf_t-d4zPsiMhOQR1WV4a-DxcvAWBervWpONHdRvAHRS/s1600/IMGP4247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIpLQ8tz8Nv3VQ8z1HB96tF9Vt4s2yXTaFSs6Fk0dqk1GFRdwLC3Xk5LAlODXiEPomw7sPnzm0F4NUZko72KaKRgiTVzdY-Y2mf_t-d4zPsiMhOQR1WV4a-DxcvAWBervWpONHdRvAHRS/s320/IMGP4247.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">It had been sixteen years since I laid eyes on the campground at West Beach, the fishing resort on Orcas Island where my girlhood friend Jessica goes every year in August with her family. Jess and I had just finished our junior year in high school when she invited me to join her family in the San Juans. I needed to find something from that trip: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">a way in to the bright young mind that this busy-brain mom can't always seem to find.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">This year when Dan and I brought Josie and Louisa to West Beach, Jess and I waited with cameras ready to record our kids’ busy bare feet charging through the web of imagination we strung along everywhere we walked (or fished or biked or ran or kayaked) at age seventeen. Josie and Abby—little Bonnie and little Jess—switched shoes at the beginning of the week as some kind of love pact, trading back only when it was time to leave the island. As much as we relished watching them play—testing sand’s stickability to s’mores goop, for example—I suspect we also both felt a bit dark about the too-fast tug of time. No matter how full each day, I think we both felt time yanking itself from beneath our feet as if we were teapots on a whisked tablecloth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">But finally, on our last day, I found the moment I needed in order to open the Black Book, an 8.5 x 11 journal I kept during the last two years of high school and the first two years of college. More than anything, it had served as a catch-all for meaningful scraps. Today, half of its pages are blank and about a hundred mementos tucked inside have the spine crumbling like a sugar wafer. I opened it carefully at the beach, reclined in a lounger as Dan walked with Louisa and the four-year-old girls became Sand Things.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">It took some searching, but eventually I found what I was looking for: The List. I remembered sitting down with Jess, plus pen and paper, at the beginning of an island week. Together, we made a checklist of those things we needed to accomplish:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Kayaking<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Climb Mt. Disney<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Moran State Park<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Mt. Constitution<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Bike ride to cemetery<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Gather flowers<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Gather seashells<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Make pottery<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Write letter/postcards<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Take our pictures<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Write in journals<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Bike ride to Eastsound<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Fishing<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Go around West Beach and look for interesting things like boys our age<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Play volleyball<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Look underwater for skates [flashlight]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Look for veins [flashlight]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Look at phosphorescence<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Jessica sign Bonnie’s yearbook for a long time<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Read </span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">[triple underlined]<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Row in the dinghy<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Swim/float</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">...</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">I actually gasped as I read the tasks we set for ourselves. So creative, exploratory, and worthy (mostly). Many represented meaningful challenges. Most stunning of all: I had actually checked off every item. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;">This year, my checklist began like this:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Odds & Ends to Remember: <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Cast iron skillet<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Ice<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Sunscreen<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Quarters for laundry and showers<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Books and activities </span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">(Did I mean for me? Or for Josie? Or for both of us?)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Josie’s sleeping bag<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Sports gear: Frisbees, balls, wiffle bat etc.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Josie’s swimsuit, sand toys, floaties<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Sun hats and rain boots<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Diapers and wipes<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Breast pump and bottles<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Hiking boots (?)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Black book from high school<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">...</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">I also brought pastels and art paper, but never really found the right moment—or maybe the confidence—to make a picture. In an echo of our pottery-making past, Jess poured cement into stepping-stone molds, which the girls collaged with treasures from the beach (or from wherever; Josie set in stone a fir sprig and half an orange peel. I do wonder how to arrange it in the garden…). Dan and I biked the girls into town over hills far more dramatic than I remembered—or maybe I didn’t appreciate how much difference it makes to have a four-year-old and a four-month-old added to my own weight on the cycle. So as we whizzed past the old cemetery on a final, rewarding downhill spin, we certainly didn’t stop to peruse the gravestones, roll those old names around in our mouths, poke at the weird skin of our mortality, hardly ever uncloaked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">After leaving the Black Book unopened for almost 15 years, I was surprised. The journal used to feel heavy with emotion; it housed the artifacts (mostly poems, narratives, and letters) of many a heartbreak. But as afternoon sun blazed off the water and I peered into my girlhood wondering how on earth it happened that I became a woman, the book seemed pure wonder. Glancing up from its pages at Josie digging for treasure and baby Louisa watching the evergreen boughs sigh in the breeze, I felt something new—exactly the opposite of time flying by. On this long continuum of time, a human life is the briefest flare: a flash of sun on the glitter square stuck to my husband's neck. Years are only seconds, generations mere breaths. It is for good reason, I realized, that so much of life feels like yesterday. Up and down the beach, familiar heads bobbed at play, ordinary voices chattered, and the same old cabins and stones and trees held down the earth. My childhood was not such distant history from my daughters’, after all. In fact, it was just right here.</span></div><!--EndFragment-->The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-74191167645356496082011-08-10T20:40:00.000+02:002011-08-10T20:40:13.247+02:00Postcard from A Good Place: Plaisir<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicg4FZQ1v4cm62KUQQPFUEtII9qvElnalJVyHsLEYJsp7T-dI3_TxozxBY-1syrE2pXrU75vI0MRV5F9OexJ6NjrHz2Xf-OLCRGP7LGA2IW-lupHiS2KIrFOgbqSBK3XRD943dBoHiLZxW/s1600/IMGP4043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicg4FZQ1v4cm62KUQQPFUEtII9qvElnalJVyHsLEYJsp7T-dI3_TxozxBY-1syrE2pXrU75vI0MRV5F9OexJ6NjrHz2Xf-OLCRGP7LGA2IW-lupHiS2KIrFOgbqSBK3XRD943dBoHiLZxW/s320/IMGP4043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My goal, when we moved back to the U.S., was to find how the puzzle pieces of our Dutch lifestyle could fit into American days. It’s taken awhile, but now, pregnancy and childbirth are four months into the past. The last of our moving boxes has been emptied and sorted. Summer sun, though weak, has drawn our family outside. The yard is trimmed and inviting. My body is back in action; we bike everywhere, baby strapped to my chest and Josie riding in the box or behind me, depending upon which bike the day calls for. Meanwhile, when Mama’s bike is parked, Josie is a daredevil on her own miniscule two-wheeler, all skinned knees and overflowing basket and whoops and hollers. She practices her turn signals and stands on her pedals just the way I do to let the hem of my skirt fall.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">The boxbike is in the hospital at the moment, to have a manufacturing issue corrected. We’ve been sprinting around Queen Anne Hill on my springy Civia Loring—something a little challenging, balance-wise, with baby tied on, cargo on the handlebars, and four-year-old on the back, but it's still darn good for all of our physical and mental states. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">“I love peace and quiet,” Josie says as we pedal up Seventh West. “Do you hear that, Mom? All that peaceful tweeting from the birds? That’s just my favorite kind of life.” I ask her if it reminds her of Vondelpark in Amsterdam. “No,” she says, “It just reminds me of when my heart smiles. And when my teeth smile.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">Fair enough. And what makes Mama’s heart and teeth smile? A summery lesson from life in Europe: Pointless pleasure is never really pointless. This month, after a winter and spring spent daydreaming (and some serious planning), I threw a little dinner in our garden for no purpose other than shameless, sumptuous enjoyment. Our January <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2011/01/postcard-from-st-martin-uninhibited.html">trip to St.-Martin</a> had impressed me with an image: a group of retired <i>Francais</i> reveling together, in various states of (un)dress, always with good food and that rapturous accordion music of the French countryside. I told Dan a few months later, “I know what I want for my birthday.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">“Oh?” he asked, probably imagining a bike accessory or kitchen gadget.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">“I want an accordionist.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">That was the seed of an evening that became a five-course French country meal, cozy in the green grotto of our tiny backyard, amber with a hundred bright candles, warm with the laughter of 23 friends, alive with the music of a <i>chanteuse </i>from Toulouse and her accordionist accompanist, cozy with blankets flopped over our chair backs and shoulders, crumbly with bread broken by hand and spread with salt-crystal butter, all awash in ruby red wine. