I feel as though I’ve been absent for some time now. The thing is, September and October were a complete blur for me and my need to write was extinguished by a series of, well, craziness.
We packed, we moved, we unpacked. Then, I discovered I had not one but two ovarian cysts. This news was followed by a brief walk through a patch of woods that left me covered front to back with poison ivy for three weeks; it was a nightmare. And then, my dog chased a squirrel into the woods and got speared by a tree branch in the process, resulting in a puncture wound and emergency surgery. My poor girl.
In retrospect, these series of events could have been great fodder for blog posts, but I’ve been unable to create lately. I’ve been feeling blocked. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, I haven’t been feeling like this for just the past two months; it’s more like the last year – or longer. I’ve journaled about it, reflected on it, read books and articles on the topic, but I could not figure out what was at the heart of this creative wall.
To help me uncover what was at the core, a few weeks ago, I turned to an online writing series facilitated by friend and poet Jacinta White. Becoming Undone: Unpacking Life’s Weight helped me identify the things in my life that are weighing me down and keeping me from moving forward. My “A-ha” moment came during the first writing prompt, where we had to write a list poem that began with the line: “Daily I carry … ” Without hesitation, guilt was the first word I scribbled in my notebook.
This boot was made for touring. Our journey is outlined in red.
Andiamo!
That’s the Italian word for the phrase “Let’s go!” – and that was pretty much the mantra of my recent trip to Italy.
We andiamoed all over the boot.
My wife and I decided on Italy as the destination for a belated honeymoon after our wedding in May and the actual planning of the trip taught me that compromise is an important part of a successful marriage. You see, my wife wanted to book at tour – a big fat tour – two weeks, 16 cities, with 43 of our closest personal friends that we had not yet met.
I had never been on such a tour but somehow knew that I would hate it. I don’t really have control issues (no, really) but I don’t much like being told what to do and when to do it. I had more in mind a smaller more intimate kind of trip. In the end, we compromised and booked the big fat tour.
What? I want to stay happily married for a very long time.
Selfies are just as silly in Italy as they are in North Carolina. This one was taken in the beautiful fishing village of Burano.
And to my pleasant surprise, the tour was not the least bit awful and it gave us access to so many unique opportunities we would have never had on our own.
I am now, of course, an expert on Italian tours and will share with you some important keys to having a positive tour experience. Prego. (You’re welcome.)
First – make sure there are lots of Australians on your tour. This is essential. “Aussie” is apparently universal slang for Most Fun People on the Planet. Seriously. We had 13 Aussies on our tour – ranging in age from 15 to 70+ and there wasn’t a dud in the bunch.
The folks from the land down under are a joyous lot and we closed the bar with them most nights. Actually, they let us hang out with them until we fell over and they closed the bar down. Apparently, Aussies also have hollow legs, allowing them to hold greater quantities of spirits.
And then there are those fabulous accents. They told us that they hate that Crocodile Dundee is the image most Americans have of Australians. I told them that we have similar fears, namely Honey Boo Boo.
They even made me a little Aussie dictionary, on a cocktail napkin, of course, with a bunch of their fun sayings. They call vacation “holiday” and all candy is a “lolly” – cute, right?
The next key to a great tour is a great tour director and we scored on that one big time with our guide, Muris, a handsome and charming Italian man – but then again, aren’t they all?
Muris is in his forties and has been a travel director for over 20 years. He was the perfect dispenser of interesting information without being professorial, enthusiastic but not perky. But what I loved most about Muris was how much he loves his country. He talked about Italy in the way you would talk about a beautiful woman and he wanted us to fall for her, too. And we did.
We’re just mad about Muris. Here he’s schooling us on Positano in the background.
He spoke English lyrically with a sexy Italian undertone and would woo us with phrases like “hid-in treazure” when a surprise stop was upcoming. And he threw in some very special touches along the way – like popping bottles of Prosecco and offering a toast when we disembarked after our gondola ride in Venice.