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.25in;">There was no reason for it, but then again, here was the point: A somewhat moody, oft-grumpy mother has been smiling and smiling. She smiled as she ordered sausages and bought lavender to dress the table. She smiled as she made friends with a darling French singer<i>,</i> smiled as she melted chocolate for fondue, as she planned a menu, as she daydreamed about who might sit by whom and hoped for sweet flirtations. She smiled as she glimpsed the whole glimmering scene from the back window of the house after laying down Baby, and continued smiling, as she returned rental chairs and borrowed platters, as she ate precious leftovers and glanced over snapshots. And still she smiles as she hops back onto the bike to catch some wind and sun and pick up a preschooler who has yet to unlearn pleasure as part of a balanced life. <o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment--> The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-13155637534687786992011-06-09T23:24:00.005+02:002011-06-09T23:33:26.782+02:00Postcard from Here and There: About a Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibezrb9BJjKt8y4bbdXIkAIzNUD-YNgbyJWoDWPA1QFtsw0GD3_0gex5kz-fTrH1_8B4zqzsrTGmfFFUr4F_Iz_SxtmFoZaZgZYU_uVaL7Gs8Is6K7oTbjqey43uhfXswex0FGxE7Kq2Tn/s1600/photo-5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibezrb9BJjKt8y4bbdXIkAIzNUD-YNgbyJWoDWPA1QFtsw0GD3_0gex5kz-fTrH1_8B4zqzsrTGmfFFUr4F_Iz_SxtmFoZaZgZYU_uVaL7Gs8Is6K7oTbjqey43uhfXswex0FGxE7Kq2Tn/s400/photo-5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Before we left Amsterdam last fall, Dan already had plans to return. With Josie, he would fly back for a father-daughter trip. And that is where they are this week. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Oftentimes it seems that father-daughter trips are called father-daughter <i>bonding</i> trips. But it’s difficult for me to imagine any way in which Dan could be more connected to his children. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">One thing I’ve appreciated, since returning to the U.S., is that Dan and I mourn the same things about living in Amsterdam. Together, we miss the delicious foods of the Noordermarkt on Saturday mornings, hot <i>koffie verkeerd </i>steaming in the morning rays, sharing fresh-squeezed orange juice with Josie, pedaling the canals in the late afternoons which we both recall as perpetually sunlit. He misses the same foods I miss, the same bike paths, the same delicious <i>biertjes</i>, the horse chestnut tree where Harriet lived, the festive party boats with bass echoing down the canals, and any excuse to pop downstairs and out onto the street for a quick errand or day’s exploration. Yes, we each had our own lives and friends—he with his very close team from work, and I with the parents of Josie’s schoolmates—but it has been sweet to discover that the city we love and remember looked and sounded and smelled much the same for both of us. Our best memories, in other words, were the many times we spent together as a family. Judging by the activities on her wish list for the trip, Josie feels the same way. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">True to the design of this vacation, Dan has heard, and is following through with, Josie’s specific desires for the trip. She wanted to go to the zoo—check. She wanted to attend her old school for a day—check. She wanted to visit the butcher shop where she was always offered a free piece of bologna—check. She wanted to <i>bakfiets</i> through Vondel Park, play in the wading pool, and eat at the pancake house around the corner from our old flat—check, check, check. She hoped for mango gelato, La Perla pizza, and a return to the toddler park where we spent countless afternoons—checkity check, check. She has not forgotten her friends, and Dan has not forgotten to phone each of their families to arrange playtimes in the park. He’s stocking up on Dutch storybooks for our collection, <i>drop </i>(licorice) for her Seattle Dutch-preschool teachers, and <i>hagelslag </i>(decadent toast-topping of pure chocolate sprinkles) for friends and our own pantry. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">I’ve been at home, reading and resting with baby Louisa, whose first trip to Amsterdam, we’ve decided, will have to be soon. And while Dan and Josie have been away, I’ve felt a strange and wonderful split. I feel I am with them in Holland, even as I read in the sun on the back porch in Seattle. Envoys of a sort, they are keeping the city, our friendships, and countless memories alive for the whole family. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Dan’s adventurous spirit and determination to give his children an extraordinary life shows every day in one way or another. He wonders aloud: What kind of house/street/neighborhood would be best for our kids to grow up on? How can we get them into the great outdoors as much as possible? How to be sure we’re visiting grandparents enough, enjoying physical activities enough, exploring the world enough, and grasping every opportunity to enrich their lives? Recently, he has planted flowers with Josie, helped her learn to swim, and taught her to ride a bike. But what a special gift this week: a trip back to the city where most of her growing up has taken place, just in time to solidify her memories instead of letting them slide into the murk of the past. He reports that she can now slide down the fire pole at her toddler park, now having officially outgrown the playground's offerings.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Thank you, Dan, for caring so deeply about our daughters’ childhood memories. Happy Father’s Day. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-68988266320233866242011-04-22T20:48:00.004+02:002011-04-22T21:06:48.781+02:00Postcard from Home: New Beginning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKou_53RPIt1igghICRknP-X7jtfP-fVgHBhvXLt12KLKt5QHrMXrySMXljVkdfHKl_CWx8MIVG5rfNWpjEMlVe25o_EdGBT5q58yA7znariTNAgAL1rPfSE46KyxTNJsbw2gisUbqMq1/s1600/IMG_1675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKou_53RPIt1igghICRknP-X7jtfP-fVgHBhvXLt12KLKt5QHrMXrySMXljVkdfHKl_CWx8MIVG5rfNWpjEMlVe25o_EdGBT5q58yA7znariTNAgAL1rPfSE46KyxTNJsbw2gisUbqMq1/s320/IMG_1675.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">The same thing happened when Josie was a newborn. It didn’t matter where I was—chatting with a friend on a walk around the lake, perhaps, or stepping out onto the back porch with a stolen moment to water the impatiens. But across my field of vision would gallop a faraway place I had once visited. Down at the lake, as we passed a rock retaining wall, I saw suddenly the mountains around Bozeman. Josie cried in her stroller and I tried to keep up conversation with my friend Kelly as we walked off those months of pregnancy. And the back porch—it could have been Budapest in spring, fragile tulip and daffodil petals exploding egg-dye bright all over an old, staid, stone cityscape. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Since giving birth to Louisa Jean two weeks ago, my Amsterdam is with me ever more strongly. Changing a diaper, I am on Westerstraat, parking the boxbike on the sidewalk to peruse the bulk bins at Delicious Food with Josie, who restrained herself from pulling the shop cat’s tail. Nursing, I find myself in farther reaches of the city, places I didn’t visit so often: the corner of the Rijksmuseum where the 2 tram stops, a halfway point to meeting my friend Wendi so she can hand off a borrowed raincoat from the previous night’s dinner party, which ended in an unexpected deluge.<br />
I am still resting and recovering. Aside from a nutty short trip to Minneapolis as a family of four last week to attend the Minnesota Book Awards (<a href="http://minnesota.publicradio.org/collections/special/columns/state-of-the-arts/archive/2011/04/mn-book-awards-and-the-winners-are.shtml">Carrier won</a>!), I’ve been spending most of my time in the house, which is perhaps why I keep thinking I hear canal coots making their tin-can squawks outside, and why I think I could pull aside the curtain and see the swishing street sweepers, the humming tour boats, the flood of spring tourists (<i>Excuse me? Anne Frank Huis</i>?<i>)</i>. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">This is the most spectacular month of the year in Holland. Right now, Easter Weekend, it’s quiet, as shops are closed for holidays. But spring itself is operatic, clanging, with spearmint green leaves and prismatic blooms catching the sun from every windowsill and shop display. In the parks, each bed sizzles red and blue and yellow-white. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">I think of the Amsterdammers, too, as I dress my sweet tiny baby, then kiss her big sister good morning. It’s late afternoon there, and they crowd the sidewalk cafes, their chairs turned to the sun, sipping fresh-mint teas and biertjes. They are in love, I tell myself. With one another, with mates proper and crushes secret, with their kids and their friends, with their plans and their jokes and their cheeks reddening in the weak sun. They are in love with 80’s music drifting from inside the café, and the cigarette in their hand, and the friend’s canal boat they’ll board in a few hours for a night cruise with wine and <i>kaas</i>. Holding my little girl, I fix a little lunch for my big girl. I feel spun, and spun again, landing repeatedly, unexpectedly, in the arms of another city. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">It’s been six months since we moved back to the U.S. Six months into our 18 in Amsterdam, I felt home. I am learning now how attached I became, and how quickly, to Dutch life. Just this morning, Dan and I looked into each other’s eyes and saw tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Louisa knows her grandparents already. Josie is outside playing with one of hers, having seen all four within the week. We know why we are here. But still our hearts clamor and yearn and won’t let us forget. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">On the morning Louisa emerged from my body, <a href="http://thebluesuitcase.blogspot.com/2009/06/birds-of-amsterdam-goodnight-song.html">robins</a> sang outside the bedroom window. The sun came up and filled the house with a day of heavenly white light. It was April 8, and I remembered that date from somewhere. Yes—this was the date, two years ago, that with heavy hearts and a certain excitement, Dan, Josie, and I boarded the plane to move from Minneapolis to Amsterdam. Half a day later, we stood in our 400-year-old apartment, staring out the windows as a blaze of evening sun drenched the room. We watched the boats, the bikes, the laughing, gorgeous people at the wine bar below. We were dizzy from the flight, hungry, and thrilled. Too jet-lagged to leave the apartment, we knew the best we could do was to stand in the windows and watch from a safe distance as we waited for the vertigo to subside. I do the same now with baby, swaying her in the moonlight, feeling city sun.<o:p></o:p></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-69827872936013670092011-03-19T19:08:00.001+01:002011-03-19T19:12:44.480+01:00Postcard from Seattle: Nest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozaHZCjsS4EHvi7XMrJ1ZWfjshjJorO4QLpzZs0SD98Mh33gPobvIu-RvlKyiZ8SGQZ0zk-X32DC5yVYBXcEm9vveXfotDKXCjgsXESJ2QL4fedNhbS1E7wcd3XUYjQzfseNwqFeNpcIQ/s1600/IMGP3479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozaHZCjsS4EHvi7XMrJ1ZWfjshjJorO4QLpzZs0SD98Mh33gPobvIu-RvlKyiZ8SGQZ0zk-X32DC5yVYBXcEm9vveXfotDKXCjgsXESJ2QL4fedNhbS1E7wcd3XUYjQzfseNwqFeNpcIQ/s320/IMGP3479.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Today, spring is whispering. In our back yard, birds jockey for real estate: chickadees and robins and sparrows, swapping branches as they negotiate. <i>You, here. Me, higher. No, too damp. Too droopy. Too visible. Perfect<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">—</span>mine!</i> Soon, they’ll start picking up the clumps of cat hair we’ve scattered for them, adding soft down to their twig cups. Our resident hummingbird, a ruby-throat named Kinker, has been singing for a mate from the lilac next to our porch every day, “accountably,” as my sister says, since we moved in 12 weeks ago. Each day we hope for her arrival, so they may begin to build their nest together. Just over the back fence, a mother crow is already gargling with her hatchlings. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">This week, with a heavy belly and a heavy heart, I have been feathering my own nest. Folding diapers and laundering newborn clothes, I stop to shed tears for friends in Minnesota who lost their 2-year-old son in one of life’s pointless, blameless accidents. How to explain to their oldest, only Josie’s age? How to greet their third baby, due in a few weeks? How on earth to continue? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">I blink, and recall a spring day in Iowa, years before we became parents, when a mother sparrow pushed a lifeless body from her nest in the eaves of our garage. Despite the thud on the garage floor, which she must have hated, unable as she was to cover her tiny bird ears, she did what she had to do for her other two. And, I need to think now, for herself as well.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">As I line the fridge shelves with energy food and organize the midwife’s homebirth supplies, as I pack a just-in-case hospital bag for me and an overnight bag for Josie, as my strong and willing husband does all the heavy lifting to get the last moving boxes unpacked, my mind flashes on the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of parents in Japan whose children may have been torn from their arms, swept from their homes. Those who, unlike our heart-shocked friends in Minnesota, don’t even have a tiny body to tenderly bury. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">I had trouble sleeping this week, rattled as I was by all of the terrible news. But I think I was working on understanding the contradiction that defines our work as parents. Really, we have only one job: to protect our children. But the scary truth is that our job is impossible, since we have no control. The illusion of security—car seats, baby gates, hand-holding in the street—doesn’t really protect us. It only allows us a few precious days without fear. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"> How fragile these nests are, woven of grass and twigs and ribbon, all tacked loosely to blowing branches. When Josie was a baby, I would sing to her, rocking her fussy little self through hours that seemed endless. I cycled through all the lullabies I could think of, but I always found myself editing “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” I didn’t like the words. One night, as I sang them softly once again, trying to figure out what spooked me about them, I finally realized what the song was about: a bird’s nest.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rock-a-bye, baby<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the treetop<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When the wind blows<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The cradle will rock<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When the bough breaks<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The cradle will fall<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And down will come baby<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cradle and all…<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">And will we be there, that stormy moment, to make the catch? Life warns us not to be so sure, but we continue to believe yes. We hold our arms wide, baby bird. </div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-43752505490743703332011-02-24T02:34:00.000+01:002011-02-24T02:34:15.199+01:00Postcard from Walla Walla: Sweet Unknown<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtH1XImc_Z2cx2VDJ6HAb-Z_WooZGK5yEjs8-7L_dFyPAlfuNCQIIdfc50SXsIkW-dp-0_df05vSDUS1wNHtryRp9E7kDddX0q9cBtHZMVA9S0zPHCUXgfiqdxumnn6oaOUoV1xkP3_vfb/s1600/Jos+%2526+Fin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtH1XImc_Z2cx2VDJ6HAb-Z_WooZGK5yEjs8-7L_dFyPAlfuNCQIIdfc50SXsIkW-dp-0_df05vSDUS1wNHtryRp9E7kDddX0q9cBtHZMVA9S0zPHCUXgfiqdxumnn6oaOUoV1xkP3_vfb/s400/Jos+%2526+Fin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Lately, when I wake up in the mornings and blink my eyes for the first few times, I see Amsterdam behind my lids. With each blink I see the canalside streets of central Amsterdam, where I used to bump along on the boxbike. Usually, the direction I’m looking indicates that I’m heading home. Sometimes I see buildings I never particularly noticed before—maybe a house along the Looiersgracht, a littler canal which I detoured along from time to time. Or I'll see bridge-crossings familiar from my old neighborhood. I hear the sounds of the city—maybe a coot’s tinny honk down in the murky water, maybe the ding of a bell or two, maybe the hum of tour boats motoring down the Prinsengracht. The air is fresh but busy with energy, since it’s always midafternoon—exactly accurate, nine hours ahead as I awaken in Seattle. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">I don’t know why my old neighborhood is the wallpaper of my early-morning mind. It reminds me of the way I’ll see waves when I blink after spending a day staring at the surf from under a beach umbrella, or the way I’ll blink and see endless evergreens after a long hike in the mountains. But these days I do not see those mute-brick houses, or whiz past their ornate doors, or glance upward as I ride, comparing one crenellated gable to the next. I don’t smell spicy shoarma or hot baked volkoren bread along my routes, or hear the electronic clang of blue-and-white trams, or feel the vibration of a sushi-delivery moped buzzing past our windows. I don’t hear Harriet’s wings as they beat the breath from her fat body while she flies over our terrace, or the neighbor practicing her grand piano, or the slam of the basement door, three spiral flights down, announcing that Dan is home from work. I don’t feel on my face the morning’s cold wind as I lean out to wave goodbye to Dan and Josie, pedaling off to work and school, before I pull the French window tight again and grind my coffee in a machine much louder than the one I have now. No, none of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">So why the familiar streetscapes flashing in my eyes each morning? I must be dreaming of Amsterdam, although I remember nothing from my sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Often, on these same Seattle mornings as Josie and I head to the car on our way to school, I step out onto our porch, I'm blasted with two decades of memory. The air is full of cedar and slug slime and crow feathers and moss and drizzle and duff and sumach and winter’s matted, gasping green grass. A reel of my childhood spins, and I'll remember an unexpected thing. Perhaps running for the bus as a girl, bursting through the hedge, carrying with me for the day the smell of juniper on my sleeves. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">It was that way this past weekend with friends in Walla Walla, too. Not just their voices, reminding us that we are home in the Pacific Northwest, but also the contrasting yellow-on-brown bubble-script of the rolling Palouse as we flew downstate. The newest chartreuse of spring wheat, and the snow-dusted ridge beyond town. The cutting wind I remember from four years of school in that town, where I met Dan and, for all my hard work, lived an entirely directionless life. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Since then, of course, my directions have been many. From every town of my past, there is a scent I could follow into memory. Eucalyptus breeze in Adelaide, papermill belch in Longview, sour cicada blood and wet hosta breath in Iowa spring. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">But then, things new: These old houses we find ourselves coming home to, our dear Amy and Andrew in their Walla Walla farmhouse, us in our latest bungalow, oak-and-honey dwellings we never dared imagine for ourselves. And further, when we blow warmth into cold little hands and bury our noses in our children’s hair, we find the unwritten. A white, weightless, marshmallow whiff of years and years to come. </div><!--EndFragment-->The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-85591098332143960202011-01-08T01:05:00.002+01:002011-01-19T03:47:17.678+01:00Postcard from Seattle: Passing Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZDuS4V0-GNUBX4Zt1Dg10vkGd-ZoL-ancA_xqykGIYUyCSeJ-st1evAu5rnIpwkMDUMjLqa0iZiUmHpUIzmsHSPxa6usPvZZBUHfERBiPrvFvr9L_-5W-Gt4zpAAjgM81AX5fl8XnzmO/s1600/Rocky+Bay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZDuS4V0-GNUBX4Zt1Dg10vkGd-ZoL-ancA_xqykGIYUyCSeJ-st1evAu5rnIpwkMDUMjLqa0iZiUmHpUIzmsHSPxa6usPvZZBUHfERBiPrvFvr9L_-5W-Gt4zpAAjgM81AX5fl8XnzmO/s320/Rocky+Bay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Back in September, I was in the U.S. for a second book tour for my memoir, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Carrier</i>. In the Midwest, I stopped for a big, hearty brunch on the farm with Dan’s distant relatives, the Danes. To them, I surely looked busy with book promotion, networking, and socializing, but the truth is that I was much busier with another question: Did we want to move back to the U.S.? Sitting with Dan’s relatives, stuffed with eggs and sausage and fruit salad and sticky buns, I laughed when our host brought out two whole homemade pies. To my left, Uncle George served himself a slice of pumpkin, and I felt the soft, almost translucent skin of his fingers under my own as I supported the bottom of the pie pan, passing it over my plate to Uncle John, whose warm and much larger hands received the pie just as they had from countless relatives before. Despite the fact that these weren’t even my blood relations, tears sprang into my eyes as a question popped into my head: “Who will we pass pie with?