Most of us – men, women, and lesbians – were in love with him by the end of the trip.
Another key to enjoying your tour is to prepare yourself by letting go of the following three things:
1. Sleep as you know it
2. Trying to not look like a tourist.
3. Fear of the bidet.
Allow me to elaborate. On most travel days, your bag has to be outside your hotel room door by 7:00 A.M. Yes, it’s rough, but nothing three Advil and a double espresso can’t cure.
You just have to admit it, Europeans are cooler than us. Period. I don’t care how suave and sophisticated you think you are. And they are impervious to all weather conditions. The first few days of our tour, the weather was unseasonably warm. One afternoon in Capri, we were sweating like Italian sausages in a skillet surrounded by impossibly gorgeous Italians sauntering around with scarves draped artfully around their necks.
Scarves!
Just surrender and clutch your Rick Steves’ guidebook with confidence.
Okay, the bidet. You have to face it – literally, because it’s in every hotel room just staring at you as if to dare you to engage. Australia doesn’t have bidets either and the fascination with this fixture became a running joke with our Aussie posse. One morning, I greeted them at breakfast with a hearty, “Bidet, mates!”
So be bold and seize the bidet.
My optional solo excursion in Lake Maggiore.
I did have a few low moments on the tour when I hit critical mass with the pack and I sat out some optional excursions to just chill out and soak up the local culture or as I call it, wine.
Sometimes it was just too much talking. And those damn radios. Every stop along the way we had a local expert telling us everything they thought we needed to know. Near the end of the tour in Florence, we were viewing the magnificent statue of David and I pulled my earplugs out to just gaze as our guide kept filling us with factoids.
My ever attentive wife looked at me seriously and mouthed, “She’s still talking.” I mouthed back to her, “I don’t care.”
I could have sworn David smiled at me.
The David. No words needed.
But all in all, the tour was a magical experience. Most of our traveling companions were also celebrating special events – milestone birthdays, anniversaries, a grandmother’s gift to her granddaughter, and so on. And there was something very sweet and intimate about sharing a group dream come true.
Maybe that’s why on our final ride to our hotel in Rome on our last night together, there wasn’t a dry eye to be found when Muris cued up his iPod and we heard the romantic tenor of Andrea Bocelli serenading us.
Con Te Partiro.
Time to Say Goodbye.
Sunset over the Basillica of St. Francis of Assisi.
After all the many years of waiting for marriage equality, I never imagined I would learn that I was legally married in my home state of North Carolina from a Facebook post.
But that’s how it happened last Friday, October 10th. My wife (we were married in the District of Columbia in May) and I have a Friday ritual of going to a late matinee. It’s a perfect way to wind down the work week and kick off the weekend.
So there we were sitting in a/perture cinema with a handful of folks waiting for “The Skeleton Twins” to begin when we checked our phones one last time. We had, of course, been following the events of the day via live streams, texts, and yes, Facebook.
The word was that Judge Osteen’s ruling would not come down until sometime on Monday, leaving lots of hopeful same-sex couples standing at the proverbial altar – or more precisely, the Register of Deeds office.
And then the frantic announcement came down – a judge in Asheville had bitch slapped Amendment One to death and same-sex marriage was now legal in the Old North State.
I had always dreamed that the moment of being equal would feel like the scenes from the end of World War II when people ran into the streets and strangers embraced to celebrate.
Instead, my wife and I exchanged no words – we simply looked at each other’s tears streaming down our faces and gently kissed. It was as intimate and reverent and perfect as one moment can be.
My Facebook post celebrating marriage equality.
We thought for a minute about abandoning the movie and finding some friends to celebrate with but we stayed and held hands in the dark for 90 minutes.
No wonder those poor misguided folks were so afraid of same-sex marriage.