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">One week later, fall had whirled me to Rome, on what would be a last sweet European getaway alone with Dan. On the first of our three nights away, we ate osso buco and gelato and walked through the cobbled, orange-glowing alleys of Trastevere. The clock was ticking; the Friday workday was near its end in Seattle, where Dan’s prospective new employer was waiting for word as to whether Dan would be taking the job they had offered. Whether we would be leaving Europe and exiting the dream, however temporary, that had come true for us in a time when a dream come true was absolutely too much to ask. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">In that moment, two futures hung in the balance. In one, the next two years would see Dan keeping his job, which he loved and found rewarding, with our family settling deeper and more comfortably into Dutch culture: learning more of the language, forming stronger connections with new friends, traveling to our usual excess (our list was long, and we still had a few high priorities left), and yes, even having a baby in Holland. Josie had been accepted to the perfect public school directly across the canal from our house, and would begin Dutch kindergarten as soon as she turned four the following spring. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">In the other future we could imagine, Dan would join a new airline in a position to make big changes. We would settle into a city that could never feel new to us, despite the decade we had spent away. Josie would attend Dutch Saturday school, but otherwise lose her momentum learning a foreign language. We would be forced to purchase, and regularly utilize, automobiles. We would have neighbors and a garden and our funny old fat cat again. We would share the same time zone and holidays and way of life as most of our friends and family. Thanksgiving was coming, and Christmas. And pie.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Back in our hotel room, I stood next to Dan as he hit “send” on the message that sealed our plans. It was dark—we hadn’t found all the light switches—and music poured through the open windows from the bar next door. We stood awash in the blue glow of the computer screen, silent. We would be moving in three weeks. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Congratulations,” I said, trying to sound excited. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Thanks,” he answered quietly. Despite the fact that we had made a decision, our ambivalence had not shifted. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The following week, I cycled through Vondelpark in the dark with my friend Gijs, both of us returning home from Parent Night at the school our daughters attended together. After teasing me about the hopelessness of bringing my boxbike to hilly Seattle, he became more serious. “What will you tell her?” he asked, referring to Josie. “Will you say, ‘We’re going home?’”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“No. Definitely not,” I said, surprised how emphatic I felt. “Seattle has never been her home. Amsterdam has shaped her more than Minneapolis had time to do. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This</i> is her home.” We curved along the darkened rose gardens as other bikes approached, friendly headlights bouncing. “I guess we’ll just say, ‘We’re going to live in a new city.’” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">In fact, I had already said something along those lines to Josie as we pedaled home through the park in late summer, around the time of my book tour, as Dan and I still incubated our feelings about what we wanted our family's next step to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Josie?” I asked. Late summer wind fluffed her hair as we rode, carrying strains of accordion music, the groan of a homemade didgeridoo, and far-off splashes from the wading pool. She looked around, taking everything in from her shotgun perch, waiting for me to continue. I hesitated, trying to choose my words carefully.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“What, Mommy?” she finally asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“When we’re all finished living in Amsterdam, what city would you like to live in?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Seattle,” she said without a pause. “We could live at Grandma and Papa’s house!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“That would be fun!” I said. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“Mommy?” she asked, with a sound of growing excitement in her voice, “When are we gonna be done living in Amsterdam?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">I had been holding my breath, and let it out silently. Josie was ok with change. She <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">liked </i>novelty and movement. Not to mention simple, precious, priceless things, like the kindhearted parents of her parents. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Neither of us knew it at the time, but it would be just a couple of months until, among the throngs of trick-or-treaters on the main avenue in a particular Seattle neighborhood, a tiny jet-lagged ladybug would weave along the sidewalk, pumpkin basket swinging, exclaiming at the other children’s costumes and having her first experiences of being chatted-back-with in English by strangers her own age. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">And soon after, there would be family gatherings around bright tables laden with food and traditions. There would be visits with great-grandparents. Plus time to throw rocks at the beach with Papa and play with Auntie Amanda’s humongous dog and watch Uncle Luke work on a puzzle and help Grandma decorate sugar cookies. And to see how Mommy smiles when her phone rings all the time, an old friend pops by after work, and Little Sister wiggles in her tummy after dinner. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">We were talking, last night, about what’s to love in American culture compared to other ways of life. It’s a topic that has dead-ended for me lately in the same miserable corner of self-doubt every time: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What were we thinking?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">But stressed in the midst of unpacking into a new house and stuffing suitcases for a week’s vacation, I heard myself blurt out something new: “The culture isn't what we came for.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">At the table with me sat my patient, interested parents-in-law and a pig-tailed Josie. A hot meal waited for Dan, who would be home to take Josie to swimming lessons any minute. My dad had just left after a cheerful visit, having picked up two antique tables to refurbish for us. A text message dinged on my phone: a running joke with a friend, getting sillier. My sister was soon to drop by with a bathing suit for me to borrow, and I would send her home with the tiger lilies another friend had brought to an impromptu dinner party the night before. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">“It’s this,” I said. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This</i> is what we came for.”</div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-3198885508043623952010-12-08T20:39:00.007+01:002010-12-08T23:05:56.546+01:00Postcard from Seattle: Dag, Sinterklaas!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUc9MTZCjhzSFlB8ECmhog2ZunZKkX6vbBMeztp6kZ-YH2lD0iI8UCl_6uxDvuXYn7v_1Mz02iTAI9ebdKmKoMJ1VvljJ7uhAVwvB_r5JVe_GoFvxLr-Yr2Lc7HOkWT07n6ZxrxBG456Ex/s1600/IMGP3065_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUc9MTZCjhzSFlB8ECmhog2ZunZKkX6vbBMeztp6kZ-YH2lD0iI8UCl_6uxDvuXYn7v_1Mz02iTAI9ebdKmKoMJ1VvljJ7uhAVwvB_r5JVe_GoFvxLr-Yr2Lc7HOkWT07n6ZxrxBG456Ex/s320/IMGP3065_2.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Dear Sinterklaas,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We trust you’re now safely home in Europe after your whirlwind birthday tour of the world last weekend. Thank you for coming to Seattle to visit children with a Dutch connection … how surprised we were to see you, and to find that your helpers came along too! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">At Oranjeschool on Saturday, Josie was so intent on offering a letter and coloring sheet to you that she approached you as you made your solemn entrance. We do appreciate your not ignoring her during your procession, graciously accepting her gift while the 80 other children of Oranjeschool sat in their places on the gym floor. You see, Josie has felt a strong connection with you over the past few weeks. Each evening, as you know, she has left you a letter in her wooden shoes, carefully rolled and taped, along with a carrot for your horse Amerigo. And each morning, she has foregone her usual first stop at Mommy and Daddy’s bedside, instead padding directly to her clogs to see what anticipatory little trinket or sweet you might have left her. How did you know that she would swoon to have her very own roll of Wilhelmina peppermints? And to think you left her a scattering of the very same Dutch licorice her violin teacher gave her after each lesson in Amsterdam! Your presence in her life, which became a precious ritual each day for two weeks, felt to our whole family like the first sure thing we knew we had to do together here, in the midst of feeling otherwise up-in-the-air as we consider how to fashion ourselves a life. You also gave us extra chances to hear and sing songs about you, and to read bedtime stories about you in Dutch. You became more than just a benevolent old Bishop who would eventually bring a sack of toys, but also a symbol of the nascent Dutch in us here in our new, still strange, Seattle days. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Josie may be only three and a half, but her attachments are heartfelt and real. Since our move only five weeks ago, I have seen a new expression on her tiny face: Lips pursed with the lower one protruding, eyes downcast, all joggled by tiny whimpering hiccups. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“I miss Amsterdam,” she’ll say. “When I hear sad music, it makes me miss my home. I miss my teachers Wendy and Victoria. I miss my friends Zadie and Amelie and Jemima. I want to go back there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We reassure her she’ll be returning to the Netherlands for a whole week’s visit as soon as she turns four. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“It’s taking too long to go back,” she says. “I want to go back now. I don’t want to be living here.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Slowly, Sinterklaas, Josie’s world is expanding to include Seattle. Preschool, neighborhood bike rides, new jungle gyms and bakeries and toy shops, and a bounty of visits with her extended family. Making matters easier are her Dutch preschool and the Holland-America Club, both of which hosted parties over the weekend to welcome you. While there are things about your tradition that make me wince--characters unmentionable in polite American conversation--I admit I felt choked up watching you and your entourage disembarking your yacht on Lake Washington and proceeding down the dock toward a mob of waving Dutch-American families on Saturday afternoon. I thought back to a year earlier, when Dan and I had actually boycotted the festivities of your arrival in Amsterdam, to protect Josie from racial imagery that we found unacceptable. On Saturday, there on the sunny lawn next to the lake, Dan and I did exchange a few glances of disbelief that we had chosen to come. How had we shifted from last year's position to this? And would we do it again next year? In her decorated crown, Josie jumped and waved and laughed, singing Sinterklaas songs and finally bolting toward the foreign visitors. Despite ourselves, we were glad we had come. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The next evening, Sinterklaas, just like last year in Amsterdam, Josie jumped out of her skin with fright at the handful of pepernoten and candy sprayed through the door as she opened it on Sunday to your magical knock. But this year, she had a smile with that startle and carried no resentment as she hauled inside a burlap sack of gifts and tore into the wrappings. You got her the truck she yearned for, and somehow you knew she loves puzzles. It was a night of visitors, Dutch pea soup, sticky stollen, sweet-spicy speculaaskoekjes, and marzipan-stuffed amandelstaafje. Grandma recited an original poem, and all of us had cheeks flushed with the warmth of the kitchen and the glowing holiday lights and good company. After the last visitor said goodbye, Josie retreated to her room to pull on her pajamas. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Dan and I were still aglow, chatting in the kitchen, when I heard a familiar and sad little hiccupping sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Josie? What’s the matter,” I asked, finding her sitting on her bedroom floor pushing her left leg into her PJ bottoms. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Her head dropped toward her lap. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“I miss Sinterklaas,” she said. “Is it all done? No more treats in the shoes and no more letters?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“It’s all done for this year, Josie,” I said. “He needs to go back to Europe and rest for awhile. But he’ll be back next year,” I said, answering my own private question about how long our family would keep our new Dutch traditions. “But now it’s time for us to get ready for Christmas.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Her little sniffs became a deep, said wail. Tears now streaming down her cheeks, she climbed into my arms, then into her daddy’s arms, and back again. We rocked and rocked, she cried and cried, and I heard all of the sadness she’s been feeling since leaving Amsterdam—a mourning for her home, her neighborhood, her school and friends and favorite snacks and her violin teacher and the busy canal and the chatter of pedestrians and the ding of bike bells and all of our well-known routes as we pedaled through the fresh air. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I looked at Dan, realizing in one crushing moment that just as our daughter had been struggling with the loss of her first dear childhood friendships, we had created another for her, only to have it end in another goodbye. I felt responsible for breaking her heart all over again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I know love and leavetaking are a part of life, and it is probably never too early to learn these things. I know, too, that Dan and I are also grieving and we risk projecting our feelings onto Josie, who is without a doubt the most adaptable of the three of us. But in this time of rootlessness, all three of us keep grasping for things we know we can hold on to. So that is why, as we make new friends and find new bread and get used to pedaling uphill, we also promise that next year, Sinterklaas, from mid-November until your birthday on December 5, you will again hear us singing your name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-75924081169503220522010-11-10T20:58:00.003+01:002010-11-10T21:04:08.632+01:00Postcard from All Over the Place: Adrift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGDjWApRohiHCiore2yItJcrHb9ocy3aKK6pwZbU_EDIDS5IS7sdoHPxvlKuUpLhCH22nO_9fcweKeI1SxPK6Ug3Cu8yfW0cfDF-AZK5QZrA0VYGnpbHnEKqg7l3wUptz1dd42DAIXdVL/s1600/photo-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGDjWApRohiHCiore2yItJcrHb9ocy3aKK6pwZbU_EDIDS5IS7sdoHPxvlKuUpLhCH22nO_9fcweKeI1SxPK6Ug3Cu8yfW0cfDF-AZK5QZrA0VYGnpbHnEKqg7l3wUptz1dd42DAIXdVL/s320/photo-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Mommy, do you know what that was called when you were riding that bike?” Josie asked me from the back seat of our rental car a couple of days ago. City lights flashed by as we drove home from a playdate, hungry for dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No, what was that called?” I asked, unsure what she was getting at. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“That’s called ‘Leaving a little girl alone with no one to take care of her.’” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I gulped, heartsick. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Earlier that morning, I had taken a 1-block test ride on a Dutch-style bike I was considering buying. After picking up our rental car, I strapped Josie into her car seat (recently dug out of storage) and drove the two of us a single block only to stop, in a jet-lagged early-morning act of desperation, in front of a bike shop I had heard about before we moved to Seattle: the <a href="http://www.dutchbikeseattle.com/">Dutch Bike Co</a>. We had no plans, and the morning stretched before us, appearing interminable. It was only 8:30. We had been up for three hours. We needed to stay awake until bedtime. Julie, co-owner of the shop, kindly let us in. The espresso bar was open, at least for us. She sold Josie a muffin and brewed me a coffee. Josie and I sat on the floor and one by one played through the classic games Julie kept tucked away under the newspapers: Jenga, Ker Plunk!, and Face Off! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My eyes wandered, though. I saw all the familiar Amsterdam bikes, but I was looking for something in between—a lighter-weight bike I could still use to haul things (such as children), particularly up non-boxbikeable hills. Something to keep me living a healthy lifestyle in which I have an appetite, exercise, fresh air, and a butt not sore from too much sitting. Indeed, something to keep us in the cycling world while waiting for our boxbike, which won’t arrive for a couple of months and which is currently smack in the middle of the Atlantic headed for Trinidad and Tobago aboard the MV Libra Santa Catarina, a Liberian container ship. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Eventually, with Josie on to her second muffin and the sun properly high in the sky, I decided to take one of the bikes, a Minneapolis-made cruiser, for a spin. I situated Josie at a table with her snack, a copy of The New York Times Sunday Magazine, and Julie by her side. Then I sped off, to return in 90 seconds. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Little did I know that while I carried with me for the rest of the day that moment’s free-wheeling exhilaration, Josie carried with her a sadness she couldn’t express until many hours later. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m afraid that’s where we are at the moment as we drift between worlds: quiet in that space between saying goodbye and understanding how it really feels. </span><o:p></o:p></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-29147264305612654412010-10-21T13:53:00.004+02:002013-12-18T02:29:35.435+01:00Postcard from Amsterdam: Goodbye to Holland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSx20PTRCJETa6ycmDOs7NwpiJTbp1FqrAMG_H87TRz44PmhT2z_7sC85m4nmXt8BCEtUatg8JVKR0PN3FqX2cn-9og0Cx-l6ITNSApTnP8M0V89w8W9ezA7ipZ2ww4vTIiLSmhqoNIl1X/s1600/IMGP2869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSx20PTRCJETa6ycmDOs7NwpiJTbp1FqrAMG_H87TRz44PmhT2z_7sC85m4nmXt8BCEtUatg8JVKR0PN3FqX2cn-9og0Cx-l6ITNSApTnP8M0V89w8W9ezA7ipZ2ww4vTIiLSmhqoNIl1X/s320/IMGP2869.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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Somewhere in the middle of the last 18 months, our “new” life in Amsterdam became, simply, our life. Next week—much sooner than we expected—it will become our old life. On October 28, Dan, Josie, and I will carry one-way tickets as we board our last transatlantic flight on a Delta Air Lines widebody until who-knows-when. We’re headed to Seattle, where Dan will begin working for Alaska Airlines, Josie will start in a new school, and I’ll do my best to write my way through the reverse culture shock I know we’ll all feel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m a sucker for this time of year in American culture—all the festivity and coziness—so it’s a perfect time to come back to the city where Dan and I both have family, friends, and our deepest roots. Still, since the summer day when this opportunity first presented itself, I’ve felt a nonstop mix of emotions. The first thing I did was check myself: Was I soaking up every flicker of detail from our wonderful life in Holland? Was I grabbing every chance to travel and talk with my neighbors and try new things? Was I taking enough pictures? Once I got into the mode of seizing every moment—a good mode to hang onto, to be sure—then I began asking myself what I wanted to take with me. I didn’t mean physical objects—enough moving in the past decade has all but rid me of sentimental attachments to things. I meant which life lessons would I bring home? Living in another culture—even a Western one not, at first glance, so very foreign to American life—has reshaped my attitudes about parenting, global citizenship, and simply living well in my human body. Not all of it could translate to an American city. But with a little work, plenty could. This question—What will I bring back?—is the big one I continue to work on every day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For now, two simple lessons I’ve loved learning—and relearning—every day:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Less is More<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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A brief example: A tiny house equals less space to fill. Less space to fill means less time spent shopping and more money in the bank. A little house also equals small appliances. A small fridge equals less temptation to overpurchase and waste food, and more fresh food in small quantities every day. A smaller dishwasher meant we couldn’t conveniently wash our American-size dinner places, so salad plates become the new “big.” Smaller portions, of course, equal less flab and more energy. Best of all, a little house, where we never had to yell to find one another, created a sweet, everyday closeness for our family. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">More is More, too.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Again, just a few examples: More pedaling, more walking, more fresh air, and more just-harvested, unprocessed food (even in restaurants) led to noticeably better health for our family. A very urban neighborhood with more neighbors and more boats and bikes and tourists to watch meant more social energy to shore me up, even from behind the windowpane on gray, cold days. A great variety of shops and services just steps from the door certainly meant more hustle and bustle and honking and garbage trucks, but also less time (zero, to be exact) in the car and more time to walk and talk and lick ice cream with Dan and Josie. <o:p></o:p></div>