Afterwards, we went out for dinner and caught up on the Facebook frenzy. I remarked that I hadn’t seen such a gay FB feed since Madonna’s Super Bowl halftime performance.
It was like the best roller coaster ride ever seeing all the posts, photos and videos of couples getting married – simply thrilling.
My friends Michelle and Karen – with the Rev. Julie Peeples officiating – were one of the first couples to wed once the ruling came down.
Earlier in the day, I was interviewed by a local reporter about the anticipated demise of Amendment One and she asked me if I had any regrets about not waiting to get married in North Carolina. I told her, “Absolutely not.”
We were ready and damn tired of waiting.
I’m just so profoundly grateful that history has finally caught up with our hearts.
After 48 years together, these iconic sweethearts (Pearl and Lennie) are finally legally married in North Carolina.
1. absence of blogging or procrastinating from posting on a blog
2. lame excuse for not blogging
Yep, that’s me. I’m suffering from blogathy and the only cure is to post posthaste.
I can now confess to having a deeper appreciation of those who blog on a regular basis – like more than once in a blue moon. It’s harder than it looks.
Seriously.
I’ve posted several things in my head over the last couple of weeks but even though you read my blog, you can’t read my mind. At least, I hope you can’t, and if you can, Jodie Foster was simply making a cameo appearance.
Truthfully, I’m having a hard time focusing on anything of late but my upcoming trip to Italy with my wife. We got married in May and we’re calling this our honeymoon because sometimes it’s fun to talk like straight people.
I traveled to Italy four years ago with three other (fabulous) women. I was still raw around the edges after a tumultuous breakup and the journey was a healing balm for me in ways that I could have never imagined.
One day on our trip we were hiking through a tiny Tuscan village when our beautiful guide, Francesca, stopped to speak with an older woman tending her garden. The two women embraced and kissed on each cheek and spoke animatedly to one another for several minutes.
When Francesca returned to our group, I said, “How nice, you ran into someone you know.” She looked at me sweetly with a confused expression and said, “No, I just met her.”
That’s Italy.
Italians savor la dolce vita in all aspects of life – food, nature, people – and you can’t help but fall under this spell when you’re there. The Russian poet Anna Akhmatova eloquently captured this feeling when she wrote, “Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of you life.”
This is the first “big” trip my wife and I have taken together and I’m hoping we’re a good travel match. She’s never been to Italy and has read her Rick Steves’ guidebook from cover to cover.
I’ve tried not to be annoyed at night when we’re in bed reading and she feels compelled to share some unknown factoid about Venice with me. Besides, who knew only three to four gondolier licenses are issued annually? Exactly.
I’m usually an obsessive planner with a vacation but this time I agreed to a tour and I’m blissfully letting someone else be the boss for a couple of weeks. I barely even know our itinerary and that is exhilarating to me.
I just know that some lovely stranger is going to schlep my over packed bag from hotel to hotel for me. What’s not to like?
Now I’m shamelessly hoping that my prologue-travelogue has made you forget about my sorry blogathy as visions from pizza to Pisa dance through your head.
I promise to be a better blogger upon my return.
Ciao, ya’ll!
Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
That’s how many times I’ve moved in the last nine years. And in 15 days, it will be five.
This was not necessarily a plan for me to move five times in the same city. It just sort of happened. The twists and turns of my life dictated it. I rented, I owned, I returned to renting.
It sounds exhausting when you think of it – five moves in nine years – but as odd as it may sound, when I look back on those years, I don’t think about the days spent duct-taping my life in cardboard boxes; I think about the memories made in each of the homes I lived.
Each house was special. I will forever feel nostalgic about the quaint, white bungalow I lived in when I first moved to Greensboro in 2005 – mostly because it was my “first.” It only had two closets the size of a cigar box, but the amazing front porch made up for its lack of storage space. I passed many hours on that porch with my dog Yoshi at my side and a cold beer in my hand during the hot summer months and a steaming cup of coffee when the leaves began to turn then spiral to the ground like pinwheels.