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These are tiny illustrations that only begin to scratch the surface of the lessons I will continue to examine as we repatriate to America—a culture we also love, sometimes despite ourselves. Through our transition to Seattle and beyond, I plan to keep up The Blue Suitcase. You can watch me make an idiot of myself in the U.S., forgetting I can’t push my grocery cart the Dutch way (bumper baskets!), and getting flustered by overmuch friendly American customer service. At the same time, I expect to bring you some surprises with The Blue Suitcase in the near future. And there’s more news. As you readers of The Blue Suitcase already know, the past six seasons have presented me with an unusual true story with a beginning, middle, and end: our journey as an airline family shedding our American lifestyle, learning a new way of life (and all about ourselves in the process), then coming back to the U.S. to fit the puzzle pieces together. It’s too much for a blog, but just right for a new book. So as I get started on this project, will you please leave comments here about which parts of our story stand out in your memory?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, and one more thing: I know I said I wasn’t too worried about which physical objects would come along to Seattle, but I want you to know one thing: There is a new boxbike. A means of transport so spunky and gorgeous, in my opinion, that it hardly qualifies as a physical object. Despite Seattle’s hills and the fact that this contraption is the heaviest rigging a girl could ever choose for her wings, my new blue boxbike is coming with me. You won’t be able to miss us—that’ll be me, Miss Sisyphus, trudging my jalopy up the hill, huffing and puffing and sweating under my raincoat and happier than I look as you drive by on your way home from work. Won’t you give us a wave? <o:p></o:p></div>
The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-10888132249436517842010-10-13T12:20:00.001+02:002010-10-13T12:22:07.556+02:00Postcard from A Tranquil Moment: Catching Our Breath<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgYgTgAxMdZm8pfAzVcWGLRzRuIpKf4hezCJc091yR_0ndu0RNkuNy7fDhT6uuYgyrkx9278aTYESqFvtP74fQcA6xDDHwFU18yRDqglfFSYHYV-jfcA-IsPsd37msQK74t-9Gg9bQ2KH/s1600/IMGP2686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgYgTgAxMdZm8pfAzVcWGLRzRuIpKf4hezCJc091yR_0ndu0RNkuNy7fDhT6uuYgyrkx9278aTYESqFvtP74fQcA6xDDHwFU18yRDqglfFSYHYV-jfcA-IsPsd37msQK74t-9Gg9bQ2KH/s320/IMGP2686.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“What the HELL are you thinking?” my friend Kate asked. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Lying jet-lagged and groggy on her couch in Minneapolis, I had just confessed to her that I hadn’t updated The Blue Suitcase in over a month.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">If there’s one thing Kate can’t bear to watch, it’s self-sabotage, particularly of one’s writing career. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">I stammered a little, trying to explain. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">See, I like to think of The Blue Suitcase as something different from a typical blog. As you’ve noticed, I strive to write entries that feel more like mini-essays and less like “posts.” But as it turns out, there are some rules even The Blue Suitcase can’t break. For example, I don’t get to slack off without at least letting you know what’s going on. So, from now on, if I’m going to take a break, I promise to at least announce that fact. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Kate was nice enough to listen as I tried to explain what had happened since my last entry. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Since the date of that post, I traveled to Northern Italy and Switzerland then back to Amsterdam. Hosted a merry crew of visitors. Left Amsterdam for St. Paul, Iowa City, Minneapolis, Seattle, and Walla Walla, then came back to Amsterdam just in time for a getaway to Rome before leaving Europe again for another four-day stint in the U.S. In the past month and a half, I’ve spent a grand total of 2 weeks at home.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">But none of that was the real problem. If nothing else, it was all a glorious research period, adding richly to my pot of stories to share. Despite all those postcard-worthy stops, the real delay has been the fact that my mind is preoccupied with some tidbits of news that I haven’t been able to share. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">As I finished explaining, Kate nodded briefly before cracking the whip. “Get on it,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Soon, very soon, I will. Thank you for being so patient!<o:p></o:p></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-74341486894207299612010-08-20T23:23:00.000+02:002010-08-20T23:23:49.822+02:00Postcard from the Swiss Alps: Roughing It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYfHO6skjkEcqo09tjshWxaOWWgoAfYYhIeWBWIFevgn9TuimZ9c35BCjYMYjIRqXi9ABxYzm-ar1OSS4NgUfFybUfedBb3tfrZGGi9CWC0HmkP-RhGnLaCuUGHjW3cpHsctmROK5d6Ef/s1600/IMGP2127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYfHO6skjkEcqo09tjshWxaOWWgoAfYYhIeWBWIFevgn9TuimZ9c35BCjYMYjIRqXi9ABxYzm-ar1OSS4NgUfFybUfedBb3tfrZGGi9CWC0HmkP-RhGnLaCuUGHjW3cpHsctmROK5d6Ef/s320/IMGP2127.JPG" /></a></div><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Picture us, eighteen months ago, packing up our house in Minneapolis. We were judicious, storing most of our belongings and choosing only a fraction to bring to Amsterdam. Dan and I did each bring some comfort items, though—for me, a wild surplus of table linens. For him, the precious camping gear: four-man tent, sleeping pads and sleeping bags, and a heap of camp kitchen accessories, all in two giant Rubbermaid bins. Plus a blue ice chest. We knew we would have no place to store two giant Rubbermaid bins or a blue ice chest. But we brought them, and they've migrated among our bedrooms since we moved to Amsterdam. At the moment...sorry, Josie. But most of her room is too low-ceilinged for humans anyway, so we figure the floor space isn't much missed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Dan picked through the gear carefully, trying to anticipate what would be needed in a European campground. We left the Coleman stove behind, assuming fuel canisters here would be different. And soon we moved to the Low Countries, where Dan's eyes seemed ever to be searching for the mountains. Finally, he planned the summer holiday of his dreams. A week in the Swiss Alps, family camping in Brienz. We borrowed a camp stove and a small, collapsible table from a friend's parents. In a fateful move, we refused their offer of a camp-refrigerator, a strange invention unknown to us. In our snap judgment, we thought a camp refrigerator, which ran on gas and would have required its own tent for climate control, seemed a sure way to be laughed off the campground. After all, in comparison to Americans, Europeans are by and large minimalists, keeping simple, uncluttered spaces pared down to necessities. Or so we thought. Anyway, we turned down the open-air Frigidaire. We borrowed a car from another family of friends. We bought some food and put it in the ice chest. Then we drove to Switzerland, where supposedly there were mountains all around us. But all we saw was rain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Still, with a can-do spirit, Dan set about making us a life at Camping Aaregg. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">"Do you sell ice?" he asked at the campground store shortly after we arrived. Our English wasn't getting us far, and neither did French or Dutch. They spoke German here, and that was going to be about it. The shop attendant asked Dan to repeat himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">"Ice." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Her face flashed with recognition then, and she walked him to the large, unmissable freezer cart full of ice cream treats. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">"Ok, thanks," Dan said. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Later, at the grocery store: “Do you sell ice?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Ice,” the shelf stocker mused.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Ice,” Dan repeated. “For our cooler. For camping. To keep food cold.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Ice?” the shelf stocker asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Yes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Here.” He walked Dan to the popsicles. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“No I mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ice</i>,” Dan said. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">A blank stare.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Frozen water!” Dan said. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Ah!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“Do you have it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“No.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">As I piled perishables into our shopping cart, Dan and Josie kept trying to figure out how the Swiss (or anyone in Western Europe, for that matter) kept food cold while camping. As I finished up shopping, I found them negotiating with the guy behind the seafood counter, begging to buy some of the ice chips beneath the bulging-eyed fish. No luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">On our way out, I asked one more store employee, who happened to speak English. “That’s not typical here,” she said when I described how my simple American family intended to preserve food in our blue ice chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>typical?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">“A camping fridge?” she shrugged. “But doesn’t your campground have a restaurant?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">In fact, it did—an expensive pizzeria. And an arcade, and a place to get your morning espresso. It had the fanciest campground bathrooms we had ever seen. Both the Men’s side and the Ladies’ side had colorful children’s sections with kid-sized toilets behind kid-sized stalls, with three different levels of kid-size sinks with kid-height mirrors and two kid-showers with animal spouts. For the ladies, there was a vanity counter with pretty white stools and personal hair dryers mounted next to warmly lit makeup mirrors. Warm showers, plenty of toilets, and, notably, heat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">But the bathroom was only the beginning of our introduction to Swiss camping. Each plot was about the size of our living room, covered corner-to-corner with what appeared to be … cottages. Some were tents large enough for a circus sideshow. Others were camp trailers which doubled in size when the tent-half popped out. These bungalows had strings of twinkly lights, garden ornaments, and TV satellite dishes (dads seemed to be out hooking them up every rainy morning). There were dog houses and front porches and side-kitchens and pop-up picnic tables and camp-wardrobes with shoe compartments and bathrobe hangers. There were inflatable easy chairs and potted plants and electrical rotisseries and yes, refrigerators. We arrived at our site to find the grass yellowed and muddy in a perfect cabin-with-porch shape from the previous occupant (who, like most here, clearly had weeks and weeks of vacation to burn cultivating a darling hearth away from home on a Swiss alpen lake. Clearly, the name of the game was not who could rough it the most, Dan commented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s ‘Who can camp <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best</i>?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Dan set to work, and soon our tiny tent filled in the porch section of the dead-grass-print. There wasn’t much to do with the rest of the smelly turf except park the car over it. We put up our little folding table, which I used as a food prep counter. And we ate our first meal sitting on a picnic blanket on the ground. For atmosphere, every so often, we had a view up a passing car’s tailpipe. There was no fire ring. No tree. Clearly not a critter on the continent. And privacy? Ha! Our neighbor’s caravan stretched tightly down the property line, and I brushed the side of their tent with my elbow whenever I needed to open the passenger side of our car. I hoped they couldn’t smell the spoiling food we brought with us, but I knew I could sure smell their warm tasty meals. And Josie was not above begging for their watermelon. I couldn’t blame her, when her friends slurped and smacked just three or four feet from our makeshift evening picnic of rice and vegetables.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">We were the only English-speaking family at the campground, and certainly the only Americans. Needless to say, we made a spectacle of ourselves. It only took a day or two before we knew the people must be talking. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have you seen the Americans with their sad little tent? How do they even fit a TV in there? Did you hear the Americans asking for ice at the store? They must not have air conditioning in that tent, poor things. Did you see the Americans with their impoverished child? They have NO camp fridge and NO four-foot grill—how will she eat? Maybe we could slip her some bratwurst. Did you smell that “meal” the Americans made last night? ‘</i>Burritos<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,’ I think they called it. Curiouser and curiouser. Hey, and call me crazy, but were they hanging out in the bathrooms just to keep warm?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Alas, the rain came down. The mountains hid, though we could almost feel them there behind the soggy, tentacled clouds. We did take some trains and some gondolas up over the vivid green slopes, to see what we could see. We did get some beautiful photos in our lucky sunbreaks. We did come to adore the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clankle, clonkle</i> of cowbells in the mountain meadows. We intended to hike more, to ride up to the very cold and snowy tippy-top of Europe (where, I suggested, maybe we could harvest some ice?). But we did what made sense in mostly miserable weather. At a low point, we even paid the extra five dollars a day have an electrical cable run to our tent. Though from a mere hovel, we did as the others: surfed the web, charged iPhones, and played Curious George for Josie as the rain pounded our thin roof. At least the cool weather meant our food rotted slower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Yet while Dan and I felt woefully regressed from our previous camping prowess, Josie seemed to mature about a year in the span of a week. Only just three, she rode her scooter to the playground, ran around the campground with packs of kids, went to the toilets on her own, insisted she take care of her own toothbrushings, learned to take a shower, and, by the last day, demanded cash from her dad so she could run to the store and buy candy with the other kids. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Whatever we had accomplished on our “camping” trip, one thing was sure: While Dan and I tried not to feel silly working so hard to keep the family dry and fed when any sane person would get a hotel and call out for pizza, Josie made the most of every non-sopping second. When we finally pulled up stakes after seven nights of camping and hit the road for home, she wept in the back seat, her face twisted into a deep heartbreak I had never seen in her before. “I miss my friends! I miss my friends!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .2in;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">That’s when I realized that despite our blunders, we’d done one thing right. We took our kid to camp, and brought her home changed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-88115659682569079182010-08-06T11:48:00.000+02:002013-12-18T02:18:19.298+01:00Postcard from Amsterdam: Eulogy for a Boxbike<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVkuWwwlUxvGkSWglmJOqdubYYebaw0TsYV-v0ZKk4T0MjmW48ihq7t5JtQSAceVt0XXsXbFc6OQ9Dz4Bayg57I8ClWuFwJOCJWI3EYdLi4CHcqlboa6YfvcKslaIpT6WlIeiwY77g3Cc/s1600/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVkuWwwlUxvGkSWglmJOqdubYYebaw0TsYV-v0ZKk4T0MjmW48ihq7t5JtQSAceVt0XXsXbFc6OQ9Dz4Bayg57I8ClWuFwJOCJWI3EYdLi4CHcqlboa6YfvcKslaIpT6WlIeiwY77g3Cc/s320/photo+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">The first time I held your handles, my feet hurt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">We were new arrivals in Amsterdam and had been walking everywhere, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i>, every day, stroller-pushing and baby-carrying and grocery-toting. We needed wheels. And a box. And some style. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">I strapped my 24-month-old onto your bench and, weaving like a drunk, stiffly jabbed your pedals along the canal in front of our house. Up and over a speed bump. Up and over another. Around one city block, right turns only. I was terrified, certain my child and I would die. Yet I felt something odd: a grin on my face, which was not my idea but yours. By the time I saved lives by leaping off the bike and parking it, I was laughing out loud. It was the most fun I’d had in years. And the thing is, Boxbike, that feeling never went away. Riding you was never a chore. You brought wind into my lungs and sun into my eyes and blood into my heart and a song into my voice almost every day for the 14 months you were a part of our family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">We got into some accidents, and you held fast. Once, out of road rage, a crazy-eyed driver wedged our bike against a curb, and your strong, solid box pressed deeper and deeper into the flesh of his fender as he tried to squeeze past us. I was so proud of the final indent—half an inch!—and not a mark on you, or me, or Josie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Another time, as we pedaled down the Prinsengracht at full tilt, the car in front of us suddenly slammed on its brakes and reversed toward a parking spot, swinging its passenger side smack into us. Full speed to full stop. But again, safe girl and safe rider, although we were shaken. The car showed scrapes. You showed integrity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">But all of this time, you had a secret: a quiet suffering. Baggage from a time before we knew you. You had been a young boxbike, innocently perched on the street, when a trash collector’s grappling hook mistook you for rubbish, clamping onto you, lifting you up, then replacing you on the ground in pieces. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">You had been rebuilt, but you never felt quite the same. As the months passed, your proud shape attained a slump. The front wheel rode at an angle to the frame. And finally, on Monday, July 19, 2010, the uneven pressure became too much for you. I was pedaling you alone toward the bike hospital, knowing something was not quite right. Sometimes I question whether I could have done more for you. What if I had transported you an hour sooner? Could you have been saved? Or at least spared the humiliation of perishing in the street? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">You and I rattled down the Prinsengracht in an easterly direction, my worry turning to alarm when your handlebars, which had once brought me so much comfort, jumped and jerked in my hands. Cyclists whizzed past, and a red van bore down from behind. Suddenly I felt no link between the handlebars and the front wheel. You had a final convulsion, and the box slammed to the earth, scraping along like a jet with no landing gear. The front wheel skidded spokes-down on the brick, and I leaped off of you for the very last time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Passing cyclists dinged their bells, annoyed at the catastrophe in their path. I flipped them off. The red van waited with remarkable patience while I took your autopsy photos. Then, with a heavy heart, I dragged your hulk off the road and laid you to rest beside the canal. I chained your pieces together—the equivalent, I think, of gently closing your eyes. And I walked away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">By evening, my feet hurt again, and I missed you so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-11286452024391300082010-07-14T20:42:00.004+02:002010-07-15T08:20:21.557+02:00Postcard from Holland: On, Oranje!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirx2kNzN8Un2QOLtClqyLFbGRFRe9J8nqQVAY0b7qWV1DaHgNDfXcm3FgIxlrGzlIs390aSl5RVIGBkCcN4XyLv3Qrnzqa6gAAxZKWHrMQ8xGbtOvd1eiEImp7WvUllmIeCGI_48DxDDxi/s1600/IMGP1936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirx2kNzN8Un2QOLtClqyLFbGRFRe9J8nqQVAY0b7qWV1DaHgNDfXcm3FgIxlrGzlIs390aSl5RVIGBkCcN4XyLv3Qrnzqa6gAAxZKWHrMQ8xGbtOvd1eiEImp7WvUllmIeCGI_48DxDDxi/s320/IMGP1936.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I planned to write just one post about Holland’s World Cup showing. I considered penning something just over two weeks ago, when Oranje played Slovakia while I made dinner and Josie colored in the living room. We don’t have a TV, but it didn’t matter—it was easy to keep tabs on the game (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">attempt... save… Goal!!!</i>) simply from the varying sounds of the cheers erupting from open windows and streetside cafes everywhere in the city. Color commentary sounded in the air, a universal language. It didn’t matter if I was at the front of the house setting the table overlooking the canal, or at the back with the terrace door open. I knew Holland was in control of that game and winning. A happy pulse brightened the already-sunny city.