Every home I move from I cry on the last day. I get attached to things – even to inanimate objects. But to me, a house is more than a house; it’s a home. It has an energy to it, a heart and a soul that comes from the people who dwell under its roof, making memories.
Every house I lived in represented a chapter in my life and each was significant for different reasons. My bungalow signified my bachelorette days. I traded it for a split-level with my soon-to-be husband who later became my ex-husband. And despite all the tears I shed in that home, I loved that house. I thought I’d grow old in it. I remember the last walk-through I did in the house and how I paused in every room one last time and then shut the door behind me. It marked a beginning and an ending.
I downsized after that and moved into an adorable townhome. Life had come full circle and I was back to living single. It was a difficult transition. At age 31, I was starting over, and it scared me to death. I cried a lot those first few months – out of frustration, confusion, grief. That townhouse became my place for healing. It’s where I found renewal.
And then I met Andrew; the love of my life. He eventually gave up his bachelor pad downtown and moved in with me. Quarters were tight – but square footage doesn’t seem to matter when you’re in love. We lasted five months before we mutually decided to start casually looking for a new place that we could both call home. It was important to both of us to live somewhere new, not a home that was his or mine but one we could build together.
And that’s how we got to here.
We found this house simply by chance. On a day in February, my realtor friend Jim sent me an email that set everything in motion.
“GIRL!! I found you a house.”
My jaw fell open when I pulled up to the house the next day. It looked like a giant, mint green doll house with white trim and shutters. It was like a mini-mansion.
“Wait until you see the kitchen,” Jim said with wide, silver-dollar eyes as he ushered me inside. The kitchen was bathed in sunlight that shined through a pair of skylights and a wall of windows that looked out to a wooded area in the backyard. I already started to envision what the trees would look like with the change of seasons. Honey, I’m home.
We knew the house was way too big for just the two of us, but neither of us wanted to pass up the opportunity – or the walk-in closet. It seemed meant to be. And now here we are, a year and six months later, filling out change of address forms and hoarding cardboard boxes. Our lease is up, and the owners have sold the house. We didn’t anticipate this. I suppose we got spoiled and thought we could continue to extend our lease until we were ready to leave our fantasy home and buy our own house – maybe in six months, maybe in a year.
This week, I started feeling the first pangs of sadness about leaving our house. It started when I came home from work on Wednesday and saw my husband, waving to me from the front yard as he was walking to get the mail. Then, as I pulled into our half-moon driveway, our dog, Molly, ran up to the driver-side door and chased my car all the way to the garage, anxious to greet me.
Later on, at dusk, I stepped out onto the back deck and walked down into the yard to re-pot a houseplant. When I turned around and looked behind me, I was struck by the beauty of our house at twilight. I stood there for a moment in the chorus of cicadas and gazed at our home with its warm, golden glow emanating from its kitchen windows. And I thought to myself, “I’m going to miss this house.”
We’ve made good memories here – Andrew and me. This house was our first home together as a couple, and our first home as husband and wife. For that reason alone, it will always be special to us.
I remember sitting on the deck the night we got married. It was well past midnight. I was barefoot and still wearing my wedding dress. Andrew shed his tie and dress shirt and was wearing only a white undershirt and pants. We sat on our wooden bench on the deck and sipped beers and held hands and shared stories in the dark. Whenever I ask Andrew what his favorite moment was about our wedding day, he always describes this one.
It’s easy to get used to a place, comfortable. By the end of the month, we’ll be in our new home unpacking boxes again, deciding where to hang artwork, place furniture. And just like the four homes before this one, I will fall in love with it, get attached to it, make beautiful memories in it and then cry when it’s time to leave.
One of the first photos of Molly and me in the new house – March 2013.
Our deck.
Yard work break with Molly.
New IKEA rug for the dining room. Molly approves.
Our first washer and dryer. This was an exciting day.
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