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">But the story just got better with Holland’s match against Brazil on the second day of July. It was a steaming hot and bright yellow Friday—a day to laze by the pool in the park with friends, sipping prosecco and keeping one eye apiece on the kids as they splashed through the wading water and clambered over the jungle gyms. We whiled away the afternoon in a happy, heat-induced delirium. Then, when it was no longer safe to postpone dinner, we parted ways. Josie and I pedaled through the city at five o’clock on what seemed sure to be the summer’s warmest day. But eerily, the streets were empty. No bikes, no bells. No tired-footed tourists. No boats on the canals, no cars on the thoroughfares. The tooting horns, the lively chatter of a summer’s midday in the city—all had gone silent and focused. We rose and dipped over a canal bridge, passing onto the cobbled streets near home, headed to our favorite pizza restaurant for dinner. As we whizzed along a row of cafes, it happened: we heard those first few sucked in squeals of anticipation, then the expressed roar of a million people. Holland had scored. The count was 1-1, with 30 minutes remaining.</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Arriving at La Perla Pizza, we saw that the door was blocked by two stools, and the fire in the pizza oven had diminished to embers. Using a projector, the workers had turned the wall above the pizza oven into a screen for the game. This tiny hole in the wall (much like our own) had no room for a television, so the pizza makers and their friends stood outside the hot little restaurant, watching the game through their own window. Josie and I joined them, and despite Josie’s periodic inquiries as to when that man would make her pizza, no one entered the restaurant except to grab a beer from the case inside, on a pay-later or maybe-not-at-all basis.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">While the grown-ups looked up, watching every flicker of the game, Josie stood on a bench and peered over my shoulder, taking in the expressions of the fans: wild anticipation, clapping, window-banging, gasps and shouts, curses, songs, back-turning, flails of disgust, hoots of disbelief, and the thrilling, flag-snapping gallop down the street, arm in arm with neighbors, when Holland scored again to bring the score to its final 2-1 over Brazil. Minutes later, to everyone’s disbelief, the game was won. I hoisted Josie in the air, reminding her to clap, and shouted, “We won! We won!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“Hup Holland!” she quickly took to yelling. Then she’d look at me. “When are they gonna say ‘Hup Holland’ again?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“Right about now,” I’d say, and they would.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">We ate our pizza, then pedaled home through a wild, steamy, summer’s-eve city dripping in Oranje. Music thumped from the boats, every bike bell jangled, mopeds tooted and cars honked their way through town. Once I had Josie home and into the bathtub, I went to the front window in time to catch a boatful of celebrants leaping into the canal for a quick swim, paddling back to their sloop before the next cheering party boat passed. With each cheer that reached our windows, Josie shouted from the bath, “We winned!” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">All that evening, the party went on—vuvuzelas snorgling, fireworks cracking, horns tooting, and bodies splashing for celebratory swims all through the city. The babysitter arrived and I put on my orange cowgirl boots and went out into the city on my bike, dinging my way along as Josie dreamed. As a soft breeze cut through the intoxicating heat, as I watched a dogged pair of fans repeatedly bridge-jumping into the Prinsengracht, and as a can-do spirit consumed the 16 million people of this little country, I knew that no matter what happened in the Cup, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this </i>day would go down in history. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Holland had reached the semi-final against Uruguay, which they won as expected. Despite our plan to stream the game live from the local news station, an exasperating 50-second lag meant we still relied on the shouts of the city to keep us up-to-the-minute. It was a late-evening game, and a Tuesday. The toots and honks were happy indeed after the win—we got into a call-and-response <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hup Holland! </i>cheer with our next-door neighbors, who were sticking their heads out the windows a few feet to the left of our own—but still, it was no steamy Friday victory against Brazil—and now as riot-control helicopters circled above, keeping an already restless city awake late into the night, we all looked toward the final. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Sunday, the day of the World Cup final against Spain, thousands flooded the streets decked in orange. Swathed in tangerine boas, caped in the red, white, and blue flag like Dutch superheroes, topped with wigs and headdresses of all sorts, they marched to Museumplein to take in the game with a pack of 150,000. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Not watching the game on an actual television was not an option this time, so with our monumentally over-tired three-year-old, we joined our landlords in their apartment for the game. Outside, the sun went down. The lampposts flickered on, casting an orange glow against the soft blue of a quiet summer night. The city held its breath. And held its breath. The 0-0 tie went into extra time. The more exhausted Josie got, the more she wiggled and cast about. She was no different than the rest of the city—the rest of the country—which never, in the end, had the chance to liberate that massive, pent-up cheer they all held inside. Dan’s point: a goal would have been enough—we just wanted to share in that release, to hear the wild roar—but there was no such chance. Our plucky city remained in stagnant silence after the final whistle and Spain’s 1-0 victory. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">It seems the taut excitement has been leaking away this week, like a balloon pinched lightly shut as it slowly deflates. On Monday the team flew home in a KLM 747, accompanied by two fighter jets. Yesterday, they waved to the crowds from a canal boat during their ticker-tape welcome-home parade. Half a million people turned out to cheer—including Josie as she waved her flags from her perch on my shoulders. But millions more stayed at work and home, saying no thanks to “the loser’s parade.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">I know it wasn’t the perfect ending, but it meant so much. This whole country ran on spirit alone for two weeks straight. Yes, Spain won. But “we winned” still sounds right to me. <o:p></o:p></div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1080627432293686081.post-4532152311217303962010-07-01T17:01:00.002+02:002010-07-01T21:16:54.648+02:00Postcard from London: Hello? Hi!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEPLz1fW3e9V5Ig6nm4Is1AVB121IL0sbxURDKB3ncFGoXf9-9R-Au3BECv4BoFHJQJL6Df82HYc7BF3rQm_VRfifLaV6R4ZDlWOvU_8jo74cx9JKR7L1cdwbe7XWmrbYpIJN-jIw1Ajq-/s1600/IMGP1787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEPLz1fW3e9V5Ig6nm4Is1AVB121IL0sbxURDKB3ncFGoXf9-9R-Au3BECv4BoFHJQJL6Df82HYc7BF3rQm_VRfifLaV6R4ZDlWOvU_8jo74cx9JKR7L1cdwbe7XWmrbYpIJN-jIw1Ajq-/s320/IMGP1787.JPG" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">“That’s disgusting,” Dan announced after his first sip of ale at the Prince Edward Pub in London. “The smell is hideous,” he announced after taking another sip. He reassured himself by finishing the whole glass, then declared, “I just drank a pint of swill.” So, we upped sticks and went for Lebanese food and red wine, our luck continuing as we missed England-Algeria, perhaps the lamest of the Cup’s many lame ties. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Still, despite warm beer, bad soccer, and a persistent rainy chill, our first visit to London was a salve. We were struck by a conspicuous up-with-things-American spirit. The smell of burgers here and there. A familiar architecture. Ambulance sirens that said <i>reee-roooo</i> instead of <i>nee-naw</i>. Friendly service. And lastly but mostly, The English fricking Language.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Let us discuss, momentarily, Modern English. They say an English-speaking American may yet need a British phrasebook, but coming from a neighborhood where most of my spoken-English exchanges are utilitarian, I hardly noticed any difference. I estimate that ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of standard (non-Cockney) British English is used identically to American English, with the notable exception of the despoiled exclamation “Brilliant!” I dropped a hash mark in my journal for every utterance of the word I heard, coming in at around 50 for the weekend, right down to a particularly enthusiastic pronouncement by an airport security agent when I cooperatively placed my belongings on the x-ray belt. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">As our weekend getaway progressed with almost unsettling ease, I realized how accustomed I’ve become, in Holland, to communicating at a disadvantage. If I commence in Dutch, I know it will be microseconds before I’m identified as a non-native speaker. I expect one of two responses: a pitying switch to English, or ensnarement in a verbal paragraph I have no way of unraveling. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">Throughout my London conversations, out of habit, I felt apologetic for not using the local language. I would find myself trying to remember how to say “please” and “thank you” in this foreign land. Yet no one seemed to chafe at my rudeness or marvel at my cluelessness. Instead, the courtesies kept coming. Attention, service, answers to questions. Stories. Jokes, even. There were nuances, layers of comprehension, bursts of laughter among strangers—us included. Feeling it was all too easy to be real, I kept waiting for the hard truth. Would menus arrive in an incomprehensible script? Would the currency be of rare seashells, impossible to correctly count out? Would the salt be too easily mistaken for sugar? Would the double-decker buses lack roofing? Would the people drive on the wrong side of the road? Would there be spots of earth where heads had rolled? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">As much as we’ve come to adore daily life in our big village of Amsterdam, Dan and I felt like London was R&R from our expat experience. A cakewalk, I believe we called it. Which caused us to wonder: If we were Americans living in London, would it even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">count</i> as living in a foreign country? I mean, I’m sorry. But there were cupcakes. Wide asphalt streets. Wasteful to-go cups of good old-fashioned filter coffee. Endless choices of ethnic food—even Mexican. And a gross oversupply of yesteryear’s flowery teacups, their teetering stacks reaching sweetly for the sky in the antiques market on Portobello Road, reminding me of grandmothers and folk tales and cottage gardens and Imperialism and proper manners and American heritage and everything pretty and painful along the way. </div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .25in;">It was all quite brilliant, really. </div>The Blue Suitcasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07202096484293528150noreply@blogger.com14